Field of Dreams

There was no short of village idiots at the Beaufort Arms last night following the cricket club’s latest epic victory, a day only slightly marred by the news that the big-hitting batsman ‘Stubboom’ found himself being fined for being a few minutes late, having left Torquay at 9.30 in order to play. To be fair, the feel good factor had far more to do with the fact that it was actually possible to sit outside the pub without requiring an Arctic survival kit. By the time the beers started flowing, no one was actually talking about the cricket. Most of those still capable of coherent speech – a small minority, it must be said – were now looking forward to the football.

After far too much Thatchers Gold and later Camden Hells lager, I had gone from a position of “it’s a 50/50 game” to “football’s coming home”. Today, I can gladly confirm that I do not have the first clue as to how tonight’s game is going to go. To that end, I am working my way through ‘The Bumper Book of Football Clichés’ to describe what could happen.

Roughly speaking, “it’s going to be tight” and ‘England will need to score first” head the list, but there are other clichés at work. “Anything can happen in a football match”. Someone could be sent off early on or leave the field with hamstring twang or knee knack. “Our best chance is to attack.” Harry Kane might have saved up the finest performance of his career and score a “they think it’s all over” hat trick as both teams stagger though extra time. Or Immobile could literally become immobile as the lads in the Three Lions shirts go mad. Or, more likely, Italy park an enormous bus midway between their penalty area and the halfway line as we revert to type and pretend Andy Carroll is on the pitch for a series of aimless long balls. In short, I have no idea of what will happen. Just feelings which change like the wind.

One minute, I think we will score early on and spend the next 80 minutes desperately clearing the ball from our penalty box, the next I see Italy leading early on and plucky England running out of steam and ideas followed by tears from everyone, including me.

However, there is one certainty: unless England score a hatful of goals early on and cruise to an easy win, it will not be enjoyable to watch. And it won’t be particularly healthy either. My heart will be pounding, my blood pressure will be rising and my liver will be begging for mercy, probably all of the above long before kick off. Yet this is ONLY A GAME.

Whatever happens, I thank Gareth Southgate and his players for everything. Even though every single squad member is a millionaire several, if not many, times over, they look like us. Many of the stars are sons of immigrants, others are literally immigrants, some have emerged from the poorest backgrounds, others have endured racism of bigotry, including from their own home secretary who told the public it was fine to boo them for opposing racism and they have put all the noise to one side in order to become the best of English.

This is not a final for the voices of hate, like Boris Johnson, Priti Patel and Nigel Farage to manipulate and own: England’s dreaming is all ours. These boys have reminded us of what progressive patriotism is all about. We embrace the flag of St George but unlike the voices of hate we don’t shag it.

Victory tonight will not, at a stroke, end the bitter divisions in our country, but it will be a step in the right direction. And if we lose, we still win because Southgate has given us an England team finally worth the name, worthy of the Three Lions on a shirt and the start, I hope, of better days ahead.

Photo: Stoke Gifford CC