The Unbearable Lightness of Being an England Fan

Fifty-four days to go and I’m a maelstrom of emotions. I’m scared, excited, hopeful, light-headed, giddy with anticipation. The world cup is almost upon us and the possibilities are infinite. Of course we all know what will happen. England will get through the group stage and at some point in the knockout stages will come up against another giant of the football world and the entire country will be put through the emotional wringer. Now this time, things are slightly different because Fabio Capello is in charge and we’ve actually got a chance of winning the game. Apparently, we’ve been practicing penalties. But it usually takes me three days to get over these games and if we win, three days later we’ll be playing again.

And let’s say we win the whole thing. (Let’s just say. It doesn’t hurt to say). The intense joy that everyone who loves football would take from England winning the world cup would pervade every aspect of our lives. And as a bonus, upset every non-football fan, and that can only be a good thing. If England somehow manage to lift the trophy, our country will be a nicer place for months. Less road rage, less criminality, more polite conversations with strangers. Cab drivers would probably let you pull out. It would be like the entire country had moved to Scandanavia.

Not for the first few days obviously. For the first few days, I’d suggest closing the curtains and staying in unless you desperately want to have good-natured but essentially pointless conversations with drunken young men. I’m not saying that society would completely break down but try getting a plumber twenty four hours after England win the world cup and I think you’d be in trouble.

And yet, fantastic as it would be to see an England win, I have mixed feelings about the prospect. It wouldn’t be the first time. Back in the eighties, in the dark days of hooliganism and right wing extremists, I found it hard to support England. How could I want a team to win who’s most vocal supporters were racists. It would have been like supporting Chelsea (that is a joke by the way although there was a picture last week of a ginger Chelsea fan doing a nazi salute at the cup semi-final last weekend. Stupid boy. If the Nazis ever did come to power, gingers would be among the first to go). If England won back then, I’d be happy but the racists would be happy too and I wasn’t pleased about that. I remember going to Luxembourg for a world cup qualifier. Now Luxembourg is less of a country and more a large village in Europe and gangs of England football fans rampaged through the main street turning over cars and setting light to them while doing nazi salutes. It was the national equivalent of a grown man punching a five-year old girl in the face and it was embarrassing and terrifying in equal measure.

Things have changed now. England fans are cuddlesome lovely creatures who preach racial harmony and tolerance. OK that’s not strictly true but the overtly racist element seem to have disappeared or at least quietened down. You do still get the odd clump of old school bigots singing a desultory chorus of ‘No Surrender to the IRA’ but even they know that with the IRA having decommissioned it’s weapons, it’s very unlikely we’d have to surrender to them anyway.

But now a new generation of fans seem to have taken over. Families with kids, professional people. Not that either of those can’t be obnoxious but I’ve never seen a gang of boozed up stockbrokers marauding through a foreign town square scaring the locals. At least not at football matches. Rugby’s more their thing.

So it’s not the fans that upset me any more. It’s the players. If England win the world cup on July 11^th and John Terry and Ashley Cole become feted national heroes, surely I’m not the only person to feel ambivalent about that outcome.

But hey, I’m probably getting ahead of myself. And I know for sure that once the games have started, I’ll be cheering along with everybody else. And if by some miracle we get to the finals and we’re playing Germany and it goes to penalties and John Terry is striding forward to take the decisive kick…..well I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Although perhaps “crossing that bridge” is not the most sensitive phrase I can use when I’m talking about John Terry.