British

It’s been quite a ride, following the tail end of the UEFA Euro Championship this year. I’m no football aficionado by any stretch of the imagination – I probably sound like Roger Nouveau’s soccer fan from The Fast Show when I’m ever foolish enough to air an opinion about the Beautiful Game – but I do make a point of checking in once the quarterfinals are underway. Apart from anything else, in a European context, the politics behind the scenes can become very interesting.

This year’s final was a contentious one for me, having both English and Spanish heritage, but I confess myself a Spanish supporter from the off. Never mind their superior performance, I had a lot riding on a Spanish victory and the impact it would have on what is currently a very divided nation, particularly when the Spanish team’s leading lights Yamal and Williams – both the children of immigrants – became a rallying flag for both sides of the political divide.

England played tenaciously last night, but Spain were far and away the stronger side. What saddens me the most is that the match ended in more or less the same disappointing fashion as the last Euros. And I’m not talking about Southgate or the players, who I thought did a phenomenal job.

I’m talking about the reception. About us, as a nation, and how we respond to failure.

Let me take you back to 2021, when Italy dashed England’s hopes of “football coming home”. The nation held its breath during the penalties, before breaking out in disgusting eruptions of prejudice and wounded pride when Rashford, Sancho and Saka all failed to score. I very nearly missed my train home for a mob of red-faced England supporters, beer in hand, chanting all the various Italian dishes that “you can shove […] up your arse”. It wasn’t all that long ago that English football clubs were banned from European competitions for six years after a riot at the Heysel Stadium disaster left thirty-nine dead and around six hundred injured. The Liverpool fans – the worst offenders – were banned for longer still.

We are infamous for the rowdy behaviour of our fans, even beyond Europe: it is telling that the Japanese creators behind Pokémon Sword and Shield (set in a fictionalised version of England) decided to make Team Yell, the box villains of the game, a bunch of noisy, troublemaking hooligans (co-incidentally headquartered in what can only be a fictionalised version of Liverpool).

Things have cooled off a little since then, but our scrappy mentality still remains.

For several days leading up to the final, articles in papers and online were chock-full of references to England’s last cup victory in 1966. Others carried images of Southgate’s hangdog expression, patiently awaiting an end to England’s “58 years of pain” like a state-sponsored Greyfriars Bobby. If it weren’t for the assassination attempt on US Presidential candidate Donald Trump, there would have been room for little else in the media on this side of the Atlantic.

Simply put, we love to play the underdog. As a nation we take some kind of gloomy satisfaction in being the scrappy candidate, the ever-hopeful outsider long starved but nevertheless confident of victory. Perhaps it feeds into our psyche as a little island nation on the edge of a great continent.

A casual glance at the Spanish media in the run-up to Sunday’s game says a lot. I had to dig quite deep into my El País subscription to find an article on the upcoming game (in all fairness, it was competing for airtime with Alcaraz’s equally impressive showing at Wimbledon). That’s not to say that the Spanish cared less for the outcome – quite the opposite, in fact, as my social media feed was awash with ecstatic scenes from Spain mere seconds after the whistle blew – but as a nation they simply don’t make as much of a drama out of the whole affair as we do.

Poor Southgate came in for an immediate hounding after the game. How did he reflect on another heartbreak? Why did he bring Kane off? Is it one disappointment too many? Quite rightly, he fielded the questions as best he could and asked for time for his players who were “hurting” – as anyone would be with such a crushing weight of expectation bearing down on them. Southgate himself remarked that Spain were the better side, and yet the aftermath commentary over on BBC Sport reeled off a cutting self-critique from pundits and armchair experts alike.

We have a morbid obsession with our own failings. Unlike our American cousins, whose hope for the future is always burning bright, we revel in our own mediocrity and the gritty reality it entails. Just compare the US Office to the UK version and you’ll see what I mean.

English pundits and commentators have a nasty habit of discussing their players’ failings during match commentary in a way that is almost uniquely British. Watch a Spanish football game (or any Latin American game for that matter) and there’s no trace of that. I suppose we grow up on a steady diet of cynicism over here: a lot of our finest humour revolves around scathing remarks and cutting witticisms, and that naturally finds its way onto the pitch. Some of our infamous football chants are pretty witty, others are downright abominable and the best are a combination of the two. It’s hard for somebody who is such an acolyte of the waspish humour of the British Isles to properly critique this approach when I find the alternative really rather stale, but one can’t help but listen to the human touch of the Americas and wish we had a sunnier disposition every now and then.

I went off on a proper tangent there – I guess that’s even more proof that journalism was never really on the cards for a career. I guess the point I want to end on is that we could stand to focus less on our own failings and celebrate instead the success of our rivals, who are, after all, living in the same world and sharing the same love for a sport which really does bring the world together. The behaviour of our footballers has come such a long way since the debauchery of the 90s, but some of the fans still have much to learn.

England will make it someday – I know it will. Until then I’m very much of the opinion that if football should ever come home, it will do so like a vampire – once it’s invited! BB x

It’s drawing near to December, that time of year when, like as not, English hearts across the world look back to Albion. Say what you like, but Christmas just isn’t the same anywhere else. I’ve been told as much by the Spaniards themselves, some of whom know it only from what they’ve seen in books and on TV.

I’ve never been the kind to get too nostalgic about home, probably because I’ve always lived by the creed that home is where the heart is, and if truth be told, my heart is rather portable. I’ve been none too careful with it. There’s pieces of it everywhere; in Olvera, in El Rocio, in Boroboro and in the Lake District. This year is no different. I’ve been working here in Villafranca for exactly two months now, and I’ve yet to feel any desperate pangs for home home. How can I, when there are so many places I want to be? I’m also a natural loner, by habit and by necessity. Spending long periods in my own company has never bothered me all that much. Sometimes I prefer it that way. It’s a lot less complicated. So it’s got a fair amount to do with my personality, but it could well be because I’m simply too busy to get homesick. Being told I wasn’t needed for one of my classes this morning felt so decidedly wrong that I heard myself asking to make up the time later. I’ve told you before, I can’t deal with not being busy up to my eyes. It’s a state I both love and hate. But it’s a damn sight better than having nothing to do, which is the very worst state of all – just short of despair, which, I suppose, it is, in a way.

Enough musing! I’m not completely immune, and after reading several blog posts on a similar theme, I’ve got to wondering what it is that I miss about England when I’m not there, and I came up with a few:

Milk. You know, regular, cold milk, none of this warm UHT stuff. Yes, I get it, we’re the only species that drinks another animal’s milk and it’s unnatural, but it’s a lot nicer in the morning than UHT.
Music. I’ve already elaborated on this one, so I won’t go into it again.
Footpaths. When you’ve grown up in a country so well-stocked with public footpaths across open country, coming to a land where unsigned farm tracks of dubious public status are the only alternative to roads is a little depressing.
Rain. There’s something magical about rain. It makes me feel elated, especially the real storms, the ones where you simply have to rush outside and get soaked to the skin. That’s more of an African thing than an English thing, but we do get a lot of rain in England, and a lot more than Spain, anyway.
Green. It’s not as much of a problem here as it was in Jordan, as Extremadura is actually rather green itself at this time of year, especially in the north. But it extends beyond that. It’s that cold wind in the night, the dewy scent in the morning, the crunch of frosty ground underfoot. An English autumn green and red and gold. As much as I love hot countries, it’s the one thing I truly miss when I’m gone. And nowhere, NOWHERE does it better than the Lakes.

That’s about as much as I can think of. Family, obviously, would be at the top of the list, but that’s a given. That’s the only reason I’m going home for Christmas this year, because I’m rushing straight back out here for January; for the Reyes Magos, for Olvera and for the Lion King in Madrid (I’ll save that for a later post). What with my younger brother at university now, all four of us left in the Young family are living and working in four different places, so it’ll be nice to be home together again for Christmas. As for the things I thought I’d miss – friends, food and life in general – I’ve got plenty of all three out here, and in a few cases it’s better than back home.

But the important thing is this: Christmas is a time for being with your family. Forget Christmas; the end of the year, when it’s dark and cold, and a new year is on the brink – that’s a better time than any to be with your nearest and dearest. I’d have liked to have stuck it out here, in defiance, or maybe gone to Olvera to spend it with my friends, but at the end of the day, they have their own families, and I wouldn’t want to hijack somebody else’s special day. So for England I’ll be bound, mere hours before Christmas Day, and for once, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not ashamed to be British. And I have Allan Quatermain to thank for that. Allan Quatermain, and John Lockley, and Flashman, and all the other British heroes of literature, who in spite of all of my self-imposed angst at the shame of being British, have shown me that there is in fact a fierce integrity in being from Albion.

For the first time in history, I’m an Englishman abroad – and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. BB x