Too posh and Becks

How can they give the World Cup to such a corrupt country? The government is run by a stitch up coalition of two minority parties, most of the members of all parties fiddle their expenses, the cabinet is a clique of old boys from the same school while most of the establishment - including the state broadcaster - is run by men who did the same course, at the same college, of the same university. The economy is broke because it had to bail out a banking system that was either dishonest or incompetent or both yet the bosses within that system continue to make millions while workers are sacked. A large proportion of the population works for the state while another hefty chunk is so bent they fraudulently claim benefits. Binge drinking, drug taking and crime are at record levels and the weather's crap.
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At the risk of sounding like rantalongasolly, whose idea was it that English football is best epitomised by two Old Etonians who would be far more at home at Twickenham than Wembley?
Beckham I can understand. Not just because of his looks and reputation but because if he hadn't been blessed with the talent to become a footballer, you just know he'd be an ordinary punter paying to watch a match just like the rest of us.
But Cameron and Prince William, you feel, have never paid for a ticket to see a football match in their lives. I bet Cameron has no idea what Bovril tastes like, or a Wagon Wheel. He's never stood in a market town square in a strange country with complete strangers drinking weak lager before going to the ground to see his team. I don't suppose he even has a team.
At least William purports to like Aston Villa, although let's face it, the Villa fans at the game against Birmingham City last week are far more representative of English football than someone who prefers Buckingham Palace to Crystal Palace (mind you, don't we all?)
This isn't a class rant. Football is far more classless now than it has ever been - and probably far less class based than, say, cricket or rugby and tennis.
You go to an England away game, as I do occasionally, and it resembles a PTA meeting from an inner London Cof E school with men in North Face fleeces and Hackett t-shirts, kids called Alexander and girls who work for PR companies whose first names end with 'A' wearing that ridiculous face paint of a flag of St. George.
Yes, there are still the gangs of tattooed men singing No Surrender to the IRA but in South Africa there were an awful lot of families combining an England game with a couple of days in this sooooper little safari lodge they'd read about in the Sunday Telegraph travel supplement.
And there's loads of journalists at these games now. Not reporting, just watching or on freebies. I went to Portugal for a game once (got a free seat of course) and it was like some kind of Fleet Street reunion.
My point is, why does English football persist in trying to convince the rest of the world that it's some kind of modern version of the Eton Wall Game. And this isn't a dig at Eton. My Old Etonian mates - they all support Chelsea of course - are genuine football fans. And Old Etonians did win a couple of FA Cups in the century before last.
But this isn't what English football is all about. And it's not all about money either, despite the wages and the Bentleys and the WAGs.
It's still about the hairs on the back of your neck going up when you see something on the pitch that you've never seen before whether it's in a cup final or a damp Tuesday in February at Tranmere.
It's about you and your son being forced to go out on a Saturday afternoon with the family but getting surreptitious texts about the latest score and telling each other (the modern day equivalent of sneaking into Dixons to see the TV screens at 4.45pm when out shopping with the girlfriend).
And it's about England not winning the World Cup bid but qualifying to play in Russia, or Qatar - who cares about human rights, eh FIFA? - and then trying to get out there to see them where you can stand in a market square of a strange city in a strange land drinking weak lager with a bunch of men you've never met before. Except there's no lager in Qatar of course - there would have been plenty in Australia though.
I'd even buy a new North Face fleece especially for the occasion.
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My ancestors were from Russia. The Solomons side of the family. Not sure when they came over but we have always tried to claim Ikey Solomons as one of our own. He was the real life villain in the mid-19th Century who was the inspiration for Fagin in Oliver. He eventually got transported to Tasmania but came back again. He was known as the Prince of Fences. Not the garden kind. That's about as close as I'll come to Royalty.
Do svidaniyah - Solski