The symptoms of doomdom

Future historians will one day regress the origins of a Europe wide war to the weeks of June 2011 when thousands of Spaniards and Greeks took to the streets and squares of their respective capitals out of frustration and anger at the political corruption that had led their countries to the brink of bankruptcy.

Meanwhile during the same period in the UK, possibly because the mainstream media didn't want anyone to know what was actually happening on the continent in case everyone got the same idea here, everyone was focused instead entirely on the finals of Britain's Got Talent.

A talent show in the loosest possible terms where a kid who looks like a puppy in a syrup and was clearly cloned from another spooky Canadian kid was about win the opportunity of a lifetime to be appalling exploited by a sweaty Simon Cowell. The days when the sun never set on the Empire had never quite felt so long ago.

I'm disgusted at us. If millions and millions of people watched these shows out of a sense of irony, fully aware of how utterly offensively vacuous they are, I wouldn't lose quite so much sleep, but no. These shows have become genuinely important to people. People talk about them at work, on twitter, in queues. Everywhere. Seriously.

So while the European Union begins to break up, a monumental notion no less significant than the collapse of the Soviet Union, everyone in this country is distracted by someone juggling orphans and the news that amateur racist Cheryl Cole might be returning to judge the X-Factor.

We're doomed, we've given up then is what we're saying to ourselves. That's the general conclusion we can draw from these specific symptoms of doomdom. We're the national equivalent of a once beautiful but now fat divorcee who wears track suits all the time with custard stains down the front, smokes 100 cigarettes a day and feeds her seven kids crisps for tea before sending them out to make life a misery for anyone living within a five mile radius.

Call me presumptuous but I don't think Socialism has worked.

* * *

Well if the country can ignore the nightmare that is so clearly approaching with all the inexorable velocity of an out of control Fiat Punto skidding sideways down an icy road towards a group of school children while the female behind the wheel applies her lipstick in her rear view mirror in complete ignorance of the terrified faces of the little cherubs she's about to skittle into a mass grave.

I myself will use the Concacaf Gold Cup which starts tomorrow to take my mind off the fact that we're all doomed and it's every man for himself.

Mexico as we all know are current Champions having given the US of States a 5-0 shellacking in the 2009 final. I see no reason why this can't happen again this year. It being held in 'merca will only add to the humiliation of the host nation as they are slaughtered once again.


Mexico play the might of El Salvador tomorrow night at Cowboys Stadium. The result will be a national embarrassment for El Salvador and many members of their team will never quite be the same again.

Elsewhere in the sporting world, my new MotoGP hero while Valentino Rossi sorts out how to ride his Ducati is Marco Simoncelli and his magic Euro hair-do. He looks remarkably like a 1970s Kevin Keegan in fact, only not quite so gay.

I fancy him to win his first MotoGP race tomorrow in the Catalunya GP. He's been threatening to win one of these things all season, but has up to now, preferred instead to fling himself off his machine or fling other people off theirs.

Marco is not the crowd favourite having destroyed poor little Dani Pedrosa's shoulder in the last race in Le Mans with an overtaking manouevre that required the breaking of up to nine laws of physics and as many racing regulations.

Fantastic stuff. Proper racing. None of this nancy boy F1 business where there's no racing allowed, only prancing about in Gucci sunglasses shouting ciao at the locals.

"I tell you what, I will LOVE IT,
love it if I win tomorrow."