St George Defeating Germans... or Something

At 3pm this afternoon, I will be sat in front of my telly with my St George flying high as our boys take on Germany in the World Cup.

I must admit, I am not feeling quite as bullish as I was before the Slovenia game but I am quietly confident that we are going to win this game.

There will be no danger of the England team not being “up” for this one and an England team playing with pride and passion is a match for anyone in the World.

It is going to take more than pride and passion though and we are going to have to show a lot more in front of goal than we have shown so far. Rooney, in particular, needs to find his scoring boots.

Still, cometh the hour, cometh the man and the stage is set for Rooney to show the World just what he is all about. I think he will score this afternoon.

That’s all I have to say for now. I’ll leave the rest of this post to my mate Bill.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’