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Peter
Crouch, perhaps the most prolific goalscorer England have had since
the days of Jimmy Greaves. How, in the name of all that's holy,
did that happen? A bloke who looks like one of those gonk things
you used to stick on the end of a pencil before going into the exam
room, is now the most feared predator in all of Europe.
Let's not fall into the trap that too many English commentators
did, that a man with beanpole frame and Bambi legs must, automatically,
be hopeless. Crouch has a decent touch, holds the ball up well and
can finish to boot. On top of which, he doesn't have Michael Owen's
porcelain legs nor Wayne Rooney's toxic temper, which at least means
he's regularly available for selection.
But now, suddenly, he can't stop scoring goals, so much so that
Steven Gerrard reckons he can go on and become England's greatest
international goalscorer of all time, even though he needs another
40 to go past Bobby Charlton's mark - which probably says more about
Gerrard's grasp of mathematics than Crouch's ability.
What Crouch's sudden elevation to national hero does underline is
that football changes like the wind. This time last year, Crouch
had only to set foot on the field in the England shirt to draw a
crescendo of boos from the crowd. Similarly, just three months ago,
the English nation celebrated at news that Owen was injured and
wouldn't play again for nine months, only to let out a collective
groan when they realized it was Michael Owen and not Owen Hargreaves.
Now, having beaten up a few Greeks and Andorrans, Hargreaves is
edging ahead of Gordon Brown as favourite to become the next Prime
Minister and moves are afoot to see if he can be installed as next
in line to the throne.
I'm getting the feeling that the English are getting just a little
bit carried away here.
After all, you didn't see Kenny Miller take over as the First Minister
after Saturday's demolition of the Faroe Islands did you? Kris Boyd
was not suddenly made Duke of Edinburgh, nor was Walter Smith crowned
Walter I of Scotland. Because the Scots take this kind of thing
a little more in their stride. They know that, however well things
are going today, tomorrow is going to come along and mow them down
like a runaway juggernaut hurtling down a hill.
The British Isles was never built to produce football champions
unless it's with the assistance of a bog eyed Russian linesman.
For every moment of joy unconfined, there'll be eighteen months
of grinding misery as failure slowly but surely places it's reedy
fingers about our windpipe.
Which is exactly why those interfering morons who want to stop the
likes of Andorra and the Faroe Islands taking
part in qualifying tournaments should go and boil their heads and
stop bothering serious folk who need to break up the unremitting
misery by handing out some stinging abuse to a poor, craven nation
that can't do anything to defend itself.
Mass cruelty on that scale is the kind of thing that binds a nation
together, giving us three or four days of pleasure before the inevitable
banana skin is placed beneath the national foot and we can all start
doing what we British do best - inspecting our navels, calling for
the head of management and players and shrilly insisting that "something
must be done". That's proper sport.
The English haven't got the hang of it yet. They continue to dream
their dozy dreams that one day, some handsome young prince will
lead his nation to the World Cup Final, a prospect about as likely
as Heather McCartney settling for the loose change she found down
the back of Paul's sofa as good enough for a divorce settlement.
And anyway, if Peter Crouch is that handsome prince, the princess
will be wanting her money back on the frog she went and kissed.
No, let's face it. If the likes of Andorra and the Faroes were to
be expelled from international competition, where would the fun
be for the likes of England and Scotland? Who would we get to beat
up in the playground?
Whose dinner money would we steal? Whose national head would we
stick down the toilet?
More important, if Andorra goes, that moves us a little further
down the food chain. And I'm not giving up my dinner money for anybody.
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