Cod Almighty | Diary
England's dreaming
5 July 2021
What do you mean football's coming home? It's been home since 5 May.
Oh England. What is England? A question that has bedevilled us all, in football, in life. Nebulously exasperating, it is never what you want it to be. What would winning mean? What, and who, would it validate? Buddy, spare a dime for all those "true patriots" who can't follow England because 11 men kneel down for a few seconds.
Can't you see? They're after you! They're after all of us! Our wives, our children, everyone! THEY'RE HERE, ALREADY! YOU'RE NEXT.
It's always amusing to see Tories panic about secret Marxist plots to take over the world when they are hidden in plain sight inside Downing Street.
But at least little old Englanders have Our Emma, England's new rose, to follow at Wimbledon. Whaddyamean she's a Sino-Romanian Canadian with A-levels?
I don't know why, I don't know why. Your Deviant Diary guesses these things have got to be.
What is leadership? A question that bedevils us all in football, in life. What do we want? What do we need? It's not the same thing. A dour snark, a bland swot or a "big personality" thumping tubs, thumbs permanently up? Substance, not salesmanship. It's what you do, not what you promise that's important. We don't need a monorail!
Give me your calm, cautious competence over shallow charlatans. Just because you are a character doesn't mean you have character.
Oh England, this is England. This is our England, this is our Town. The comfort blanket of the double pivot is merely a double Parslow, allowing Nice Gareth to replace Parslow with Parslow with 20 minutes left. If Aime Jacquet followed the Buckley Blueprint in 1998, why shouldn't Gareth Waistcoat roll out Hurst's revolution?
Roll on Wednesday! Fixtures at one, remember.
Mystic Meggie time! Well, perhaps it was dark down that alley, or the balaclava was too big. Here's my trumpet and it shall be blown. I, Deviant Diary, the Nostradamus of new old strikers from Newport was, as Spud McCoist would say, "spot on, Clive" in predicting that the Returned One was on a busman's holiday in a campervan down in South Wales. The Hurst in Porthcawl Gang did kidnap a 33-year old Newport striker, just not the 33-year old Newport striker in and of our dreams. Or did he?
You know for Diary writers at this elite level it's all about game management. It's all about pacing your effort to find good areas and little pockets to pop up with that little bit of quality. Yes, Jermaine, it's a results business. He's seen it all before, but did our freaky Friday diary know the score before he stuck it in the mixer? Was he too busy staring, like Paddington, at hedgerows in Humberston and wallflowers in Waltham? Peer through the privets and behold the old news! The National League announced that they won't start the season unless there are crowds; Montel Gibson has re-found his level, being loaned to Southern League Premier Division Central Stourbridge; and featherweight southpaw Stefan Payne will be sparring with the Spirites.
And for those who think scooter-boy Mohsni got a raw deal at Fentytown, rest easy for he has emerged at Al Rawdah, very much the Stourbridge of Saudi Arabia. Or is that a Saudi comedian; his tent, his rules?
Right, that's yesterday's news for yesterday's men. Remember, it must get better in the long run.