Well, putting my prejudices and collective viewings of women's football to one side, and putting my metaphorical England Hat on for what the media billed as the
single greatest sporting event this country had ever witnessed, I nervously tuned in to the Final, because why not. It got me out of household chores for the foreseeable, and was the 'patriotic' thing to do, after all!....
Oh but what a chore it was! Immediately aghast at our gals' dedication to American race issues, who probably don't even know why they're kneeling to begin with as Spain proceeded to resume the game around them, *chortle*, my initial pretzel-induced choke soon had me eyeing up that tin of paint vying for my attention, over there...
The media had gallantly given it their all, with the Beeb doing their best to hype up the event, in that completely nonsensical and non-partisan manner in which they do things. Alex Jones was dropping the Gs as though it was 1999, with the scintillatin', breathtakin' football being played by the Lio'n'esses, and bless her for that.
Yet what actually transpired, unfortunately for her, and the poor souls lamenting their choice of viewing habit, was the equivalent of pedestrian 'Float-ball', played with all the verve, passion and technical acumen of hindered pensioners. It was dirge from the off, with back-passes seemingly meant to encourage attackers, no composure in possession, and infrequent bouts of running around like headless chickens, when called upon to wake the actual attendees (not the PA system playing in crowd noises).
Those fleeting moments of creative output were nearly always in tandem with God-awful 'defending', and failed as a spectacle. Albeit it was a spectacle, just not really football-related!
With those 13 minutes of Injury Time beckoning, England conspired to lull those viewers that hadn't tapped out or fallen into a coma into 'Snail-ball', a rarely-used secret weapon to side-pass and back-pass for twelve minutes before, to quote Russel Crowe, 'unleash hell' in the last, awkwardly punting the ball upfield to that burly fella Wiegman had brought on. Yet, it wasn't to be.....
Awful passing, an absence of off-the-ball movement, a complete lack of physicality, and technique that is akin to hit-and-hope, try as they might, the Women's game is a debacle of epic proportions - even with England in the Final. Perhaps now we'll hear the end of the fake incessant exultation and - ahem - 'lionization' of this group of players, and stop the silliness of Sarina Wiegman's being given a Knighthood/ Damehood/ OBE/ KG or bloody KFC. Nevermind the ludicrous chit-chat of her being Gareth Southgate's successor
Ultimately, it was just another England team 'Englanding' it up when the chips are down, nothing new there. Also nice to see Reece James' sister not get the ultimate accolade, that is, unless they were to award her with 'Team Saboteur of the Tournament and Chief Stomper', perhaps.
And lest we dare take off the glasses of objectivity
, England's 'keeper moved well, well ahead of the spot-kick, not to mention being about a foot or two off her line - the kind of thing that results in a re-kick an' that, you know? Her show of F-bombs were also highly inspirational, a true role-model for future generations, as her face contorted into a tongue-lashing, snarling rage. What a heroine!
Alas, it's time to do those chores. And for the first time in a long time, I actually rue the time lost to do them. Thanks, Lionesses!
