The kingdom of Ing-er-land was in ferment and distress and everywhere the people were afflicted by pestilence, the Danes, the Germans, the Franks and even the Andorreans! For no great King could be found to lead our brave albeit somewhat overpaid useless and stupid lads to any effect in battle!
Many years ago in the year of 966 it had seemed that Ing-er-land would be swallowed whole by the barbarians, and King Sir Alf the Great was forced to live in a boggy hole and live on a diet of burned cakes! And yet with the Will of God he rallied his reeves, thanes and lampreys and in a tactically astute wingless formation routed the invading Teutons at the Battle of Wemberly (4-2) and Ing-er-land was TOP NATION!
But then sad years of decline followed, for King Sir Alf The Great became old and frail, and no Good King could be found to replace him, and the land was wasted and there was no harvest of cups and trophies, but only failure and non qualifications! Oh folly!
Oh the groans of the Ing-er-lish to be afflicted so! My son!
And so the Witan, which is the Council of so called Wise Men of the FA, meaning “those who were blazers”, did convene again and again to choose a new King who could rescue the land of the Ing-er-lish from despair and yet ever their choice was unrighteous and ill counselled! For no man could be found who could be King and manage the lads.
For their first choice was Ron of the Green Wood, but he was too fat and had no personality at all.
For their next choice was Bobby, Rob’s Son, but although he was brave and noble, he was most unlucky in battle, and they betrayed him, and yet he became much beloved of the Common Wield when he grew old.
For their next choice was Graham the Tailor Man, but he was castigated by a plague of turnips, and grew sad and old. But once again he became beloved of the Common Wield.
And then there was Glenn the Confessor, in whom much promise of technical kingship was spoke of, but he devoted himself the Religious Way, and it is said that he made his Household Troops pray 23 hours a day, and wear strange and mystical symbols, and he was accused of WICCA CRAFT and deposed!
And there was Terry the Disqualified, who although cunning in battle was sly, and prone to [illegible].
And there was Kevin, Prince of Scunthorpe, who had been a valiant warrior in his youth, but died of a surfeit of shell suits and nerves.
And all the while the Danes and Germans and Franks and Brazilians went freely where they wished in our penalty area and scored when they wished and took our silver and there was no one to contest them on the field of battle. And the Land was sad!
For when the ball was in the midfield our midfielders were in their penalty box. And when the ball was in our penalty box our players were in the midfield! And so great silver was granted to others and none to our lads!
And worse still, in all this time the country was effected by a plague of ill luck. Omens of evil in the form of fiery dragons of storms smote the land, there were blood red sunsets. And this proved true as we won not one penalty shoot out, for there was evil in the air, and the people were sore afflicted.
AND so it came to pass that there was no Ing-er-lish man left to lead the country of Ing-er-land! And the so called wise men of the Witan at the FA donned their blazers and ties and at last chose a foreign King, Sven the Boneless from Scandinavia, to heal the country. And yea, he was smooth and oily, and both men and women did fall prey to his Scandinavian charm. But as a former weather girl discovered, he did promise much and yet deliver little, and when battle was truly joined he was found to be dull and uninspired, and sod all use, frankly, and once again the nation of the Ing-er-lish were put to the sword.
And for all this the Witan of the FA did pay a great price of silver and gold known now as “Sven’s Geld”. And every man and woman in In-ger-land did pay much.
And so in disarray did these so called wise man turn to an Ing-er-lish man, Steve the Wally, but it was no use, and he was sent into exile in the land of the Dutch.
And so once again the land of the Ing-er-lish was in turmoil, and once again the Witan of the FA turned to a foreign king, Count Fabio of Tuscany, and a huge wagon of silver, nearly 400,000 pounds in weight, was raised and sent to persuade him. And he came with great ranks of advisors and there seemed to be no end of their number and of their number there were too many to be counted. And all were to be paid!
Duke Fabio was stern of countenance and had proved strong in war. And yet when he was King he treated his men with disdain, and he was Tactillium Fuckwittardus, which means from the Latin that he did not set his team up right, and unnready, which is in Old English “ill counselled”, “bad counselled”, and unwilling to speak in the tongue of the Ing-er-lish, his subjects and those who paid him tons! Oh unhappy people!
And when his men went into battle against the hated Teuton they were massacred, and the nation groaned. And he spoke not in Ing-er-lsih yet.
Yet curiously of this the Witan of the FA said nothing at all . But when his Captain, John of Chelsea was accused of calling someone “a nasty little Mercian sh*t” there was a great furore, for there can be no worse insult than calling someone a Mercian. And at last Fabio behaved with honour and defended Terry, who had as yet been convicted of no offence.
And yet it came to pass that having spent all the Gold and Silver on these ill counselled Kings, the Witan sent Fabio into Exile. With more gold!
But by God’s great mercy, there strode forth Harry Ironsides, a mighty warrior and chirpy son on Ing-er-land who had been undergoing a little difficulty about the small matter of £183,000 in an offshore bank account.
The king is dead. Long live the King!
VIVAT! VIVAT! VIVAT!
Gildas the Monk