"Meaning: Bristols, bottoms, poo; the real hilarious stuff." There was a murmur of agreement from three middle aged men in hooded tops at the bar before Shirley Keith filled the screen from the Manchester studio nodding fast: "In that sense I guess I'd agree with you. There's nothing like base humour to endear yourself to the crowd, and I think you'll find that the leading strikers among this present crop of players not only know that, but are the best exponents of it in Europe. It's worth remembering that's it a game of skill but the crowd also need to be entertained. The trouble is that once these youngsters come up against the more accomplished skills of the overseas players, their game leaves them totally outclassed..."
"What's all this tosh about Europe?" stabbed Sebastian Douglas. "Wankers!" shouted the smallest of the three blue suits leaning by the Gents." The fact is Britain needs this kind of national pulling together, it needs success and it needs to know that if it's British it's best. Take those new Brit-Beat generation of popsters. Now we haven't seen anything like that since the Beatles were wowing them in the aisles..."
Keith seemed motivated: "Well, in the sense they still are. We live in times when a generation grew up just after the last time it was good and has now convinced itself that they ARE the Beatles and the Small Faces, and they're proud they rode choppers and fancied Sally Tomsett. The dangerous thing about that is just how attractive it is, and that may be good for you in the short term, but can certainly lead to complications later, not all of which we fully understand. Not even the
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