Idle Summertime Meta-Wankery or: The Blind Leading the Blind or: An Anti-Imperialist's Guide to the Round of 16

It's a cool, wet morning here in Maine, and I'm enjoying a little down time before starting the next book in my intense (but thus far amazingly successful) summer reading list. I have all sorts of half-written posts saved to finish at a later date: book reviews and reviews of book reviews and reflections on Atlantic history and lists of what I'm reading and whatnot, but I've been working so hard for the last month I don't have the energy to write anything here that feels like work. Since I've been carrying around a nagging urge to post something here just to stay in the rhythm of writing, I figured I'd pass along this entertaining tidbit of British lefty humor. Maybe it will be lost on some of you, as it certainly has been on that pathetic dullard Kos, standard-bearer of American liberalism and beacon to every listless dolt on the blogosphere's "radical middle", but I won't hold it against you. If you can't follow Monty Python, don't bother.

(Hint: Daniel Davies doesn't really want Kos blogger ct dead and Terry Jones doesn't really want to kill Mr. Johnson. For crying out loud... American liberals wouldn't know what to do with Stephen Colbert if Jon Stewart hadn't told them to laugh.)

I only had the time to come across this foolishness because the World Cup (which should be occupying all my free time right now) has been a total sleeper. My interest has steadily waned since Trinidad & Tobago failed to advance after avenging the fiasco of WC '74. Now that the Trinis are out of the mix, I find less and less worth watching as the winners become increasingly predictable and the officiating becomes increasingly ridiculous (picture Haiti - T&T 1973 over and over and over and over and over). We've already seen a game where a single player was yellow carded three times and another which saw sixteen yellows and four reds handed out and an inexplicably brief six minutes of stoppage time (given what must have been nearly twenty minutes during which there was no actual football taking place on the pitch), and that's just the tip of the iceberg. I'm actually relieved that this is the last pair of games for a few days, maybe things will be better after the break.

With the Soca Warriors sent packing, I'm pegging my anti-imperialist sympathies to Ghana, though the heirs to Nkrumah face the absurd task of overcoming perennial goliath Brazil if they wish to advance to the quarterfinals. My political orientation aside, I don't think I can bear to see a rotund Ronaldo cherry-pick his way to history in the midst of the most utterly uneventful World Cup of my life. I suppose I won't be too upset either way, because Brazil shares much of the same legacy as the former Gold Coast, but in this match I'll be pulling for the upset.

Raise high the flag of Ghana,
And one with Africa advance;
Black Star of hope and honour,
To all who thirst for liberty.

Joga bonito, sons of Africa.