Written by Pan.

 ‘Team England ’

 

Like all the best cynics, I wasn’t born that way. Reaching optimum bitterness requires a wearing down process, a process which usually starts with a beautiful, frivolous innocence until, rather like listening to Oasis albums in chronological order, you gradually despair, lose hope and hit rock bottom. My support for “Team England” has fought this war of attrition. And lost.
 
Where I once entered into selection arguments with enthusiasm, it’s now all I can do to shrug my shoulders and simply propose a team “without any fucking Neville’s”. Perhaps my apathy can be traced to Earl Barrett’s untimely fall from international favour. Or perhaps as the Premiership continues to promote sordid excess at the expense of everybody else I see the England team as unavoidably guilty by association.

 

Because, and whisper it quietly, it’s all a bit mutton dressed as lamb really isn’t it? And by that, I’m not referring to the credit card-wielding ASBOs re-branded as “WAGs” that blighted the summer. It’s the incessant media hype and utter triviality sold as vital insight, the come-lately-know-nothing herberts passing off Tim Lovejoys latest banalities as their own seasoned witticisms, the people who play football for a living with a lackey-fuelled sense of self-importance……….yes, yes, I’m ranting here, but you get the picture.
 
So given my state of disillusionment it’s probably a bit much to ask Steve McLaren, the man who last season grumbled “I’m suspicious of that word entertainment”, to somehow renew my faith in what passes for the elite of our national game. Dumping that one-trick clothes horse Beckham was a decent start though, as were his early platitudes on the virtue of wingers and wing play.
 
So it was thanks to a sense of curiosity and a hastily dispatched gammon steak that had pinned me to the sofa that I tuned in for the game with Macedonia.
 
For nostalgia buffs the evenings viewing got off to a bad start. Where once the pitches of Eastern Europe were surrounded by rabid police Alsatians and the terraces over-flowed with sinister looking military men resplendent in heavy trenchcoats now those same seats were occupied by the contrived Official England Supporters Band, the intimidatory din of the partisan home support largely drowned out by the hypnotic dirge of The Great Escape.

 In keeping with most England games, stadium-based tournaments a speciality, the sheer number of replica-shirted clones meant that much of the unique essence of the occasion was suffocated.
 
The ball going out of touch afforded the opportunity to reacquaint with some old friends though. Ashton-under-Lyne, Stevenage, Hornchurch, Ellesmere Port, they were all there as usual. For the sake of the owners of these flags I can only hope that there is still some adventure and extra-curricular illicitness attached to these trips as the game itself was typically uniform and “professional”. Phil Neville’s launched throw-ins immediately suggested that the new gaffer and I were in fact at crossed purposes on what he had previously said about attacking from the touchline.

Some old fashioned tenacity helped set up the games only goal in the second half though with *insert human totem pole cliche here* Peter Crouch squeezing the winner over the line via the crossbar.
 
After that the team, probably quite rightly, had their eyes on the “Job Done” headlines that would herald a one-nil away win. So it was left to publicity shy Ashley Cole to inject some long overdue slapstick to the proceedings as he deliciously threatened to deflect a goal-line clearance back off his own arse and into the empty England net.

Given that the Three Lions “brand” has now become such a powerful going concern this was, if nothing else, a small reminder that things aren’t always as polished as they would have us believe.
 
And here’s the rub. Despite the fact that this cock up might have cost England the win, it brought me to the edge of my seat for the only the second time in the match as my desire to see a jumped up little shit make a tit of himself overtook the sensible acknowledgement that these points would of course set us nicely on the road for qualification.

Perennial underdog Crouch is one of the few England players I find endearing whilst I openly applaud Herr Hargreaves for his honesty in the face of adversity and baiting chavs. These are the attributes I find strength in for 40-odd games of the season and it’s difficult to switch that off for the odd game every couple of months or so, especially against admirably plucky opposition that I find it easier to relate to. 
 
I appreciate that this has now descended into a monologue straight from “Grumpy Old Men” but rest assured I can marvel in great football for its own sake just as much as I can find fist-clenching satisfaction in against the odds stubbornness. It’s just that this England team (particularly when Rooney-less) is not good enough to provide the first and its out-dated standing in the game means it rarely needs to succumb to the latter.

Admittedly, there is little they can do about either. But spare me the gubbins about a “golden generation” and please don’t lecture us, like ungrateful children, that we’ve never had it so good.
 
Despite the fact that I’ve spent these ramblings proving the adage that we do all eventually morph into our dads, I’m currently enjoying my football as much I have done in years. It provides me with all the tribal release, shared ownership, drama and belly laughs I need after a few pints. It’s just that “Team England” doesn’t contribute anymore.