They Don't Get It!

Well my little grasshoppers, don’t the Brits just make you cringe, especially when they “don’t get it”.  The latest reminder of this is the recent humiliation relating to the “bid” to host the 2018 World Cup.  In fact, my chortling band of corn lovers, this extraordinary episode was enough to make anybody with a sense of pride and history ask, “Where did the English go”? 

In passing, Pudgilius notes once again that, in the after-match analysis, the messenger is immediately given the fault (admittedly not solely an English reflex, however).  After all, it was the media which pointed out that this was not a bidding process but a bribing process.  Now, you might have thought that, armed with this invaluable knowledge, the powers that be would have acted accordingly.  Is it really that difficult to arrange for the delivery of neatly severed horses' heads to each of the delegates, followed a little later by a brown suitcase full of used notes?  (Pudgilius always favours the stick and carrot approach.)  Instead, all we had was a feeble attempt with some dodgy looking designer handbags.  A number of these were apparently returned as they, presumably, were not full of gold bars (not that we could have supplied many of those as Gordon Brown sold most of our stocks some time ago).  Acting the cheapskate is not the way to nutmeg the descendants of Uncle Joe, however.

Then we have the presentation party itself.  Pudgilius asks if that was really the best we could come up with.  At least we had a couple of fakes on the rostrum.  Cameron might be of some use pitching for a public school fagging contest; he’s nowhere near intimidating enough to call the bluff of a bunch of well oiled sleazebags.  Then we had poor little World Cup Willie II (aka Prince William or "Big Willy").  While Pudgilius agrees that it was not a bad idea to whisk him away from the clutches of his doughy eyed stalker (Kreepy Katie) for a couple of days, was anybody fooled by his “passion for football” line?  No, my little green click warblers, this was nothing more than “new England” laid bare with all of its warts on show; shallow, fake, blustery but, most of all, missing the point.

So, what can we learn from this debacle, my brave crusaders?  Well, Pudgilius isn’t at all impressed with the mock indignation and outrage from certain quarters.  The English, we are told, are beyond double dealing and corruption; we play by the rules.  Pudgilius regards this as the hypocrisy of the loser.  After all, had WC Willie II compared notes with fat Uncle Andy (aka The Grand Old Duke of Pork), he would have learnt that corruption is the way of the world and it is only the bodies who investigate it that prevent any real progress being made (along with some nice little kick-backs).  Come to think of it, surely that would be the same Uncle Andy who regularly gallivants with some of the best known international gangsters.  What a calamity!  We send a novice when we could have had a real insider leading the team.   

So, Pudgilius raises his hat to the Russians.  They played it just right.  All the groundwork neatly laid, Putin is simply left to stroll onto the stage in order to collect the rather expensive prize.  No pretensions, no fawning, no grovelling followed by humiliation; nothing but good honest graft. 

Is Russia the only country which still knows how to play the “beautiful game”?