Up the Brits! Up the English! Up the EU?

This appeared in the Bath Chronicle on Thursday, February 10

Last week as I got ready to watch the annual war we call “The England versus Wales rugby fixture” I had another attack of my national identity crisis.

As I watched the build-up and saw the Welsh team and fans steadily getting themselves into a frenzy about facing the “old enemy”, I suddenly asked myself “hey, aren’t; these my fellow compatriots?”

For no, I am not Welsh – but I am British and yet here were my fellow Brits choking back the tears at the thought of trying to batter us, their fellow Britons. For yes, we are forced at events like this to ask ourselves once again – are we British or are we nglish/Scottish/Welsh/Northern Irish? And the answer appears to be – whatever suits us at the time.

As a rather naughty example, I am afraid I have a terrible problem with “our” tennis hero Andy Murray. Try as I might I just can’t find anything about the guy that inspires me to, err, like him. I don’t know what it is – perhaps it’s his charmless arrogance, the way that in the final of the Australian Open he looked as though he had thrown on his scruffy five-a-side football kit instead of a decent tennis outfit, or the fact that when he smiles it looks like an ironic gesture – but he just seems as warm and loveable as six-day-old Ready Brek. And yet he is a “Brit” so I should support him, yes? Well , up to a very simple point. As my colleagues have heard all too often (my sports editor even had a ‘sweep’ about how long it would take me to mention it when he lost the last final) when Andy Murray wins he is “Britain’s Andy Murray”. And when he loses he is “Scotland’s Andy Murray”. Silly, I know but I can’t help it. I mean, would it kill him to smile?

My national identity confusion isn’t helped by the fact that at times “our” team wears the red and white flag and at others it’s the Union Jack. Thus my English pride is very strong in sports such as football, rugby and cricket where “my” team is called England and comes all wrapped up with motifs of bulldogs, roses and lions. (Incidentally, all that “three lions on a shirt” stuff – why on earth does an African lion represent the land of my (English) fathers? Does the Tanzania footy team have a grey squirrel on its tops? I think not).

And yet, come the Olympic Games, my English flag goes back in the drawer and out comes the Union Jack. In that event, I don’t care if the athlete is from Belfast, Birmingham, Cardiff or Clyde – I love them all equally. For they are Brits representing Britain. And I am Brit cheering on Britain – England no longer matters.

But of course it doesn’t end there. Every two years even the most fierce UKIP-ite can suddenly becomes pro-European when our continent takes on the USA at the Ryder Cup. The Union Jack goes out of the window and it is bonjour to the blue European one. Our allegiance is changed again.

Ah well, let us just hope one day we can discover intelligent life on another planet and we can all join forces to support a World Team.

I’d still probably back an alien against Andy Murray though.

Why I enjoyed my second Glastonbury.....

I had the pleasure of going to a very jolly outdoor birthday party at the weekend.

My party was for someone’s ‘40th’ and the hosts had kindly invited a few people around to their home and were offering the odd glass of cider and a bit of live music to keep us all amused.

But, I have to confess, this was a somewhat bigger party than I usually attend. The ‘few’ guests totalled around 180,000, the amount of beer drank was expected to be over one million pints and as for the live music, well there was an estimated 2,000 acts on.

For this was the Glastonbury Festival’s ‘40th’. And it was the biggest, noisiest and cheeriest party on the planet.

Like all the best outdoor parties it was also helped by the somewhat unexpected appearance of the sun which kept a watchful eye on proceedings throughout and almost dared the storm clouds to be party poopers. They didn’t of course – they knew they were (weather) beaten which meant that the huge £12.99 I had invested in my essential last-minute pair of wellies was totally wasted. And I bet they don’t do ‘Glastonbury no-mud’ refunds.

I have done a review of the musical delights elsewhere but as I said last week in this column the joy of Glastonbury is that it is about so much more than what comes out of those enormous speakers. And for those yet to taste the festival’s bountiful offerings I just want to re-iterate that it is never too late to join this seemingly never-ending party.

You may still be thinking ‘Glastonbury is OK for other people but for not for me’ but trust me you are wrong. The answer to the question ‘who goes to Glastonbury’ is an easy one – everyone does. It is, I think, impossible to feel out of place.

People genuinely don’t seem to care what you look like, what age you are, or what your background is – there is an equality here that I have rarely seen elsewhere. Sure, there are ways of ‘upgrading’ your experience a bit but by and large the corporate side of things is kept to a bare minimum in the search for a kind of Utopian, democratic equality. The ethos is ‘we are in it together’ – come rain, shine or England defeats (I watched that one with 50,000 fellow sufferers). And it is hugely refreshing.

The other thing that struck me again on this my second visit (is there anything worse than a late convert)? is how safe the whole experience feels. Despite the fact that people didn’t exactly, ahem, hold back on their alcoholic intake, I saw no evidence of any trouble, no aggression, no fights, not even any cross words. It is as if once people enter the ‘Royal Borough of Pilton’ the Glastonbury spirit descends on them and encourages self-policing.

Overall I returned tired, hot but far from bothered and I thought again how lucky we were to have all this fun right on our doorstep. So, go on, try it next year.

For if you can find nothing to enjoy at Glastonbury then I am afraid the problem is yours – not the festival’s.

Optimism plus football = a curse

I have always been an optimist.

While some people agonise whether their glass is ‘half full’ or ‘half empty’, I’m usually searching for a cloth because the liquid in my glass is spilling over the sides. But, you know what, being an optimist isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be – for as people in truly hopeless situations often say, it’s the hope that really kills you.

Take sport.

This weekend the little matter of the footballing World Cup begins in downtown South Africa. Often described as the biggest sporting event in the world – although obviously the Olympics would contest that – the next month or so will focus the eyes, ears and passions of millions of disparate people from across the globe. The trouble is for those of us of the optimistic nature, it’s not enough to see our country taking part in such a magnificent event – we really believe our country is going to win it.

Before a ball is kicked this time there will be optimistic Algerians, North Koreans and even the odd Kiwi who will genuinely believe that come the middle of July it will be their captain lifting the cup aloft in Johannesburg.

Ever since I’ve been old enough to take an interest in these events, I’ve always believed England would win. No amount of evidence to the contrary – bad players, bad managers, bad form or just general bad vibes – would stop me believing in our ‘inevitable’ glory. I always convince myself when I look at the team (and usually I ignore the others!), that we are untouchable. It’s a failing I know, but that’s what optimism does for you.

But, time and time again, whether it’s that World Cup or its smaller but no less painful sibling, the European Championships, my optimism from day one is usually rewarded with tears of frustration and despair by day three, 13 or, if we are lucky, 23.

So is that where I am this time? Well, strangely, no.

This time, for the first time I can remember, I do not feel quite as optimistic as usual. Although I think England have a very good manager and a smattering of very good players, I don’t sense the streak of ‘we’re invincible’ blood running through my veins that I normally discover on the eve of such tournaments.

Normally I’m like King Canute, ignoring the waves lapping away at my feet as I sit there looking out and only seeing a gold trophy. This time I felt the first drop of water. Reality had kicked in.

For me, it was odd.

And yet . . .

The curse of the optimist is I’ve actually now seen this as a good sign. In the past when I’ve been totally hyped-up and full of belief (only to see all my hopes cruelly dashed) I’ve questioned whether my optimism really has helped me. Therefore as I enter a tournament when I’m not dancing around in ‘we’re gonna win’ excitement mode, I am thinking lowering my expectations might be a positive act.

So if we do go on and win it (there I go again!) I think I may have to revise my perception that optimism is actually good for me.

‘Half empty’? Bring it on.