On Watching England Lose - Roddy Doyle

On Watching England Lose

On my way to the bookies a week or so before the World Cup started, I’d more or less decided to put my money on England. They seemed well prepared, they’d breezed through the qualifiers, they had a couple of the world’s best players. So they were a good bet. But it wasn’t just the money. My march to the bookies, my filling out the docket and handing it over the counter with my cash: this was going to be my post-post-colonial moment. I’d sit through the month and cheer England’s progress because I, like my country, had moved on.

Until quite recently, to be Irish meant to be not-English. But Ireland took a deep breath about ten years ago and, today, to be Irish means to be not-Greek.

Anyway, by the time I got to the bookies, a five-minute walk, I’d changed my mind and I put my euros on Argentina. It was a wise, mercenary decision, I thought. The odds, 9 to 1, were daft. Argentina were being written off because their coach is probably mad. But look at all the other coaches, look at the world’s leaders, look at the world’s greatest authors—they’re all mad. Maradona just accepts his insanity; he loves it. He hugs his players; he loves them. And they love him. Some of them are brilliant, and one of them, Lionel Messi, is an even better footballer than Maradona was.

So, my money’s on Argentina.
Which is just as well, because England got hammered by Germany yesterday. And my behavior while watching the game made me question the mercenary purity of my decision to put my house on Argentina.

I missed the start of the match. The excuse is feeble. It was my mother’s eighty-fifth birthday. Anyway, I had that out of the way, and myself and my brother legged it back to my place to watch. On the way, we found out that England were two-nil down; then two-one. I had the television on just in time to see Frank Lampard’s perfectly good equalizing goal being disallowed. (I’m a Chelsea supporter, and Lampard plays for Chelsea. He’s a great player.)

A friend texted me just at that moment: “Did u see the disallowed goal?” I texted back: “Yeah. A disgrace.” Then I added, “Brilliant,” and sent it. Then myself and my brother spent the next hour cheering on every German attack and sneering at everything English. We had a great time. At one point—I think it was just after Germany’s fourth goal—I said to my brother, “This is because Germany are a better team, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” he said.

We both knew we were lying. And we laughed.
So, my walk to the bookies wasn’t my post-post-colonial moment. It wasn’t even post-colonial. I’m still not-English. I’m the mild colonial boy, in a ditch, fighting for Ireland; I’m starving to death because the spud crop has failed—the grass juice is on my chin. Granted, the grass is drenched in extra-virgin olive oil and not many starving peasants drive Volvo estates, but it’s the state of mind that counts.

I decided this morning: in four years’ time, in 2014, I’m going to back England. And I won’t change my mind on my way down to the bookies; I won’t let myself. Mind you, England probably won’t qualify and I’ll be backing Ireland instead. Or Greece.