Jonathan Dodd‘s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
It seems quite extraordinary to me that Football occupies such a large swathe of the nation’s psyche. And, yes, I know, we’re a relatively sophisticated country as far as Football is concerned. British fanatics are a far more peaceable lot than some, and are more likely to accept defeat with resignation. In general. As far as I believe. But what do I know?
I work in IT, which is never as clever or sophisticated as you might imagine, although I do come across some very clever stuff occasionally. IT has the advantage of being almost entirely office-based. Nowadays we all have laptops, which are capable of working anywhere, although they’re seldom used away from the desks apart from plugging into overhead projectors during meetings.
The people before me had to punch holes
I remember when the Computer was housed in a specialised building, called, grandly, ‘the Computer Suite’. We worked in small offices, with doors and opening windows, and our own ashtrays on our desks. We’d scribble on large sheets of paper all day, and then go to the ‘Terminal Room’ to type in our code, so it could go the Computer for ‘Compiling’. I was lucky. The people before me had to punch holes in ‘Punch Cards’, or even paper tape.
We always were a sophisticated lot, wearing suits when it was smart, and now wearing what we like (within reason). I assumed that IT people would be less interested in football, but it’s still there, just less obvious. I did once sit next to a colleague who looked somewhat out of place in an office. He had very cropped hair and hardly any neck, and he spoke thick ‘SaffLunden’. One day he asked me who I supported.
I thought you might be a Spurs supporter
I was surprised, and answered that I wasn’t interested in football. He looked at me suspiciously. ‘That’s lucky,’ he said. ‘Cos I thought you might be a Spurs supporter, and that wouldn’t have been good!’ I asked why. ‘Cos I hate them!’ We then had an interesting conversation about the extent of his hatred. And it was full-on, comprehensive, all-out hatred. He was a Millwall fan himself, and I came away feeling that I had escaped some terrible fate. I think he always believed that I was a secret Spurs supporter.
We got on fine though, as long as we found other subjects to talk about, but I have never understood any of this football fan thing. Perhaps there’s a gene, or a particular hormone or something chemical that I missed out on. I have since learned to absorb a certain amount of football-related news so I can join in on Monday morning conversations, but the lure of Football has always escaped me.
Weediness, snivelling, general crapness or unpopularity
I do remember my earliest football experiences. My first school operated a strict regime. Early on, until we were eight or so, we played Football only, and then changed to Rugger. I assume it was in those days when people simply did things, and didn’t feel they needed to think about it or explain. Anyway, it seems stupid to me now, but nobody ever told me what were the rules, or indeed, the point, of the game. In those days you did what you were told, and didn’t ask questions. I never was much good, so every football game went like this:
First the Games teacher would pick the best two players as the Captains. These jolly chaps would pick their favourites for their teams, the order of ranking going from Forwards to Goalie, then Half-Backs, and finally, unwillingly, some Full Backs. These were the dregs, because of weediness, snivelling, general crapness or unpopularity. I probably qualified in all four of these categorise. Besides, I couldn’t kick the ball. The game would start, and I was Left Back, right from the start.
The hot streams of shame
Nobody ever came near me for the full length of the game, and I used to forget where I should stand, so I took to eyeing up the various meaningless white lines and kick a small hole in the turf the size of two boots so I could find it again, and stand in it. One day the groundsman saw me doing it and started shouting at me. I can still remember the hot streams of shame washing over me.
Just as I was beginning to get some idea of the game they made me play rugby instead, and I found myself right at the back of a scrum with my ears being ground to pulp between the pelvis bones of two large lumpy louts. But that’s another game and another column, maybe.
A couple of prize specimens and a load of runts
The thing I learned at school was that Games teachers like people who are good at games, and if you’re not they’re not going to waste any of their precious time or encouragement on you. Every team’s like a litter, with a couple of prize specimens and a load of runts who are needed to make up the numbers. Maybe it has changed since then, I wouldn’t know. But I have had some pleasant football experiences in my life. A few years ago someone organised informal 5-a-side games after work, and I joined in. They didn’t refuse me even after I told them how terrible I was, which was encouraging. I found out then why I can’t kick a ball.
It turns out that I’m right-handed but left-footed. I have no idea why, but there it is. I can’t imagine how it could possibly work, in a football-sort-of-way. My left-brain tells me exactly where to position myself and how and where I should kick the ball, and then my right-brain gets all imaginative and something completely different happens to my legs. Every time. No wonder I was never picked for some Premier League team. My life was ruined.
Share the agonies and disillusion and hysteria
I now have relatives who support Brentford, so Football has snuck up on me. I have to be ready to encourage and complain and share the agonies and disillusion and hysteria associated with that particular team. The end of last season was terrible, after their humiliation in the play-offs. But I don’t feel any symptoms of fandom.
I think the oddest thing for me is when fans talk about their team as if it’s so much a part of them that they’ve merged. I listen to people say things like this – ‘You were terrible on Saturday.’ ‘Yes, they were all over us.’ ‘We never really got started.’ And, inevitably, ‘That ref’s got it in for us. It was never off-side!’
That UEFA’s got it in for us!
I think this might be unique, apart from actual wars – ‘We shall fight them on the beaches!’ I know fans of film stars and bands, and even authors, but I never hear them say – ‘That director’s really got it in for us!’ or ‘Our bass player’s always a semi-quaver off the pace!’ or ‘That George R.R. Martin was all over us. He had us all killed in the third series!’
This over-identification seems to have been used very cleverly by the leaders of FIFA. Most of the national organisations in Africa seem to think that it was Sepp Blatter personally, not FIFA, that gave them money to build new facilities. ‘We played a blinder!’ And of course it’s the nasty first world countries that are causing trouble. ‘That UEFA’s got it in for us!’
Or maybe it’s the money talking.
If you have been, thank you for reading this. It was a good result.
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