Anatomy of a 'F*ck You'
Male Banter and Obscene Contact
Catch-up service:
Happy John and Paul Day
Notes on Acquired Taste
Notes on Cannes
Andy Burnham Is Going To Be Another Terrible Prime Minister
5 Ways Active Listening Can Backfire
The Petty Status-Seeking of Great Geniuses
I wasn’t sure if I should stay up to watch the England-Mexico match, which started in the early hours of Monday morning our time. I am not much use without sleep. In the end I decided that the England boys needed my support more than I needed a full night’s rest. I could not let them down. I did almost call it a night when the kick-off was delayed by an hour, but instead I heroically set my alarm and took a snooze until 2am.
I’m glad I stayed up. There must be a German word for the satisfaction of knowing that you avoided bitter regret, which is what I would have experienced had I woken to discover I’d missed one of the greatest football matches of my lifetime, and an English victory to set alongside Agincourt. There is already plenty of writing on the game itself which I won’t add to. Instead I want to focus on a tiny detail from that night, one that is almost totally irrelevant to the game, although it does say something about the spirit in which the game was played.
For those of you who haven’t been following, the match was played in Mexico City inside the legendary, almost mythical Azteca stadium, so far above sea level that it is virtually in orbit. The stadium was filled with a million (I may be exaggerating) home fans who cheered for their side and against the opposition at such a volume and intensity that it must have felt to the England players like a physical assault as they stepped out on to the pitch.
Having said that the atmosphere was essentially good natured, by all accounts. Players and observers reported that while the crowd was fiercely partisan it wasn’t nasty. The Mexico fans booed an Oasis song that was played before the match, but they did not boo the English national anthem. Underneath the pantomime hostility was a kind of respect, rooted in a shared love of the occasion.
Which brings me to the detail: a clip of the Mexican manager, Javier Aguirre, swearing at the England striker, Anthony Gordon.
