I’m only with you for the sake of the kids
I used to love England (the team, not the country—or does that count as the same thing?). I mean, I REALLY loved them. When I was younger, England—as well as Arsenal—ruled my footballing life. I worshipped them, praised them, believed in them, wanted to be a PART of them. I had all of the authorised AND unofficial merchandise: the football stickers; the coins; the flags; the hats; the home AND away shirts, both emblazoned with my surname and number nine on the back; I even had the goalkeeper top. I revelled in anything England related; it was true love.
I looked forward to their games—the qualifiers, the friendlies, whatever—unable to wait until the major international tournaments finally came around. I even made my own football version of an advent calendar, counting down until the World Cup or the next Euro competition, whichever was closest. I watched all of the pre-match interviews and previews and TV segments; I read all of the pre-match articles and listened to the speculation and concerns, soaking it all up, embracing my nation. It was all about England. Nothing could take their place, not even the late night Channel Five watered-down porn, the holy grail of my teenager years.
During Euro 96 I kept a mini-booklet to fill in the scores and I wore my grey England kit almost daily (much to the chagrin of my mother who wanted to wash it at least ONCE) and I supported my team to the end; I would have died for England. My entire summer—or was it winter? I forget—was spent watching my country and PRAISING my country and telling everyone that Alan Shearer was a genius (at least in the footballing sense of the word) and I listened to THREE LIONS on a loop, including the remixed versions with the snatches of Jonathan Pierce’s commentary, and I sung along, and I had my dreams, and then…
CRUSHED.
Gareth Horsegate (I don’t remember him being that ugly back in the day—what happened to him?) missed a penalty and we were out. But that was OK. We played well. I still loved England. I would marry England one day. They were the best. Plus I had the World Cup to look forward to.
Then we crashed out of THAT, as well.
And maybe since then—or maybe shortly after—my love for England has gradually waned and died down until now there’s this little dim bulb of hope glowing somewhere deep down inside me, barely bright enough for anyone—not even my tape worm—to notice it. My problem is that despite having that love for England, I’m no longer IN love with her. She’s lost my respect. I’m tired of her, in fact. I want a new love, someone fresh and exciting, someone to get my blood pumping again; I want someone to look forward to, not dread. England no longer does it for me; she’s lost whatever spark she once had, and my feelings have whittled away to nothing more than an obligatory brotherly love. Even my hate toward her is pretty superficial and diluted. I don’t really care enough TO hate.
I used to listen intently when she spoke or did something, hanging on every action or word; now I merely read a book when she’s around, glancing up if she does anything interesting, which is rarely. Even when she DOES do something spectacular, I find it hard to care; all I can think about is the NEXT GAME when I know she’ll revert back to being a boring wet blanket who I should have dumped years ago. She still has her moments of beauty, I can’t deny that, but there are many beautiful teams out there—why did I get stuck with one who will continually disappoint me? Why did I get stuck with the misery?
At one point England was my life, my love, my everything; my moon, my stars, my sun. She rocked my world. Now I think the relationship is past done. She no longer interests me—emotionally, physically, in any way at all. I’m disconnected from her, no matter how hard I try to plug myself back into the relationship. It just won’t work.
I hope she has a happy life, though, and I hope we can stay friends—I would like that—but I think we’re done.
Sorry, England.
It’s not you—it’s me.
without the swear words)…
