THE QUACK

Audio Quack (Skip Intro 2:07)

I woke up on Sunday morning, and as usual got my coffee, went outside and sang to the sky.

“Where have all the men gone? La La La.”

To my surprise a voice from the clouds sang back.

“In the pub watching the football. La La La.”

And then I remembered, England were in final of The World Cup… Euros…whatever. All I knew was that; like bees to honey, donkeys to straw, men would be stuck to screens that night between the hours of 8-10pm that evening.

As you have read in 32 Years of Hurt, blog I’m not exactly a big football fan…. but if we won, the après-football would be simply magical. I’m thinking…street parties with lots of singing, dancing, back-bending kisses, and perhaps for the finale, a choreographed dance in Trafalgar Square at 3am… I’ve watched too many musicals.

To prepare for the night, I went to Cos and bought an organic cotton red T-shirt and some earrings. I completed my outfit with my favourite cream denim jacket with a cowboy stitched in the back.

And then I left the house, ready for the Euros.

The plan was to watch the game in Wandsworth. As I made my way to Bond Street station in the early afternoon sun, I passed men standing outside the pubs with half a pint in their hands, and a heart full of hope in their chests. (If you think I’m attempting to create something poetic out of a few geezers getting on the lash – then you’re right; that’s exactly what I am doing).

On the Jubilee Line, I was cuckooed between two summer-scented armpits, and then I had to run through Waterloo Station to catch a train to Wandsworth Town. If this was a musical, this is when they should play Abba’s Waterloo.

Waterloo, knowing my fate is to be with you
Woah, woah, woah, woah, Waterloo

(Like a fast-speed version)

The Royal Standard in Wandsworth Town was a wash of people in red and white, from a distance, it looked like a scene from Handsmaid’s Tale. My brother Jack was there, and his friend from Texas had one of those tattooed sleeves. The Texan had ridden a cow in a rodeo, owned a thousand-dollar cowboy hat, and liked to eat steak and egg for breakfast. He also couldn’t care less about the football. If this was a musical, he would have a solo. (Something about being a lost cowboy in England).

Our group grew: Jay, James, Eve, and Eve’s friend, then a sweet couple arrived from The Globe Theatre. They drunkenly booked standing tickets to Much Ado About Nothing.

“It was a lot of standing,” said the guy.

The girlfriend was wearing multicoloured bracelets and had painted flowers on her toenails. She took out her red lipstick and drew St George’s flags on everyone’s cheeks – even the Texan allowed her to put our flag on his face. When we said it was her turn, she said,

“Nah, I hate football,” and left.

Eve had joined the football bandwagon at the semi-finals, and was the one organised enough to book a table to watch the game. The table was at Brew Dog – a craft beer bar with LED lighting that sells beers named Elvis Juice and Candy Kitten.

In the lead-up to kickoff everyone was singing the anthems at the top of their lungs.

“THREE LIONS ON THEIR SHIRT…. 

JULES RIMET STILL GLEAMING…”

(Who the hell is Jules Rimet, and why is he gleaming?)

The players came out, and the bar began cheering. The National Anthem turned us all into patriots for 1 minute and 4 seconds, and then it was kickoff.

After ten minutes of absolutely nothing happening, I was reminded as to why I don’t like football. Meanwhile, the actual fans were gazing up at the screen, watching the ball, like Enzo the Cat, would watch a laser light. Now and again, a fan would whack the table in a rhythm, prompting everyone to shout ‘ENGLAND!’ It wasn’t exactly Les Misérables, but it did the job.

Finally something happened…. Spain scored…. and the mood dropped onto the sticky floor. There was a long, painful silence, and then one man took the responsibility of picking the bar up again by banging the table.

“ENGLAND!”

Gareth Westgate-Northgate-Southgate took off the only player I knew, Harry Kane. They did a bit more dribbling about, and finally someone from England scored, and the bar EXPLODED. Screaming, Flapping, Shouting….at one point, I was spun in the air. It was coming home! Whatever It was. I began practising my Charleston in the corner of the bar, ready for the finale.

It stayed 1-1 for a dull amount of time, but then something happened. Spain scored again. The fans clung onto their heads as the clock in the corner of the screen ticked towards 90 minutes.

There was a bit of extra time, but it was hopeless.

The final whistle blew. 2-1 to Spain. The sound of the match faded, and in it’s place, ‘Chasing Cars’ by Snow Patrol was played. I thought this was an odd choice. If it was up to me, I would have played Hopelessly Devoted To You, Olivia Newton-John, as I feel the fans can relate to the lyrics.

I know I’m just a fool who’s willing
To sit around and wait for you
But baby, can’t you see there’s nothing else for me to do?
I’m hopelessly devoted to you

“Now, what do y’all folks do?” The Texan asked. It was a good question.

Despite the loss I still hoped the city would go out and have a party. We had come second place after all…..but no. The hot men shuffled out of the doors with their heads dipped down. It was like they were genuinely upset. They should take a leaf out of their own book and not get so emotionally attached.

We ended up in a dark pub called The Ram. James got excited and spilt a beer over my cream denim jacket. Jay disappeared to find a kebab. A bladdered stranger named Ruby danced around us to the song Park Life with a hand fan she found on the floor.

….It wasn’t quite the big musical finale I had in mind.

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