The Life of an England Football Fan
It’s difficult to pinpoint when or why I became a loyal follower of England. It just happened. I didn’t emerge from the womb mid- rendition of our national anthem, nor did my first words consist of ‘Wayne’ and ‘Rooney’. Yet, somehow, I succumbed to the calling of the English national team at an age far too tender and naïve to understand the very extent of the torment and suffering this decision would have on the rest of my -soon to be miserable- life. For I was born, half Irish and half English, and had the choice for my pledge of allegiance. Its a shame I chose wrong.
Woeful England
Portugal 2004 World Cup. England crash out on penalties. I watched, and I cried. Germany 2006 European championships. England crash out once again. And once again I watched, and I cried. I could go on spewing out a list of tournaments in which England have not failed to disappoint, but I think you get the picture. There have been tears, lots of tears. It’s been a difficult existence. Time and time again, I get caught up in the hype and media speculation, becoming part of a whole nation thinking maybe, just maybe, this is our year. And yet it never is. Before long, with England mere minutes away from crashing out of another major tournament I realise that my hopes have been foolishly resting on some very suspect shoulders. Sitting in my armchair of lunacy I have thought that perhaps Wayne Rooney can be the man to lead us to World Cup glory. Something rather doubtful, to the football neutral, considering he’s about ten stone overweight and can only score from the penalty spot. Perhaps, James Milner then. Again, slight problem, he can only pass backwards. Mind you, he does pass backwards exceptionally well. People say wisdom comes with age, but in declaring yourself an England fan I think you lose all chance of ever acquiring any. Every year, I become more hopeful and ultimately more tearful. You’d think I’d have learnt by now?
What could have been
My life could have been so much better. As I watch the Irish fans, dance and cheer and drink, and simply celebrate their teams very existence on the international stage, I grow increasingly envious. They’re a mediocre footballing nation at best, I scoff. But that’s their secret. They know it. And so, at 5–0 down they still laugh and drink, whilst I sit there and cry into my England scarf, before screaming uncontrollably at the Joe Hart poster on my bedroom wall. If I had known what my life would come to whenever England are on the telly, back at the start of my childhood, well, I’d be drinking Guinness and singing ballads of Roy Keane instead of writing this sorry piece. And be all the happier for it.
A sorry cycle
The icing on a very sorry looking cake, and perhaps the embodiment of the state of English football, was the loss to Iceland in the 2016 Euros. To lose to a team who failed to qualify for 7 of the last 9 international tournaments, whose manager is actually a dentist, and a nation that has less people than we have sheep…I have no more words. I Lament. Or, at least, I should. Despite all the grief and shame this article has conjured up inside me, I know that the 2018 World Cup, is just around the corner, and already I am confidently dreaming of our three lions lifting that golden trophy. I cannot help it. Pity me.
With thanks to Tracy Enright
