Sporting Saturdays make Britain great

It’s just a well-known fact that living in Britain is absolute rubbish. I know this because I read The Telegraph, for which each new day has recently become a social, economic or political near-miss space object. 

Where, oh where can one find reasons to be cheerful here on plague island? Well, I’ll tell you. Twickenham. I went on Saturday for the first time in a while. It’s a privilege I’ve ducked recently because, quite frankly, it’s just been another thing that’s hard to get to, overpriced, overhyped and fails to deliver.

But I went because I had a sneaky feeling in my bones and in my water. You see, when journalists sit together they, like most groups, tend to concur. This is a phenomenon recognised by evolutionary psychologists who suggest that we tend to hold tribal opinions. Not because we believe them necessarily but because it saves everyone else in the cave hitting us with a club until we’re dead. 

Sports desk opinion was that England were, are and will be dreadful. The first bit is undoubtedly true. The second, as Saturday went on to prove, open to question, and the third ignores the pendulum swing of sport. Like Chrissie Hynde, I may be great tomorrow but hopeless yesterday.

Because assembled scribes adhere to the narrative that Scotland are permanently one match from greatness, they’d confused English bumbling with Scottish performance. A point confirmed in Rome earlier on Saturday when they went down to Italy. The fact was though that England were trying something. And their rusty passing couldn’t match the ambition. Hence, they literally handed the game to Duhan Van Der Merwe. Yes, he of the clan Van Der Merwe, star of Highlander.

What the observer might also recognise is that the beloved old Six Nations always throws up a week of shock which, among other reasons, is why Grand Slams remain rare and glorious achievements. Going, as Ireland were, for an unprecedented two on the bounce was always going to be a stretch, not least because such monumental achievements require the courage of deep self-belief and Ireland, as their World Cup record will reveal, lack it when the real big ‘uns come along. 

England duly won. 

But that isn’t the point of the piece. The point is reasons to be cheerful and in this country’s great, glorious and unmatched weekly sporting pageant is that reason. Let me explain.

I took an early train because I was meeting friends for lunch and maybe a pint or two. The England match didn’t kick off until late afternoon but the train was heaving with sports fans going to other events.

A family took a table diagonally opposite. They were going to the races and sat either side of a carrier bag of cans. Dad, loudly telling everyone that the days when he could drink all day were regretfully behind him. Unselfconsciously, he dipped into the bag and cracked open a Foster’s. It was not yet 11am.   

Behind me, a couple regretted not having bought “roadies” themselves. They were going to football.

A loud discussion somewhere as somebody boarded wearing a Crystal Palace shirt – “How to embarrass yourself in public” was the theme. Discussion of odds was interrupted by speculation over whether all three of south London’s main teams, Palace, Charlton and Millwall, had contrived to be playing at home that day. A dream to some. A nightmare to the Met.

In a lull the word “Arsenal” drifted north to south down the carriage and floated off largely unobserved.

To my right, Barboured and Twickenham bound, a man was praising Mike Atherton’s piece in The Times on the great Jimmy Anderson, 700 wickets down and a bright light in England’s Indian gloom. A topic repeated across the day.

Twickenham town itself seemed half green. Never have I seen so many away fans, Grand Slam expectations and a week out from the Cheltenham festival. Confident good humour, later gracious “fair play”. The bars were full, the fun, the “craic”, the chat. 

Behind me in the restaurant sat Fergal Sharkey, unmolested by perfect cousins until some good heart knocked his beer into his lap with a swaying handbag. Taken in good part.  

Harmony too at the Guinness Bar as the big screen played Scotland’s Rome defeat to universal approval and the talk moved on to Anthony Joshua’s second round delivery of a clubbing right and a knock-out. 

Another knockout in the stadium, a match where the chariot swung down from the stands and the fed and watered answered with a famine song. Marcus Smith delivers the blow. 

Britain on a Saturday doing what it loves best. And it will do it all year round, summer and winter. Cricket grounds and “the season”, Henley to Headingley, Windsor to Wimbledon. In the winter, league, union, association, pick your football. Tours faraway, fights and finals. 

Largely good-natured, always impassioned, multi-faceted, never-ending and in seemingly infinite variety. 

I’ve seen American football Sundays, college to NFL in a single day, the French south in its deep love of the oval ball, Italy torn between Ferrari and football, Florentine too. Australia, State of Origin to Sheffield Shield. All boast their merits.

But for sheer unruly week-in-week-out impassioned variety, I think I’ve found the reason to stay, whatever The Telegraph says.

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