INGERLAND EXPECTS. . .

Sion Simon experiences the horror of

watching the World Cup with a bunch of 'patriots' in the Midlands

I WATCHED the Sweden game in Sutton Coldfield. That Royal Town, the next-door constituency to mine, is one of the safest Tory seats in Britain. It is a land of privilege and plenty. I thought that it might he amusing to observe the posh boys at play on one of these strange football mornings. So off we went. After driving for ten minutes along expectant streets, we reached a pub called The Cup. 'Support England here', said the sign. From the outside it looked quaint.

My impression as we entered — a couple in our early thirties — was that in so doing we had raised the average age in the room to 19. It was like falling into a river of heat, noise and sweat. The undercurrents were of testosterone and menace. My first thought, before the game kicked off, was that I wouldn't like to be here if we lost. It was standing — or rather jostling — room only. I began to wish that I hadn't worn a T-shirt with 'Italia' emblazoned on the front. I had thought that it might wrong-foot the posh boys; but these chaps didn't look posh.

By the time the game started, my frightened first feelings had begun to subside. Initially, the chanting came as a surprise. Not that I am so innocent as to be astonished to encounter chanting at a football match; but universal chanting inside pubs — at the same level of intensity as on the terraces — is not the usual form, standing around shouting ad hoc abuse at the screen being more usually the order of the day.

The first, most vigorous and most consistent chant was a kind of syncopated cross between the call and response of a priest to his congregation and a song sung in rounds by a primary-school choir. Prompted by one section shouting 'Fuckem-up', the rest of the crowd responds, before the first section has quite finished, 'Gerr-into-em'. to which the first section replies, before the second section has quite finished screaming `Gerr-into-em', with a repetition of the initial call, 'Fuck-ern-up'. And so on. It creates an impressive effect. For all that I, who go rarely to football matches, know, it may be a ubiquitous chant; or it may be particular to Birmingham City, which club, it soon became clear on Sunday morning, was the favourite of the boys who had colonised The Cup.

I never worked out what kind of patriotism it was. The barmaids had St George crosses painted on their fingernails; I didn't doubt that this was a sincere expression of affection for their country. I did not think to check the nails of the gaggle of girlfriends congregated round the pool table at the back. so I had better not pass judgment on them.

Needless to say, all males except me were sporting some kind of England regalia. During the course of the match, this seemed to have a bizarre effect on my psyche. Days earlier, I had joked that I would be wearing my full England strip for the forthcoming football excursion. (In case any readers are wondering about my loyalties — being an ethnic Welshman whose allegiances were formed in my home city of Birmingham in the Seventies — I've always supported England at football and Wales at rugby; kids are opportunistic.) As the match went on, though, the desire to wear the colours, previously a satirical fancy, began to come true. I found myself coyly eyeing up the room, hoping to find an England top I could conceive of pulling on for the next match.

England score. To say that my new friends in The Cup are pleased does not cover it. Glitter flies everywhere. They pogo like maniacs. 'One-nil to the [sic] Ingerland,' they chant. I consider lowering my hands from in front of my 'Italia' shirt.

Half-time: to a man and smattering of women, they troop out to the carpark. At first I don't understand why. Nevertheless, intrepid and dedicated to discovery as ever, I follow. They all take their tops off. Alles klar. The sun is shining; and this, if it were ever so, is England. The boys have been driven outside by a primeval impulse to display their upper bodies. Not because they have gym-toned merchandise to advertise, or anything like that. In fact, •not for any reason, really. They do not know why. Indeed, they do not realise that they are doing it.

Patriotism is a funny thing. One of Sunday's songs — to the tune of 'Give Me Joy in My Heart, Keep Me Praising' — is almost romantic: 'Keep St George in my heart, Keep me English/ Keep St George in my heart, I pray/ Keep St George in my heart, Keep me English/ Keep me English till my dying day/ No surrender, no surrender, no surrender to the IRA — Scum — No surrender etc.' I remember the last bit from night buses home in my childhood; it almost brought a tear to hear it again.

Most of the rest of the patriotism, however, seems mainly to consist of hatred of foreigners. For instance, an edited selection of comment would include: 'Let's all stab the [sic] Sweden'; 'We all hate the Germans'; 'Let's all bomb the Afghans' (a favourite); 'Tek 'im down, the foreign bastard': 'Stab the bastard, stab the bastard, stab the bastard in his foreign head'; And, naturally, notwithstanding the blushes of Sven Goran, the phrase 'Fucking Swedish wanker' is a leitmotiv.

On the other hand, I hear one conversation between two men behind me, one of whom is the voice of liberalism at this gathering (mine is journalistically silent), which reassures me that at least some of the hatred is related to football.

Liberal man: 'Mind you, it's the fucking Argies I hate. They fucking robbed us in '90. We won that game and they fucking robbed us.'

Friend: 'Yeah. And the fucking Falklands.'

Liberal: 'Fuck the Falklands. I don't care about the fucking Falklands. That was thousands of fucking miles away. But we WON that fucking game.'

Sweden equalise. The boys in The Cup chant louder than ever before. 'Come on England. Come on England,' etc. It's plaintive; poignant. Beckham is taken off and they applaud with the intensity and seriousness of Paras at a military funeral. That's how they see themselves. But it's not who they are. I think that's the problem.

Sion Simon is associate editor of The Spectator, Labour MP for Birmingham Erdington, and an extremely dilatory West Bromwich Albion supporter.