I rather like croquette. My husband Albert and I, when we weren’t
engaged in fornication and cheering the
nation on in its heroic effort to civilize the lazy and indifferent wog, used
to play it often on the green lawns of Balmoral. It was jolly good fun. Croquette
is the ideal game. It embodies the
triune ideal of sport; skill, fair play and determination.
We play a great deal of croquette in Heaven. The
Presbyterians seem to like it a lot, although they have their own lawns, as do
the Episcopalians. We Anglicans, as is to be expected, are the elite of the
croquette pitch. There are certainly no head shots. Almost all of the
participants are in possession of their teeth. There is no foul body odour and
certainly no foul language. Rude gestures are prohibited. There is no spitting
or violent evacuation of the nasal cavity. Winners and losers alike share the
special joy of eager combatants who understand that to compete as gentlemen and
ladies is the highest reward that sport has to offer.
I rather think we need to step back. This obsession with the
Toronto Maple Leafs seems rather to verge on a grammatical absurdity. We are in
favour of renaming the team the Toronto Maple Leaves.
Having said that, viewed even from a great distance (Heaven
is several light years away) Canada is a rather large country. Surely there is
plenty of room for more croquette. Surely in these vast wastelands Canadians,
though a joyless and dull race, can find a sunny level field and there plant a
pleasant green lawn and engage happily in sport as sport was meant to be
played. Afterwards perhaps you can repair to a quiet and peaceful chapel and
give thanks to God you were not born Irish.
As you well know the Irish are a despicable race. The
highways and byways of Hell are simply thronging with the filthy sods. The
Irish play something called hurling. It resembles ice hockey except that it is
played on a cow pasture amongst the steaming turds. I can assure you it is a
thoroughly debased sport suitable only for the congenitally stupid and insane.
That pretty much sums up the Irish.
Rule the Maple Leafs
(Sung to the tune of Rule Britannia)
O Rule the Maple Leafs
O rule the shimmering
rink
Alas the Maple Leafs
are lousy
O Man oh man they
really stink
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