Are we on the road to greater things now?

The Life of Brian (Sorry, Southgate).

England v Belgium.

In the excitement or disappointment of writing my review of the England game, I forgot to acknowledge the next match for third place. I am sure, from a historical point of view, it is on everybody’s mind. More so for us lot who are staying out here to complete our World Cup circle.

I am just hoping that Southgate puts out a strong squad, as opposed to putting out the B team. Third place can be perceived as an honourable position, if, however, the B team is put into action then I suppose Southgate won’t be one of those that view it in such a light.

So, what will it be? A or B? Anyway, as I said at the beginning of this piece, the Life of Southgate; an evolution of Southgate rising from the ashes into a waistcoated demi-God.

Southgate was born in a stable in the year of our Lord, himself-Gate, nineteen hundred-and-seventy. His father, a High-Priest carpenter, and his mother a lowly virgin Mary. Constipation… sorry, consummation hadn’t been met, as, and as I said, because of Mary’s status as a virgin (the train never had arrived at the station).

Nonetheless, he was born in 1970, with some saying it was a miracle, others it was a piece of indigestion from a bit of meat caught in the throat. But to the point: while laying on his crib, in the stable, he was visited by Three Wisemen. Venables, Wise and Morecambe. Upon gazing upon the child, with gifts bearing,  Sheeps testicles, a football and a waistcoat, they smiled indignantly. On closer inspection, of the child, they suddenly noticed and then cried out “testicles”, whereby Mary, his mother came running into the barn and responded with “balls”.

“That is what we have,” replied the third wise man, Morecambe.

“No, no,” Mary explained, you have a ball-“

Before she could finish, Venables said, “two, surely?”

“What?” Mary replied, baffled, “And why are you calling me Shirley?”

“No,” Wise responded, “he has two?”

Suddenly clicking into gear she realised what was spoken, “The ball on the crib, I had a dream about it.”

“Don’t we all ducky,” responded Morecambe.

“I had this vision-“

“I’ve had a few of them,” they unitedly responded.

“You don’t get it,” Mary said annoyed.

“True, but is that any of your business? Sex isn’t easy to come by,” added a deflated Wise. “More so when you are dead and floating in the sky.”

“Speak for yourself,” said an agitated Venables. “I am whole”.

Now getting pissed off, “Look, you clowns, I am talking about the ball and my dream, I see my son as a famous footballer.”

“I wouldn’t go as far as that,  no, no,” Said Venables. “More infamous. I also had a dream… no, not that sort of dream, a dream of your son and crossbar.”

Anyway, the participants bantered backwards and forwards until they all fell asleep, leaving the baby to coo-coo on his own.

Days turned into years, and the boy started to develop and grow up, playing school football, picked in his youth, eventually progressing to league football with Palace, the crystal variety. From there to a Villa in the sun and downwards and into the Middleground hogs.

In the meantime, his country called him (we won’t tolerate name-calling here) and he went forward. What looked a promising move turned into a bit of a celebrity get me out of here moment. 

Woodworks and crossbars played a very ugly lesson for young Southgate. Into a driven profession and taking charge of the Middle-earth world, where he couldn’t really establish himself, that is until he was dismissed, but not all was lost. What is one man’s failure is another man ’s happy failure and he was picked for Under 21, but over six team. He prospered, hidden from view. Then suddenly the Gods in the sky called him in and did their magic and presented him with a waistcoat (remember the crib and three wise men?). This waistcoat had magical powers, and he was quickly offered a Bus and magic carpet ride up the jacksie, and he and the England team were rushed to where dreams could only be made by fairies. In that one magic moment, he lived that moment, along with the country/ press and whoever else was looking in.

It was then that he woke and was presented with reality. “Dreams,” the voice from above said, “ are earned, not give out of some vicious joke.” The clouds opened up and the sun smiled. “Your magic waistcoat has given you something that your country hasn’t seen since 1066 and all that,” the heavens shook, at the bespoken words, “and now the waistcoat is starting to wear thin, and you must go out there and take all the abuse, just like your fellow managers have done to earn their stripes. England is not paradise, but a fools harp. Beware young waistcoated Gareth, you’ve had your magic moment, and now the true test will test you and your young ducklings. Go forth (third would be nice), but whichever number you pick,  go forward and multiply. Shit happens, but so does testicle stew.”

And there you have it. We’ve reached the summate, not the reality but the bump down to earth. This is the true story (a bit unearth, but a bit can go a long way in a dark light…), or beginning of Mr Southgate’s meteoric rise (what happens next is for your eyes only).

Don Scully (with a smile and tickle)