the bed full of old
Drogheda Utd match programmes, someone who knew his football history and who knew England enough to be able to measure out its misery over a period of about 50 years.
There was the catastrophic 1-0 defeat to the United States in the 1950 World Cup ... the 3-2 defeat to Germany in 1970, in the terrible heat of the World Cup quarter-final in Mexico ... the 1-1
draw with Poland at Wembley, which counts as a defeat because it meant England didn’t qualify for the 1974 World Cup ... the 2-1 defeat by Argentina in the 1986 World Cup — a scoreline
which I heard announced by the captain on a flight from Cork to Dublin, as ‘Maradona 2, England 1’, to a raucous cheer from all on board. The 1-0 defeat by the Irish in Stuttgart was of
course at Number One.
To some extent it is beyond reasoned analysis how those of us who had derived so many of life’s pleasures from English sources — Jane McNicholas, the mother of my child, was from
England — could be indulging ourselves in this sort of crack. But we will try, anyway, to figure it out.
For once, we can say that this is not a phenomenon that is peculiar to Paddy. Almost all who have had dealings with England seem to take this wild delight in England defeats in any sport. The
Australians in particular are able to actually inflict many of these defeats on the cricket pitch, but then it might be argued that Paddy is involved here too, as large numbers of the Aussies can
be regarded as Irish in many ways: Paddy-with-the-sun-on-his-back.
So there is something universal about this, which suggests it has its roots in psychology as much as in history. Long after the Brits had got the hell out of these countries, England was still
fulfilling this role of the cartoon baddie, the hated father figure, the ogre in whose demise we take great delight, mocking him as he is undone yet again by the little guy.
And the old football hooliganism wasn’t doing them any favours either.
So everyone had an axe to grind with Johnny England, though in our case, there may even be a benign interpretation. It was perhaps our way of taking the heat out of the conflict, of reducing it
from a war to something more like a pantomime. Because of course there was still a war going on, although the ‘armed struggle’ had become so obviously pointless and grotesque, most
Irish people were moving away from it anyway, and would not be coming back.
The young Irish in London in the late 1980s were discovering other ways of keeping in touch with their roots, not least by following The Pogues, who were putting together an inspirational body
of work which would re-define Irish musical culture and make it better. You could never listen to the Wolfe Tones again after hearing Rum, Sodomy & the Lash — yes, in the spirit of
the times, it seemed right for that magical album to borrow its title from a line of Churchill’s.
The enthusiasm with which we still celebrated these great England defeats may be seen in the context of an end to the war, rather than its perpetuation. After all that had happened, it would
probably have been unnatural just to ‘draw a line under it’, as they say, and to ‘move on’, and behave like perfect gentlemen. So now we were turning it into a form of
entertainment, knowing that there would be an almost endless supply of material, not just from the England football team, but from the accompanying circus of TV commentators
and patriotic pundits such as Jimmy Hill and horrible tabloid hacks, monstering their own boys for our delectation.
And there was something deeply funny about the England team of that era, from any perspective. England was always expecting something that just couldn’t be delivered and wouldn’t be
delivered, resulting in a succession of pratfalls which were increasingly hilarious for the ‘neutrals’. For the English themselves, their apparently endless suffering since 1966 and
their inability to manage these great
Drogheda Utd match programmes, someone who knew his football history and who knew England enough to be able to measure out its misery over a period of about 50 years.
There was the catastrophic 1-0 defeat to the United States in the 1950 World Cup ... the 3-2 defeat to Germany in 1970, in the terrible heat of the World Cup quarter-final in Mexico ... the 1-1
draw with Poland at Wembley, which counts as a defeat because it meant England didn’t qualify for the 1974 World Cup ... the 2-1 defeat by Argentina in the 1986 World Cup — a scoreline
which I heard announced by the captain on a flight from Cork to Dublin, as ‘Maradona 2, England 1’, to a raucous cheer from all on board. The 1-0 defeat by the Irish in Stuttgart was of
course at Number One.
To some extent it is beyond reasoned analysis how those of us who had derived so many of life’s pleasures from English sources — Jane McNicholas, the mother of my child, was from
England — could be indulging ourselves in this sort of crack. But we will try, anyway, to figure it out.
For once, we can say that this is not a phenomenon that is peculiar to Paddy. Almost all who have had dealings with England seem to take this wild delight in England defeats in any sport. The
Australians in particular are able to actually inflict many of these defeats on the cricket pitch, but then it might be argued that Paddy is involved here too, as large numbers of the Aussies can
be regarded as Irish in many ways: Paddy-with-the-sun-on-his-back.
So there is something universal about this, which suggests it has its roots in psychology as much as in history. Long after the Brits had got the hell out of these countries, England was still
fulfilling this role of the cartoon baddie, the hated father figure, the ogre in whose demise we take great delight, mocking him as he is undone yet again by the little guy.
And the old football hooliganism wasn’t doing them any favours either.
So everyone had an axe to grind with Johnny England, though in our case, there may even be a benign interpretation. It was perhaps our way of taking the heat out of the conflict, of reducing it
from a war to something more like a pantomime. Because of course there was still a war going on, although the ‘armed struggle’ had become so obviously pointless and grotesque, most
Irish people were moving away from it anyway, and would not be coming back.
The young Irish in London in the late 1980s were discovering other ways of keeping in touch with their roots, not least by following The Pogues, who were putting together an inspirational body
of work which would re-define Irish musical culture and make it better. You could never listen to the Wolfe Tones again after hearing Rum, Sodomy & the Lash — yes, in the spirit of
the times, it seemed right for that magical album to borrow its title from a line of Churchill’s.
The enthusiasm with which we still celebrated these great England defeats may be seen in the context of an end to the war, rather than its perpetuation. After all that had happened, it would
probably have been unnatural just to ‘draw a line under it’, as they say, and to ‘move on’, and behave like perfect gentlemen. So now we were turning it into a form of
entertainment, knowing that there would be an almost endless supply of material, not just from the England football team, but from the accompanying circus of TV commentators
and patriotic pundits such as Jimmy Hill and horrible tabloid hacks, monstering their own boys for our delectation.
And there was something deeply funny about the England team of that era, from any perspective. England was always expecting something that just couldn’t be delivered and wouldn’t be
delivered, resulting in a succession of pratfalls which were increasingly hilarious for the ‘neutrals’. For the English themselves, their apparently endless suffering since 1966 and
their inability to manage these great
Similar Books
