It is not the players or the team itself. An avid fan of the English Premier League and a Liverpool fan to boot, I have no animosity towards them, admiring many of them for the sheer joy they serve up throughout the soccer season. I just don't abide by the hyperinflated phenomenon they have been transformed into by the English sports media and fan base alike. The greatest English philosopher of all time, Mediocrities, has gone unnoticed in a country puffed up on its own John Bull.
The irritation that has long sought exit in England's own exit is primed by the phenomenon Man's Search For Insanity. Not how Viktor Frankl phrased it but close enough. Like cultic Christians gathering for the Rapture, supporters and pundits alike every two years join an expeditionary force that leaves the foothills promising to reach the summit in Europe or further afield while leaving all their powers of reasoning at base camp. In their own mind they are favourites and to the rest of the word they are failures. Naked as jaybirds, into the snow they plough, boasting to wave triumphantly at the sceptics and naysayers from the summit. We sit back and duly predict their rapid descent back down.
Like a rerun of an old movie filmed in Mexico in 1970, it only ever ends one way. Everyone knows the script but the self-professed experts. Like Einstein's lunatic they keep doing the same thing yet expecting a different outcome.
England did not always field teams of donkeys. Many sides were not lacking in talent. The blindspot lay in the inability of the true believers to sense what lay out there, beyond their own shores. The prowess of other teams was understated. The Colonel Blimps of Blighty could see only one thing - putting Johnny Foreigner to the sword.
Last evening I sat at home watching the France-England quarter final, my wife tolerating my groans. Earlier in the day Morocco had just beaten Portugal, so whoever emerged victorious from the later game looked a sure bet to make the final. I badly wanted France to win for the sake of my son who, along with his sister, was in a Lyon pub watching the game while wearing the French team's top. I texted him throughout, wincing at each French conceded penalty. He looked very apprehensive when the second, like the first, was needlessly given away.
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