We begin this week with two parallel stories.
Back in 1945, in Rheims, France, Germany signed an unconditional surrender to take effect the following day, ending the Second World War.
In November, 2015, in Munich, Germany, Woolwich Arsenal signed an unconditional surrender to take effect immediately, ending the Eighteenth Great Folly.
On that day in May, The Daily Sketch published a story with the headline THIS IS VE DAY – PREMIER IS TO BROADCAST AT 3PM: TWO DAYS’ HOLIDAY.
The story reports:
For Germany, the war ended at 2.41 a.m. yesterday when General Jodi, Germany’s Army Chief of Staff signed the first instrument signifying the country’s unconditional surrender at the little red school house in Rheims which is General Eisenhower’s headquarters.
General Bedell Smith, Eisenhower’s Chief of Staff, signed for the Supreme Command, according to an account broadcast by New York radio. General Ivan Susloparov signed for Russia and General Francois Sevez for France.
The German emissaries were asked several times if they understood the seriousness of the significance of the terms, and each time they said they did.
On that day in November, The Arsenal Gentleman News published a story with the headline FEEBLE WOOLWICH ROLL OVER TO FRITZ, TICKLE FRITZ’S TUMMY, ASK FRITZ IF HE WOULD LIKE A MUG OF COCOA, THEN SURRENDER LIKE THE FRENCH.
The story reports:
Yesterday evening in Munich, Woolwich Arsenal plucked a white flag from their codpieces as Herrs Lewandowski, Muller and Alaba force surrender even before Oranges. Half reptile Herr Robben unpalatably added a further goal causing the world’s supper to repeat upon them before Herr Muller doubled his tally. Brigadier Goring-Hildred at least saved some kind of face by scoring a goal, even if that face was a very horrible face, like that of Harry Kane or the terrifying vampire Nosferatu.
The surrender comes as Woolwich find themselves six points behind Bayern and Olympic of Athens with two games left.
Germany, under Mr. Hitler and the Nazi, Party, kicked it all off in September 1939 by annexing Poland.
Arsenal, under Mr. Windsor, kicked it all off disastrously in September against Dinamo of Zagreb.
By June 1940, the Nazis had conquered most of Europe, including of course France, who had politely planted trees by the side of the road so the German army could march in the shade.
By October 2015, Arsenal had metaphorically spanked themselves in the face with a garden spade against Olympic of Athens.
—
So there we have it. We feel the same relief as those German emissaries must have felt when surrendering at that schoolhouse in 1945. Humiliating, of course, but ultimately the right thing to do. We must now build on the peace, by sending out the under 15s against Zagreb and Olympic and rid ourselves of this delusion of European Grandeur, much like the Germans did in 1945.
What is to say of the match up itself? Mr. Orwell transformed from the sublime performance at Swansea, which meant that he has provided more Gentleman’s Favours than any other player since his debut in September 2013, to the ridiculous but nevertheless amusing attempt to score with his elbow. This manoeuvre is known as the Synovial Sin, and if it had come off it would have been disgraceful and delightful in equal measure. But it didn’t and it wasn’t. Why he didn’t attempt a noggin-bobbler I don’t know. The only other moment of light relief came in the first half when Senor Alonso channelled the spirit of Liverpool by kicking the flag when attempting to strike the ball for a corner.
The normally excellent Mr. Pallister came on for Mr. Costerley, and appeared to have eaten a mouldy bratwurst which affected his mental capabilities. Standing two yards too deep and then moving up after the ball was played in is quite the schoolboy error. Harry Bell joined the other nine players in sick bay due to groin-tweak, meaning Matthew Matthews had to fill in down that flank where he was not so much humiliated by Herr Coman as made to wear a pair of clown shoes, do a little dance to The Teddy Bear’s Picnic and then pop to the hardware shop for a bucket of tartan paint and a left handed screwdriver. Still, at least the tickets were cheap, eh chaps?
We hope that the chaps buck their ideas up before Sunday when Middlesex Rovers arrive, full of vim and vigour. Come a quarter to six on Sunday there may well be a Stalin Media Lockdown in place.
To Tottenham I say this, as I always do: Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.
