At the final whistle of England’s deserved World Cup semi-final defeat to Argentina, I left the television behind and disappeared to my Man Cave for what might somewhat pretentiously be called some peace and reflection. Did I fuck. I simply wanted to get away from the endless time-filling post mortem on the crystal bucket, as well as the why-oh-why-oh-why world of social media where a million armchair coaches and experts gave vent to their upset and distress. Believe me, friends, I have been there. But old age, while it doesn’t always provide wisdom, can give you perspective. Today, I woke up positively bursting with perspective.
Foolishly, I did engage briefly on social media, but this morning the mute and snooze buttons are hard at work. People have made their minds up, as I have, and further engagement is futile. Some of the distress levels can probably be seen from outer space. For those people, I sincerely hope that nothing terrible happens to them in the real world because I am not sure how they will be able to function properly at all.
For a number of reasons, I have not been as engaged with this World Cup than I have been in previous years. We even booked our summer holiday staying in a place where access to TV coverage would be sparse at best and despite the absurd increase to 48 teams I have probably not watched many more games than I did in 1966 when there were just 16. I could be exaggerating here, but just imagine future years when the idiots from FIFA increase the number to 64, hardly any of whom will have even the slightest chance of winning the thing? I may disappear to a bothy in deepest Scotland for the duration next time, armed with nothing but books and insect repellent.
I did engage at times with the tournament, almost always when England were playing, but my levels of apathy towards The Beautiful Game™ have been growing for some time now, not least since 2018 when I made what turned out for me to be the right move in walking away from the only team I will ever support (Bristol Rovers). Despite the exorbitant levels of subscription costs, we still, at least for now, shell out for Sky and the increasingly abysmal TNT but despite, or perhaps because, of the huge expansion in broadcasting live games, I am watching less than ever. The new season, which is already well underway by way of pre season friendlies and soon so-called international tournaments, appeals to me as much as root canal treatment. The close season RIP.
This World Cup is probably over for me, too. The utterly pointless 3rd/4th place match against France takes place at 10.00pm (BST) on Saturday and if I get a better offer, I’ll take it. As for the final itself, I am considering a range of options, which include listening to some music and reading a book or even some mid evening train spotting. That is how little the rest of the 2026 World Cup has left for me. Beyond wanting Spain to win – or is it wanting Argentina to lose? – I could not care less.
The legendary Liverpool manager Bill Shankly said this: “Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it’s much more serious than that.” I am not sure whether he meant it as a joke. Looking at the reaction of some folk last night, particularly on social media, I’m afraid there are a lot of people who think it is. In which case, I feel very sorry for them.
It’s a new day and here in downtown South Gloucestershire a beautiful one. Let’s enjoy it while we can. Football can wait.
