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No, you could move to Wales. Sorry, that was a low blow. But that’s football fandom. Low blows are a central tenet of our catechism. To be fair, I could also have mentioned my own team who, for some years now, have been testing the linguistic limits of the phrase “the beautiful game”.
Obviously, it is not necessary to like football. It’s still not an illegal position, although it is definitely cancelable. There is a very clear and deepening tyranny of football, as we will discover in the coming weeks. (At the time of writing, England is still in the euro. Scotland seems a little more unstable, but don’t worry, my brave northern friends, we’re all rooting for you here.) Gaza is burning, the UK has an election generals and yet last Sunday’s news bulletins talked about England preparing for their first match. How is this even news? The tournament schedule was published some time ago. Preparation should be a given.
Once upon a time, the love of football proved that a guy still had some working class credibility. Now, frankly, it probably means you have a facial skin care regimen. I tell you, it can be hard to get through the years away from the tournament when there are no ads advising you on Jude Bellingham’s favorite shaving gel.
And it seems the tyranny has gotten worse. As political leaders become more remote, they feel an even more urgent need to talk football or feign interest just to seem like men of the people. I don’t give Boris Johnson much praise, but I always admired his steadfast refusal to pretend he cared about the game. It is clear that there are many politicians who like football. Keir Starmer is a true fan and a regular player but, believe me, none of his speeches have ever been improved by one of the Arsenal jokes he insists on cracking.
By the way, I have never understood the politicians’ intention. The public is not impressed, and if there’s one thing serious fans hate, it’s a tourist. It is better to profess ignorance than to demonstrate it. And don’t think you can muck in before a tournament and then strike up a conversation with a silly remark about the England team. In any case, true fans care much less about the national team than they do about their own club, so you may end up looking like one of those punters who always wants to play the Grand National.
But, in reality, it is the women who make me feel sorry for them the most. Before, women were not expected to care about football. Of course, it was not prohibited, but it was a rarity. They might learn the names of the star players on their boyfriend’s team, but only because he talked about them a lot. As for going to the games, most were rightly put off by the crowds of yobbos, the dirty toilets and the terrible food which, if we men were sane, would have put us off too.
Now, however, there is no hiding place. Aside from the growth of women’s football, a determined effort against sexism means that women are welcome at matches, and it is no longer just the ladettes who really have the knowledge. This is as it should be, and yet it’s ruining things for the rest of the women, many of whom were quite happy with the previous arrangement.
So yes, it is difficult not to like football. But the big mistake is trying a little. The only credible position is total indifference. Make a virtue of the little that matters to you. When discussion of a match comes up, emphasize how it clashes with your book club. Boldly declare that you would rather pick nits out of your seven-year-old son’s hair than watch the England v Slovenia match.
Schedule a can’t-miss family event to coincide with a big game and celebrate it in the basement of a restaurant with poor WiFi. Be openly defiant. If someone ever asks you if you know the result, always answer “24-9 for the All Blacks.” Under no circumstances can you be caught knowing the difference between fat Ronaldo and thin Ronaldo.
If you find yourself in the pub during a match, ask annoying questions like whether the French team has a better hydration regime and suddenly exclaim: “Phil Foden, he’s the Gillette guy, right?” In the last 10 minutes of a brave giveaway, ask if anyone has read the new Zadie Smith.
Remember, if you want to see this through, deliberate, sincere, and absolute indifference is your shirt. Never forget to kiss the plate.
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