World Cup 2026. Semi final: England v Argentina. I’m not a footie fan and was about to go home but back-tracked at the last minute to the Jolly Gardeners in Putney, an unremarkable pub just round the corner which I have been in only a handful of times in 30 years, and never to watch sport. During the World Cup, I haven’t needed to, the pub fans have kept the score. It’s standing room only, as I arrive with the players. The atmosphere is bubbly with anticipation. Raucous friends, clingy lovers and sedate families all cheek by jowl. And there’s me on me own-some as usual.
I choose a wall-sized pull-down screen. The crowd might be giving off optimistic vibes but I’m not looking forward to seeing us chewed up by the Argies again. I remember the Faul-klands War and ‘Argie-Bargie’ propaganda. There’s bad blood. Argentina always plays a brutal game, and sadly we don’t. But I would rather live in a country with softer men and lose the World Cup.
Talking of which, a lovely young man offers me a spare stool from under his table. I’m very grateful, there are smiles all round. I love the younger generation, there’s a gentleness to them, compared to mine. Too late for me sadly, cougars only live in Hollywood, but at least my daughter stands a better chance of making a more equitable marriage to a more emotionally intelligent partner. There’s hope for humanity.
The crowd shout out, childlike, uninhibited, like we’re all talking to them direct through our own personal headsets, each fan to each player. I start up my own quiet running commentary, peppered with fucks and bastards. England makes a few tries and the crowd thumps and stomps.
We score our first goal and the pub erupts in ecstasy. Everywhere grown men bouncing up and down, locked in bear hugs, hollering and beaming. It’s not a side of England I have ever seen close up before but it’s endearing, exhilarating and safe. Pure unadulterated man-joy. Will they do this when their first child is born I wonder.
Then after half time England stops attacking and keeps letting them get too close. Argentina set up a series of near misses and I shout Tackle the bastards! in my fluty lady voice. A fog-horn of a male turns to me bemused. It’s a matter of time before they score. Twice. And the pub is silent. They’re disappointed. Even though it’s the same story every year, since 1966. We always lose I tell myself, but here I am cussing and spitting as I leave. ‘Next year!’ says somebody’s girlfriend.
I visit my elderly neighbour of 84, bed-bound with dementia these 3 years, and post-mortem the match at her. ‘They stopped tackling, Linda! It was agonising to watch. Bloody Argies fouled us constantly in the first half to make us back off for fear of shopping 6 months of physio.’
The goals were beautiful, all 3 of them.
P.S. I’m very glad Spain won, I applauded their fair-play perseverance in the face of pushing, hugging, intimidation, kicking, insults and drama-queen stunts. Their sensible strategy was to avoid all tackles, not by backing off like us, but by pack-hunting with prompt perfect passing. It’s the only way to survive the slum-dog violence of the Argentinan team headed up by the malevolent Messi. Football has serious authority issues.
Hi! I have a ‘portfolio’ lifestyle, jumping between mum, journalist, curator of my own museum, chauffeur, French tutor and carer. I love music, dance, theatre and dancing in the evenings, and helping others to enjoy life. I’ve been through the mill healthwise, along with my family, and am grateful for every day.
