Sanctions in London enacted in Tokyo. And the British are nibbling again

Penalty kick at Wembley. A penny in Tokyo. Check out Donnarumma’s gloves, check out Jacobs’ boots, photograph Torto’s legs, and take a closer look at the hands and arms of the other three Italian racers. You will find gold, dear Brits, only pure gold, and we leave you silver that tastes like hemlock. Try again to get it off your neck, like your fellow screanzati loball, get off the throne, the empire is over, God saves the queen but every now and then he thinks of us too and his wind blows first at Wembley night and then at Tokyo evening, pushing the boys of the four per cent towards the legend.

They’re the Fab Four, my apologies to the Beatles, we’ve taken that title away from you, simple barons, we are the great rulers of the games. No excuse, no excuse, there were no Scots, Welsh, or Northern Irish boys to justify defeat, there was only one relative, Zharnel Hughes of Anguilla, the other three were and still are true Englishmen, Ujah, Kilty and above all Mitchell Blake, the last splitter. : pushed, sniffed, weighed down, he slid into the fresh air of Japan, suddenly sour and felt the strong scent of Filippo Torto by his side. Back first, as in the hundred metres, that was just a day before, then a dust-eating Briton, Hughes, was disqualified from Anguilla before he started running.

A distant history is that the English still teasing us, thinking they are at the center of the universe, the guardians and tutors of all science and sport first and foremost, moments of hubris and a complex of supremacy, watch from the island the rest of the world floundering among frogs, pasta and cowboys. The Olympics bring some order to the room, blue growth gives unexpected glory, if we have to deal pure and hard, we can sift through the British medals, divided by the four UK cantons, but this would be a childish and useless game and assumption, typical of losers, for those who don’t They know how to lose and resort to petty accusations. On the wall at the entrance to Wimbledon’s Central Court, the greatest theater not only for tennis, is a sentence written by Rudyard Kipling: “I wish you would treat victory and defeat, these two crooks, in the same way…”, playmaker Nostrano added of his own “… will Be a man,” but those last words don’t sit well on the melancholy body of Made in United Kingdom, who struggles to live on the sidelines and in the shadow of those. Who floats in victory and crystallizes in defeat. And that’s not all. Yes sure.

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Queenie Bell

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