Kdor ne skace ni Slovenzic*

Podpora fantje (support the boys)

MY Welsh roots run wide and deep, but so do my English roots. And England has always been my team in international sport. If that makes me English to you, then I wish you and Norman Tebbit all the best together. For me, things just ain’t that binary.

Being an England football fan is an abject experience, especially at World Cup time. You tell yourself that the team won’t win, and will be eliminated (probably on penalties) by the first serious opposition it comes up against. The first game, and sometimes the second, appears to confirm this gloomy prognosis. Then something happens. The boys lift their game. They go through, and then through to the next round. At that point, you start to dare to believe..that something might actually happen. And then they get eliminated on penalties by the next serious opponent.

And so the cycle goes on. For me, it almost appeared to be the Order of Things. But then Fabio Capello’s team took to the pitch last Friday and something happened within this fan. Over the course of 90 minutes, I became a different football spectator. That flicker of hope and belief that burns within all fans for their team was snuffed out. The reasons have been discussed in every newspaper and every pub the length and breadth of England, and in quite a few such establishments in Wales. For many, however, that miserable, inept, half-hearted – and yet somehow still arrogant – display wasn’t enough to snuff out their flame. For them, they will go through the wringer again this afternoon, stomach knotted as Rooney is easily dispossesed, or another kick-and-run routine is deflected by an underdog with apparently greater skill, and manifestly greater commitment. Not me. Not any more.

That Gerrard, Lampard et al don’t deserve our loyalty is almost beyond debate. For millions of English supporters, it doesn’t matter. They’ll still get it. It’s not conditional. I can’t dig that deep. England don’t deserve to be at the World Cup, and they show precious little hunger for remaining there. They don’t deserve to spoil the enjoyment of neutrals everywhere with boring and skill-free football. They don’t deserve to progress and, God knows, they shouldn’t be allowed to besmirch the colours and badge of their forebears, for whom pride and committment did mean something.

The sooner England go out and go home, the sooner we can all relax and enjoy a tournament filled with teams who know how to turn on the style, and don’t believe they need do nothing more than wave a metaphorical wad of money in the fans’ faces and expect adulation in return. You wouldn’t invite these arrogant, ignorant buffoons into your home, yet we appear to be prepared to allow them to bear our footballing dreams.

Not me. Not this afternoon, anyway. Today, I’ll be supporting Slovenia. Hopefully they’ll do the decent thing and beat England with style. But a dull, lifeless draw will do. Perhaps the first elimination at the group stage for England in 50 years will trigger a fundamental reappraisal of the way the team, and indeed the Premiership, is run. If so, I might be there, cheering England on again. If not, at least the overpaid, underambitious, uncooth, slovenly collection of individuals that pass for a team will have been rightly humiliated (though I doubt any will display any humility). Then, perhaps I’ll arrange a welcoming committee on Facebook to jeer them through Heathrow. Anyone else up for it?

* “Who does not jump is not Slovenian”. It will be chanted by thousands of Slovenian fans and at least one ex-England fan today