Читать книгу Articles of Faith - Russell Brand - Страница 7

You know them pledges we make when England are knocked out of major tournaments on penalties? Typically the pledge will be formed along the lines of: ‘England, you have betrayed us and shamed us. Worse than that, you have given us momentary hope, and hope is so much harder to withstand than despair, thus I shall never more be inveigled into caring about your results or supping the toxic broth of brouhaha that surrounds the carnival of fools we call our national team.’

‘If it was up to me I’d put chimps in the team, and ballroom dancers’

‘Tis a long and solemn oath. That’s usually how it is for me; then the tournament continues without England, all pale and ghostly, and I’m left to ponder what I do with my life, drifting listlessly, unable to feel, involving myself in any senseless bagatelle just to try and stir some emotion. Then, like a tragically willing victim of spousal abuse, I find myself lured back into the tempest by the gorgeous oaf that is patriotism and the incessant promise that they’ve changed.

Well, I think that on Wednesday I might’ve broken the cycle. I know it was a friendly but it was at Wembley and against Germany – two powerful sirens that are typically sufficient to summon my slumbering jingoism. Not this time.

I just went out and got on with my life. ‘Alan Smith might play’, I heard echoing through ol’ Jung’s collective brain box. I continued with my chores. ‘Joe Cole will be given a more creative role’ – I remained undeterred. ‘Micah Richards is gonna get his willy out’ – I was curious but did not seek out a Dixons window in which to confirm the rumour.

Everyone’s quite rightly excited by Richards but am I alone in detecting homoerotic undertones in the relentless drooling about his athleticism and his ‘leap’? ‘Ooh, what a leap,’ pundits say, struggling to stifle a stiffy; ‘I’ve never seen a leap like it’; ‘I wish he’d leap into my parlour, then leap on to my bunk, then leap about on my tummy till I cry guilty tears about my bastard marriage vows.’ That’s what they say, these pundits. They say it with their eyes.

Micah ‘The Leap’ Richards is the most encouraging thing about England but I was not seduced into watching the game because I still feel a bit despondent about international football. I think this is because of the following:

1. Steve McClaren. I believe him to be a bit of an appeaser – ‘You want Beckham back? Have Beckham back.’ He seems to make reactionary decisions and as much as we might think we can manage England, we can’t and shouldn’t be allowed to. ‘Don’t listen to me,’ I feel like saying, ‘I’m whimsical, capricious, vindictive and jealous. I make stupid decisions.’ If it was up to me I’d put chimps in the team, and ballroom dancers. It’d be ridiculous, but fortunately I have no power.

2. The team is going backwards through time with McClaren like an autistic archaeologist digging up veterans and former heroes who can only sully their good names. David James? Sol Campbell? Why not reinstate Bobby Charlton and get him to play a quick half. In fact get the entire pub team of legends from that beer advert and give them a go.

3. Sometimes I get depressed but it passes and I only think it’s really bad when I think, ‘What would make me happy?’ and I can’t think of anything. That’s how England make me feel now. What would make it work? David Bentley? Aaron Lennon? Robert Green? There was a time when we’d clamour, that’s right clamour, to have someone in the team: ‘Pick Rooney’ – ‘But he’s only 12’ – ‘PICK HIM’. Or, ‘Take Gazza’ – ‘He’s drunk’ – ‘TAKE HIM’. Now at the first sign of a clamour we’re obeyed, it takes all the fun out of the clamouring. Having said that, PICK ROBERT GREEN.

Those are my three reasons. I dare say once the games become competitive I may feel a tingle but Premier League football hoovers up loyalty like a junkie anteater so it’ll never again be as painful as Italia 90 or Euro 96 or that kick in the nuts last summer. I shall enjoy international football perched like a connoisseur on a barstool of snooty indifference. And you can take that pledge right down to the ol’ pledge bank.