My thoughts this morning are with those who say, or more likely pretend, they have no interest in the England national team and would much rather be watching a pre season friendly featuring their favourite club team. These people walk among us because I used to attend the same Bristol Rovers matches as they did and they told me so. I can only imagine today that they are focusing their celebrations on the Rovers’ epic 3-2 pre season victory at Salisbury yesterday and not England’s remarkable comeback performance against Norway in the World Cup Quarter Final. Each to their own, I guess.
Regular readers (are there any?) will have worked out by now that my initial apathy to The Greatest Show On Earth™ has now evaporated now that we are at The Business End™ of the tournament. Even though I couldn’t be bothered with Argentina’s inevitable win against Battling Switzerland (their official name), I do feel invested in the World Cup now.
Please forgive me for speaking in cliché but it is at least in part down to the piss poor media coverage, not least ITV’s woeful football coverage. During last night’s game, ITV managed to plumb new depths, particularly though not solely because of the gruesome twosome commentary partnership of Sam Matterface and Lee Dixon, who attempted to suck the life out of rooms up and down the land with their tiresome, matey, self-indulgent, analysis-free babbling. England’s courageous, battling though deeply flawed performance spoke for itself, despite ITV’s worst efforts. For Ian ‘Wrighty’ Wright to describe Harry Kane, who battled through 120 minutes with virtually no service as “poor” made me wonder if he had been on the Kool Aid. I know the great man is essentially a supporter masquerading as a knowledgeable pundit but surely he’s better than that?
The game itself was, well, typical England, the one that doddery old codgers like me have grown-up with. Occasional lapses in concentration at the back, a goalkeeper who seems to have forgotten to catch a ball, instead punching balls he should have caught, a player in the team, in this case Madueke, who no one can understand why he is in the squad, never mind the team, and an inability to hold onto the ball when we most need to. The heroism of the performance cannot be denied but only the most biased England fan could suggest we weren’t “lucky”, as head coach Thomas Tuchel rightly pointed out.
The magnificent Jude Bellingham suggested otherwise when interviewed after the final whistle, given the effort of the players, but in the cold light of day we need to, and can, play better than this if we are to defeat Argentina and then either Spain or France later on. Against a better team who actually come out to play – and only Croatia have done that against us so far – we will, I am sure, be much better. But then, the temperature was somewhere around 100 fahrenheit in old money. Try running around in that for the best part of two hours, as well as having to play football. You don’t make your own luck, which is a stupid expression, otherwise it wouldn’t be luck, but the classic, bloody-minded, never-say-die English spirit still matters, I’m pleased to say and his name last night was Elliot Anderson, who of course learned his trade at the aforementioned Bristol Rovers. The ITV commentary team barely noticed Anderson – to be fair, they were too busy chortling at ‘hilarious’ ‘in-jokes’ – but the rest of us observed a footballer destined for greatness, quite possibly on the same level as our other worldies Jude Bellingham and Harry Kane.
I am not the only one who has reached into my Bumper Book Of Clichés because already today I have seen numerous references in the media of how “our name is written on the cup”. You do not need to me to explain what that means, or that the idea that tournament victories are somehow preordained, presumably by a supernatural creator – for the sake of argument, let’s call him God – well in advance. The fact that we’ve done well to ride our luck and that VAR spotted Haaland’s stupid push on Konsa when the ball wasn’t even in play could prompt one to somehow feel there was some divine plan. Spoiler alert: there isn’t, but I do believe there is a real chance England could win the thing.
Sometimes in tournaments, England produce one, maybe but rarely two great performances. In 1990, we were great in losing to Germany in the semi-finals, in 1996 we were great in beating an at-war-with-themselves Netherlands and then – yes, you guessed it – we were great in losing to Germany in the semi-finals. Maybe that complete performance, as we experts, call it, will happen when we play Argentina, pissing all over Lionel Messi’s fireworks, followed by the return to grinding out an unattractive victory against Spain or France in the final?
I don’t really mean to knock anyone’s love and preference for club football. There was a time, increasingly long ago, when I traipsed around the west country and, once, Merthyr Tydfil watching Bristol Rovers playing meaningless pre season friendlies. I’ve recovered now and am feeling much better but even when I was deeply in love with my club – there will never be another – I have always had a special place in my heart for England, the football team. Football long ago sold its soul for more money, from the endlessly deep cash cow that is the Premier League and what amounts to financial doping from overseas owners that extends from the state-owned Manchester City to my little old club Bristol Rovers, now owned by a Sunni Muslim businessman from Kuwait, which the last time I looked isn’t particularly near the Memorial Stadium. There is no way back now from the way things are.
Yet despite FIFA’s crass mismanagement, there remains a certain purity, a certain pride and honour, about playing for one’s country for free (England players have historically donated their appearance fees to charity). And nothing, not even the worst efforts of Gianni Infantino and Donald Trump, can take that away from us, no matter how they try. And for one month only, football reverts to being The People’s Game. Let’s enjoy it while we can.
