Euro 2020; when England stopped being toxic...
Euro 2020 began, as all major tournaments do, with me feigning a studied disinterest in the whole thing, and ended with me attempting to mollify a 17-year-old lad who, drunk, frustrated and oscillating between tears of anger and despair, was weaving across the Tynemouth to North Shields road, oblivious to the danger passing cars posed him. In the same way as I hugged a heartbroken 12-year-old Ben when Ronaldo had shithoused England out of the 2006 World Cup, all I could offer were my profound condolences, laced with the pitiful caveat that there was nothing I could do or say that would take away the hurt of football failing to come home. And yet, 15 years later, I was able to share that pain as a supporter, rather than viewing the whole circus surrounding the England national team with contempt and cynicism, because there is no longer a circus surrounding the team. Euro 2020 was a hell of an interesting journey and I’d like to share my rollercoaster ride with you now.
Friday 11 June; Italy 3 Turkey 0
Despite obvious sign in the ordinary world that tournament frenzy was building, as could be discerned by the amount of flags fluttering from car aerials and box room windows, I didn’t get to see this one live, as Laura was keen to watch Tyrone’s descent into madness on Coronation Street. Instead I busied myself by writing an article about my favourite Wedding Present song, Boo Boo, and then caught the late night highlights. In retrospect, this was the best team and eventual winners throwing down a marker by eviscerating the side that noted football journalist Lousie Taylor had prophesised would reach the final.
Saturday 12 June; Switzerland 1 Wales 1, Denmark 0 Finland 1 & Belgium 3 Russia 0
Surprisingly for a Saturday, I was up nice and early, mainly to get into town for Record
Store Day, where I was lucky enough to secure Lonely Man by the Eric Bell Band and Zero Zero Zero by Mogwai. From there, I went to the cricket between
Tynemouth and Hetton Lyons; a damn fine contest in which we held on for a draw,
courtesy of a fluent knock by Ben McGee. I did see Switzerland take the lead,
popping into the pavilion for a quick comfort break between innings, but was
more than baffled to see Kevin Mbabu playing international football as he didn’t
even kick a ball during his entire time with NUFC.
So enthralling was the cricket that the entire Denmark against Finland game passed me by. This meant I only caught up on the dreadful incident involving Christian Eriksen after the game was over, which meant I didn’t see whole spectacle unfold; needless to say, I’m glad he is still with us and that Denmark went on to have such a good tournament, after this awful incident. I did see my first game of the tournament between Belgium and Russia and, somewhat predictably, Les Diables Rouges looked quick, inventive and full of creativity as they tore apart a woeful Russian side. Of course, in the context of earlier events, the game was rendered almost meaningless. In retrospect, whatever the rulebook says, Denmark against Finland should have been abandoned as a goalless draw, to show some dignity and respect.
Sunday 13 June; Croatia 0 England 1, Austria 3 North Macedonia 1, Holland 3 Ukraine 2
By the time I got off the Metro at West Jesmond on Sunday morning, the place was heaving with posh student wankers in an array of replica shirts, already out on the gargle. It was a scene replicated at County Club by 11.00am where Northumberland were taking on Cheshire in a 50-over group game, while swathes of young bourgeois cunts horsed down multiple jugs of Pimms, raucously attempting to turn Osborne Avenue an approximation of the Hollies Stand with an RP accent. Thankfully they’d all disappeared long before kick off, leaving me to concentrate on watching the cricket and contracting heatstroke.
Cheshire posted 241 and it all looked rosy as the Northumberland reply progressed to 87-1; then Alastair Appleby got out just short of a half century and the wheels spectacularly came off as gaggles of loud Sloanes drifted back after the full time whistle at Wembley. A series of loose shots, farcical run outs and on the button bowling saw Northumberland disintegrate to 161 all out just as North Macedonia kicked off. I headed home, switched the telly on and promptly fell asleep on account of the effects of the sun, waking just in time to see Arnautovic make it 3-1 to Austria. In the last game, watched in between my duties as Press Officer for Tynemouth CC, while compiling my weekly email, I sensed the Ukraine keeper may have been dosed with Rohypnol, such was his incompetence. Most importantly, Denzel Dumfries won the name of the tournament award at this early stage.
Monday 14 June; Czech Republic 2 Scotland 0, Poland 1 Slovakia 2, Spain 0 Sweden 0
I’d been coerced into taking a day’s flexi-leave, having been told in no uncertain terms that British Gas desired to give my central heating boiler its annual service. After overseeing the successful completion of this event, I nipped down to Sainsbury’s to do my weekly shop, then awarded myself a nap. I woke just in time to see the Czechs take the lead with a blinding goal, then double it with the kind of precise finish from distance that only comes around every decade or so. Despite loving Scotland as a place and their domestic football in particular, which is almost as purifying for the soul as their jangly guitar pop, I don’t really have any affection for the National Team. Probably because of the support if I’m honest; too self-consciously wacky and keen on being noticed for being so, but with a deeply intolerant and ultra-conservative ideology underpinning their lovable antics, like a Calvinist version of Russ Abbot’s Madhouse. Similar to the SNP in many ways I suppose, but with more rigorous accounting procedures.
Slovakia are on the same page; I’ve lived there, but any sense of identification has long worn off. That said, I was glad they beat the even more conservative and intolerant Poland, even if all I saw was the opening own goal before I went off to play 6-a-side. I was back in time for the Spain v Sweden stalemate, but there isn’t anything I’d wish to say about that stifling non-event.
Tuesday 15 June; Hungary 0 Portugal 3, France 1 Germany 0
Talking about ultra-conservatism, Britain’s ideological body double came off decidedly second best in this one. I’ve no time for Ronaldo, the preening, vacuous narcissist he is, but you’d prefer him to the sporting representatives of a fascistic autocracy, so I was more than happy that Orban’s automatons were well trounced, even if the score line was shamefully unbalanced. That wasn’t as bad as ITV’s woeful innovation of having Premier League referee Peter Walton give his opinion on contentious decisions in a dismal, nasal drone during the next game. It was akin to asking a traffic warden to summarise a Grand Prix. France looked half decent here and Germany were clearly getting on a bit, so with all teams having played once, I’d say Italy and then Belgium were the best sides thus far, rather predictably I suppose.
Wednesday 16 June; Finland 0 Russia 1, Turkey 0 Wales 2, Italy 3 Switzerland 0
All of these flexitime days off have to be paid for somehow. Hence, I was at graft for the entire duration of the first game and, being honest it’s one you’d not mind missing. By the time I got home, Wales were well on top in the second game and just about to take the lead. Fair play to them for a top notch performance, but even more praise has to be shot in the direction of Italy, who were refreshingly, front-foot offensive, against a dull, pedestrian Swiss outfit. For fans of Newcastle United, this gave us a chance to see Schar looking pissed off with his team mates, as he does with such aplomb for NUFC. Other employees from SJP at the tournament included the arcane skills of Emil Krafth, who somehow kept a clean sheet against Spain, Ryan Fraser looking like a textbook radgie in his cameo for Scotland and an assured Martin Dubravka, whose tournament was about to go downhill at breakneck speed.
Thursday 17 June; North Macedonia 1 Ukraine 2, Belgium 2 Denmark 1, Austria 0 Holland 2
Bad news came early; Tynemouth Cricket Club’s Midweek Social XI were without a game as our trip to Riding Mill had been curtailed by Covid. I decided on staying at work to put a few extra hours in the flexi bank as North Macedonia v Ukraine was too purist, even for me. I got back for the second half of the Belgium game and I’d like to think it was me, rather than the arrival of Kevin De Bruyne, that sparked them into action. It seemed they were far more comfortable in attack than defence, which was also the case for a Dutch side who seemed far less convincing than their Benelux brethren, despite keeping a clean sheet in a fairly mundane 2-0 success over Austria. Frankly the most noteworthy thing about the game was that I watched it in the pub; The Northumberland Hussar with Tom, if you’re interested.
Friday 18 June; Slovakia 0 Sweden 1, Croatia 1 Czech Republic 1, England 0 Scotland 0
Sometimes you can tell by the look in their eyes when people need a holiday. That was certainly the case with Martin Dubravka, whose late rush of blood saw Sweden awarded the penalty that proved decisive. Stopping off at the cricket club on the way home, I missed out on the Croatia v Czech Rep game in order to see Tynemouth tonk Blaydon in a T20 game, where Muhammad Saad had a fine old time, repeatedly aiming for the ridge tiles of properties on West Dene Drive. Certainly there was far more entertainment on show in his knock than in the sterile stalemate at Wembley. Scotland are no great shakes; in fact, they are terrible, but their dogged resilience stifled England in a truly dreadful game. Looking back, this may not have been the dullest game of the tournament (Sweden v Ukraine took that accolade, even if it was blessed by 3 goals more than this turgid toss), but it was probably the most agricultural. Scotland got what they wanted; a barely-deserved point courtesy of clogging and time wasting. England got what they deserved; a barely-deserved point from a witless, unimaginative shit show.
Saturday 19 June; France 1 Hungary 1, Germany 4 Portugal 2, Poland 1 Spain 1
Another excellent day at the cricket; Benwell Hill versus Tynemouth. Muhammad Saad took the plaudits with a storming 5-30 return, but Sean Longstaff did us proud as well with 3-48 and a tenacious 22* when batting out the overs to successfully save the game, alongside skipper Matty Brown. Interesting that two years ago, the big question was whether Sean or Declan Rice would be anchoring England’s midfield at this tournament; a couple of seasons under Bruce’s watchful eye has resulted in Rice becoming a regular and Sean playing club cricket during his summer break, which is even more galling when you think that Graeme Jones has been catapulted from obscurity to Southgate’s factotum in a matter of weeks. Surely he can tell Southgate about the real Sean and not the emasculated Bruce version?
I genuinely wish I’d seen Germany v Portugal, as my contempt for Ronaldo would have made this a comic masterpiece. In the end, all I saw were the deeply frustrating embers of the Spain v Poland game that concluded the second round of games. Again, Italy looked to be streets ahead of everyone bar Belgium, whose ageing central defence was considerably creakier than the ageing artistes turning out for the Azzurri.
Sunday 20 June; Italy 1 Wales 0, Switzerland 3 Turkey 1
Euro 2020 was starting to get down to business, with simultaneous kick-offs and teams going home, although I do think 24 down to 16 is a bit of a phony way of doing things. There’s one round too many; if we must have 24 teams, why not 4 groups of 6, with the top 2 progressing from each one? Anyway, under the current regulations 3 teams qualified from this group. The only ones to crash and burn were Lousie Taylor’s favourites; Turkey, who lost all 3 games. More amazingly, Switzerland managed to score 3 goals. Italy, as ever, looked elegant and stylish against Wales, though I have to say my favourite bit of football news from the day was Hartlepool’s return to the Football League after 5 years in the wilderness. Well done you Monkey Hangers!!
Monday 21 June; Austria 1 Ukraine 0, Holland 3 North Macedonia 0, Belgium 2 Finland 0, Denmark 4 Russia 1
I finished work early, but not to watch the football. Instead, there was the small matter of the Ian Appleby Cup semi-final away to Percy Main for Tynemouth Midweek Social XI. Having spent 4 years over the hedge at Percy Main Amateurs, it was something of an honour to step on to the cricket pitch. Unfortunately, the game was a disaster; a team we had thumped at Preston Avenue three weeks previously, comprehensively turned the tables on us and sailed home with little difficulty. Our 122-7 was never going to be enough and so it proved, as they came home with 3 overs to spare. I didn’t bat and I bowled like a dog. Not only that, I actually didn’t enjoy the whole experience, which was something of a shock for me. As Sherriff Ed Tom Bell said to himself in No Country for Old Men, “I need to get over that.” I don’t want to upset people.
I got home, sat brooding on the couch, and gently thawed my glacial mood by watching the joyous Denmark celebrations, as they qualified alongside a Belgium side in cruise control. I wouldn’t say I went to bed feeling happy, but I was no longer quite so down.
Tuesday 22 June; Croatia 3 Scotland 1, Czech Rep 0 England 1
One of my main problems with Euro 2020 initially was, with Ireland failing to qualify, deciding just who to support; it is a measure of how awful Scotland were that I ended up following England. I would contend that, at this stage of the tournament, England hadn’t yet kicked into gear and were very much more concerned with a safe passage than entertaining the crowd. That said, the first half against the Czechs was pleasing on the eye. In short there was never any danger they were going to lose and even less chance of them looking for a killer second goal. Just after the interval, I switched over to see Croatia forensically and effortlessly destroying Scotland, like a lepidopterist pinning a moth to a velvet-coated display board. There was no sense of loss or sadness for the fate of the Scotch, as they were, alongside Turkey, Russia and North Macedonia, so limited and so poor that they made the argument for 16 teams maximum at future tournaments nigh on irrefutable.
Wednesday 23 June; Poland 2 Sweden 3, Slovakia 0 Spain 5, France 2 Portugal 2, Germany 2 Hungary 2
The last round of group games produced a day filled with goals, joy and glorious entertainment. Getting in from work, the first thing I saw was a baffled and crestfallen Martin Dubravka fetching the ball out the net. Having seen the replay, it was clear why he held such a demeanour. It was one to be replicated several more times that day. I hope his holiday has left him feeling energised for the coming third volume of Bruceball.
A similar number of goals were scored in the more competitive Poland against Sweden game, but there was something ghastly and compelling about watching Slovaks meekly and shamefully surrender, like they did to the Hungarians for nigh on a millennium, to the Germans in 1938 and the Russians in 1968.
I flicked over to the T20 international against Sri Lanka and watched Jos Butler flay the bowling for a while, before opting for the Germany v Hungary game. The technical aspects of the contest left much to be desired, but for sheer entertainment, it simply couldn’t be beaten. The frequent goals in both games meant the table was in a constant state of flux and, of almost equal importance, so was the identity of England’s next opponents. Ironically, with a pair of draws to report, the table was eventually unchanged and Hungary were the ones to bow out, with England forced to ruminate on the news that Germany would be the next side they’d play.
Saturday 26 June; Denmark 4 Wales 0, Austria 1 Italy 2
I returned home frozen and saturated, before towelling dry and thawing out in front of another trouncing of Sri Lanka by England’s T20 side. Once that was done, I saw Denmark do the same to Wales. I bet Christian Eriksen was smiling down from heaven as the game unfolded. Then, because I’m stupid, I went to the pub for the second game. It wasn’t that it was too full that grated, but the sheer incompetence of staff trying to deal with a malfunction of their card machine system and serve drinks at the same time, made it one of the most stressful experiences I’ve had on licensed premises. These clowns don’t have the skills for a job with Remploy, never mind in the hospitality sector. No wonder pubs are closing down at such a rate. Needless to say I went home at the break, to enjoy better beers from my fridge and better company by myself. Oh, Italy won again.
Sunday 27 June; Czech Rep 2 Holland 0, Belgium 1 Portugal 0
Overnight, the weather did a 180 degree turn and so a trip to Alnmouth and Lesbury for Northumberland v Cumberland was on the cards. As is so often the case, Peter and Di Brown were my saviours with a lift. We took the scenic coastal route through Amble and Warkworth, which provided lovely panoramic views, though not as glorious as the picture postcard landscapes from Alnmouth CC. Sadly, Covid had ravaged the Northumberland team, requiring 9 changes to be made that morning. Unsurprisingly, a callow and unprepared side made only 118, while the muscular and experienced Cumberland lads were able to knock this meagre total off with 30 overs to spare.
The
3.30 finish meant I was on the sofa, coffee in hand, for the first game.
Perhaps with the exception of France under the frankly bonkers Raymond Domenech
at the 2010 World Cup, no national side, not even England, has the ability to
implode with such vicious self-loathing as the Netherlands. We had this here
again; De Boer’s inflexible system, utterly at variance with the traditional
Dutch style, proved completely incompatible with the players on the park. Once
De Ligt had gone for handball, there was a tragic inevitability to Holland’s
defeat. The spirited but limited Czech team simply cuffed the Dutch aside.
During this tournament, the best pundits in the studio have primarily come from the Beeb, though Roy Keane’s intolerance is worthy tuning in for. Not one person would say the same about Martin Keown, who excelled himself in terms of specious inanities by describing Belgium against Portugal as “a game of chess between heavyweights.” The fucking helmet. Clearly, it was obviously more like a 12 round, bare knuckle bout between Grandmasters. Actually, it was more like the sporting equivalent of one of those relaxation tapes, with a resting pulse rate of under 40 until Hazard thumped in the only goal to wake us up to the delicious sight of Ronaldo losing. Get in!
Monday 28 June; Croatia
3 Spain 5, France 3 Switzerland 3
The previous Wednesday had seen the titanic pair of 2-2 draws involving France, Germany, Hungary and Portugal. Only this incredible double-header exceeded those games for excitement. Typically, I missed the first one completely, having gone to play a lousy hour of 6-a-side where my team basically threw in the towel and we lost badly. I followed the latter stages on my phone as I caught the bus home, then forgot about things as I did the weekly Sainsbury’s shop. Back in the house, I watched Kent v Somerset T20, where the visitors were having some fun. That nice old Mr Stevens was being carted all over the shop by Tom Banton and Devon Conway. Once their work was done, I flipped over to the France game and saw Switzerland score twice to take it to extra time. No further goals and then Mbappe, who’d stunk the tournament out, missed a penalty. The French were out and the players’ families got stuck into each other, for a proper old fashioned pagger in the executive seats. I’m sure Domenech would have approved.
Tuesday 29 June; England 2 Germany 0, Sweden 1 Ukraine 2
Before we consider the football, let’s reflect on the fact the cop who killed Dalian Atkinson (30 seconds of tasering and two kicks to the head, so vicious they left the imprint of his laces on Atkinson’s head) got 8 years inside. That’s right; the life of an iconic sportsman is worth only 8 years. Of course, Dalian was black and in a working class environment; the state only knows one way to respond to such incidents and that is by oppressive force. This shameful state of affairs is why the achievements of young black men in the England team is so important. Alright, the first half was borderline unwatchable, but the team Southgate had picked was the right one to nullify the ageing, extinct volcanoes up front and at the back for Germany. Apart from Thomas Muller’s miss of course, but that can go down as the moment of the tournament, or certainly the moment England fans began to share the belief of the team that success was still on the agenda.
And then, Sweden v Ukraine completed the last 16 games; a game so banal, it was almost a miracle it didn’t end in penalties. With the quarter finals established, Italy and Belgium looked to be the top tie, with the two most likely potential winners meeting up, though Spain and England were now starting to look like proper contenders too.
Friday 2 July; Spain 1 Switzerland 1, Belgium 1 Italy 2
My late finish meant that by the time I’d cycled to Tynemouth, penalties were imminent in the first game. Interesting how Steve Bruce influenced this one; his decision to allow Schar to take a penalty at Fulham on the final day probably got the lad a place among the spot kick takers when they knocked out France and he buried his. No such luck in this one, as Switzerland failed to take their chances, with Schar failing first, so Bruce must be held accountable. I judge as unfit to manage Newcastle United.
The second game was a stormer; for 70 minutes, a spellbinding contest of counter attacking football was in the balance, until Italy went ahead, at which point they killed the contest, removed all momentum and managed the game with Machiavellian majesty. They disrupted every aspect of the Belgians’ play and left them unable to lay a glove on the Italians; tactics that were brutal in their beauty.
Saturday 3 July; Czech Rep 1 Denmark 2, England 4 Ukraine 0
Tynemouth’s
stunning 7 wicket win over Burnopfield in a rain-curtailed contest kept me away
from the Denmark game. I learned the score, but saw nothing of the play. After
leaving the cricket club, we hit The
Lodge for a pre-game pint and graciously turned down an invite to watch it
there in a beer tent private party, mainly because of Laura’s superstitious
belief in seeing England games at home bringing good luck. There was no luck involved in that rapturous,
beguiling second half performance. Alright, Ukraine are no great shakes, but
that destructive blitz showed just what they are capable of when the shackles
are released. Unlike the arrogant so-called Golden Generation who played for
themselves rather than for the team, there is literally nothing to dislike
about these young lads; modest, multi-ethnic, multi-cultural, blessed with
social and political acuity and also in touch with their working-class roots.
Heroes, the lot of them.
We hit the pub at full time and I was pleased to see my Morton supporting mate Brian in celebratory mood. Fair play to the lad, unlike the Mallaig Morrissey, Kenny, who ensconced himself at home on account of a fictional contact from the NHS app telling him to isolate. All well and good, except for the fact he made a big thing about having gourmet Chicken Kievs for his bait. Oh, finally, I can’t recall this night without mentioning Laura’s classic confusion; having missed the final goal while charging her glass, she was baffled to learn that Jordan Henderson was the scorer, asking me “why did the keeper go forward when we’re 3-0 up;” yes dear…
Tuesday 6 July; Italy 1
Spain 1
As we approached the final 4, I still felt Italy to be the strongest outfit, with England, just ahead of Spain and Denmark, as second favourites. It’s testament to the Spanish squad’s unity that they made it so far without a single Real Madrid player in their ranks. The referees have been brilliant in this tournament, allowing play to flow and being judicious with their use of cards and the lad in charge of this one was heroic in his handling. This pulsating game could only have been won from open play by Spain; from spot kicks it was always going to be Italy whose mental strength is matched only by their refusal to lose. And so it came to pass; deservedly so I have to say.
Wednesday 7 July; England 2 Denmark 1
As the tournament wore on, the irony of how progressive it was to support the team, as opposed to the boneheaded gammons booing them from taking the knee, responding mainly to the dog whistle racists in government, grew exponentially. Even if the tournament was lost, the wider argument about the morality of the team’s conduct had been won and the stereotype of a 50-something racist bonehead in chunky Italian knitwear screaming racist invective became a figure of abject contempt among the new breed of England support. Clear evidence of growing numbers of LGBT+ fans, Muslim fans and fans who hadn’t a shred of hatred in their systems was evidence enough to me that the game was coming home, regardless of the score. Never before in my life have I been nervous before an England game, or too adrenalized to sleep afterwards. Only the current squad have that effect on me.
Thankfully though, the score was favourable, even if an own goal and a rebound from a soft penalty against 10 men isn’t the most glorious way to progress. One take from an unexpected source really resonated with me. I found myself nodding in furious agreement with Caitlin Moran when she tweeted: Cab ride across London during extra time - pubs exploding, horns sounding. For an England team who took the knee, wear rainbow armbands, campaign against child poverty. It feels like a cultural game-changer on the same scale as The Beatles. I’d say it was more Bob Dylan; that sense of youthful idealism and ambition because it really felt like the times were a-changing. Fingers crossed they still can and do.
Sunday 11 July; England 1 Italy 1
I didn’t want to drink; at least not too early. I got out the house to watch Tynemouth Academy take on their Blaydon counterparts at Preston Avenue. The idea of occupying a few hours didn’t quite go to plan. Blaydon were all out for 27, having been 23-1, with Ricky Handa grabbing 5 wickets for 4 and Sean Aditsandra three without conceding a run. We then knocked the runs off with 36.4 overs to spare. When has cricket provided me with a shorter game than football?
After a bit of nervous pacing around the house, we took ourselves down for 3 calming pints in The Lodge, which was just the right amount, then returned home to watch the game. Well, you know how it went; the first half so comfortable and the second so stressful. None of this helped by Jenas and his sneering negativity. The bloke has a short memory as he played for a team who achieved the square root of fuck all and never showed a scintilla of remorse for the inadequate returns they provided for all the money and affection showered on them.
It
seemed like we’d been playing for a month by the time Italy scored; the 142nd
goal in 51 games incidentally. Same as against Spain, you just knew Italy would
win if it came to penalties. Let’s not have any recriminations about the ones
who missed or who didn’t take one; Southgate had a plan, but unfortunately it
didn’t work. It’s better than no plan at all; agreed? Some players
distinguished themselves on the night; Pickford, a man and not a child,
Phillips, everywhere, Maguire, a colossus, Rice, the best game he’s played in
his life, Shaw, two fingers up to Mourinho and Kane, the deep-lying genius.
Others, who’d been brilliant in other games, didn’t make as much of an
impression as they’d like to have done, but this was 33-game unbeaten Italy
they were up against. Just take another look at Chiellini’s chokehold on Sako;
that’s how much they wanted to win.
Throughout all my conscious supporting life, which extends back to October 1973 I suppose, when my old fella encouraged me to adopt Ireland as my team after England failed to qualify for the 1974 World Cup because they couldn’t beat Poland, I've followed the Boys in Green. The Sunday after the Wembley qualifier, Ireland beat Poland 1-0 in a friendly at Dalymount Park, courtesy of a Miah Dennehy strike, which is the moment I began focussing on my Irish ethnicity and rejected all aspects of my Englishness, other than cricket, when it comes to sport. Or anything really. I’m not saying I’ve become a flag-waving, facepainted, silly hat wearing stereotype, but I have to put on record just how amazing a transformation has occurred in the mind-set of so many ordinary, decent football fans. Without question, the quiet decency and sincere humility of Southgate and his team, in victory, defeat and most importantly in their dealings off the pitch, has begun to frame a new kind of Englishness, of tolerance, inclusivity and social responsibility, that I can buy into. For the avoidance of doubt I’m still a Communist and a republican pacifist, vehemently opposed to the militaristic culture that excuses England’s hideous litany of imperialist aggression.
Undoubtedly there is much still to do in our society to roll back the pernicious evil that has enabled poppy fascism, authoritarian populism and a casual, blanket, society wide prejudice that was founded on xenophobia wearing the clothes of patriotism and has morphed into the kind of unthinking discrimination that marked England half a century and longer ago, but the younger generation have the ideological tools to do that. Forget the sights of bladdered 20-somethings falling over in Leicester Square; they’ve been locked down for 18 months and simply don’t know how to enjoy themselves properly. Focus instead on the pondlife spawn of Johnson, Patel and all their acolytes, booing foreign anthems, racially abusing some of the finest young men this country has to offer, on line, in the ground and, in the case of a bloke who has done more to ameliorate child food poverty than any elected politician in the last decade, defacing a mural in South Manchester.
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