An Englishman in England

Curiously, a few nights ago, I was for the first time in my life the victim of racial abuse. It was the night of England's Euro 2004 elimination on penalties against Portugal. As it happens I'd been to the theatre that night, so had missed most of the game. After the play I managed to fit in a couple of pints in the ever excellent Buckingham Arms, Petty France, and caught the end of normal time, extra time and penalties. Afterwards, my walk to Victoria to catch a tube home took me through a small student area. So there I was, walking down a quiet street. This is where the fun began. A sash window on an upstairs floor was shoved open. A drunk leaned out and started quizzing me in a Scots accent. As far as I can recall the conversation went along the following lines.

Scots bloke: “Are you English?”
Me, surprised to be asked his in the centre of London, England: “What?”
Scots bloke: “Are you English?”
Me: “Well, yes”

At which he fell into fake hysterical laughter and shouted something along the lines of “you got stuffed tonight.”

Me, fake naïve: “Why, what happened?”
Scots bloke, surprised: “England! You got beat by Portugal.”
Me: “Ah, well you asked the wrong question. You asked me if I was English. You should have asked me if I support the England football team. It isn’t the same thing.”
Scots bloke: “But you must do.”
Me: “No, I don’t care about England. I didn’t even watch the game. My team wasn’t playing tonight.”
Scots bloke: “Why, who do you support?”
Me: “I’m a Burnley supporter. Burnley weren’t playing tonight.”
Scots bloke: “But you are English?”

Just then we were saved from drifting into ever decreasing conversational circles by the intervention of a second head leaning through the sash window. It was evidently a friend of the Scots bloke. He was Welsh.

Welsh bloke: “Ha, ha, ha, you English bastard.”

At which I attempted to restate the argument I’d put to the Scots bloke earlier. Alas I was cut-off in mid flow by a song, as the Scots and Welsh men joined in a chorus of:

“Going home, you’re going home, you’re going, England’s going home.”

Me: “Home? I am bloody home. I’m from England, I’m in London. Where’s your home?”

The Welsh bloke started shouting something about “see you on October ninth!”

Me: “Why, what’s happening on October the ninth?”
Welsh bloke: “We beat you English bastards.”
Me: “Look, my team won’t even be playing on October the ninth. If it’s an international weekend we won’t have a game.”
Welsh bloke: “But you're English, aren’t you?”

And so it went on. I realised quite early on in the conversation that I was at a disadvantage because I wasn’t drunk, and drunk has its own logic. I called an end to this amiable chat when they started calling me a “fat bastard” and headed home.

I headed home thinking several things. The first was the bravery of my friends, who had nobly chosen to heckle a fat bloke in a suit walking down an empty street from an upstairs window with only at least one locked door to protect them. As I swung round the corner onto Victoria Street, I passed a gang of shaven-headed, England shirt-wearing kebab eaters, heading in that direction. I wondered if they would get similar treatment.

I pondered too the daftness of heckling people for being English, in an English city, while choosing to live there. It’s not for me to take words from the mouths of racists, but there was obviously something that appealed to them about England, for this was where they had decided to live.

But really the thing I walked away shaking my head at was the sheer pointlessness of it all. I tried to imagine myself in a similar situation, perhaps sitting in front of the television willing Scotland to lose? I couldn’t. Who could be that sad? As a Burnley supporter, Blackburn Rovers are the team I hate the most. Would I ever expend an evening watching some game they’re playing in, purely in the hope of seeing them lose? I didn’t think so. Here were two young men, privileged to live in one of the world’s greatest cities, with an extraordinary range of culture and entertainment on the doorstep, and how had they chosen to spend Midsummer night? Why, by sitting inside, drinking cans, and watching TV in the hope that England would lose.

There are times when I feel I am further away than ever from understanding people.

My weekend in Belgium

22 bars in Antwerp and three in Brussels on the way back.

I have provisionally given up drinking.