Their Finest Hour

I can't remember when I felt prouder to be English as our boys danced rings round the statuesque, slow-thinking Teutons. What dolts! As I said to my neighbour, you could be forgiven for mistaking the Germans in their red shirts for the English, such was the difference in class. There must be weeping and gnashing of teeth in the streets of Berlin tonight! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Herr Franz Beckenbauer! Excuse me a moment. Oh I see, I understand the ENGLISH were in the red shirts. Well, of course that does  put a rather different complexion on things.