
Champions of Infinity!
A Vindication of Del Bosque’s Team Selection
I shall not harp on about the demonstration of Spain’s genetic and moral superiority that was prove over the weekend yet again. After all, as foregone conclusions go, this one have gone long before it ever went. Even despite the lubricous decisions of the idiot English referee Clive Webb, who was refuse to punich any sort of Dutch wrongdoing short of immolation, the character of the Spanish players on the Spanish team shone through, won out, paid off, and bent over. Indeed, such was their masterfulness that, for anyone who was watch the game impartially, they could not but want Spain to win; even all the Dutch fans I have spoken to, here on the beaches this morning, have say to me, “Yes definitely the Spain was the better team and we were supporting them all along and the Dutch were scum and we hope they all die.”
They may actually have been Germans.
Them impartial watchers was also all unaminously agreed that the match was won by one man, namely, the Real Madrid goalpeeker Iker Casillas, who was also captain, best player in the whole tournament, and the man who designed the World Cup. How fitting then that he should be given it by Sepp Blatter in the ceremonial scrum at the end of the match. It was Casillas’s wisdom, maturity, and general knowledge that guided his team of Catalans, Basques, Galicians, and other assorted non-Spanish Spaniards to the trophy. Without him, they would no doubt have lost in the first round to someone totally rubbish, like England. This organizational setup, well chosen by del Bosque, it must be said, sends an important moral to the people of Spain in much the same way as the multicultural team of France did when they won the cup in 1998 and then when they crash out and burn one another in subsequent competitions in an orgy of race hatred and anarchist disobedience (or, in the case of Franck Ribery, Bemzemer and Govou, an ordinary orgy with naked ladies). The moral is that Spain wins things when its natural masters are put in charge, namely, the Madrileños, and when all the inferior provinces and regions do what they are told. In this way the country achieves concord, success, and stability. Not progress.
You will have also notice that the two teams in the final was both countries that are monarchies. This is no coincidence. If the French, Germans, Brazilians, Italians, or English ever want to win the World Cup again, they will have to both reorganize the structures of their football leagues and restore their monarchies, preferably the Spanish monarchy. And of course pay reparations for having left the Spanish commonwealth in the first place (or, if they were not members, for not having been a member).
I see in the news also that the Dutch fans have had a big riot to celebrate their team’s defeat, although this was only 200 fans rioting and was in The Hague, so it was probably lawyers from the International War Crimes Tribunal annoyed that Clive Webb was not arrested after the match. This is what you would espect in a Protestant country where they cannot get passionate about anything escept tolerance. Besides, it was clear for all the world to see on Sunday night where all of Holland’s hooligans was: On the pitch nailing their studs to the chest of Xavi Alonso! And as for Marco van Bommel, the only good thing to say is that he makes Puyol look like a sex dog!
I was last night had my own celebrations driving around Lanzarote with the top of my scooter down and waving my Spanish flag, which drew many comments, cheers, stones, hardened faeces, from Canarian Independence supporters, so I got the ferry over to Fuerteventura and scooted around there for a bit also, since I knew I would get a better reception there from all the Germans, who had already forgotten how we had stuff them in the semis because we had beat the Hun, which is what they call the Dutch. I was therefore in my elememt, and we had many fine schnapps and brandeys until the wee hours. After I had have my wee, I went home and prayed my thanks to Our Lady and made some final touches to my diorama of the Inquisition, replacing the Jew being tortured with a replica of Clive Webb, which I had got in a Coco Pops packet, and then lit the torches which the Inquisitors was holding to his nostrils. The I fell asleep. Then I woke up with my feet on fire and did some more dancing out into the street, which passing party-goers assumed was in celebration, so they join in and lift me on their shoulders and carry me off to the beach and when I get home this morning my diorama was gone. And also my guitar.
Is a good job I hid my Bible.

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