14/06/10 - Flying the Flag (Sort of)

By some hideous twist of fate, on the Saturday just gone I found myself sat at a table in my local pub with my mother to my right, a glass of wine to my left, an over-sized flat screen on the wall in front of me, and I was surrounded by ten million grown men in red T-shirts who positively reeked of testosterone. In fact, I think the only people in the pub who weren't  interested in the England game were an elderly couple who'd come out for some peace and quiet and a bit of roast beef. Poor dears picked the wrong day (they were serving chicken).
 
I'm not sure how it happened. A day of shopping turned into a glass of wine, which turned into a bottle of wine, which gradually lead me to believe that I had as much right to be standing on the tables as the rest of the England supporters, shouting "Ooooh!" and "Aaaaahh!" and "YESSSS!" in all the right places and jumping up and down when I got excited. I even celebrated England's one and only goal by ordering a creme brulee. And much to my surprise, I actually enjoyed myself. We can blame this on the third glass of wine, or perhaps the fact that my mother kept asking the most entertaining of questions ("So which team is it that's playing for England this year?"); either way, I was very much in the team spirit and flying the flag for my country and it filled me with what can only be described as 'pride'. Watching the team sing along to the national anthem before the game made me feel like a proud mother sending my kid off to playschool, and I couldn't resist a quick "Aww, aren't they cute!" comment, said in the direction of my mum, who thought I was referring to granny and granddad on the table to our left, so promptly agreed.
 
I remember the first time I accidentally found myself caught up in the hype surrounding the World Cup. I was the ripe old age of 21 and living in a house with six boys. Six student boys, no less, who each liked beer and football and late nights, and weren't at all offended by the smell of mould in the kitchen (needless to say, I didn't live there long). They'd been looking forward to the first England game for months - probably years - and when the time came, they didn't go about it half-heartedly. They stocked the fridge with beer, ordered pizzas, tidied the lounge in preparation for kick-off (read: rearranged the cushions on the sofa and pushed all the rubbish behind the TV), donned their football shirts and painted their faces like St George's Cross. And because I happened to be bored and at a bit of a loose end that day, they grabbed me, pulled me into the living room and painted my face, too. They also handed me a beer and a bowl of peanuts and insisted I stay with them to "enjoy" the game. And if you can't beat 'em...
 
I ended up so bored that I drew a makeshift tattoo in blue biro all the way up my left arm - tribal thing, it looked rubbish - which wouldn't come off for days, no matter how hard I scrubbed at it, but I'll admit to one thing: any time England scored a goal and all those boys would shout, I'd be jumping up and shouting with them. We'd shout into each other's faces and smile and glug beer and then we'd sit down again and wait for the next opportunity to shout at each other. For those six boys, it was patriotism and a love for the game. For me, it was an opportunity to scream out my pent up anger at living with such slobs, and they were none the wiser.
 
This weekend, though, watching the England game felt slightly different. Maybe it's because I'm four years older and therefore four years more tolerant, or maybe it's because I was high from all the retail therapy (and, ahem, wine). Whatever the reason, I didn't want to leave the pub that day - I wanted to stay there and watch the game, cheer on my country and soak up the atmosphere - and even though I really don't know anything about football (neither does darling my mother: "How long will the game go on for, d'ya reckon?"), I still got sucked in by the hype.
 
I've developed a sudden urge to run out and purchase an England flag and hang it from my bedroom window, but it's not because I love football. This is still very much an anti-football blog (believe me, that will become apparent by Wednesday, when the colleagues will have forced me to listen to game after game on the radio and I'll once again be full of rage). It's because I love my country and even though I've excused my excessive alcohol consumption this weekend on the basis that I had to be in the pub because I had to watch the game because it's "research"... there is something to be said for patriotism. Even if you don't understand why you're supporting your country, it feels good to do it.
 
It's also a brilliant excuse for creme brulee.

Written by Kate Spalding.


To contact Kate, email kate.spalding@estateagenttoday.co.uk


For those of you who are utterly disgraced by Kate’s clear lack of support for our team, head on over to Toby’s column for the proper World Cup news.