In my field of vision from this desk by the window, I can see a car parked on the other side of the road. Two England flags fly from its roof. There really is no escape from the World Cup, this year more than any other.
Someone somewhere has decreed that the World Cup must be watched, and more to the point people must pay to view it on a big screen in a public place. Even though they could all watch it at home on terrestial TV for nothing.
My favourite local places have succumbed, too. Jacksons Lane Community Cente has large banners with the dreaded red cross boasting its big screen set-up for the England matches. Likewise the Finchley Phoenix – usually the best cinema in London; independent, long-running, non-popcorn, but not an arthouse snob place either. It shows The Da Vinci Code one week, Tarnation another (Tarnation being the lowest-budget popular indie flick I can think of – made on a Mac computer).
Well, apparently films are not enough for a cinema. Because The Phoenix is showing the wretched matches on its screen too. Though they are combining the football with football-related films: Bend It Like Beckham followed by Andorra v Rutland or whatever it is.
Even my beloved Boogaloo pub has broken its commendable sport-free status, and is screening the England matches. One of which falls on the same day as my club, The Beautiful & Damned. The game ‘kicks off’ (you’ll have to imagine my pained expression at typing such phrases) at 5pm. So one hopes it will all be over long before my club starts at 9pm. Still, I’m sure the Boogaloo football fans won’t exactly be your average Switchblade & Firkin crowd. A bit more Nick Hornby than Nick Cotton.
With the media saturation of the game, I find it hard not to sincerely wish the England team the very worst of luck. Apparently all it takes for a player to phone in sick is a slightly achey ankle. Dare I pray for eleven achey ankles on the day of their first game, then? And all possible substitutes?
No, that’s me being a bit too arch. I’m a peaceful, gentle person, and rarely wish anyone harm, let alone wishing to spoil anyone’s fun, as baffling as it might appear to me. And I don’t actually hate football per se. It’s just the bullying ubiquity of the World Cup. I want this madness to be confined to the places it already rules every other month of the year: stadia, living rooms, and sport bars. The implication is that the World Cup attracts people who aren’t usually interested in football. Fairweather fans.
“Come On England! Keep kicking that… ball… in that direction.”
“Oh! That must be, um, an offside… penalty… conversion.”
“I think we have a chance. David Beckham is really good at football.”
“Yes. And so are the other ones. They also are good at football.”
“Yes. Wayne…”
“Wayne…”
“Wayne… Sleepy.”
“He’s my favourite.”
Why do these temporary fans do it?
The media don’t hype up the things I myself like, such as Doctor Who, do they? Oh, wait a minute, they do. But do fans of Doctor Who shout scarily in massed groups? Well, I’ve never been to a convention so I suppose it’s possible. But that’s my point: the appreciation is restrained and confined to places like that. It should be the same with football. If you find yourself attracted to the sport, you should seek it out and congregate with like-minded individuals away from the rest of the world. Not assume the rest of the world is interested too. We’re really not, you know. I have such fun when I go to the hairdressers.
HAIRDRESSER: So, did you see the match last week?
DE: No. I don’t like football.
HAIRDRESSER: Oh.
(haircut contines in silence. Bliss!)
I went onto Google today and found my diary was the only page on the entire Internet to contain the phrase ‘modish onanism’. References to the phrase ‘World Cup” are sadly a little more numerous.
I can still see the flags on the car across the road. I may have to walk around with a permanent squint for a few weeks, in order to avoid seeing an England flag on the street. Wish me luck.
