England Qualify, whoopey do

So, England have qualified for the World Cup Soccer finals. It’s just, without meaning to sound ungrateful, who cares? This is not the thought of a frustrated, football punished, girlfriend or wife, or even, let it be said, a country loving, cider drinking, rugby fan. This is from someone who, only last year, defined the anger of sleeping hostel strangers to sneak out at three am to catch the games.

“You mean, you are going to wake yourself at two thirty in the morning, just to watch a game of football?” would come the response, on more than one occasion, from James, the farmer on my travels who thought sticking his hand up a cows arse at that time in the morning was more acceptable. If I admit, the need to watch England play in the European championships whilst on the other side of the world, was bordering on obsessive.

“So, you have got a room for the night, great, and a pool table, even better. Right near town, fantastic. But you are not showing the football at three thirty in the morning? No, I’m sorry. Thanks anyway”. Just why, an Australian, love to dig the pommies, establishment, would ever wish to show football at that time in the morning at peril to their guests, was, with hindsight, rather obvious.

But, despite all the obstacles, I managed to make all the games. However badly we played. There were highs, the silencing of the abusive Swiss supporter in Cairns when Rooney scored. The lows, conceding two goals in the last two minutes to lose to the French. The Absurd. Getting of the plane in Melbourne, walking two hours to find our hostel, then, walking two hours to find a pub showing the football at three am. Two hours later, losing on penalties and out of the competition, walking out of the pub in daylight and heavy rain, feeling an incredible low walking past the morning commuters, who were oblivious to my plight. Of course, there was some comfort. An hours sleep before checkout at 10am. Probably my most wasted twenty dollars of accommodation, ever.

And there it was. We had won. We had made it to the World Cup Finals. I had missed the first ten minutes, choosing a visit to the shop on the way, ignoring the build up. And why? Maybe its because I have been brought up with an England team that is passionate, that fights against all the odds, that shows character, that has characters. Players that cry when they get sent off, players that have head wounds, yet treat them as a mere inconvenience, a stain on their shirt. Maybe a manager that shows some emotion, not a Swede who that get ruffled when the Sunday Roast is being prepared, sitting alongside the carrots and beans.

Maybe I should start watching the World Conker championships instead.