Stop Crying Your Heart Out

So now we know why the aforementioned oasis single was released this week. It was so BBC One could play it at the end of today's match coverage and bring a lump to the throat of every English footie fan. Poor old David Seaman, he was inconsolable. Consensus around the urinals in the Pat Kav was that it wasn't his fault; it was just a fluke. If it was, then good luck to Brazil. Perish the thought that they may just have shown a moment of technical brilliance. If Beckham had scored with a free kick like that, would we have declared it a fluke? I don't think so.

I'm "gutted", and so is every football fan on the news, it seems. (We really must think of a better word than one which makes me think of filleted fish.) It had all been going so well. Seven of us at the pub by 7.05am, as I joined the Harborne posse. We laughed at the fact that CrystalTipps and Snapper were being fashionably late, despite being within spitting distance of the pub. They made it in about five minutes after kick-off. We had cups of tea, some people ate crisps, and the atmosphere was nervous, and expectant. The front room of the pub was packed when I got there, and the back room filled up later. We sat in the middle room with a good view of the TV, and I have never concentrated so much on a game as I did for the first half, although I did manage to exchange a few text messages with friends watching it in Sydney and Stockholm. It seemed to go so quickly, and Owen's slightly unexpected goal led to much jumping up and down (and me doing this while standing on a bench). Excellent start. I can hardly bring myself to describe the rest. Terrible timing for an equaliser. Half time. Outside for a breather. Over the road for chocolate fix at the newsagents. Bought Times, Sun and Guardian. Photos of David cause much billing and cooing with our group in the pub. (Our group, I've just realised, was seven women, one straight man, and me.) Decide to move from tea to lager. This early! CrystalTipps disappears but reappears with huge bag. Doughnuts all round! Second half. Mysterious, attractive, crop-haired man has plonked himself with our group, in the corner, as if his friends haven't turned up. Took sneaky picture of him. Nasty-looking injury for Seaman. Shocking free kick. Stunned silence in the pub. Stunned players on the pitch. Frustration, frustration, frustration. Cooperman turns up from nearby house. Wish him all the best for three months in Africa, which was the reason for the evening at Brum Uni/The Cross/Curry house last night. Friends all leave. I pick up my wad of papers and skulk off home. Moseley and Balsall Heath are having a unique 9.30am rush hour traffic jam, but there's no noise. Cars with St. George flags aren't beeping their horns. Kids who have bunked off school are now going in, some with mothers, not saying anything, some sitting on the wall, waiting for the bus, not saying anything. No one is looking anyone in the eye, just looking at the floor. God, this is miserable. I get home. This Morning on TV is having a phone in, with SIr Bobby of Robson and Sir Terence of Venables. Callers are proud, and sad. I well up. I blub.

Some fool here in Brum bet £100,000 on England to win the World Cup, in a local Ladbrokes betting shop. He stood to win £450,000 if we did. Now I imagine he is regretting it.

The longest day is a day of agony. The best we can hope for now is that the USA team shocks the world (again) this lunchtime and knocks out Germany. Please? And being fickle, as I am, my hope that Spain will win the whole thing has now been replaced by support for Brazil. Always better to say we were knocked out by the eventual winners.

Can I suggest this lyric for Baddiel and Skinner, for the next World Cup in Germany?
Three Lions 2006
Es kommt zu Hause
Es kommt zu Hause
Es kommt
Fussball kommt zu Hause....

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