Desolate. The evisceration makes analysis appear futile. Vivid recollection torments the fastidious mind, unwilling to relinquish detail. The un-penalty – I frantically write optimistic headlines in my mind, Robinson Redeems Himself With Heroic Save – then the disappointment. The familiar cosy acceptance of yet another defeat.
Whilst we were one up for that unrealistic hour I felt the defeat gestating in my belly with every tick-tock of the inevitable clock, like when West Ham led Liverpool 2–0 in Cardiff last year; the score seemed absurd. I was relieved when Liverpool got one back because the single goal advantage was more manageable.
This sense of foreboding and tragic destiny is now our only comfort as we confront the likely absence of our national side from next year’s championship. I find it hard to condemn Steve McClaren. My facile rage rains impotently on his cadaver as furious blows rendered in a dream. It’s not his fault, I may as well rail against my cat for his inability to cook authentic Thai food.
‘When have we ever had a handsome England boss? Glenn Hoddle? Kevin Keegan?’
McClaren was never the man for the England job, yet I too joined the illusion after the three consecutive 3–0 victories. I conjured tableaux of trophies held above his head, glowing with triumph in addition to the glow it perpetually maintains. Even in this, a time of terrible defeat, the McClaren bonce glows on, a beacon of gleaming mediocrity.
It’s too soon for me to become giggly and receptive to the possibility of a romance with José Mourinho or Martin O’Neill; Mourinho won’t take it, he’s too dashed handsome – when have we ever had a handsome England boss? Glenn Hoddle? Kevin Keegan?
I don’t know if I can summon up the gusto to hope for Israel to produce a result, I’ve reached a familiar point where, through self-pity, I can see little point in progression: ‘We don’t deserve to qualify.’
I still cringe at the memory, decades old, of an infant chastisement – whilst out with a school friend and his mum I carried on in my typical picaresque fashion, flicking rubber bands and pocketing gobstoppers. I was told off by my mate’s mum. Naturally I was shocked and unnerved, as is always the case when a foreign authority exercises control, and I collapsed into tears. Later, when the dust had settled, consolation chocolate bars were offered. ‘I don’t deserve one,’ I sobbed, not entirely sincerely but with litres of sentimentality, sentimentality; the unearned emotion. Perhaps England need another wilderness period.
Like in 1994 when we didn’t travel to the States for the World Cup. I hate it though, it’s rubbish when England don’t qualify; watching the games through a transparent pain of regret and bitterness. I can’t focus, every kick and whistle a taunt, an indiscreet reminder of our absence. Who can we blame? The pitch?
Those bloody plastic pitches. When QPR and Luton used to have them it was a constant source of resentment, spoken of through clenched teeth. ‘That bloody AstroTurf,’ we all agreed, ‘it’s bad for the game.’ I don’t remember, in those days of the old First Division, the sides in question watering their plastic pitches though; that’s a bit baffling.
Surely one of the advantages, and may I stress unfair advantages, of having a plastic pitch is that you don’t have to water it or talk to it or fertilise it; the whole caper reeks of foul play. We could blame the referee for the penalty, which was palpably outside of the box, but then Wayne Rooney’s goal was offside anyway so we can’t even be righteously aggrieved by that unfair decision.
The FA, can we blame them? I suppose so but what’s the point, lovely old doddering sods they are, just trying to get through life. They’ll be penalised as much as anyone by the financial implications of not qualifying. Sponsorship and advertising money all nonsense now.
We shall spend next summer trapped in our impoverished nation, peeping through a crack in the curtain as the rest of Europe indulges in an orgy of sport with our national game; swarthy Italians, sophisticated Frenchmen or possibly even joyful Scots caressing and fondling our balls because we don’t know how to look after them. Never have I felt more irritated by my inherited indifference to rugby.