So, on Sunday – will it come home?
That’s the question on almost everyone in England’s lips this weekend, as Gareth Southgate’s men have gone from playing a brand of football so absurdly risk averse it made Keir Starmer look like Evil Knievel to the brink of finally ending all those years of hurt by lifting a major trophy at the Euro 2024 final in Berlin.
It’s certainly a differnt experience to the one my team had in Germany.
After the usual misplaced hope and inevitable despair, Scotland did as Scotland does and bombed out of a major tournament in the group stage.
Off the pitch, we lit up Euro 2024, turning multiple German cities into a sea of tartan and winning praise from tourist bosses and local politicians, and drinking so much beer in Cologne that England fans might be forced to go without (it’s all about the small victories…)
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On the field however, we stank the place out, posting historically bad stats for attacking intent and playing like we were allergic to the 18-yard-box.
But even weeks after the Tartan Army headed home, licking our wounds and nursing our hangovers – there is a final indignity to face, as English friends, colleagues and even top pundits turn expectant eyes to their jaded Celtic cousins ahead of the clash with Spain and ask ‘You’re backing us, right?’
It’s the age-old question that gets trotted out before, during and after major events like Euros and World Cups, with Scottish sports stars, celebrities, and even politicians expected to declare their allegiance for the England team.
Well, forgive me for speaking on behalf of the nation, but the answer to that is a resounding no.
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Nope. Not at all. ‘Nae Chance,’ as we say in Glasgow.
I cheered for England’s opponents all through the group stages and into their bafflingly deep progress in the knockout stages.
I’ve suffered through the grins of English friends, the work meetings which used ‘Football’s Coming Home’ as a kind of tortured hold music, and I’m terrified that my only hope for a bearable summer rest on the slender shoulders of Barcelona star Lamine Yamal, who is four years younger than Facebook.
It’s always telling the reaction you get from people when you reveal that you’ll spend Sunday wearing red, enjoying paella, and sipping on that renowned Spanish beverage, Madri.
English friends who look at you in a different light all of a sudden, colleagues who assume you dislike them as much as Harry Kane, and left-wingers who respond as if you’ve abandoned all principles and are about to go on a stop the boats protest.
None of that is true, obviously. I don’t hate England, nor English people – I live here for one thing, and I’d have a pretty unpleasant time if I actively disliked those who make up 90% of my social and professional circles.
But when it comes to sport, all bets are off.
And it’s not just football – I’ll watch England lose at virtually any sport, no matter how obscure.
I think cricket is so boring that broadcasting it should be designated as a form of visual torture, but if I overhear a conversation about how ‘Baz’s Boys are trailing the Windies by three wickets and an innings’ – I’ll pretend I have a clue what any of those words mean and tune in.
Of course, the main reason for this Anglo-aversion is the most obvious one – Scotland v England is a sporting rivalry, one of the oldest.
In fact, the first ever officially sanctioned international football match was between our great nations back in 1872, a thrilling 0-0 played out in front of a crowd of around 4,000 in Glasgow’s west end.
I’m not quite old enough to remember that encounter, but I remember plenty of games since then, from the goalless draw that was the highlight of Euro 2020, to the trauma of Euro 96 and that infamous Gazza goal.
But as I often say when challenged on my ‘Anyone But England’ stance, would you ask an Arsenal fan if they would support Tottenham winning the league if the Gunners were out of contention?
Of course not.
While the Tartan Army might be universally recognised as one of the friendliest and best behaved fanbases in football (your garden furniture is safe when we’re in town, even if your breweries might not be), if you asked the Celtic fans among our number whether they would back Rangers in Europe, you might have an altogether less charitable experience.
Things have changed slightly since Scotland started qualifying for major tournaments again (even if we leave them just as quickly) but even now, watching coverage of football as a non-England fan remains a maddening experience.
At half-time in matches between other teams, most of the 15-minute interval will be spent discussing the mood of the England camp.
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The performances of sides like Germany, Spain and Italy will be framed only in how much of a ‘danger’ they pose to Kane and co’s chances of winning their first major tournament since 1966.
It was 1966, right? I know you don’t like to talk about it too much…
And that’s just the pundits. While I don’t like to paint with too broad a stroke, the England fans have a reputation that is the polar opposite of the Scotland supporters.
I spent a few days in Cologne with the Tartan Army – and my stats were far better than those of the national team.
Pints thrown – zero. Number of times Sweet Caroline was heard – nada. Amount of flares introduced to arses – mercifully, zilch.
Of course, you might claim this is inspired by some bitterness. And you’d be right!
It’s frustrating to see England qualify with ease for every tournament, see fans bemoaning their current 4-point total even as Scotland can only dream of it, and seeing them bringing through generational talents like Jude Bellingham while our players sometimes struggle to get a game in the Championship.
But it’s even more frustrating to have pundits and fans declare every other year that this is the one, see them dismiss other teams with far more tournament pedigree, see the tortured puns on newspaper front pages, the politicians being photographed *just* as a goal goes in, and the unsubtle xenophobia that often colours England’s rivalries with nations like France and Germany.
So as I see the massed, bucket-hat wearing hordes head to Boxpark to watch their final, see Southgate swing back to hero status as they improve, see the sick notes being prepared and the pubs being booked for Sunday ’ll repeat those three magic words under my breath like a calming mantra.
Anyone. But. England.
Or as they say in Spain – cualquiera menos Inglaterra
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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