Will I or won’t I, that is the question. Will I stay up, potentially all night, to watch England defeat Mexico 3-0 (your read it here first) in The Last 16, or will I retire to bed at my usual time and get up early to watch the game on the BBC iPlayer? As things stand, the prospect of trying to stay awake until at least 3.00am is not particularly inviting. Overthinking as usual, my fear would be that potentially bad weather, including electrical storms, could delay matters even further and that I would find myself in the living room long after the dawn, with the game anxiously poised at 0-0 just before a kick off that has been indefinitely suspended. I think you can probably work out which way this is going.
The young me would have dealt with the matter very differently. I’d have found a pub, probably in town, watched the game in its entirety, walked home in the early morning light, had a shower, gargled with mouthwash and then walked to work. Tonight, if I did stay up, would be a sober affair but I’d still feel as if I’d consumed a gallon of Boston’s Old Thumper before half-time.
There are several reasons why World Cup Fever™ has not taken over my senses. That much of it is taking place in Donald Trump’s America is certainly one reason, the kick off times are another. But there is other stuff. I feel I OD’d on football long before this unnecessarily bloated version of the tournament began. With more televised football than ever, I found last season that I seemed to watch less televised football than ever. I am sick of the deeply flawed fuck up that is VAR, I am sick to the back teeth of players diving, cheating, trying to get opponents yellow-carded or even sent off, I abhor the so-called ‘hydration breaks’, I am sick to the back teeth of having to listen to some of the worst commentators and pundits ever to have droned across the airwaves, the endless ad breaks on ITV’s wretched coverage, rip-off ticket prices, the absurd overlong previews and post-mortems and, did I mention, the fact that The Greatest Show On Earth is taking place in a country having a dalliance with fascism. Apart from that, it’s been a great tournament. (It hasn’t.)
It is not that I don’t want England to win: I definitely do. Every time we have played, the usual waves of anxiety wash over me. Occasionally euphoria, more often the what-the-fuck-am-I-putting-myself-through feeling that comes along every time England play football. If the game was kicking off at a more sensible time, I would not be having this internal debate. But it’s the prospect of such a long, sober evening, leading to a potentially endless night leaving me utterly wasted for half of next week.
My feeling that we are going to win 3-0 does not help with my internal machinations. What if I was to miss one of the great England performances of all time? That’s the loneliness of the long distance football fan.
The most likely scenario is that I wake up for my nocturnal bathroom break and idly check on my phone as to the progress of the game. I find out that England are 1-0 up (Kane, penalty) and my mind starts racing. I really should get up to watch this, oh God there’s lightning flashes across the Mexican sky, Aaaargh – the referee is taking the players off until the skies are clear in three or four hours.
So, will I or won’t I? I suspect it will be the latter, but what if … ? Either way, good luck England. As Bristol Rovers fans sing about their beloved Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams.
