World Cup Phallacy

Having just had the misfortune of seeing a ten-second, hyperreal "Germany ’06" montage — replete with maximum scattershots of Genarro Gattuso’s leering, offensively hirsute chops — I realise that I remain distinctly miffed at the Italians sneaking the World Cup back to their greasy parlour.

Aside from Grosso's match-changing penalty dive against Australia, my gripe centres around the presentation of the Cup itself — an abysmal scene in which the Italians not only nailed their colours to the mast but collectively streaked its sides in piss at the same time.

It was the most lecherous, shambolic fartaround I have ever witnessed: none of the corpulent oiks could wait to get their oily mitts on the trophy and the whole scene descended into an all-in, push-shove-and-grab-for-Mamma farce. In the end, a worried-looking Cannavaro had to fight his way to the front of the festering mob and clamber onto a makeshift table in order to secure his fast-disappearing trophy-hoisting Captain’s privilege.

This is the only video I could find, containing a few memorable snatches of arch-stooge Materazzi placing — but of course — a comedy Italian jester's hat on top of the sacred Jules Rimez trophy and Fifa President Lenarrt Johansson actually having to physically remove the Cup from the broiling mess. Classy stuff. What transpired immediately afterwards was Johansson having to pass the manhandled prize back through three players in order for it to finally reach a screaming, ape-like Cannavaro — who was still busy muscling for his place at the front of the swarm.

Tradition, it’s safe to say, took one firmly in the ass. Which was rather apt, as I also couldn't help noticing the patently phallic vibes that were (literally) going down on the victors’ cluttered platform. We’ve all smiled, in our time, at the sight of an affectionate peck or two being planted on a soon-to-be-lofted trophy. Think Dennis Taylor, think Gerrard — cooing paters proffering an instinctive lip-stamp upon a new child’s brow. Totti and his band of priapic neanderthal shylocks, however, were full-on blowing old Jules with shameless vigour. I shudder to think of what may have transpired in the dressing room afterwards — although Gattuso's failure to show up for AC Milan's preseason training camp paints a far cruder picture than the words "anal difficulties" ever could.

And yet, though the spectacle of trionfare proved distasteful in the extreme, it only served to tease out the underlying truth: the dirty old letch of a trophy was probably loving it. Quite apart from dry-heaving onto the brogues of sporting nobility, the Italian stallions’ alarming oral display spectacularly foregrounded the amusing subtext of World Cup football being little more than a thinly-veiled circus of male homosocial desire. Which it is — no secret there. But Uncle Jules Rimmer, it became abundantly clear, is actually the groomer par excellence — the original brown-trousered debauchee. And he really should know better.

It goes something like this: after lots of noble huffing and puffing, the bronzed victors are finally allowed their "validated", officially-sanctioned moment of phallic bliss — courtesy of a big golden knob served up specifically for crying and hugging and kissing altogether in destabilised sexstasy. Anchoring this weird, maternal-erasing re-insertion into adolescent discovery, the all-encompassing schlong provides both masculine, feminine, parental and sexual swaddling for those precious, wet-dreamlike few moments. A bit like a cock-based version of the Krypton Factor where a wizened Gordon Burns fondles your balls in the mud pool at the end of the assault course.

It gets worse. Glistening eerily within the hairy, slippery blue fray was the subtle illumination of that "all men are bastards" idea: the notion that chaps, ultimately, have no actual mother or father at all — let alone a married pair — but simply a self-consuming, self-repeating, penis-centred existence. I'd really not grasped this theorem until I witnessed Gattuso's thatched face working old Jules over a treat. But I guess you learn something new every day.

Or something like that.

In short: cocks, Italians, lots of kissing, big stadium, worldwide audience of 1 billion.