The madcap fairytale of Headingley 1981 means that betting odds of 500-1 will always be proudly associated with English sport, yet those were also the odds on one of England's more infamous defeats: the 6-3 thrashing by Hungary at Wembley in 1953.

If those odds were largely down to the improbability of the scoreline, they also reflected a sense that a defeat of any nature was unthinkable. Hungary were Olympic champions, unbeaten in 24 games, but England had never lost at home to a side from outside Britain and Ireland. Ignorance was bliss. Hungary romped to victory and then, just to clarify England's place in the new order, splattered them 7-1 six months later.

The attitude of some towards Hungary before the 6-3 is one of the earliest examples of a dubious English sporting practice: when in doubt, channel the spirit of Dad's Army and assert with absolute conviction that they don't like it up 'em. That was certainly the case for the cricket team in India in 1981-82. Ian Botham pored over the Indian batting line-up and concluded a comprehensive 10-second interrogation of their techniques by announcing that, to a man, they didn't fancy the bouncer. The approach might have had some merit were England not playing on low-bouncing pitches that were more conducive to shin music than chin music.

Shin music is more harmful in football, and plenty of it is still played in England. Last December Andy Gray suggested that, as great as Barcelona were, they might struggle on a wet, windy night in Stoke. Some argued that Sky sacking Gray a couple of months later was a case of the right answer being achieved through the wrong working. Never mind all that piddling misogyny; what about the implicit suggestion that Jonathan Foreigner couldn't cope with Jonathan Walters?

On Wednesday night Sid Lowe wrote a piece for this paper detailing the not inconsiderable virtues of Sergio Agüero. Within half an hour of its publication online, the magic words had appeared in the comments section: "Can't wait for Agüero to face Stoke on an unlikely rescheduled Tuesday night at the Britannia. Lots of wind and rain."

The prevailing discourse suggests that most foreign footballers have been so blessed by climate and circumstance that the greatest hardship they ever had to endure is tearing their favourite shiny silver hot-pants, or being unable to get hold of their on-call tailor after finding a rogue thread behind the knee of their trousers. While it's true that scientific studies have shown you can't play tiki-taka with Robert Huth's right boot attached to your derriere, is this really the attitude we have to foreigners? Say it ain't so, Joe Bloggs.

The Britannia Stadium is painted as the most terrifying location for outsiders since contemporary horror films were set in Texan outposts. It has become, at least in England, the acid test of a footballer. Can he do it on a wet, windy Tuesday night in Stoke? (It's almost always Tuesday, never Wednesday, as if that's the day on which 99% of Stoke's rain falls, and when Ryan Shawcross's boots mysteriously develop a steel toecap.) The observation is generally made with such patriotic relish that Stoke's ground could be renamed the Rule Britannia Stadium.

Yes, Xavi can thread the ball through the eye of a needle at will, but can he handle a bit of needle? Sure, Lionel Messi can play keepy-uppy for half an hour with the little toe on his left foot, while also playing Tetris and debating the merits of a capitalist culture. That's nice for him. But could he manage it for 30 seconds during a damp crépuscule in deepest Staffordshire? Surely it's time for Fifa to test this hypothesis and arrange an annual match between Stoke and a World XI.

Better still, some boffin could surely simulate a match between an all-time World XI and the current Stoke side. OK, Diego Maradona spent 15 years thriving against some of the most malevolent swine ever to roam the green, but how many 50/50 balls did he win against Mamady Sidibe? Exactly.

It's inevitable that any such match would end 2-0 to Stoke, with Rory Delap's long throws creating both goals for Kenwyne Jones, one off each nipple from a combined distance of 0.00002 yards.

There is no real reason for restricting the Stoke Question to football. What Jesus Christ did with the loaves and fishes and the five thousand was admirable, Jeff, but could he have done it in the midst of a zesty downpour in the Potteries? Scarlett Johansson is one of the world's most formidably sexy women, granted, but could she seduce a fortysomething called Trevor, who still lives with his parents, in a Stoke pub on a Tuesday night when he's preoccupied with the darts on the telly and a two‑for‑one offer on purple WKD? Would Pippa Middleton's bum look big in Stoke? Could Josiah Wedgwood really have cr ... oh, never mind.

It's a matter of time before "Can he or she do it on a lively one in Stoke?" displaces "What's the meaning of life?" as the essential question. Then again, perhaps performing on a wet night in Stoke is the meaning of life.