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This World Cup shit enough for England to win it

THE upcoming World Cup is expected to be such a horrible, dispiriting tournament that it would actually make sense for England to win it. 

The 2026 World Cup is held across three nations, only one of which likes football, with venues thousands of miles apart and ticket prices higher than ever for games in blazing sunshine you are not allowed to take water to.

It also includes so many teams it is surprising Vatican City are not playing, meaning the opening 104 group games are likely to be boringly predictable and are on at 2am regardless.

Finally, it largely takes place in Trump’s America where trains to the stadium are $100, any non-white attendees can expect to be indefinitely detained by ICE and men in MAGA hats can shoot you and expect unconditional pardons from their president.

Steve Malley of Mansfield said: “Yep, it’s a shameful occasion that makes a mockery of football. The stars are all aligned for an England win.

“I can see a route to the final across eight cities, ten grand in flights, more in tickets, advert breaks, halftime shows by Kid Rock and Morgan Wallen, and becoming champions due to a disputed penalty while Hollywood stars in $36,000 seats don’t bother watching.

“Still it’ll be fantastic to see them on that podium, standing behind Trump while he holds the Jules Rimet trophy and beams like a shitting toddler. What a moment of national shame.”

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Who twatted Andrew? A Daily Mash investigation

ANDREW Mountbatten-Windsor, who remains beloved by his public, has somehow been on the wrong end of a right twatting. But who could have done it? We investigate.

Motivation

A real puzzle. Andrew has never done anything anyone could find objectionable, whether in his public role or personally. His time as trade envoy was an unalloyed success with more than 17,000 rounds of golf played, and anyone who had met him speaks only of how gracious, kind and polite he is. There are no clues here.

Means

Another stumper. Andrew, weary of adulation, has chosen to confine himself to a remote estate in Norfolk far away from prying eyes and closely policed. He is also a war veteran, the hero of the Falklands who captured Port Stanley single-handed and sweat-free, not some pampered pansy pathetically unable to stand up for himself. The mystery deepens.

Enemies

None. Who could hold a grudge against this twinkle-eyed pensioner? From kindly renting cottages to the needy to putting his avuncular arm around young American runaways to giving the career of Emily Maitlis a much-needed boost, Andrew has left only goodwill behind him as he moved through the world. Who would ever lamp such a wanker?

Opportunity

Few visit Andrew, by his own choice. Even his ex-wife stays away for fear of sparking a national wave of public adoration that would put Beckhamania to shame. The only people who have access to the former prince are his staff and his family – the last people who would ever catch him with a proper backhander across his arsehole face.

Desire to see him suffer

It is unthinkable that anyone in Britain – or the foreign powers he blessed with his presence – could want to deliver a punch, or even a powerful kick while he lay grovelling on the ground, to Andrew’s bloated, overprivileged face. We are after all his subjects, which he would remind us of if we were not suitably deferential. Why would we?

Conclusion

Either every man, women and child in Britain is a suspect in this crime or nobody is. And since it is impossible a servant or his nephew William could have snapped and popped Andrew one right in the f**king kisser, logic tells us it must be the latter. Nobody did this. He must have fallen or something. And that will also be the case when it happens again.

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