The man behind the mic
It has the capacity to create a mood so deliriously happy that everyone skips to work in the morning
celebrated. Street parties erupted and car horns blared in and around Fletton and Stanground. Hundreds of people called Pep and Antonio danced on the bonnets of their cars. Meanwhile, great mountains of pasta and pizza were whipped up and scoffed deep into the night, washed down with fine wine and Italian lager. Yes I was a bit jealous, but I was also happy to party with my Italian buddies, who were crazed with joy.
And that’s what football can bring to a country. It has the capacity to create a mood so deliriously happy that everyone skips to work in the morning.
I read that 28 per cent of all women will actively seek to avoid anything to do with the world cup. Nonsense. My wife’s not into footie at all normally, but when England play, she’s buzzing about it. She has even bought a flag for her car, and a cheap supermarket CD of football songs to play in the car for the kids. (Warning – not the original artists).
Four years ago I took up residence on our couch for a month, but this time round a far more attractive alternative has presented itself. The Sports Lounge in Peterborough is organising street parties for the first two England games. King Street will be closed off and a giant 5 meter square LED screen will go up, so fans can come along and watch the games in an atmosphere tonnes better than sitting at home. I know that with all they have planned, it will be a FULL ON street carnival. My
heart starts beating faster at the very thought of it. OK it’s only football, but when England play in a game that really means something, and especially during a World Cup, all of a sudden nothing else matters. Fingernails are bitten, phones go un-answered, and the dog and kids I’m afraid also completely ignored, as for 90 minutes I find myself in a trance. I try not to scream and shout too loudly, but ask any football fan, this is very difficult.
Most men can place their exact whereabouts during any major tournament involving England. Although despite our dreams and hopes, our belief and faith even, we never ever seem to win. This guts me.
I was born one year after the great Sir Bobby Moore lifted that gleaming Jules Rimet trophy at Wembley in July 1966, and I just wonder if this year, somehow, is going to be our year once again. Our manager appears very calm and intelligent. Wayne Rooney can scare the pants off any defender. And erm, well, someone has to win.
Flimsy evidence for a half baked view I know, but nothing will stop me from having the passion. I recall Italy’s dramatic penalty shoot-out victory four years ago, and will never forget how brilliantly they