A few days ago, footie teams here in Blighty were again allowed to have spectators watching them. As if ... er ...
One of the teams which played is now in the news. Before the game began, the players all genuflected, which, I gather, is called Taking the Knee and is an "anti-racist" quasi-sacramental rite. [Giggle giggle ... I heard you say that this would make it very hard for PF to be a professional footballer ... one can't take you anywhere ...]
And some spectators ... it is probably offensive for me even to mention this ... BOOED!!
And ... worse even than that ... climax of horrors ... one OR MORE of them shouted out ... horror warning ... racist offense warning ... shouted out ... yes, you want to know what he shouted ... what racially offensive innuendo, what obscene and wounding slander ... "Sieg Heil", perhaps, or a nostalgic snatch from the Horst Wessel Song? Right ... I'll tell you ... are you sitting comfortably? Is your defibrillator ready? Is its battery still working? ... what he (or they) shouted was
Back in the seventies, in our second, inner-city slum, curacy, there were lots of supporters of this particular club. They did have a bit of a reputation for putting themselves around, dear little fellows that they were. Not an underpass went unhonoured by their graffiti. Their chant was "Nobody likes us we don't care"; asyndeton, I grant you, but expressing a couple of truths nonetheless. Their Victorian origins were to be found in the working-class docklands of East London where their opponents were supporters of rival clubs based in rival business firms. Thus the youthful working classes fought out their proxy wars ... cemented their group identities ... and, thank goodness, expended their surplus energy.
Of course, the anti-racism campaigning classes and their [genuine Maoist jargon now coming up] Running Dogs are in a mighty frenzy about all this. I imagine that Inspector Knacker of the Yard and his Boys in Blue are at this very moment Leaving No Stone Unturned to identify the miscreants. Dame Cressida, I am sure, sweet old lady, is "concerned".
But why should our good plain English yobs have outlandish Americanisms foisted upon them? I have been told that Black Lives Matter is a rather iffy organisation ... but even if it isn't, why should young white working-class Londoners, needing for their happiness nothing more than weak Australian beer and a little harmless disorder, be forced to watch these daft alien rituals being enacted upon their own footie grounds? Isn't America big enough?
The traditional form of our beloved Roman Rite can give us some guidance here. On certain penitential days, the deacon, generally an undercover BLM agent, intones "Flectamus genua", and the subdeacon laudably countermands his Wokish boss by shouting