My World Cup tourettes has fast disappeared and been replaced by a self-help mantra.
I had spent the last few weeks randomly shouting 'come on England' at the sight of a St George's flag but now the nine year-old boy inside this middle-aged man has grown quiet and ever so slightly melancolic.
I have replaced my football chant with the one my wife regularly used in the lead up to the competition. Trying to convey that she didn't know what all the fuss was about she would offer 'it's only game'.
Before England's demise I would take the time to explain why she was mistaken in her view. Now it seems to offer only the slightest amount of comfort.
Mrs M, in an attempt at soothing my disappointment, removed all the England flags from the car whilst I was otherwise distracted.
It was a caring thing to do but the car, once proud, patriotic, and positive, now looked sad and ordinary.
It seems we were not alone in wanting to remove any reminders of our defeat. The streets around our home, which were once a proud mass of red and white, are all now as plain as my old car.
We have just started a few days away at a holiday camp in Norfolk and I am hopeful that this will restore my otherwise positive attitude.
On arrival I became quickly aware that there were no St George's flags to be seen. I presume that the the holiday camp managers followed my wife's lead in hiding anything that might disappoint.
My hope now is that I might meet some French or Italian supporters: I will feel it is my duty to encourage them by offering the reminder that 'it's only a game'. We are fellow Europeans.
If I come across some Germans (not sure of it counts as Europe) I will feel the need to be magnanamous in defeat. Even if Lampard's goal had been allowed we still looked second rate compared with their skill.
For now I will pick up my vuvuzela and shout 'Come on Ghana!'
The instrument, that made every game sound like it was being played inside a hornets nest, was allowed because it is said to be a traditional instrument.
If we ever host the World Cup in this great nation we should employ our traditional
instruments and turn up at the stadium with a pair of spoons or a paper and comb. That would show 'em!
And if they complained about the noise we could remind them that 'it's only a game'.
Britain's Traditional Instrument
England - Glee or Porgy & Bess
Mrs M seems to be having withdrawal symptoms from the remote control. This object, once so regularly used to flick between various episodes of Next Top Model, has hardly left my side during the World Cup.
Realising her pain at such a loss I suggested she chose something good for us to watch whilst a less important match was on last night.
To my horror her remote controlling finger stopped pressing when we arrived at the latest American import known as Glee.
I had seen the odd trailer for the show so knew that it might be the type that I wouldn't fully appreciate. Nothing, however, could have prepared my for what I was about to witness.
For those who haven't seen it let me explain. It is set in a stateside high school and uses all the usual reference points to carry the story. Their are jocks and geeks and other groupings of American teens showing an unhealthy amount of disrespect for one another.
This series has a twist, however, in that it takes one such group and draws them together around their passion for performing arts, making them more Gleeks than Geeks.
This is where the show takes a turn for the worse as we are subjected to cheesy song after cheesy song set in a storyline that adds further helpings of savoury dairy products.
For this middle aged nothern male it represented sheer pain.
When I was at school the only musical we came near to performing was Porgy and Bess. That was because we had a substitute drama teacher for one term. She was full of enthusiasm and convinced that the boys in the class should experience the joy of singing in front of other people.
In truth, most of us were secretly drawn to the idea but we had to maintain our usual air of disdain for fear of being ridiculled.
Cast in the lead roll I was required to sing 'nobody knows the trouble I'm in' using my best deep south accent.
I didn't have such an accent and the teacher kept asking me to make it sound less like a football chant.
The following term our substitute teacher had disappeared along with my embarrasment at having to sing in front of the class.
Perhaps this is why I revile at the sight of these over enthusiastic American teenagers turning every mundane incident into a song.
I mentioned to Mrs M, in passing, that I preferred the football and she sang, with full musical actions, the main song from Glee as she went to make a brew.
'Don't stop believing'
'You might need that song when you watch the England match tomorrow' she said with a smile.
As long as I don't end up singing 'nobody knows the trouble I'm in' I replied hoping that my footballing dreams won't be shattered.
Cultured or Second Class
I have been trying to get a bit of culture in my fairly ordinary life.
This sounds like it should be a relatively easy exercise if it weren’t for
the fact that I am a full northern male with, what was rather
discouragingly called, a secondary education.
Perhaps this title isn’t meant to imply a sub-standard academic
environment; however the address given by our deputy head master at our
opening assembly certainly did.
We sat before him as a group of gangly eleven and twelve year olds looking
for the kind of pedagogic inspiration we have become accustomed to in our
primary schools.
‘At an establishment down the road’ he began, referring to the local
grammar school. ‘They are being trained to be the cream of society’ he
continued as if imparting wisdom. ‘I want you to know, however, that you
are not second class’.
Until that assembly I had never considered that I was, being glad to
attend a school that played both football and rugby.
Now, as I approach fifty, I consider it is never too late to become
cultured. So as I waited for Mrs M to finish her nursing shift last week I
listened to Pavarotti’s performance of Nessun Dorma.
At the same time I surfed the Internet to find the words. This didn’t
completely prove fruitful, as I didn’t learn Italian at my secondary
school.
Fortunately the World Wide Web is not limited by my lack of education and
provided me with an English translation.
It turns out that Puccini was an old romantic and the song contains a very
moving lyric.
My computer didn’t stop there in trying to bring me culture. It seems that
those who know about such things are very passionate about naming their
favourite performer of this operatic masterpiece.
It seems that Britain’s Got Talent contestant Paul Potts doesn’t please
the opera going public of these fair isles.
When my bride finally arrived home I shared my newfound knowledge with her
and insisted that we did our own comparison by listening to several
singers
one after another.
Mrs M wasn’t immediately keen on the idea but soon came round and so we
listened, and we listened, and we listened.
After hearing nine tenors I had two conclusions; Firstly, Pavarotti was a
genius. His performance stood out above the rest. Secondly, my education
was, to some degree, secondary because our deputy head master never told
us
about the brilliance of Nessun Dorma during any of his assemblies.
