Is there anything worse than listening to those hucksters in South Africa going bananas over the ugly game called football? Modern society is dominated by emotion and propaganda, not to mention profit, and when all three are combined what we get is the World Cup. Technicolor pictures of fat men and women jumping up and down while blowing into a contraption called vuvuzela dominate the front pages, as if an order had come from up high to feature the most boorish and the fattest, cheering for the most foul mouthed and overpaid.

Posturing peacocks spouting gibberish go on ad nauseam about the brilliance of holding the cup in South Africa, a once wonderful country whose people will revert to murdering white farmers and each other the moment the hucksters move out. Papa Hemingway said that one goes broke slowly, then suddenly. The same goes for culture. It started in the sixties, whiteness becoming a bad thing, and it’s been downhill ever since. All those who stand in the way of political correctness and Third World immigration are on the firing line, with special protection for racial minorities, alternative lifestyles, feminists, and whatever else the Left is about nowadays being paramount.

I must admit I snuck a look. I’ve never liked the game, although I was captain of my school team in my senior year, and goalkeeper to boot. So I felt badly for the England goalie, but the new ball is playing tricks. (FIFA and Adidas change it every four years in order to make more moolah.) I am fascinated by that swollen-nosed, non-stop f-worder Wayne Rooney, a man obviously conceived by a chimp with a dose of the clap. He sure can play, but he is to vulgarity and crudeness what Hogarth was to squalor. His torrent of obscenities against all and sundry is a shining example for our youth. Otherwise, it’s one big bore. Greece vs. South Korea was as boring and bad as Slovenia against Algeria, and Serbia playing Nigeria was no better.

FIFA is a con, a money-making con which pretends to be a link between nations and cultures. It’s nothing of the sort. FIFA is the Goldman Sachs of sport, the Olympics being JP Morgan. Too many teams is the problem. The World Cup should be 8, possibly 16 teams, and it should take two weeks at most. The rest is all about moolah, political correctness, and the opportunity for hacks (Rob Hughes, a very knowledgeable football scribe) to write such immortal lines as the following: “He is 25, born after apartheid ended, and quite possibly he was meant to score this goal…The nippy winger, just 5 foot 7 inches, tall and slender as a reed…” Gee, and I, at 5 foot 9 inches, have always thought of myself on the short side. But I’m not black, nor South African, and I guess that makes me one of the short, the bad, and the ugly. Black is beautiful, although my old buddy Jean Marie Le Pen may disagree. Le Pen caused outrage when he pointed out that the French team that won the Cup in 2002 was nine-tenths black, but Christian charity saved him from the hangman.

But enough about football. Back here in old England, things are looking up. An annoying wordsmith midget complains about becoming a grandfather and it becomes big news. I have good news for him. Another midget across the channel has banned tall bodyguards, so if words ever fail Martin Amis, he can always get a job acting as a heavy for Sarkozy. And speaking of politics, if there is a Greek general around with some ambition, I have an idea for him. A military coup. Yes, yes, I know, those things don’t happen in Europe any more, but hear me out. The Greeks are angry and ready to revolt. The rescue by the EU bankers is to be borne by the debtors, while the French and German banks become the beneficiaries. Why should the Greeks suffer in order to save foreign banks, is the ambitious general’s cry to the people. Why not quit the EU, default, repudiate the euro, restore the drachma, and devalue? He moves the tanks toward the parliament building and his tankers are showered with flowers by the mob. He then takes over the TV stations and addresses the Greeks. “Our exports will become competitive as I speak,” he roars. “Greece will become the site for everyone’s factories overnight. With our currency devalued we will once again become the most attractive destination for the world’s tourists.” The place goes wild and he then asks the exiled King to assume the throne. Constantine refuses, but by now the game is up. The next day I am named minister of propaganda, and my first speech contains such gems as “ For far too long the global elites who seek to reduce our nation to ethno-cultural enclaves in a new world order run by bloodless bureaucrats, have had it their way. Their loyalty is neither to the land nor people whence they came. This government will restore your sovereignty. I swear it, or may I die trying.” I am mobbed on the way to my favorite taverna, and get very drunk on retsina, the peoples’ drink.

Well, it ain’t gonna happen. Greek generals are too fat and too soft and they retire much too early with a good pension. Mind you, it would be the most popular coup ever. Next week I will tell you about a great Indian tennis player who played 101 matches at Wimbledon and is a great friend.