Wanted: MPs with some convictions

The defining image of last week was surely the one of those disconsolate boys, England flags painted on their faces, hearing FIFA’s verdict on the 2018 World Cup.

“Get used to it, lads,” I thought. “You’re English. There’s a lot more disappointment like that coming your way.” It is probably best to grasp that sooner rather than later.

Despite my total lack of interest in football, I was so monumentally bored last Thursday afternoon that my internet surfing brought me to the BBC’s live news feed just as Sepp Blatter was joking about whether he had been handed the right envelope for the big announcement. God forbid that it should be one stuffed with banknotes, I thought to myself, along with about half the population of the planet.

Shortly afterwards, I wandered into the adjacent office of a client who is vaguely interested in ball games, and told him the two verdicts. Russia he accepted with resignation, but Qatar he simply refused to believe. “You are having a laugh,” he said. I agreed that someone definitely was, though for once it was not me.

No really, I explained. The 2022 World Cup is going to be played on a sand-covered gasometer where daytime temperatures nudge 50ºC, but that’s all right because a British (hurrah!) firm of architects has come up with a revolutionary new air conditioning system that works a treat in their scale model of the new stadia. Surely you don’t need to be particularly cynical to start musing “What could possibly go wrong?”

Then there is the promised suspension of the normal rules of Islamic behaviour to allow intermingling of the sexes and the consumption of alcohol. Plus, presumably, a bit of a clampdown on anyone minded to have a pop at killing the infidels while they are in the area.

I shan’t be going, but then I wouldn’t have gone if the matches had been played at St James’ Park and the Stadium of Light. But I think I will try to put together a little tour for the Wooler and Whittingham Lesbian Gay and Transgender Christian Limbo Dancing and Real Ale Club, and see how they get on.

At least we don’t need to wait for the brave Mr Assange of WikiLeaks to reveal the fatal flaws in the England bidding process. But what a shock his disclosures to date have turned out to be. The Gulf Arabs don’t much like Iran, while Prince Andrew is patriotic, politically incorrect and a bit of a buffoon. Hold the front page. Coming soon: America’s Ambassador to the Holy See makes stunning revelation about the religious affiliation of the Pope.

Should anything be allowed to stay secret any more? FIFA deliberations and MPs’ expenses? Clearly not. International diplomatic negotiations? The focus group jury still seems to be out.

However, bringing up the issue of Parliamentary expenses reminds me that we have in our midst a group of men and women who have proven, world class skills in working questionable systems. So perhaps Mr Chaytor and anyone else convicted of wrongdoing might be set a novel form of community punishment, putting forward Britain’s proposals for future international sporting events.

Because unless we make a major strike of natural gas in the next few years and come to grips with the prevailing culture, we are clearly going to struggle to hold onto the rights to stage Wimbledon, the FA Cup and the Oxford & Cambridge Boat Race, never mind anything more “iconic” on the global stage.

And don’t forget some generous backhanders for the troublesome British media, too. Because I for one don’t want to see my son’s flag-painted face crumpling when the very rich man in charge of FIFA decides that Afghanistan is a better bet than England for 2030 because of some short-sighted column in The Journal.

www.blokeinthenorth.com

Originally published in The Journal, Newcastle upon Tyne.

Foot in mouth disease strikes again

Out of step with the national mood as ever, I sat happily watching the highlights of Trooping the Colour on Saturday evening, while the rest of the country was glued to England’s inglorious World Cup performance against the United States.

As my elderly neighbours remarked when I called upon them during the live broadcast of the parade that morning, “There’s no other country in the world can put on a show like this.” The same might be said of the football, of course, but for sadly different reasons. On Horse Guards Parade, everyone looked smart and knew their roles to perfection. No-one made any risible mistakes, and there was no sign of any of the participants feeling the urge to hug and kiss each other when it came to a successful conclusion.

I was reminded of my late father’s ritual declaration at the start of each FA Cup Final that the best players on the pitch that afternoon would be the Guards band entertaining the crowd at half time.

Soldiers’ wages seem remarkably good value compared with those of footballers, too. And who would you rather have on your side if you came under terrorist attack? The Brigade of Guards or Fabio Capello’s finest? I rest my case.

My son Charlie, who will be one on Friday, was enthralled when I showed him edited highlights of the royal birthday celebrations on Sunday. He particularly liked the men shouting orders, the big drums, the slow marches, the horses and the gun salute. He also seemed quite chuffed to see the Queen and Prince Philip, though a little puzzled that they looked so different from their appearance in his favourite picture, a cinema poster on my dining room wall for Flight of the White Heron, the film of their Commonwealth tour of 1954.

That was also the year I was born. Since then Britain has changed almost beyond recognition, though some of us can shelter from that reality by living in favoured rural areas where some aspects of traditional life survive; and by carefully choosing our TV viewing to focus on those few unchanging rituals that the BBC still feels obliged to cover.

Most of this sea change has taken place since I left school in 1971, a fact of which I was reminded on Thursday night when I went to the Bacchus in Newcastle for a reunion drink with a couple of men I have not seen since then. (Even at 56, it seems a bit unnatural to be writing “men” rather than “boys”.) We had taken the precaution of exchanging a couple of photographs beforehand, but I still found them surprisingly recognisable. Apparently the main difference in me is that I am a lot less reserved than I was 39 years ago, which may not be an unqualified blessing.

I should certainly have kept my mouth shut when one of them explained that he too had waited until he was over 50 to start a family, following his marriage to a lovely Russian lady, and I jokingly piped up “You did not find her on www.russianbrides.com, did you?” Only for him to reply “I did, actually.”

First prize for tactlessness to Hann, as usual. Trooping the Colour is not the only thing in national life that never changes, but I dearly wish that I could learn to engage brain before opening mouth. However, recent disturbing signs of failing memory and increasing confusion make it increasingly unlikely that I ever will.

So if there is anyone else out there who has not seen me since 1971 and feels that they would like to get together to be accidentally insulted over a pint or two of real ale, may I urge them drop me a line immediately, while I might still have some vague idea who they are.

www.blokeinthenorth.com

Originally published in The Journal, Newcastle upon Tyne.