Sunday 3rd September
My friend Tish, who I met on the MA I have finally finished with the handing in on Friday of my dissertation, has a converted ex-police launch with a tractor’s engine moored up in Hampton and she arranged a cruise down to Windsor for this weekend (England v Andorra so Watford aren’t playing) so that I could go. I came back so relaxed I could hardly speak. Got a bit of a tan too.
It ain’t central London: England on that stretch of the Thames. Willows to the horizon and the sky at some points, almost. People out in all manner of boats doing sports I can’t properly distinguish between (though I know the difference between skiffing and rowing now, thanks to Tish). Hotel boats, party cruises, houseboats and narrow boats and Dutch barges and a hundred moored-up motor boars outside beautiful large homes and gardens. The castle at the end of it, like the apex of the pyramid of privilege (except it was a winding river).
The royals. I remember the looks I got in Japan at the England end when I chanted “Our German Queen fucks Greeks”. Even if football is one of the new religions, Betty II still has divine status with some England fans, like she was personally responsible for 1966 and all that. John, Emma, Ben and I sang “Sven Go-ran Eriksson, Sven Go-ran Eriksson, for president” instead of the national anthem. Sack them all. Make us a republic and redistribute the land fairly. Modern fucking Britain? You must be joking. Aristocrats own more than a million acres, raking it in from farming, forestry, mining (what’s left) and plenty more besides. We’ll have some of that, thank-you.
Anyway, the trip was fun. As well as a little driving each, we tied up at locks, gradually improving our lassoing styles. At Romney Lock on Saturday, one of the lock-keepers shouted over: “Is that where you sit, then?” I was wearing my red Watford t-shirt, with “The Rookery” on the back, the name of the stand at the Vic, and so we chatted football. I told him I took Joss and he said he’s been going for 27 years (I think) and takes his sons. He sits 14 rows behind us and told me he buys 3 season tickets one in from the aisle so that if he wants to buy another ticket, he knows that place is likely to be free: you’d have to be ‘sad’ to go alone, he says. Clever guy, sort of bought an option along with his adult and 2 children seats. Value for premiership money, why not? The downside was that I undoubtedly went down in the opinion of this lock-keeper, though I rose vertically about four foot as the lock filled, as he figured me for the fair-weather-fan I didn’t have the chance to admit to not-being-ashamed of being.
Come on guys: though I started off the chant “Guildford, Guildford, give us a song” when Man U were 2-1 up and their fans were quiet, the reality is that it’s business all the way now, and even if loyalty can’t usually be bought in clubs like mine, Watford don’t need me or the lock-keeper, though they want us to think they do and they enjoy the attention. To some (mostly men), this unrequited love is their lifelong and perhaps only passion. (Shankly put it better.) Not for me. ‘Perspective,’ Shanks. Have a word.
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