Football Crazy, Football Sad
A quick word on the football.
It’s too bloody round. That’s what they’ll say. The ball was just too bloody round and our brave boys had no chance of inhabiting the space from which victory is possible. BOLLOCKS I say. I know a thing or two about football I say, and those issues are obvious to me. Firstly, let me elaborate on my background in this subject, for who would listen to a mouthpiece if it were not a learned mouthpiece, a mouthpiece with a big mushy pink brain piece above it, and that big pink mushy brain piece was full of relevant knowledge like an omniscient vine leaf, stuffed with all the right words.
I know football. I’m aware of it. It’s round. It’s all the time. It’s over there and over here, and we made it over here then let it go out over there and now it won’t come back and that’s why the men are all sad. Abandonment theory relates to ball kicking it does. There’s all of them, and then there’s us, and then there’s the one in the middle with the god eyes with the ‘power’. Do not bother him.
So now we know. I am capable and fully knowledgeable about the biggest issues in our national pastime (just above alcoholism and xenophobia while on holiday).
But it was the worst thing to do, scoring a goal. Terrible idea really. We don’t know what to do with that. We’re so used to defeat that a glimmer of victory blinds us to the simple path forward - enjoyment. There’s a strain of self-abandoning negativity throughout England , a pessimism which, on the day to day, allows us to struggle through the bleak world, to pick out the humour in the darkness. To smile at death and ask about the spread at their grandmas funeral. Oh, Marks and Spencers, well you can’t take it with you.
But in sport, in ‘the football’ a funny nervous feeling comes across the English crowd. It was palpable while watching with friends on a sofa. Four people, not even football fans, and there was still a thick nervous clam in the air. Imagine how much of that must’ve been in the stadium. The Miami air, indoors and temperature controlled, but full of it. Full of the fear. Because you can’t make a mistake, you can’t try something for the chance of failure and you must not be culpable for any defeat. So become reserved, become fearful, close the ranks and hope that by withdrawing you can hold onto the priceless porcelain decorated egg of victory. But as anyone who has any knowledge of eggs or perfectly executed metaphors, one will always crush a priceless porcelain decorated egg while playing football, it’s simple physics. You must ignore the priceless porcelain decorated egg of victory - for it is egg folly. It demands that you stop, withdraw, close off, harden. Protect the egg.
This is not the way. You must ignore the priceless porcelain decorated egg of victory and seek the true path - the chicken of conquest. Because, like victory (not the egg, forget the egg now) the chicken of conquest must always be chased, and in the chase comes enjoyment. It does. Have you ever seen a human chase a chicken? There is a ZERO percent chance of sadness while chasing a chicken. Literally zero.
And just like my enjoyment writing the above metaphor about how they should enjoy it, all they had to do was enjoy it. It should’ve been fun, but for English people, we struggle with this. The idea of winning because you’ve put yourself fully out there, by taking risks and being vulnerable is more foreign than some of our favourite national dishes. At the gates of victory - no, of sporting immortality - all they had to do was have fun and be themselves. But we’re English, and we have a small problem, we low key hate ourselves. Obviously there’s exceptions to any rule, and I do NOT include any influencer/tiktok algowankers whose inflated sense of self is only propped up by an orange jawline and 700k followers. I’m talking of you, and I.
Negative self talk, fear of failure, fear of humiliation and ultimately - fear of rejection. The England football team will always struggle, and that’s because they’re English, they’re you, they’re us, and we all exist on this somewhat tired, sometimes mean little island.
But I hope for positive change, I always do. This World Cup has been a kinder one for sure, the media hasn’t been out to undermine the team, and I expect they will arrive in a more supportive atmosphere when the team return home. But there’s a hangover of shame, of closed off-ness, a fear of being vulnerable, of being rejected that drags us back into self doubt to exist only in the swamp of perpetual priceless porcelain decorated egg-care.
And I don’t want to see that - I want to see people making choices and believing in themselves, getting it wrong, but fucking swinging for the fences. And chasing a whole load of chickens.
I also do tattoos.