When it comes to football, I’m rather like Donald Trump. Profoundly, disturbingly ignorant. Also, like Trump, I’m not that bothered about being ignorant. “I don’t know anything about football.” I brag, a big smug pout on my big fat ignorant face.
But something strange is taking place. One of the few things I know about football, largely because people who do know about football keep telling me, is that England is rubbish. We won the world cup once, a long time ago, when the team wasn’t paid and smoked pipes as they played, but now we’re rubbish.
But suddenly everyone’s singing about football coming home. Dreams are becoming reality. The sheep is laying with the wolf. Dogs and cats, dancing in the streets. Brexit is definitely going to be a huge success. Football is coming home. (If I were football, I’d wait to see how Brexit goes first, but there you are.)
“Croatia has won only two of their last ten games against england.” I say, as if I know things. Thank God for google. Now I can sort of join in with the excitement, by repeating what google tells me and occasionally shaking my fist in triumph and saying “Football is coming home!”. I can, for the first time in my life, seem like a proper man. Even to my son. We can watch football together, and shout “Come on then, England!”
“Daddy, that’s amazing.” My son says excitedly, pointing at the TV.
“I know.” I say. “It is amazing, isn’t it!” It’s working. We’re watching football together! And enjoying it! I’m a proper Dad!
“How do they make those stripes on the grass so perfect?” My son asks.
“I don’t know. Really careful mowing, maybe. But those really are amazing grass stripes.”
Get in! Dad win!