Roy Hobbs, costermonger: “Great thing about Spennymoor vs Merthyr is you can be confident Trump won’t call the ref halfway through a game demanding a red card be rescinded.”

Norman Steele, troubadour: “People characterise non-league players as muddy cloggers. Not this year. Southend vs Scunthorpe this afternoon will be all dust clouds and snapped ankles.”

Billy McKay, footballer: “Ah bollocks. This is a terrible time to remember I’m a much-loved but aging left-back for Banks o’ Dee FC.”

Sophie Rodriguez, token woman: “They say you can’t change your club, but I switched allegiance from Hemel Hempstead Town to Hednesford Town and not one person gives a shit.”

Steve Malley, door security: “Hmmm. And which would you recommend for pairing with overheated, pent-up violence?”

Pick up the ball 

This involves bending down and tossing your ball out of the rough and onto the fairway. Is it in fact the oldest trick in the book and just blatant cheating? No. It requires great golfing skill when you’re grossly overweight and one wrong sudden move could result in a horrific nappy incident.

Only play in your own tournaments

Not everyone owns their own golf course, but who cares about other people? Tell your golf club staff they’ll all be fired if you lose and inform other players they’ll be barred from future events if they beat you. Does this count as ‘winning’ in any meaningful sense? It does if you think you won a Nobel Peace Prize by bullying a woman into giving you hers.

Own the fastest golf cart 

It’s been widely reported that I own an unusually fast golf cart that allows me to arrive at the balls long before other players. Is this related to my known habit of hurling their balls into lakes and the rough? No, I just like to keep up the pace so I can get back to important presidential tasks like completely defeating Iran, again.

Threaten legal action 

If you’re losing, angrily tell your opponent you’ve seen him cheating and you’ll be suing him for $10 billion. When he denies it and says no one has ever done that over a game of amateur golf, point out the stress and cost of hiring a lawyer will ruin his life anyway. He’ll quickly realise you are the superior golfer. 

Play by yourself

On a new course I always play the very first round alone and immediately put my name at the top of the winners’ board. Is this a completely hollow achievement, like saying you’re successful with women because you keep groping them and using the services of a sex trafficker? I don’t think so, and I have no idea why I thought of those examples. 

Take over your opponent’s ball 

Not many people realise you can start using your opponent’s ball if it’s closer to the hole than yours. Whenever I’ve been seen doing this people have complained that you can’t do that in golf, but only the top players know this elite rule. I’m ranked number one in the world, by the way. I have been since 1980.

Open your nappy 

Make your opponent fluff crucial shots by standing close to him and stretching wide the elasticated waistband of your adult nappy, the liquid and solid contents of which have been sweatily brewing since breakfast. There is nothing in PGA rules that says you can’t do this.

‘Shit midfielder anyway, no defensive instinct’ 

Sure, he was banging in worldies from all angles last season, but what about when he misplaced two passes in five minutes against Sunderland, or lost the ball in a tackle that led to a goal? You’re glad he’s gone. No way will a much better defence mean he scores twice against you in the FA Cup and knocks you out.

‘Can’t turn down that kind of money’ 

£117m for Morgan Rogers? Daylight robbery. Tell yourself how well your club will reinvest this eye-watering sum. Ignore that no player worth that will ever sign for Villa because, despite everything, they remain a bit shit and their best chance of winning the Premier League died in April 2021 when the European Super League was cancelled.

‘It’s a chance for our youngsters’

That 17-year-old out on loan at Doncaster? He looked class in League One, bring him back and give him his chance at elite level. He’s a homegrown talent, so the fans will love him too. What? He’s not quite able to match the performance of the Brazilian international you sold? What a disappointment. Slag him off mercilessly online.

‘If he doesn’t want to wear the badge f**k him’ 

Football fans refuse to understand being a professional footballer is a job. While knowing if another employer offered to double their salary they’d be gone, they still childishly believe their team is the best and Swedish players here for the money should recognise that. Disloyalty will never be forgiven, and also Salah’s shit now, ship him out, no regrets.

‘Game’s gone’ 

When the above fail, convince yourself you’ve fallen out of love with football. It’s not what it was in your youth, when Manchester United used to win things. It’s over as far as you’re concerned, though since you’ve paid a grand on a season ticket you might as well go along anyway to hate every minute of it. Maybe Tielemans will work out. You never know.

Judging by how Tuchel’s squad hammered France 6-4, supporters are convinced they would have totally trounced Spain in the final, so they are the real World Cup champions if you think about it.

Martin Bishop said: “We smashed France in a game they didn’t care about, so winning by a dozen goals is hardly wishful thinking. We just needed a chain of pivotal events to go our way.

“If we didn’t piss away our lead in the semi-final by playing defensively, if Messi hadn’t been born, and if Argentina was never formed as a nation-state in 1816, football would be coming home right now. We were so, so close.

“Then victory against Spain would’ve been a certainty. Kane and Bellingham would’ve breezed a few hat tricks into the back of the net in the first ten minutes. Even Pickford would’ve headered a couple in by half time.

“Beckham would probably have invaded the pitch to score a few too. Then FIFA would’ve given us the World Cup to keep forever and the ghost of Sir Bobby Charlton would’ve accepted it on our behalf.

“This only didn’t happen because Argentina are nasty, shirt-pulling bastards. It was just bad luck really.”

Nathan Muir, bathroom fitter: “What do England consistently win at? Rugby? Cricket? Formula One? Tennis? None of them? F**k it, I’m getting bang into the arts.”

Eleanor Shaw, DVD restorer: “Actually, I’m now completely addicted to the feeling of agonising, eviscerated defeat, that horrible sinking sensation of all your hopes lying dismembered on the floor. So I think dog-fighting.”

Denys Finch Hatton, website moderator: “It’s got to be kabaddi. There’s no media coverage, no teams anywhere near me, and I don’t know the rules so I wouldn’t know if we’d lost. Bliss.”

Sophie Rodriguez, graduate student: “You’ve heard of Ultimate Fighting Championship? I’m into Penultimate Fighting Championship. It’s just the part where their mates try to separate them saying ‘it’s not worth it’.”

Norman Steele, actuarial calculator: “You know there’s Rugby Union and Rugby League? I’ve invented a third one: Rugby Unami.”

Organising a stag do

Strippers and a bar crawl? Too predictable. The last night of freedom should be a taste of married life. My itinerary involves a trip to IKEA on a Sunday afternoon, then an argument over something trivial when the groom is trying to get to sleep. I’ll only invite his exes, and I’ll keep everyone entertained by sleeping with his bride-to-be.

Parallel parking

Neatly slotting your car into a row of vehicles is boring and takes forever. I much prefer to get 80 per cent of the way there, then reverse over the car behind me, set fire to my vehicle, then walk away without leaving my insurance details. Back-seat drivers can criticise me all they want, but at the end of the day the other cars were better and wanted it more.

Ordering a takeaway

Apps have made ordering a mid-week Chinese far too straightforward. For the best results you’re better off phoning them from somewhere with terrible signal while having no idea what you want from the menu. As for your delivery address, give them vague instructions then get pissed off when they’re understandably annoyed. The terrible decision I made to only order spring rolls can hardly be pinned on me.

Defusing a bomb

Common sense would suggest you evacuate the area and alert bomb disposal experts who can snip the right wires. Where’s the fun in that though? It would be much better to put the explosive in a suitcase and try to take it through an airport scanner. Security could do with some excitement and will surely thank you for livening up their day.

Breaking up with someone

Only cowards follow the playbook of finding a quiet place, gently telling your partner how you feel, then thanking them for your time together. My strategy is all about shock and awe. I dump them halfway through a candlelit dinner, show them the matches I’ve already got on dating apps, and finish off by hitting on the waitress. Sounds crazy but it gets results. Tearful, tearful results.

The manager

Thomas Tuchel was hired on the specific understanding he would not bollocks up a semi-final by going defensive and making the wrong substitutions. He did exactly that. Is it not, then, entirely his fault that Argentina scored twice in seven minutes? It clearly is. He should resign and walk into the wilderness to meditate on his failure until death.

The referee

Normally, England are victim to an outrageously biased refereeing decision the match turns upon so it is all the referee’s fault. This did not happen last night, and in a way does that not make it the referee’s fault? For not redressing a historical imbalance and sending Enzo Fernández off for nothing early doors, did he not condemn England to failure?

Gianni Infantino

Clearly wanted US-based so-called ‘best player ever’ Messi in the final, to promote football to rich Americans who’ve ruined baseball and basketball for themselves. Was it his bald Mr Bean face there in the stands, sneering at us, that caused England to become overly defensive for the last 30 minutes?

Mick Jagger

Talking of twats in the stands. The camera kept cutting to the sagging, bloodhound-retired-on-health-grounds face of the Rolling Stones singer, thoroughly jaded at what he was seeing. Sorry it wasn’t good enough for you, Sir Mick. No wonder England were as exhausted as your girlfriend trying to coax an erection out of you under that glare.

Margaret Thatcher

There’s bad blood between England and Argentina, and that’s down to her. Thatcher, who seized on the Falklands invasion to boost her flagging popularity, gave the team ample motivation to beat us not just in 1986 but in every game since. Why couldn’t the big-haired bitch have settled things diplomatically?

Adolf Eichmann

The architect of the Holocaust spent a decade in Argentina spreading his anti-British views, a poison which directly led to Lautaro Martinez’s 92-minute winner last night. Also to blame: Germany, Catholic bishops and by extension the entire Catholic church and the Pope, US counterintelligence and the US itself. All must go so England can win.

Last night’s 2-1 defeat by Argentina does not matter in any way because grown men running around in shorts kicking a ball is ridiculous and pointless when you think about it.

England manager Thomas Tuchel said: “Argentina may have got the ball in the net twice, but what does that prove? They’re good at kicking round things at bits of string? That’s useful – not.

“It’s not as if they did something amazing like inventing the jet engine. Football isn’t even a proper sport anyway. Not like golf, that takes real skill. I’d like to see Fernández get the ball in a hole that wasn’t the size of a caravan.”

Team captain Harry Kane said: “None of the lads were bothered about winning anyway. For us it’s just a fun way of keeping fit. I spoke to Anthony Gordon earlier and he’d forgotten we even had a match last night.

“The trophy’s really tacky and you’re not allowed to keep it anyway. If someone gave that to me I know where I’d put it – in the bin.”

Speaking from Atlanta, England fan Martin Bishop said: “I actually find it quite sad when people take football too seriously. Like Argentina. What a bunch of losers.”

Following victory over expected finalists France after their players suffered an attack of soul-deep ennui, Spain’s players would prefer an uncomplicated 3-0 in the final over a difficult match against Argentina.

Captain Rodri said: “As players, as a squad we have such love for the English. The way they try and try and then fail is special to us.

“Argentina have Messi, they have a formidable reputation, they have the capacity to raise their game. England? They fight like bulldogs, and when was the last time a bulldog won a prize?

“Can we put goals past Jordan Pickford? Of course. Many of us already have. It would be a fun final, a comfortable one where we can put on a bit of spectacle for the viewers at home.

“And England do not lose completely, since they still have Coldplay in the halftime show.”

England fan Ryan Whittaker said: “No, they’re right, I’m happy with that.”

The striker whose two goals won the quarter-final proving he can do it when he wants to, is confident any failure in tonight’s match will be forgiven by those fanatical about the flag.

He said: “It’s only a World Cup semi-final against Argentina. I’m sure they’ll keep things in proportion.

“That minor pitchside disagreement with Tuchel won’t get blown up into something it isn’t, even if my performance is sub-standard. And no way will my iconic goal celebration be suddenly condemned as arrogant, selfish and blasphemous.

“After all, when has it ever happened that an England hero has come home as a hate figure? Beckham in 1998, I grant you, and yes, Rooney in 2010, Southgate in 1996, and the three lads who missed penalties in the Euro 2020 final. But apart from that?

“They’re hardly going to go from hailing me as the country’s greatest hope to telling me to piss off back to Madrid like the overpaid prick I am in 24 hours, are they? They’ll say ‘Well done Jude, you tried your best.’”

England fan Steve Malley said: “I’ve got the effigy all built and ready for burning in my shed. Just need to know whose face goes on it.”

In the event that the Three Lions bring the Jules Rimet trophy home, the prime minister has promised a generous 300 seconds for all workers to wildly celebrate while remaining in their places of work and not damaging productivity.

He said: “This offer does not apply to residents of Wales, Scotland or Northern Ireland. We reserve the right to cancel any celebration deemed offensively nationalistic.

“I am aware of my reputation as a ‘fun sponge’, as Burnham puts it, but even I know the end of 60 years of hurt is cause for celebration within reasonable limits.

“You’ll likely want to ask your colleagues if they saw the game, maybe even exchange a few words about how much you enjoyed the winning goal. Thanks to my lunch break extension you’ll be able to do that and have time spare to eat a biscuit.

“Do not get carried away. Once time’s up, it’s back to work saving our flailing post-Brexit economy. But you’ll always be able to look back on that slightly longer lunch and proudly tell your grandkids ‘I was there.’”

England fan Tom Booker said: “My boss is bound to make me stay late to make up the time. I hope we’re hammered 12-0 in the final.”

WHAT luck! England vs Argentina in the semi-final of the World Cup, and me still not over a war between our countries that ended 44 years ago! 

Yes, while others have been able to move on from a conflict which lasted for ten weeks in 1982, was decisively won by the British and brought down the Argentine military government ushering in democracy, I still bear grudges.

And this match is the ideal opportunity to air them. There’s not enough racism in football these days, I think we can all agree, so I’ll do my bit by muttering darkly about ‘the Argies’ and the terrible things they did to ‘our boys’.

Never mind that the only Falklands veteran anyone under 40 will have heard of is Prince Andrew, and his heroism is somewhat tarnished today. I believe the embers of hatred are still warm and deserve stoking.

After all, didn’t the Sun take Britain from ‘no real idea where or what Argentina is’ to gleefully shouting ‘Gotcha!’ when an Argentine cruiser was sunk killing 323 in weeks? So I’m sure I can do it in two days.

Come on, everyone! Let’s hate them! Lionel Messi? Despises Britain and pledges 100 per cent of his pay to recapturing Las Malvinas. Lionel Scaloni? Personally tortured British lads. Charly Alacaraz? Kicked a penguin.

Yes, soon young people will, when hearing me shout ‘Remember Goose Green!’ recall our finest hour rather than thinking I’ve conflated Top Gun character Goose, played by Anthony Edwards, and ER character Dr Mark Greene, played by Anthony Edwards.

If I’m not yet over the Falklands, why should anyone be? Let’s Make England Hate Argies Again, or MEHAA. Then when we beat them it won’t just be a footballing victory. It will restore Britain’s martial greatness.

My cousin José in Madrid? He’s busy on social media trying to revive the anti-French sentiment of the Peninsular War of 1808-1814. We all do our bit.

Lucy Parry, camgirl: “Ask him to comprehend true love. His android brain will seize right up, and sparks come out of his ears.”

Martin Bishop, private tutor: “Everyone’s forgetting we’ve got loads of Premier League players in the side who’ve played against Haaland plenty. All they have to do is use the same tactics against him that didn’t work then.”

Denys Finch Hatton, property developer: “What do Vikings like? Illuminated manuscripts seemed to be their thing back in the day. Can we scatter a few of those around the box to distract him?”

Eleanor Shaw, tarot reader: “As an albino his eyes are unable to see the colour red so if we wear our away kit we’ll be basically invisible. I think. I’ve not checked or anything and I have no relevant qualifications.”

Sam Matterface, commentator: “I’m assuming victory and working on my rant: Morten Harket, Jo Nesbo, Edvard Munch, Thor Heyerdahl, turn-of-the-century female serial killer Belle Gunness, your boys took one hell of a beating.”

Helen Archer, oncologist: “Can we not just appeal to his better nature? I mean he can’t really want Norway to win.”

WHY should it be Norway? If there’s any nation known worldwide for descending on countries in boats and taking them over by force, it’s surely us.

But instead we’re seeing the fans of our opponents tomorrow all over the US doing their Viking row as if they’re the ones with a proud history of global conquest. When in fact their pillaging warriors barely made it out of Europe.

Don’t get me wrong, it was good violence for its day. Loaded up in longboats and hitting the Northumbrian coast like a modern-day stag do hits Riga, drinking and burning monasteries and chatting up the local girls. All credit to them and their imaginative tortures.

Can’t really hold a candle to the English though, can they? Because when it was our turn to be seafarers, we didn’t waste it. India, Australia, Africa, the West Indies, even Australia. We came, we saw, we conquered and we let them bloody well know it.

Yeah, the Vikings martyred a few saints with the blood eagle. I’m not denying them that. Hardly compares to forcing the indigenous peoples of half the world to toil away in our gold mines and sugar plantations, does it? If we’re honest?

The sun never set on the British Empire. From the Irish next door to the ends of the earth we had them all in thrall. So if Norway’s allowed to be proud of its past of massacres and atrocities, why aren’t we?

Instead of a Viking row we could have, I don’t know, a man with a whip. Maybe not that. Or we could line up like the soldiers in Zulu, miming rifles on our shoulders, firing into the native horde. Okay maybe not that either.

Anyway, you get my point. It’s time for our football fans to reclaim our past with a fun but inoffensive ritual dance of some kind. I’ll leave it to the hardcore England supporters to decide what. We can trust them not to be racially insensitive about it.

No offside

It’s like, freakin’ what? The guy scored! He scored a goal with the ball and you’re saying it’s against the rules because of some complete other guy way over there? Because he wasn’t equidistant to the prime meridian or whatever? No way man, that was a goal. Lose that rule and thank us for it.

No red cards

You’re dismissing a guy who’s actual box office? Who’s drawing in paying customers who bought tickets to see him? And not just for that game but the game after? You know how many class action suits that’s leaving you open to? That is leaving money on the table for nothing but some bitch-ass rule and sir, that is not American.

No free kicks

This is a game for men, dammit, not dainty porcelain dolls behind glass in a museum. Your guy breaks a leg? He gets paid, there’s another guy, use your draft pick on him. None of this ‘oh, he’s injured, now you get a turn’ bullshit. He might be faking. He’s foreign.

More goals

Seriously, 90 minutes passes and I haven’t seen one goal? And you call that entertainment? Every quarter – your game has quarters now like a real one, deal with it – there isn’t a goal, another ball gets put on the pitch. You think once you get four balls out there, Ronaldo isn’t going to score a hat-rack and break records? Exactly.

Penalty shootouts every game

In basketball, objectively the second-greatest sport, it goes right to the final buzzer. Any team can win. Soccer needs that energy, so from now on every game ends in penalties. Even if you’re three goals up, like Belgium unfairly were last night, then penalties can turn all that over in an instant. Keeps audiences watching so put commercials in between.

Make it gayer

Weren’t expecting that, huh? Already thought your sport was as gay as it could possibly be? But trust me, put the players in shoulder pads, shiny helmets, tight spandex pants and begin every play with close-ups of their tight ends, and soon it’ll be so uncomfortably gay you’ll need cheerleaders to reassure the fans. Which can be monetised separately.

England fan Martin Bishop sat bolt upright this morning, feeling oddy tired, after a long and detailed dream in which England not only scored three times but were able to battle to a win with only ten men, explaining his morning erection.

He said: “It seemed so real. But it can’t have been, because we weren’t shit.

“We scored, a fantastic one from Bellingham, then he scored again almost immediately. Standard dream stuff, usually about this point he gets his hat-trick from a bicycle kick, never lands on the ground and then Harry Kane’s riding an elephant called Maxine.

“But this time none of that happened. Instead it proceeded as a thrilling end-to-end football match, Kane scored a penalty, Quansah got sent off, Mexico put a penalty away but we clung on and actually won. Weirdest of all, it was actually thrilling.

“I did mean to stay up for the game but obviously I dropped off at some point and my mind filled in the blanks. I can’t bear to look at the actual 1-1, extra time, they score in the 115th minute and we barely even try to pull it back result yet. I’ll live the dream a little longer.”

He aded: “Also Jordan Henderson got booked and suffered a wrist injury when he wasn’t even playing. Details like that give away it’s nothing but a nonsensical hallucination.”

4pm-5pm

Nervy preparations begin with a work-related excuse not to go to the pub. In order to get an afternoon nap in, you eat an enormous roast dinner and wash it down with three pints.

5pm-6pm

Bloated on the verge of a food coma, you try to prepare for tomorrow’s working day by putting a wash on, including your lucky retro England shirt. You’ll get it out later.

6pm-7pm

Propelled by early-onset hangover urgency, you decide the kids should be in bed early and f**k Thomas Tuchel. You read them a Marcus Rashford Breakfast Club Adventures story and reflect that he’s as skilled at writing as he is at scoring a penalty in the 2020 Euros final. The kids are allowed to take devices to bed.

7pm-8pm

You try to nap, but are interrupted by constant texts about possible team line-ups, injuries, and excuses for missing work tomorrow. The gnawing dread that your excuses are as flimsy and unbelievable as your prediction of ‘4-1’ is inescapable.

8pm-9pm

To relax you turn on the TV and stare mindlessly at a Harlan Coben thing for an hour, occasionally responding to whatever your partner is saying with ‘Yeah’, ‘I dunno,’ ‘I think he’s the baddy,’ and ‘They’ve had no time to acclimatise, it’s basically cheating.’

9pm-10pm

You crack open a bottle and watch Brazil versus Norway to get in the mood. The level of skill from both teams is frightening. By your second beer all you can think about is how it would be a mercy not to play the victor of this.

10pm-11pm

Four beers in, you’re feeling great. Awake, alert, ready for a match that doesn’t begin for hours yet. You’re on your phone Googling tickets and flights, deciding your credit card can take it, when stats about Mexico’s win percentage at their home stadium arrive just as the team is announced. Anxiety initiates an immediate bowel movement.

11pm-12am

You realise you’ve missed a meal, so you make an overly elaborate sandwich, with crisps, and dips, and a whisky chaser. ‘Football’s coming home’ is playing in your mind, on a loop, somehow mockingly. Drown it out with more Harlan Coben.

12am-1am

Your TV turns off automatically and wakes with a defibrillator-sized jolt five minutes before kick-off. You’re not ready, it wasn’t supposed to be like this; indigestion, drunk, alone, your lucky England shirt still wet in the machine. Try to get your game head on, haunted by Haaland.

1am-2am

Game on. Somehow you’ve had all the beers, but Jameson’s is fine from the bottle. The football is not riveting. Your heart hammers regardless. During hydration breaks you piss in the garden.

2am-3am

You’ve sat through the bollocky halftime punditry and given yourself an aching thumb messaging about channels and the hard press. Wish you could go to bed and find out in the morning but the group chat won’t let you. Snack on guacamole and tortilla chips.

3am-4am

You’ve made it. Your head’s banging, your stomach’s lurching, you’re up for work in four hours and will be sweating Scotch on the commute. The group chat has degenerated into outright abuse. You lie in bed wide awake after hours of footballing anguish and all you think about is who the murderer is in the Harlan Coben thing.

The legal drinking age will be temporarily removed on Sunday night so that children can experience the joy of watching England crash out of the World Cup with eight pints swimming through their system.

A government spokesperson said: “Young people shouldn’t be left out of these national moments. And one night of heavy drinking isn’t going to do them any harm. Their little livers will bounce right back.

“Kids are about to have social media ripped away from them, so they deserve a night of sinking pints while cheering on the Lions. It’ll be their first taste of adulthood and a crisp IPA rolled into one wholesome experience.

“For one glorious night the generational divide will vanish as red-faced primary school kids belt out Wonderwall alongside their elders. Little ones can even have a go at hurling abuse at the TV and getting into a bar fight, if they’re good. 

“And who cares if they’ll be too hungover for school? Watching grown men cry in a Wetherspoons at 3am will be far more educational than anything they’ll learn in the classroom.”

Eight-year-old Jack Browne said: “This sounds even better than our school trip to Alton Towers. I hope I get a taste for excessive drinking I can enjoy for the rest of my life.”