On June 10th women everywhere will be kissing goodbye to their husbands and boyfriends for a month as the European Football Championships begin.
For me, it’s an opportunity to display my St. Georges flag at my window. Doubtless, some opportunist UKIP canvasser will knock on my door and ask me to show support for his Brexit Campaign and I will have to tell him that the flag is on display purely for football supporting purposes – certainly not political and definitely not racial.
Like many guys, I act like a big child during football tournaments. I’ll always pin up a big wall chart in the kitchen and carefully write in all the scores, scorers and tables – even though these are all readily available on tv or the internet. No one has ever visited and asked me who scored Croatia’s second goal or what is Poland’s goal-difference tally so I don’t know why I do it.
I’ll stock up the fridge/freezer with beer and “football food” like hot dogs, burgers, pizzas, pies and chips because all guys know it is impossible to concentrate on a game of football whilst using chopsticks or twirling spaghetti around your fork.
I will loudly play an old cd of England football songs on the morning of their games to get me in the mood and wear an England shirt to show my support.
I’m pretty sure if it was socially acceptable for a guy of my age to go into a newsagent every day and buy endless packets of Panini stickers to fill an album or swap with my equally sad mates, I would.
So here I am, all prepared for the tournament. The beer’s in the fridge, the food’s in the freezer, the cd is on the table and the wall chart is up.
And after the final on July 10th, having watched all 51 games, I may just phone my girlfriend – If I still have one by then…?
Come on, England!