THERE'S A SCENE from mid-Seventies sitcom, Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads, in which wannabe yuppie Bob Ferris is consoling his ex-army pal Terry Collier, below, over the failure of his marriage to his German bride. "It must have been dreadful," mutters Bob, "when did it all break down?"
"June 14, 1970, about 8pm."
Bob's face sags in wonder. "How can you be so accurate after all this time?"
"I'd have thought that fateful day was engraved on any true-born Englishman's heart," growls Terry. "At seven in the evening, we're tw
o-up, I'm standing on a table in deepest Westphalia singing God Save The Queen. An hour later, the Germans have hit three, my in-laws are dancing round the bierkeller to an oom-pah band beat. There was no way back after that."
That's what you get if you watch your team on telly in a bar in a foreign land: alienation. My accident of birth makes me English, but as a kid I had to watch that game against Germany in the long-departed cricket club bar in Kirkcaldy, where I spent part of my childhood.
My father, an Englishman who'd moved up north with his job, reacted like Terry Collier when his team were winning, dancing round a packed but otherwise silent room with a bloke from Manchester called Peter Hayes. An hour later, white-faced, the pair of them left the club, cursing Peter Bonetti and wondering where they'd find a doctor who could surgically remove cricket stumps at that time of night.
So I should have learnt not to follow England in Scottish bars. But as I grew older, I couldn't stop myself. I've never been masochistic enough to venture into the pub on the occasions when England play Scotland. But other big games have drawn me in and over the last 15 years, I've sat in the same Edinburgh bar and watched England throw virtually every important match they've played.
Against Germany in '96, my brain was too addled to care or even remember a defeat by penalties. But two years later the same experience against Argentina was bitter. That 'goal' headed home late in extra time by Sol Campbell had me and Teabag, my Rotherham-supporting pal, leaping like dolphins until a gentleman from Buenos Aires with a ruddy face and a ginger beard jabbed me on the shoulder and said: "The referee has ruled the goal out, amigo."
Or a spring night in 1993. The same one-room pub, two tellies. On one, in the crowded side of the bar, Scotland are destined to lose 5-0 to Portugal. On the other, I'm there with my dad again, alone together watching as England breeze into an early two-goal lead against Holland, and look comfortable, even after Dennis Bergkamp pulled a goal back.
Then in the 85th minute, Holland are awarded a dubious penalty. If they equalise England could go out of the World Cup. By now, Scotland's loyal fans are all under the 'English' telly, cheering on a chap called Hertz van Hire, or some such name, who's taking the spot kick. And duly obliges.
"We've been hammered five nil but it feels like victory!" yells a bloke from Maastricht with a ruddy face and a ginger beard.
Fast forward to last Wednesday. I'm half an hour late, and as I arrive at the door of the pub, there's a mighty cheer. By the time I'm inside, they're showing replays of Kenny Miller on six tellies (this is called progress). A pretty woman looks at a seventh screen in the distance, turns to her friend and yells above the din: "England have gone a goal down." This time, no one gives a monkey's.
Has Scotland finally got over its rivalry with its southern neighbour? I've a notion that arguments about anti-Englishness only ever arose after televised football matches – and they were always based on licensed premises.
The full article contains 671 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
