Football, imperialism and Englishness, then and now
30 July 1966: Moments after the final whistle blew on England’s World Cup victory, I ran to our front door and flung it open. I wanted to join in the dancing, cheering and general happiness I imagined would break out along our street — a redbrick terrace near the Courthauld’s factory in Leigh.
There was silence. It was almost early evening: half the street already in deep shadow. I could hear the telly behind me, the posh commentator burbling away. But on the street, nothing. Not a single other door opened. Not a single lace curtain twitched.
I waited. Surely there would, in a few minutes, once people had put the kettle on, be a massive outbreak of public joy? Because we had beaten not just anyone, but The Germans: the intended receipients of at-at-at-at-at!, the sound 6 year old kids make when firing a pretend machine gun.
The Germans, who’d perpetrated all those atrocities during the War, shown on the bubblegum cards, including this banned one.
Surely people would be ecstatic with revenge? I wanted to shout — but what? Hurray? I opened my mouth and closed it again. Someone…
