History Repeating: England Crash Out to Portugal Again

One thing that concerns me more than the possibility of dementia in my latter years is that, one day in the twilight of my days, when sitting in my bath chair at the window utterly convinced I’m Napoleon Bonaparte, my grandchildren will come and tell me, "Granddad, England won the cup."

After however many years of dreaming of that event, it would be one of life’s little jokes to make it happen at a time when I would be in a state of enforced ignorance and confusion, unable to savour my country’s victory for thoughts of Josephine.

It would, in fact, sit very well with the whole experience of being an England fan; something we islanders call "Sod’s Law," a combination of irony and misfortune with a sickly comic twist.

I am an England supporter. There, I said it. I had no choice in the matter since the country of my birth was already chosen by destiny for me. As a young boy, when I first fell in love with the beautiful game, I could choose my club allegiance but when it came to international loyalty – there was little chance of me following Scotland, Wales, Ireland or (at the risk of being the youngest victim of lynch mob hysteria) Germany, for example.

It has been my pride and my shame. It has been my joy and my despair. And it will forever be my all or nothing. Following England is a lifetime job…but every now and again it feels more like a life sentence.

This is not to say that the supporters of every other national team on the planet do not feel the same way; that they don’t feel the exhilaration when their team wins or incredulity when it loses. But for me, and the 60 million-odd other inhabitants of that green and pleasant land, it seems a very unique experience.

When England hits a high, something akin to a veil settles on the usually clear mind and a force unbeknown to any of us drags the England fan from the realm of reality and suspends him or her in an alternate utopian state of euphoria where the impossible not only could happen, but will happen.

It is an affliction that spreads like an epidemic every two years, coinciding with the major international football events in UEFA and FIFA’s calendars. If England is involved, you can be sure that the symptoms will appear across the Sceptred Isle faster than the news that a local pub is closing down and needs to get rid of its beer stock.

It usually starts with a short, sharp dose of pain; a loss against Romania or France for example, but then a natural morphine gets released on the back of better results, slowly numbing the mind through victories, plucky performances and the rise of a new hero until whatever farcical predictions of imminent glory are put before your eyes become gospel. You really start to believe that this current group of young millionaires will make your wildest dreams come true and that the game they play is truly world-beating.

But then the media’s drugs stop working and the nation has what alcoholics call a moment of clarity. This usually follows the bursting of the protective cocoon that makes the Big Bang feel like the snapping pop of trodden-on bubble wrap. Right before your eyes – England lose. Usually, it’s in dramatic circumstances and at the most important time, like the semi-final of the World Cup or the quarter-final of the European Championships.

Suddenly, you see everything as it really is. You look around you and see the disappointment, the shock and the despair of your countrymen as it sinks into every one of them. We believed and yet, more than likely during a crucial penalty shoot-out, it happened again.

The cotton wool protection from the world of the real shrivels around you as if touched by a flame. For many, the feeling is not that of being let down by the team but one of foolishness. We fell for it again. The newspaper reports suddenly turn from "England’s Chance" to "England’s Lost Opportunity," as if those sports writers were attempting to cover up the fact that they were not immune to it either.

I don’t know what it feels like for the fans of other countries but I can guess. I expect it's just as hard for a German fan to see their country fail. For Germany, a former superpower of the game, it must be difficult to suddenly be mediocre, to be just one of the also-rans. The passion of the German fans cannot be questioned and maybe they believe as we do that each time their boys take to the field, it will end in victory. But it feels as though they are slightly more realistic, fed as they are by a national press that calls a spade a spade.

Unlike the Germans, we England fans have no long list of achievements to base our wildly optimistic flights of fancy on every two years. The single World Cup victory of 1966 drifts further into the past with every tournament which passes. And yet, we are still shocked when England slips down the world ranking table. Despite statistics and results that point to the contrary, we still remain faithful to the idea that, as fathers of the game, we are the best.

Some might call it blind faith, others might call it delusion; you could possibly even call it a symptom of a former empire which still struggles to accept it no longer rules the world in any aspect. Whatever you call it, we call it supporting England. And come 2006, we will all embrace our affliction one more time and dare to dream once again. Because when you join this club, you join for life.