Win or lose, the England team never fail to make us chuckle
Reasons to be cheerful A: Assuming England are not going to the Euro finals.
At long bloody last, we won't have to put up with those stupid Wags next summer, poncing and posing about.
And phew, a chance for a proper summer hol without irritation, aggravation and humiliation.
Goodbye to Becks, and about time, too. And take Posh with you.
And Michael Owen. You can stay in bed from now on, Wee Micky, nursing whatever's your latest injury. Ditto to Wayne.
And up your bum, Steve. What a relief to see the back of him.
Let's bring back the home internationals. They should never have been stopped. England will now have a chance of winning something, or at least ending in the top five - every year!
These foreign johnnies, now is the time to kick them out - they've done us no blooming good - and insist that from now on you must have been born within the sound of Bow Bells/Wigan Pier/Fog on the Tyne/Scouse Pie/Deadly Doug in order to play in the Prem.
The FA can set up a proper national academy where our thousands of excellent young players, now being held back by all these dodgy, sweaty, swarthy mercenaries, can learn proper decent English tactics, ie, how to get stuck in and kick a really good long ball.
The pendulum will have swung, come 2010 and 2012. No longer will the mighty Faroe Isles/ San Marino/Bass Rock be feared throughout Europe. Their pool of talent and/or population will have dried up.
By the next World Cup, Euro finals, we will have an even more golden generation of world-class English stars, oh yes, for obviously in four/six years' time the present totally amazing young players, too young to get in the team this time, will be in their prime. Players such as Theo Walcott, and, er, Theo Walcott, hmm, must be some others . . .
Reasons to be cheerful B: Assuming England get through to the Euro finals, which, as I write, is not clear. But come on, as jammy bastards, they can't balls it up again, can they?
Sharing the joy and fun of our heart-warming Wags as they sport themselves in Austria and Switzerland.
Dancing in the streets from the TV stations that have bought rights, plus all the publishers, newspapers, boots, shirts, deodorant sponsors which have invested trillions in our lads.
For the fans, next summer is sorted, slumped by the telly, don't speak to me, can't you see I'm busy. Family holiday, what holiday, what family, leave it out.
John Terry's agent - who always realised £150,000 a week was chicken shit - can now ask for a decent fee.
Those giants of Andorra, Estonia, Macedonia, who so terrified our lads for so long - oh no they didn't, says Steve - can now stick it up their jumpers.
Silly thoughts of getting to grips with all these foreigners in the Prem and bringing in some sort of quota system can be abandoned. Hurrah for the Prem, the greatest league in the, etc . . .
Home internationals? Don't be daft. Go back in time to baggy shorts, big boots and cups of Bovril? Wembley Wizards? Wembley Wussies more like. The mighty England don't mess about with lesser spotted breeds.
The brilliant, clever, decisive, hugely talented geniuses at the FA, who all along knew Steve and England would come good, have been totally vindicated. Well done, all of them. Arise, Sir Brian Barwick. Let's praise the Duke of McClaren . . .
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