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sooty

The World Cup Is Here!

Brazil is hosting the tournament.

Prince Charles provides his rounded view of the 32 Nations taking part. Here is his take on the Groups C and D.

charles chinstrap copy

Group C

Colombia – Every crack dealers second team. Likely to sniff victory at the earliest opportunity. Will hug the lines.

Greece – So broke the team had to walk to Brazil. Dearest Father cheers them on. We have to hide the crockery.

Ivory Coast – Big lads to a man – lightweights. Should have been our colony. Frogs got there first.

Japan – Whale butchers and giant lizard fantasists – who WE BEAT IN THE WAR! – You can stick your Honda Civic up yer arse!

 

Group D

ENGLAND – Inventors of football, railway timetables, parliamentary democracy, the concentration camp, trapped wind, eyelash curlers and the long sock – if there’s an Eden it is England. Bloody foreigners. Which one of you fuckers wants some then?

Italy – A car back fires and Rome surrenders – lily livered Latin loverboys who will cheat and bribe their way to victory over our brave lads unsullied as we are by the desire or skill to win at football.

Uruguay – Morose bandy legged corned beef hawkers – two words to say to them Graf Spee and the Battle of River Plate!

Costa Rica – Titchy Central American nation perched on an Isthmus which sounds like someone with a lisp saying Christmas. They don’t have an Army. INVADE! Bring back the Empire!

INGERLAND!

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sooty

The World Cup Is Here!

Brazil is hosting the tournament.

Despite the corruption, riots and on site deaths,  the world will turn its attention to the buttock shaking centre of the Universe for a month.

Yes folks, there will be images of g-string clad, sweaty arsed Favela dwellers shouting,  “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLL” every time a “sambatastic” player breaks the old onion bag.

Prince Charles provides his rounded view of the 32 Nations taking part. Here is his take on the first 2  Groups.

charles chinstrap copy

 

Greetings – it was most kind of Gingerfightback to invite one to give one’s view of the nations competing in this year’s Roundball Event (more of a Polo man – nothing like riding an old nag –  but enough about Camilla!)

Here are my views of the plebians taking part in the game WE INVENTED!

Group A

Brazil – Any country that has a pubic hair shaving regime named after it is alright by one! PHWOARRRR!

Croatia – People with incomprehensible surnames should never be trusted. They have a tablecloth for a national flag. Dodgy collaborators.

Mexico – Cheese melters and bean squishers mostly propped up against walls asleep under their sombreros. Is Yul Brynner still coach?

Cameroon – Shite Prime Minster from Eton – didn’t realise he was a footy player – had him down as a fag basher from his Bullingdon days.

 

Group B

Spain – Current Champions – Eat very thinly sliced ham – not breaded either – the bastards  – their King has just abdicated.  MAMA! ARE YOU READING THIS!

Netherlands – Clog barmy barge dwellersh finger in dyke typesh – love to shmoke der dope. Tall. Very tall.

Chile – Pan pipe parpers and centre of the world bird shit industry. A country so thin it is the poster child for anorexic Human Geographers.

Australia – Aussies constantly bang on about how great the place is from the countries they are living in. Ex convicts with skin cancer.

 

 

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Goose

Hello,

I hope you enjoyed Part 1 yesterday. You can Read Part 1 here!

Here is Part 2 – Read on……….

Day 41 – Lisbon – scurry aboard Recife bound ship “Obrigado” – the principal cargo is buttock emollient cream, samba costumes and whistles – wriggle into a nice floral headpiece, matching sequinned bra and thong – I blending in with Brazilian culture!

Day 43 – The Obrigado – Unmasked by Boson as not “Hector” the vessel’s happy go lucky First Mate but as a non-paying transgender guest with well-honed buttocks – thrown in the Brig.

Day 43 – The Obrigado – Brought to ship’s captain – he is an unreconstructed romantic who is in a state of high dudgeon after reading the Bronte Classic Jane Eyre – he clutches me to his swelling breast and sobs uncontrollably “Poor Rochester,” he cries – tells me of his loon of a wife – a woman with a predilection for salty old tars – she is sealed away in ship’s bulkhead on account of her madness and “needs”.

Michael-Fassbender-as-Mr-Rochester-Jane-Eyre-2011-michael-fassbender-25911613-1920-1040

Day 46 – The Obrigado – Mass panic as Captain’s wife escapes and ravishes the ships Bursar, First and Second Mate, Boson, Petty Officer, Cook and a lad who happened to be passing in a Tuna fishing boat she spotted on the starboard bow – swam over to and ravished – she is captured and restored to her cell – the Captain sobs – I read him extracts from Wuthering Heights – “Poor Cathy,” is all he says.

Day 50 – Recife – Leave Obrigado – Captain donates lifetime supply of buttock emollient to thank me for my support – his wife ravishes me before I skip ashore – “Poor Cathy,” are the last words I hear.

Day 51 – Trans-Amazonian Highway – Sashay my way towards Belem – my bottom is revered by buttock cognoscenti.

Day 54 – Belem – Join Samba dance band – band rooted in bizarre Marxist theory that believes buttock wobbling in camp outfits will eventually destroy capitalism – I have my doubts.

Day 68 – Mouth of Amazon – Say farewell to my Samba Band colleagues with a toot on my whistle – Capitalism still intact – chop down big tree – shape it into giant clog and paddle towards Manaus.

Useful Tip in the Rain Forest #1 Never paddle in a thong.

butt

Day 71 The Amazon – See off attack from shoal of synchronised swimming Piranhas by dazzling them with my sequin studded brassiere – smear myself in emollient to fend off flesh-eating insects and mosquitos.

Day 75 – Fishing village of Maracaibo – Befriended by Geoff a double glazing salesman from Cornwall who. “turned left at Plymouth instead of right” – barter my whistle with him for a set of triple glazed French windows he happens to be carrying – lash them to clog and sail up the Amazon!

Day 80 – Manaus – Leave clog and trek into Forest – see all types of creatures – Jaguars, Monkeys, Lions, Tigers, Penguins, Polar Bears, even a Giraffe – realise I am in Manaus Zoo and head for exit – easy mistake to make. Turn left at MacDonald’s and find myself deep in the Rain Forest.

Useful Tip in the Rain Forest #2 – Never walk in a thong and stilettos in the Rain Forest.

Day 84 – Rain Forest – Felled by dart fired from blowpipe – fall into delirious fever – imagine erotic romps with Bilbo Baggins.

Day 86 – Rain Forest – Fever breaks and awake to find short lad with big ears and enormous feet next to me! I am in Middle Earth!

Day 86 – Rain Forest – Lad wakes up and smiles – he only communicates by twanging his nasal hairs in complex melodies – I discover his name is Whothefuckareyou? Chief of a long lost tribe who still don’t have a clue where they are – The Wherethefuckarewe?

tribe

Day 86  – Rain Forest – I am the first white man in samba outfit with smooth buttocks the Wherethefuckarewe? have encountered – I am worshipped as their long lost God and christened Wherethefuckdidhecomefrom?

Day 87 – Rain Forest – The Wherethefuckarewe? are a proud people – traditional costume is an Adidas Shellsuit – it is good to see that they have not been tainted by western culture – Whothefuckareyou? organises a feast in my honour!

Day 88 – Rain Forest The feast comprises the traditional Amazonian dish of Burger and Chips washed down with a highly intoxicating liquor made by fermenting the bark of dogs – we partake in a fertility dance with a number of toothless harpies – nasal hairs plucked with much ferocity – Before passing out all I recall is a nasal hair plucking rendition of the Hokey Cokey, followed by Hi Ho Silver Lining……..

Day 93 – Rain Forest – Whothefuckareyou? leads me deep into the jungle – day after day I toil moving ever further from civilisation towards what? I know not – I am wilting – cannot go much further – chafed and blistered – my headgear a bit wonky – Finally he holds out a slightly wonky Light Sabre without batteries towards a clearing in the Forest.

Day 93 – In The Rain Forest – A place of serene beauty – never before seen by a white man dressed in a samba outfit – giant statues – thousands of years old – bearing a remarkable resemblance to the cast of US Sitcom Friends – guard this place – I hear water nearby – Whothefuckareyou? twangs on his nose hair – the sounds tell me that we have reached the source of the Amazon – A washer is needed to stop the dripping – slightly disappointing.

I think of Simon Cowell with a sausage on his head.

simon_cowell goetta copy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Goose

 

Hello,

With the Soccerball World Cup in Brazil  starting next week and football fever building,  here is an old story from our friend  The Tight Fisted Traveller on how he managed to travel to Brazil for free last year.

This is taken from his handy reference book– “The Coke Smugglers Guide to Latin America”.

Chapter 23 – “Brazil It’s An Amazon Place!”

Day 1 – London – Steal bicycle – nip to French mens outfitter’s “Moi?” – purloin traditional French garb of beret, Breton shirt, moustache and string of onions – stare in shop window and practice nonplussed facial expression whilst shrugging shoulders – I am French!

Day 1 – London – Bike ride to Dover hampered by dangling onions – but I am French now so shrug shoulders and blockade motorway to protest.

Day 3 – Dover Harbour – Stowaway on French Minesweeper SS “Mai Oui”.

A Typical Frenchman - well if you're gonna do a cliche do it properly

Day 4 – English Channel – My disguise allows me to mingle with the crew who smoke continually, argue about the true meaning of Sartre and make vegetable soup which is slurped down with Gallic aplomb.

Day 5 – English Channel – The crew take me to heart after Je suis discovered akip in torpedo tube – sing the Edith Piaf classic – “A Citroen Backfires – Paris Surrenders” become overnight internet sensation on Vous Tube.

Day 6 – Cherbourg – no sign of Cher sadly – I am smuggled ashore by crew who wish to continue discussing Sartre and their nation’s affliction for permanent nonplussedness. After emotional farewells involving mass spontaneous shoulder shrugging – I cycle south for Spain.

Day 8 – Cherbourg (still) – Dangling onions still a problem and the false moustache causing further drag issues on Bike – c’est la vie – blockade service station toilets in protest.

Day 9 – Cherbourg (still) – Tour de France sweeps through – Stage 14 to Reims – I join the Peloton – miraculously win the stage and claim the Yellow Jersey. Cite Lance Armstrong and Amphetamine abuse as major factors in my success.

Day 10 Reims – I am uncovered when my dangling onions accidentally throttle leading French rider in Stage 15 – chased by baying mob of French onion loving cyclist philosophers who see this as ghastly “Les Rosbifs” attack on a French sporting institution (but the philosophers ask “is it?”) – Make good my escape by removing the onions from bike and take off false moustache – they’ll never spot me!

Day 10 – Reims- Arrested by French police. Blockade my cell in protest.

Day 13 – Reims – Released – am offered a lift by Heineken sozzled Dutch shykling fansh – Wim and Piet Mine Der Gap who are following the Tour – Their camper van roof sports a giant detachable clog and a windmill – “Krayshee Ja!” Wim and Piet keep saying – I am hidden in Windmill as we pass through the Pyrenees into Espana. Now I know what Anne Frank must have gone through.

Day 31 – The Spanish Pyrenees – Wim and Piet spin on blades of windmill for three days singing the back catalogue of well known Dutch Prog rock band Focus – they swear rotary turbine spinning cures any hangover – I decouple giant clog and slip quietly into the River Sangria and raft to Madrid.

clogboat

Day 33 – Somewhere in Iberia – Sailing by clog surprisingly comfortable – draw admiring glances from Spanish Environmentalists who are protesting about tomatoes being grown in greenhouses along riverbanks.

Day 37 – Madrid – How a Brit, disguised as a Frenchman arriving in a giant clog could be construed to be the famous bullfighter “El Flatulente” is beyond me – but I am – carried shoulder high to Las Ventas for a spot of “Death in the Afternoon”.

Day 37 –  Madrid – Bullfighting clothes very tight on the old knackers – mince my way into the ring – confronted by a livid Bull called “El Mangler” – my bowels loosen – prance like John Wayne with piles – realise my sword is actually a shop bought Star Wars light sabre without batteries – I have to make the droning noise myself – El Mangler sees the sword, recalls he is part Sith and then does a passable Darth Vader impression – becomes internet sensation on Tu Tube – I am carried shoulder high by adoring fans out of the arena – with only a wonky shop bought Star Wars light sabre without batteries as a trophy.

Day 38 – Madrid – I hitch a lift in a lorry driven by a reticent Serb war criminal, Goran – cargo is artificially grown tomatoes hidden in statues of Picasso.

oil-painting-tete-de-femme-by-spanish-painter-pablo-picasso-7433141 copy

Part 2 Tomorrow! To Lisbon and Beyond……..

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You Have To Hand It To Him!

You Have To Hand It To Him!

Azteca Stadium – Mexico City, Mexico- 1986

He was small,  stocky and had a lovely mop of hair. He had it all. And he did it in tiny, shiny shorts. He was Diego Armando Maradona.

England. Sturdy. Yeomen. Thick.

It was a clash. Not only of cultures and values but also hairstyles. England still trimmed by Mum; Argentina mulleted bandoleros. Boy, did they give the volumizer a bashing at half-time.

A war had divided the two nations. But one thing united both teams. Exceptionally tiny, shiny shorts.

As Peter Reid, the doughty Liverpudlian midfield enforcer, said about Maradona, “I just couldn’t get near him, me shorts had cut of the blood supply to me knackers. I can’t have no kids ‘coz of dem shorts laa.”

England could not cope with the titchy Buenos Aires Barrio boy. Diego was that good. But he was also a cheat. A cheat who drew inspiration from God.

THE HAND OF GOD.


As these photos display the infamous first goal, when he punched the chicken into the net over the head of English goalkeep, the perma-permed Shilts to put his Tangoing team ahead.

From a different angle the chicken looks suspiciously like a boiled ham. If that doesn’t scream Ham Ball we don’t know what does.

You’ve Got To Ham It To Him!

We'd Get Him In The End!

We’d Get Him In The End!

The result? Argentina won the game and went on to lift the World Cup of Footbally Bally.

Shiny shorts are still banned in England to this day.

Diego is now Pope.

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Hello!

To celebrate world chinstrap week, Gingerfightback brings to you some of the great and good down the years who have proudly sported one.

As Shakespeare wrote, “All the world’s a chinstrap”.

Enjoy!

Here is Soccerball Legend, Chelsea manager and Portugese Man o’War, Jose “The Special One” Mourinho adjusting his straps

jose_chin

Here Is The Pope!

pope_chin

And here is Steve McQueen!

McQueen – The Great Escape – The Chinstrap

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Oily

Several years ago I followed your fabulous diet book, “Masturbate Yourself Thin”, lost three stone and could crack walnuts with my right hand. Sadly I tugged with such ferocity that my foreskin is now over three feet long and when I am in the shower my love missile looks kinda…..weird. Do you have any tips for reeling it in. Or is surgery the only way?

Bellend Tom, Belenses

Hi Bellend,

My we have quite a few wankers contacting me this week! Fine by me!

Could you contact my secretary Salacious Sadie? We have just the part for you. It’s an updated/skewered/perverted version of the Elephant Man and tells the story of the many scraps and bedroom farces old Merrick might have got into with various buxom wenches if he had been a bit less depressive, more outgoing and could run fast like Benny Hill.

Oily

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lenin ski jump

Ginger Sooty, GLOVE PUPPET OF DREAMS provides a daily round-up of events at the Winter Olympics that are, quite simply Sochi 2014.

This fella came down a snowy slope quickly.

Well known Fiddleist Vanessa Mae came down a snowy slope rather slowly (but more quickly than I could ever do) whilst playing the Violin bit in Dexy’s classic C’mon Eileen.

Dutch are shtill doing well in the der Shpid Shkatin’! Jeesh, thoshe thighsh!

sagelenin2

A couple of sports to look out for.

1. Bob Slay

How many men called Bob can you find in an hour and put to death? A sport that is not for the feint hearted. Judging is scored on  despatching technique (hands favoured over weaponry) and artistic impression.

Strange Vernon from Australia is the favourite. Best not to ask why….

2. Cresta  Run Team Tickle

Two teams slide down the ice side by side armed only with a feather duster and pluck. Points are scored when the duster strikes a designated “tickle zone” on the body – neck, armpit, behind the knee and base of foot – causing the opponent to giggle or at least titter.

Vladimir Itchykov is favourite to take the Gold after his world record Titter Giggle score of 46 last week. All the more impressive when you know that Vladimir sold his testicles to fund his vodka habit.

putinsooty

Enjoy The Games!

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Hello!

Yes folks, Oily George, Aunty Bill, Fanny Redcrack, Bob On The Pot and a token chunky northerner are going to Amsterdam to drink in the sights, drink in the atmosphere, drink in the culture, drink in the architecture, drink in the bicycles and drink in the pubs.  Trebles all round!

We have tickets to see Ajax Amsterdam play Heracles. Not a cheap remake of Clash Of the Titans but a genuine Dutch Football match.

HUP!

As a tribute to Dutch football and drug taking, this short article appeared in Gingerfightback a few years ago.

Super Orange – Why The Dutch Became So Good At Football

Van Anagram Scoring in the 1974 World Cup

Van Anagram Scoring in the 1974 World Cup

When Dutch Football burst onto the world stage in the 1970’s, their style of play, known as Total Football stirred primal feelings in fans around the globe. As Oscar Wilde said after seeing the Dutch team demolish Belgium in a friendly encounter in Brussels in 1973, “Truly, I declare Cruyff’s genius to be worthy of my own. What do you think Dorian?”

Gingerfightback remains intrigued about the rise of Dutch football from a footballing backwater to a world “Shocker” power. It is for this reason and this reason alone, that we ventured to a bong shop in Amsterdam. And in this bong shop, where one can have a bang on a right few good numbers, although we did not, a strange truth prostrated itself before us.

Wim Van Anagram was a legendary member of the great 1970’s Dutch teams. Van Anagram, now a heavily built man in his sixties, flattened down his comb over before continuing, “Pash and move. Alwaysh the moving and alwaysh der pashing. Datsch the way we played and datsch the way we show nearly brought da Wurld Cup back home.” He looked wistfully out of his window at the bustling city beneath him, buffing his latest hand crafted bong.

clogboat

“Wanna bang on thish l’il number?”

I declined. He placed the now shimmering almost translucent bong in a box, then stowed it on a shelf alongside several others. Each bong had its own name. They appeared to offer very good value for money in our opinion.

Van Anagram settled into his chair and continued, “Y’know why we wash show shuccesshful?” Why for ten yearsh or show, der Dutcsh football wash the besht?”

I shook my head.

“Shorter shurnames.” Van Anagram replied.

He smiled. It was as if he was playing a joke with me in some subtle Flemish tone that I would never understand. He guffawed, “Crjiff, Krol, Rep, Haan, Neeskens, Gullit, Van Basten – truly great playersh all with der namesh dat are eashy to pronounsch. It’s eashy to forget dat before the nineteen sheventiesh the Dutcsch teams were no good. Y’know why?”

I shook my head. Again Van Anagram smiled. He leaned forward and touched my corduroys, plucking at the seams around my right knee. He then straightened, placed his hands together and very slowly began to pull them apart until his arms were fully extended. “Namesh dish long! whad da fuck?”

“Exshample. Our Naschional goalkeeper for 1954 wash a guy called Theo Van Windmillstulipshfromamshterdambingbangabongeurovishonshongcontesht. He wash a great ‘keeper but when a crosh was put into der box by the time he had shouted out his name to hish defendersh the poor feller wash out of de breath and couldn’t jump hup for da ball!”

Theo Windmillstulipsfromamsterdambingbangbongeurovisionsongcontest - in action

Theo Windmillstulipsfromamsterdambingbangbongeurovisionsongcontest – in action

“We had a right back called Johnny Rijkmusheumfreetoallentrantshonthurshdaysh, great at going forward but by the time der coach had shouted instructionsh to him it was eider half time or game up. Shimilalrly der playmaker at der time wash a player called Albert Polderzuiderzeeboywidafingerindadykeshpeedshkaterliberalattitudeshtocannabish.

Van Anagram’s features, grated by years of bong polishing wore a confused expression. The man was a vital cog, dare we say clog, in the Total Football machine built at the time.

Matters came to a head when legendary coach Rinus Michaels was appointed national team coach in the late 1960’s. The Dutch Cup Final that year was played between Ajax and Twente Enschede. The match programme, of which there are still plenty available, needed three pages to name the Ajax squad (including the legendary Left Back, Rene Vandergraffspeeyelevelsheventieshdutschdetectivesherieshshtarringbarryfoshter).The game had entered the second half before all the players names had been announced over the tannoy.

Van Anagram preparing a cheese toasted snack for us continued, “Now you shee der problem yeah? Who can shay – Oi -Vandergraffspeeeyelevelsheventieshdutschdetectivesheerieshshtarringbarryfoshter, over here on me head shun! – without being exhaushted by der procesh?”

I nodded. Now I understood. Technically gifted players, strong thighs, but using so much saliva during the game merely to communicate, that they were totally dehydrated after twenty or so minutes. Making defeat probable.

Van Anagram checked on the cheese on toast, now bubbling appealingly under the eye level grill.

“That wash Michaelsh geniush. Shorter namesh would improve the reshultsh and allow der Dutcsch team to flourish on der wurld shtage – Do you want any shauce for your toashtie?”

I shook my head. Van Anagram took a large bite from his snack. I asked him what he was thinking about.

“Jusht memoriesh of the pasht, here have anoder shlice. Good ya? Wanna buy a bong?”

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Hello,

Football is back!

There is nothing I like better than adjourning to my throne for a couple of hours on a Sunday morning with the Footie results. Like most blokes here in Blightydom, football is more than just a sport. It’s an excuse to get pissed!

As Bill Shankly famously said, “Football is not about life and death. It’s about something else. What, I haven’t the foggiest. Give and go. Flat back four. Break the fucker’s leg  next time he skins ye son.”

Andy Murray Winning Ball Over The Net! Mo Farah and Christine Thingymajig! Winning The Ashes! The Lions Winning Down Under! Chris Froome Winning The Pedalling!

Not proper sport.

Doesn’t bear comparison with the wanderings of Wayne Rooney’s hair and his search for pate peace. Wayne starts the season with a carefully sewn in thatch, even dabbling with a centre parting and as the season progresses his hair gets thinner than the atmosphere on Mars. Now that is sport.

Wayne has learned a new word – Tuesday. That’s 83 now!

I spend hours analysing teams, attendances, player ratings whilst me innards despatch the effects of the wanging session The Overwrought Penguin.By the way my lovely wife Shirley has taken a shine to the new barman Osvaldo.  12 pints of Snakebite with Malibu chasers will do that to a woman.

Osvaldo takes care of himself. Cleans his teeth for starters. Bloody foreigners. Can’t play football though can they? Just remember pal, WE invented the game. And tinned carrots. And Parliamentary Democracy.

Think I’ll go for a lie down……….

Laters

Bob

Becks_ginger

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