I married an Englishman. I love England and its people. But tonight I am Croatian!

TWO events of major significance happened in 1966. You’re most likely sick of hearing about the first – especially today, as our Closest Neighbours and Oldest Enemies attempt to book a berth in another World Cup final.

The second is less well-known, but as far as I’m concerned, even more important. Six weeks after England lifted the World Cup trophy, I was born. Which means that I have had the happy fortune, ever since, of declaring that England has never won the World Cup in my lifetime.

But oh, this time they’re just a shade too close for comfort. Ireland expects England to dutifully exit every World Cup in a quarter-final penalty shootout with all the comedy of a custard pie fight; their indecent refusal to do so in this tournament has meant that they are now 90 minutes away from a final and all that implies.

And so it is more important than ever that all of us – English-speaking, English culture-loving, English relative-bearing – really, really get behind the Croats tonight.

I gather from my colleague Matt Cooper’s magnanimous declaration of support for the England soccer team, on the facing page last week, that he won’t be amongst us in the hastily formed Official Irish Croatian Supporters Union.

I have no doubt that this makes him a better person than I, and that it also indicates he has the maturity that always gets bandied about when England go to soccer tournaments for which we haven’t qualified (ie. most of them).

But ‘maturity’ is not a word that immediately hits the casual observer when they enter the fevered pit of a soccer stadium. We might choose governments on the basis of our own maturity (though, tellingly, thus far we haven’t), but we could no more choose our soccer teams through serious reflection and political expedience than Raheem Sterling could represent England in its Brexit negotiations.

Soccer is about emotion, intuitive reaction and – yes – ancient, pointless, petty grievances. The Brits may have been talking about 1966 for over 50 years, but we’ve been going on about the 800 years for, well, 800 years. Which means we win (did I mention there’s very little logic involved in choosing who to cheer for either?)

Besides, however mature and worthy the act of supporting our nextdoor neighbours might be, watching them fall this evening at the semi-final fence would just be much better fun. Because England does expect, and right now, there are a whole lot of their fans who believe their name is on the trophy.

Suddenly, the fact that England has had an extremely soft route to a semifinal has been forgotten, and that familiar arrogance of the English soccer fan is on the rise.

And if we fail in our duty to help our (distant) Croatian neighbours across the line tonight, then England will be in a final, and we will all have to go to bed and cover our heads with vinegar and brown paper until Sunday.

There are many things I love about England. I married an Englishman; two of my children were born there; I lived there very happily for seven years. I’ve just come back from a lovely weekend in London. I love English books, music, film, theatre and an awful lot of its people.

And it’s not as if I haven’t made an effort; in the summer of 1998, alone in my London home with my half-English baby daughter, far away from Irish influences or any other witnesses to a potential conversion, I watched England and Argentina compete in the second round of the World Cup.

I genuinely, genuinely tried to be magnanimous – and, yes, even mature – but when David Batty missed that penalty and booked England’s flight home, I found myself jumping around the room with uncontrolled, stupid, liberating glee. All on my own.

I am mature enough to wish Britain wasn’t leaving the EU.

I don’t mind when Andy Murray does well in tennis (though mainly because he is Scottish), and if my personal desert island couldn’t be populated by Irish people, I’d choose the company of English castaways any day. But right now, I am all about Croatia.

And come tomorrow morning, if I need to switch allegiance to the French, then so be it.

And I don’t care about Thierry Henry or handballs or anything like that: even Mature Matt Cooper would have to concede that, if England win the World Cup, we will never, ever, ever hear the end of it.

And nobody likes noisy neighbours. Come. On. Croatia.