In a scoop that has shaken the gin and tonic kingdom of Fleet Street to its core, the Dutch monarchy has been spotted doing what can only be described as 'celebrating with unseemly vigour' after an orange double-whammy of World Cup victories. Yes, loyal readers, while the British sporting public has been reduced to weeping into lukewarm lager, the House of Orange-Nassau is apparently cackling into their jenever like cartoon villains who have just discovered the secret to eternal happiness.
Let us set the scene. The place: somewhere in the Netherlands, presumably a polder with a windmill in the background and a waft of Gouda cheese in the air. The players: a royal family who have clearly decided that dignity is for nations who actually win things. They've pulled off the unthinkable, the double, the one-two punch that has left the British sporting establishment reeling like a drunken aristocrat at a wedding.
How? How in the name of all that is holy and pork-related did the Dutch do this? Details are murky, as they always are when a country that gave us tulip mania, legalised marijuana, and orange carrots manages to outperform a nation that once taught the world how to make iron and etiquette. But the whispers are damning. Sources, who must remain anonymous for fear of being force-fed bitterballen, claim the Dutch team simply 'wanted it more' and 'didn't spend the week before the final arguing about the price of a cup of tea'.
The British response, predictably, has been a masterclass in stiff-upper-lipping it, while simultaneously twitching with repressed fury. Pundits have been deployed to talk about 'plucky underdogs' and 'a good effort' and, most gallingly, 'they were just the better team on the day'. Meanwhile, the Dutch royals, led by the perpetually grinning King Willem-Alexander and the impeccably crafted Queen Maxima, were photographed in what can only be described as 'unbecoming ecstasy'. I suspect there was even a conga line. The horror.
But let us not be glib. This is a tragedy of Greek proportions being played out in a nation of clogs and cyclists. The Dutch, a people whose entire national identity is based on reclaiming land from the sea and being annoyingly tall, have stolen our thunder. They have taken the World Cup, that most sacred of totems, and planted their orange flag upon its corpse. And what do we have? A nation of football fans who have now turned to discussing the relative merits of their own royal family's waves. 'At least our Queen didn't abdicate,' they mutter, as if that is a balm for a sporting humiliation.
One must ask: is there no end to this Dutch insurgency? First, they flood our market with Edam and Gouda. Then, they encourage us to use the word 'gezellig' as if it means something more than 'slightly cosy'. Now, this. It is a coordinated assault on British exceptionalism. I have it on good authority (the gin spoke to me) that the Dutch team's secret weapon was a combination of stroopwafels and the ability to stay calm under pressure because they have to negotiate level crossings every day.
What is to be done? The options are limited. We could petition the Queen to knight a herd of dairy cows as a distraction. We could launch an official inquiry into whether the Dutch victory was somehow linked to their tolerance of certain herbal remedies. Or we could simply accept our fate, bury our sorrow in a plate of fish and chips, and dream of a day when the British sporting machine will once again strike fear into the hearts of our continental rivals. Until then, swallow your pride, buy a windmill, and practice saying 'tot ziens' with a grimace.
This is Biff Thistlethwaite, reporting from the front line of national shame. I'm off to drown my sorrows in a vat of bitterballen. God save the King, or whoever is in charge.