Football governing body FIFA has refused to apologise after it sent personalised World Cup invitations to some of the country’s most dangerous hooligans, in the hope their natural bonhomie and love of the game might add a frisson of excitement to some of the more pointless Group E matches.

The handwritten letters were delivered by courier to the homes of several Hull and East Yorkshire thugs. First to receive the news was Bex, a national treasure of a headcase from Hedon whose immense Carlsberg-forged belly is best remembered for repelling over four hundred rubber bullets at the long, arduous battle for the Piazza de San Marco during Italia ‘90.

 

He said: “I thought it was Old Bill come for my passport. Imagine my delight when I was handed an envelope containing return air fare, a fistful of vouchers for pre-match drinks, and a shiny new Stanley knife engraved with my initials.”

 

“Of course, my RSVP was in the post by lunchtime.”

 

Professor Ian Harding, author of “Zee Crazee Eeenglish!”, said: “It’s no surprise FIFA drew on UK resource for this job. People think the Italians are the Daddies of Europe, but I know for a fact the average Juventus fan stops mid-ruck for a cappuccino and a flick through the latest Prada catalogue.”

 

“Your German yob is quite hardy, but even he suffers an Achilles Heel in his huge Hermann Munster-shaped head rendering him the perfect target for a variety of airborne missiles.”

 

Despite criticism FIFA have defended their campaign, claiming research proves viewing figures treble if it’s at all likely an innocent fan might get pummelled into the earth’s core by a proud English fist.

 

A FIFA spokesperson added: “Ideally I’d like a newsflash depicting total fucking mayhem in a sleepy town square: tables overturned, female tourists sobbing, a tsunami of bricks and iron bars and a cornered mob salivating at a line of riot police while holding aloft the sandaled foot of an unlucky Spanish waiter.”

 

“Failing that a Frenchman kicked down some stairs will suffice.”

 

Meanwhile, Chief of South African Police Hendrik van Voortrekker dabbed his handkerchief with the tip of his tongue, wiped a tiny speck of dirt from the barrel of his favourite 30 bar water cannon, and said: “Fuckin’ speletjie op!”*

 

* “Fuckin’ game on!”