On International Duty
Quench your thirst in the arid desert of infinite international tournament qualifiers
Welcome! We are in North West London to celebrate Harry Kane scoring 54 55 goals for Engerland! For a trip to Wembley that can be guaranteed to not end in disappointment for Aston Villa Football Club.
And no, you’ll be surprised to hear that’s not the Ikea Wembley XI in attendance to mark the occasion (Kane *hates* flatpack furniture, just doesn’t get it), but the similarly-colour-schemed Ukrainian national football team.
While The Football Association has sensed the mood and given free tickets to Ukrainian refugees and their host families, Engerland fans chanting in their usual manner on their way up Wembley Way certainly have not, and the pre-match build-up affords only a brief applause of support by way of acknowledging the ongoing war.
Maybe that’s because if we were given long enough to dwell on it we’d realise, whether there’s a European war on or not, the utter insignificance of the tournament to qualify for another tournament.
Maybe then we’d respond differently to the unveiling of the three new England mascots, including ‘Roar-y’, who we are told likes to lead from the front, whatever that means for a man likely not paid enough to dance around for exactly no one’s entertainment. There’s another lion dressed as a footballer who we are told is a bit mischievous, yet achieving mischief would be some feat while being accompanied for a half-time lap of the pitch surrounded by at least six PR people.
Too much emotion prior to kick-off would risk installing some humanity into Gareth Southgate’s perfunctory professional services firm of an England team, where goals are provided on time and within budget, every pass is delivered with the clinical precision of an email that has been rubber-stamped by four separate people working in the HR department.
Light relief is provided before the anthems as the 3D advert being rolled out beyond one of the bylines is too long for the space between the white stripe and the electronic advertisement boards, at which point it takes the six marketing men who are definitely subscribed to Mundial magazine at least 30 seconds to realise they need to turn it a bit more sideways.
Harry Kane is presented with a golden boot to honour his becoming England’s top goalscorer. He has his children on the pitch for both the ceremony and the ensuing anthems, parenting right up until the last minute before kick-off. I need him to be asked about this in a GQ interview trumpeting his conquering of modern masculinity. I need him to start doing sponcon for LeapFrog laptops where he gets every single spelling question wrong. This latest golden boot will go home and sit in a trophy cabinet alongside exactly zero major trophies. It doesn’t get more English than that.
No one boos the Ukrainian anthem, which you could argue is already a victory for England and its supporters. As for the Ukrainian fans, it soon materialises that they are not here for shows of solidarity (and therefore maybe the FA made the right call after all) when they throw their tickets in unison toward the pitch following a refereeing decision that goes against them.
In terms of the football, the match takes all of about three minutes, from minute 37 to 40, as Sir Harry of Kane scraps another one into the goal hole before Bukayo Saka provides the solitary moment of football meaning of the whole ninety minutes with a lovely swept left-footed curler into the top left-hand corner.
Gareth Southgate, meanwhile, occasionally patrols his technical area sporting a suit and gleaming white trainers, looking like a man from the continent at the wedding of someone he doesn’t really know or care for. Behind us in the stands, a man shouts ‘Run!’ every time an England player gets the ball.
Beyond the touchline warming up, Jack Grealish is the only one involved in the match who is smiling. He actually looks happy to be here, joking with the other subs as they all pretend to stretch. After the full-time whistle, he is one of only a few who clamber over the stewards to give their shirt to a young fan. As a Villa publication, this is the closest we’ll get on this outing to actually writing about the Villa. And before you say it, any fan who doesn’t long for the return of Jack Grealish is a claret and blue tin man.
The second half drags on, a paper plane flies onto the pitch for what proves to be the closest thing to a shot on target between minutes 45-60.
Further paper planes soon take flight. The requirement to print off your matchday ticket provides 80,000 people with their own aircraft. The real England fans, by which I mean those who enjoy throwing real plastic chairs through real people’s café windows in other countries, were given red and white laminated cards to create a Saint George’s Cross tifo. These are the Boeing 777s of the fleet and it has now become ill-advised to take your eyes away from the direction of the pitch.
A Mexican Wave is started and when it reaches the Ukrainian section they do not participate and are greeted with boos. When the wave reaches the smashy-plastic-foreign-chairy section of the stadium, the true Engerland supporters all turn towards their compatriots and offer up either a middle finger or a ‘you’re a wanker’ gesture by way of collegiality. ‘Mexican Waves are for nonces,’ they mutter to each other. Probably.
On the tube, while making my way to and from Wembley, are Ukrainian families who were also at the football. I don’t know if they’ve been here for years or arrived 12 months ago.
On the bus a few days before, I watch a Ukrainian woman sitting in front of me Google translate a message to send to a WhatsApp group filled with Ukrainian families and British host families. She is sending birthday wishes to the son of one of the British families. There is more feeling in one phone than in a million anthem jackets and golden boots.
