Enemies of Reason Poundshop potshots at the media moral maze.

A sea of red and white: why I love England

I don't know if there's a correlation between the amount of Christmas decorations outside someone's house in winter, and the amount of England flags outside their house the following summer, but maybe someone needs to do some research. On the drive into work today, down all the roads festooned in December with sparkly Santas, neon reindeer, inflatable Homer Simpson Santas, there was a sea of red and white - flags with the simple St George cross; flags with the cross of St George, plus the word ENGLAND in capital letters over the top, just in case you couldn't guess; enormous inflatable footballers in England shirts; giant flags the size of duvets with three lions on them, and so on, and so, marvellously, on. I'll take some photos tomorrow if I've got time, it's magical.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't going to turn into some sneering, mocking, 'laugh at the chavs' kind of piece, because I genuinely love it. I love all that kind of shit. Not in a "pffft look at the poor idiots dressing up their council houses with tack" way; but in a way that makes me feel happy about stuff and puts a bloody big smile on my face.

I've written quite a lot recently about a lot of nonsense being cobbled together about supposed threats from the non-existent PC Brigade to people displaying England shirts and flags. Sunny at Liberal Conspiracy wrote yesterday about a bizarre story about someone pretending to be a PCSO telling people to take their shirts off - the myth keeps coming true, even if the reasons behind the myth aren't the ones you might expect. But the real story, I think, is that most people know all these stories are garbage, and they're looking forward to the World Cup - it could, potentially, be a great couple of weeks for England, although it probably won't. But that's the thing. We can hope.

So I love seeing England flags and stuff everywhere; I love all the tacky plastic toot filling cardboard displays in corner shops and supermarkets; I love these few happy weeks in which we English folk can share a sense of if not national pride or nationalism, then just a sense of a shared optimism, a shared endeavour - those 23 silly men with complicated haircuts who might, possibly, given a fair wind and a huge dose of luck, win the ruddy World Cup. Well, as I always say, you have to aim for the impossible, and then there might be a chance that the hugely improbable might accidentally happen instead. That's the way I look at things.

Some people might find it odd that someone who's as cheerful about immigration as I am might enjoy a contest in which rules on nationality are pretty strict; but I think there's room for both sentiments. I might think that it's a complete accident of birth that I'm English, and that it's nothing to be particularly proud of; but at the same time as feeling that, I even get a bit emotional hearing God Save the Queen before a football match, despite being an atheist republican. Because it's not the words that matter, nor that awful dirge of a tune; it's what it means - being part of something, and sharing it with so many other people, all at the same time, doing the same thing. There's no way that any supporter could make Emile Heskey into a better (some would harshly say good) footballer, but we all like to think our shouts of "Come on!" yelled at a television several thousand miles away might do something. Like praying, it's a ritual that seems beneficial, no matter what the outcome is.

I know there are those who cringe at all mentions of Ing-er-land, who die a little inside every time they see a red and white flag fluttering on the top of a car aerial, who would be secretly delighted if England were knocked out at the group stages so all the endless hype, all the endless bollocks, all the repeats of 1966, could be stopped. Not me. I know there are going to be awful elements - especially the games on ITV, whose football coverage is legendarily abysmal; and the prospect of "Toby jug full of hot piss" Adrian Chiles introducing coverage with Andy "Tactics Truck" Townsend before James "Fat! Gay! Funny!" Corden takes a look at the 'funny side of football' doesn't fill me with glee.

No matter. I'll still watch it all. I'll wince through it all, because there's still that faint tingling hope that England might win. And I'm an England fan, so that would make me really happy. I know it's irrational, daft and illogical, but so what. That's the country that I grew up in; that's the country I always suffered watching as a child; and now I'm going to suffer watching them as an adult.

I was in Germany for the 2006 World Cup. The big story then was of how Germans felt able to be proud of their flag and their nationality; I would love to think that, just for a couple of weeks, English people might find a sense of pride - not a blind, unthinking "Rule Britannia" way, but a sense of shared adventure... here's the rollercoaster again, and all of us are on it, whatever our backgrounds, or race, or religion, or politics, or whatever. That's what I'd like to think, anyway. Maybe I'm deluding myself, but I'd like it to be true - and during every World Cup or football tournament, it does seem that there is a feelgood factor that slowly builds. Only to be dashed when our team goes out on penalties, but still.

I love England, all of the rubbish bits and all of the good bits. I love seeing the England flags and shirts all over the place. Even as a cynical person, you get glimpses of a country in which people can be chirpy despite the inevitable defeat, optimistic through it all and confident about their country, and all the different colours and backgrounds of players - and fans - in England shirts.

Of course it'll all go wrong. But for now, let's dream.

No related posts.