A wall chart is proudly displayed, blank at the moment of course, as if waiting in anxious anticipation of those crucial full time results. Results to be inked into designated boxes with either a euphoric flourish or a despairing scrawl.
Miniature flags multiply across the door tops of cars, flag poles flexing while St George's cross defiantly ripples in the 30mph breeze. A simple gesture but one that, this year more than any other year, symbolises a stoic duty more than expectant jingoism.
Plans are made for mass congregation. In homes, gardens, public houses, public spaces, work places. TVs fitted, jumbo screens installed and re-wired, barbecues polished and fridges filled.
Thoughts turn to glories past, of a spirit recaptured, the tears of a clown prince and the redemption of a thunder thighed madman. Not least, the scarlet, so seared into our kaleidoscope culture as if to cut right to the fragile heart of our identity, a lead weight borne of great expectations, the greatest challenge to conquer come the inevitable shoot-out. Death or glory.
Let's hope for a different story, justifying the anthems that rattle the rafters back home, and when the inevitable end does come, resist temptation to seek excuse, laying blame only at our own feet. For a glorious failure can still be cherished. Savour the taste of defeat.
Miniature flags multiply across the door tops of cars, flag poles flexing while St George's cross defiantly ripples in the 30mph breeze. A simple gesture but one that, this year more than any other year, symbolises a stoic duty more than expectant jingoism.
Plans are made for mass congregation. In homes, gardens, public houses, public spaces, work places. TVs fitted, jumbo screens installed and re-wired, barbecues polished and fridges filled.
Thoughts turn to glories past, of a spirit recaptured, the tears of a clown prince and the redemption of a thunder thighed madman. Not least, the scarlet, so seared into our kaleidoscope culture as if to cut right to the fragile heart of our identity, a lead weight borne of great expectations, the greatest challenge to conquer come the inevitable shoot-out. Death or glory.
Let's hope for a different story, justifying the anthems that rattle the rafters back home, and when the inevitable end does come, resist temptation to seek excuse, laying blame only at our own feet. For a glorious failure can still be cherished. Savour the taste of defeat.
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