The historic first regular season NFL game to be played outside North America went to form, with the New York Giants beating the Miami Dolphins 13-10 at Wembley Stadium. I only know this because I have cut and pasted the score from t’internet.

As if we aren’t bombarded enough in this country with American ‘culture’ as seen through the way our children speak, the remains of dead mice from your friendly local fast-food outlet and television garbage like ‘Prison Break’. Now our simpleton cousins from trailer-park land are gorging their already fat frames on our national sport.

In the old days (here we go), a football team was owned by a pork butcher (even if he was Jewish), with the occasional scrap-metal dealer also having access to the drinks cupboard of the boardroom. Now clubs are either owned by dodgy east Europeans or, God help us, blokes who have cigars as a fashion icon and talk about DEfense and OFFense (at least the east Europeans have the good grace to come from countries where real football is played). I take great OFFence – yes, you Yankee muppets, it's spelled with a 'c' – at this Americanisation of our sporting heritage.

'If you fat gits want to dress up as bouncy castles and jump on top of each other, it’s fine by me. But do it in your own backyard, and not at Wembley.’


The soul of our national sport is not for sale just because some bloke in garish checked trousers has as big a wallet as his stomach. Hicks and Kronke? They sound like a 1950s detective agency – you can see the name now over a glazed door in semi-circular layout with one of them sitting with his feet on the desk saying: “What's up Mac?”

As if buying our football clubs is not enough, our holiest of holy shrines, the new Wembley. has now been occupied by a bunch of neanderthals playing armour-plated rugby for cissies. Now, as you have clearly gathered, I’m as liberal as the next guy and I say, if you fat gits want to dress up as bouncy castles and jump on top of each other, it’s fine by me. But do it in your own backyard, and not at Wembley.

And what kind of message does it give keen young fans when you have to jet across the Atlantic to see your local team play?

I’ve got a message for you guys – you may well be delighted that you have succeeded in killing off West Indian cricket with your carpet bombing of Caribbean TV screens with incessant coverage of another of your stoopid pastimes, basketball (talk about political incorrectness, unless you are in the Guinness Book of Records for being born at two metres and steadily rising, you can’t play). ]

But you had better keep your grubby mits – the gloves you wear at baseball because you are too frightened of getting hurt – off our football and cricket or we’ll get our own back, and some. Do us all a favour and NFL off.

You can keep your razzmatazz, your cheerleaders (our Rugby League versions from Wigan and Halifax are far more endearing – and enduring). You can keep your time-outs, your seventh-inning stretches, your helmets, your referees in their replica Newcastle United shirts, your huddles, your wheelie bins of popcorn, your black sugar slime called Coca-something and your B-list celebrities trying to remember the words of the Star Spangled Banner.

And I thought Alan Green and Motty were intellectually challenged until I heard the drivel that comes from the mouths of your sports commentators. It might be good for the ratings, but do we really need to know how many times a piece of gum is chewed during a game?

Wembley is our manor, it’s for proper football, not your pathetic game which you call football but which resembles a Mods and Rockers convention on Margate Beach in 1964. And if you don’t listen up, pals, I’ll tell you what, we’re coming your way to take over one of your poxy popcorn grounds with some real football.

Because you know what, we gave real football to the entire world and the whole of the real world play and watch it. World Series? You gotta be joking.

Anyone for a bin-full of popcorn and more of the NFL at Wembley? Tell us your view or send us an article.