I am usually wary of armchair patriotism but when the Euros or the World Cup come rattling around the bend every few years I buckle up and get on the Great British ride. I curse at the screen, shake my fists and yell “ref!” because I’ve learnt that it’s usually his fault, or a classic “come on England!” Can’t go wrong with that. I grab a pint. Spill it on my new footy T-shirt.
This is all, I might add, rather out of character. I prefer to leave the hooliganism to the lads who understand the offside rule. I hate beer. I’m not even sure I like football that much. But it’s my one chance to dig deep for the nationalism that’s simmering in there somewhere — the kind that older generations might have splurged at Coronation street parties or the Queen’s Christmas message. A bit of jingoism (the right kind) is balm for the soul in times like these.
It has taken time, however, to get to grips with the footalese. I used to annoy my footy-mad brothers with such questions as: Who are we playing? Which side are we on? Why do they spend so much time writhing around on the ground?
No more. This year I am armed with some snappy one-liners, which I kicked into practice on Saturday night: Southgate’s line-up is all wrong, isn’t it? And aren’t we sitting too deep? And then I go and spoil it all by saying how attractive Jude Bellingham is. But really.
Elections get my vote
Another surprising swell of national pride: my trip to the local polling station last Thursday. It always feels a bit like going to a school exam — the smell of varnished wood, the thin sheet of paper with a box to cross, the heavy air of expectation. There’s a clean satisfaction to the whole thing — a sense of doing one’s civic duty and, in an increasingly virtual world, a rare moment of face-to-face bureaucracy. Like getting a new passport or going to the bank.
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For my generation, the past 14 years have been (depending on your political leanings) a series of thudding disappointments: the grinding years of austerity, Brexit, the chaos of successive Tory leaders who have done little to stop the cost of living crisis or the rot in our public services. Starmer may resemble an exam invigilator but his promise to “tread more lightly” is just what we need — a refreshing break from the “move fast and break things” ethos that has gripped Westminster over the past decade. When people talk about political apathy among the young it is, I think, a result of both the drudgery of electoral monotony and the expectation of clownish political farce. Bring on the boring.
Stick to pop
All right, all right. Getting a bit mawkish here. Maybe it’s all the peace and love melting from the musicians at Glastonbury last weekend: Chris Martin asking us to raise our hands and send love to anywhere we want to in the world. Paloma Faith trashing her ex-husband and telling women to be “bad” — or the lead singer of the band The Last Dinner Party, Abigail Morris, announcing that it was “up to us, the people, to make the change” after urging us all to get out and vote. It’s jarring when pop stars and Keir Starmer start sounding alike.
Tub thumping
I’ve vexed more than one Times reader with my landlord-baiting but my current renting situation is so ridiculous that I’m going to have to do a little bit more whinging. Issue of the week: our kitchen sink doesn’t drain so we’re washing up our dirty dishes in the bath, only we don’t have a shower either, so it’s a one-in-one-out, Fairy-liquid for the pits-and-the- plates-and-the-pits sort of jobby. I’m not sure I can pin this one on the Tories but I wouldn’t mind pushing a revived Renters Reform Bill up the agenda, Sir Keir — and do please add showers and drainage to the list of tenants’ rights while you’re at it.
