Most of the flags have come down, a sea of paper on the ground. My neighbours no longer talk up Hodgson and his team; too far behind they are for the tag “cream of the cream”. There is a new fast food joint just up the road, a lonely St George’s cross on its front looks like an ode. To what? To whom? You might still wonder, forget it, mate, there is no answer.
And yet, three weeks ago, all those illusions! Yes, it’d be hard, but no
confusion. The English team would plough ahead, using their feet, tactics and
heads. Of course, there were the Italians, and Balotelli the main stallion.
There was also the small matter of Luis Suárez, the skilful master. But against
the odds the fans did bet, sadly an unlucky fate they met. The Gunners fans
opposite mine, bright red cross on their car; it lost its shine. The window
cleaner from five doors down: “2-1”, “To England?”, “You’re mad? Nah, to the
Last week I walked from house to station, my barrio a mini United Nations. Flags of all colours festooning
streets, faces beaming smiles so sweet, that even cynics would find hard, to
give this World Cup the red card.
Still there lay, right on the ground, the paper flag that makes fans frown. It
is a puzzle, a future tense, to be resolved four years hence.
Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on
Sunday 6th July at 10am (GMT)