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No, you could move to Wales. I’m sorry, that was a cheap shot. But that’s football fandom. Cheap shots are a central tenet of our catechism. I could also, to be fair, have mentioned my own team who, for some years, have tested the linguistic boundaries of the phrase “the beautiful game”.
Patently, you do not have to like football. It is not yet an unlawful position though it is definitely cancellable. There is a very clear and ever-deepening tyranny of soccer as we may discover over the coming weeks. (At time of writing, England are still in the Euros. Scotland look rather more shaky, but don’t worry, my plucky northern friends, we are all pulling for you down here.) Gaza is aflame, the UK has a general election and yet last Sunday’s news bulletins led on England preparing for its first match. How is this even news? The tournament schedule was published some time ago. Preparation ought to be a given.
Once, a love of football showed a bloke still had some working-class cred. Now, frankly, it probably means you have a facial-skincare regime. I tell you it can be hard to cope in the tournament off-years when there are no adverts to advise you on Jude Bellingham’s preferred shaving gel.
And it does feel like the tyranny has got worse. As political leaders become more remote, they feel an even more urgent need to talk about football or feign interest just to seem like men of the people. I don’t hand out a lot of kudos to Boris Johnson, but I always admired his steadfast refusal to pretend he cared about the game. There clearly are many politicians who do like football. Keir Starmer is a genuine fan and a regular player but, and trust me on this, no speech of his was ever improved by one of the Arsenal gags he insists on cracking.
The politicians’ pretence is, incidentally, one I have never understood. The public is not impressed, and if there is one thing serious supporters hate, it’s a tourist. Better to profess ignorance than demonstrate it. And don’t think you can mug up before a tournament and then scrape into a conversation with an inane observation about the England squad. In any case, real fans care far less about the national team than their own club, so you can end up looking like one of those punters who always has a flutter on the Grand National.
But, actually, it’s the women I feel most sorry for. Once, women were not expected to care about football. It wasn’t banned, of course, but it was a rarity. They might learn the names of their boyfriend’s team’s star players but only because he blathered on about them so much. As for going to the games, most were rightly put off by the yobbo crowds, filthy toilets and terrible food which, if men were sane, would have put us off too.
Now, though, there is no hiding place. Aside from the growth of women’s football, a determined effort against sexism means women are welcome at matches, and it is no longer just ladettes who are genuinely knowledgeable. This is as it should be, and yet it is ruining things for the rest of womankind, many of whom were quite happy with the previous arrangement.
So, yes, it is hard not liking football. But the big mistake is to try a little. The only credible position is total indifference. Make a virtue of how little you care. When discussion of a match comes up, stress how it clashes with your book club. Boldly declare that you would rather remove nits from your seven-year-old’s hair than watch the England vs Slovenia match.
Schedule an unmissable family event to clash with a major match and hold it in the cellar of a restaurant with poor WiFi. Be overtly defiant. If anyone ever asks if you know the score, always reply “24-9 to the All Blacks”. Under no circumstances can you be caught knowing the difference between fat Ronaldo and thin Ronaldo.
If you find yourself in the pub during a game, ask annoying questions such as whether the French team has a better moisturising regime and exclaim suddenly: “Phil Foden, he’s the Gillette guy isn’t he?” In the last 10 minutes of a gritty draw, ask if anyone has read the new Zadie Smith.
Remember, if you want to carry this off, deliberate, unfeigned and absolute indifference is your shirt. Never forget to kiss the badge.
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