My initial reaction last night when Scotland lost to Hungary was to laugh, more specifically to send a What’s App message to the family which said “Ha ha ha ha ha ha”. My joy, such as it was, didn’t last long. And anyway, my delight in Scotland’s failure is a distant reminder of a night I spent in a Clapham Junction hotel, as my Scots friends wildly celebrated England’s penalty shoot-out defeat to Germany in the semi-finals of Italia 90. 34 years ago and still bitter, eh? No, not really. Perhaps, I’ve mellowed in old age, more likely my conscious efforts to be more kind and to avoid the smug feelings of schadenfreude are paying dividends. Either way, I have felt no lasting satisfaction in Scotland’s demise, nor have I enjoyed any of the tormenting of the Scots by people on social media.
A lot of it, I know, is banter, just like the banter I had to put up with when Chris Waddle blazed his penalty into outer space and I suppose I should rise above it. If people want to take the piss, well, let them. But schadenfreude? That’s just too much negative energy for me. But what causes such hate, such vitriol?
It’s not that the Scots are bad people, far from it. The Tartan Army doesn’t go away to fight, to sing ’10 German bombers’ and boo the opposition national anthem. So their fans get a bit over-excited over their chances in a football tournament. So what? So do we English and look what happens to us? In almost every tournament, we start off badly and the whole country derides the team and manager. Then we pick up, play one blinding game before, once again, crashing and burning. Two years later, the whole thing starts over again.
Of course, Scotland were rubbish last night. What led you do think differently? A world class left back in Andy Robertson – oh how I wish he was English – and then a bunch of lower grade players, some with English accents, who give their all, but it would never be enough. Then, when they lose, the Scots fans are in mourning and we celebrate, as the world class footballing nation we absolutely aren’t. How fucking clever we are, kicking a Scotsman when he’s down? I’ve been one of the kickers, prick that I was. These days, I can’t enjoy the failure anymore.
Back in 1981, the Norwegian football commentator Bjørge Lillelien ripped into England after his team beat us 2-1 in a World Cup qualifier:
“We are best in the world! We have beaten England! England, birthplace of giants, Lord Nelson, Lord Beaverbrook, Sir Winston Churchill, Sir Anthony Eden, Clement Attlee, Henry Cooper, Lady Diana, vi har slått dem alle sammen, vi har slått dem alle sammen! (we have beaten them all, we have beaten them all!). Maggie Thatcher, can you hear me? Maggie Thatcher … your boys took a hell of a beating! Your boys took a hell of a beating!”
At the time, I probably could have chinned him but now it’s quite funny, not least because actually he was right and anyone who put the boot into Thatcher can’t be all bad. However, that’s been turned around now and today on social media I saw various spoof versions of Lillelien’s rant and old snowflake I am, I didn’t laugh. If England fuck up against Slovenia tomorrow, I’d imagine quite a few folk north of the border will be waiting to put the boot in.
It’s not easy, trying to take all the hate out of one’s system, to be more kind, to avoid schadenfreude whenever possible (and it won’t be possible if some big Tory names lose their seats on election night). When you get as much pleasure from someone else’s failure than you do from your own success, I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong happening. There certainly is for me.
I’m not there. I’m still laughing at things I maybe shouldn’t be laughing at. I guess that’s human nature. The negative energy kills me, though, and that’s why I need to do better.
