THE morning after the persistent deluge that broke the drought last week, I found myself crawling along in an unusually slow traffic jam even by wet-weather standards.

As the line of vehicles moved more slowly than usual, I attributed an obvious lack of driver courtesy to the number of cars sporting the English flag which were having little success in persuading others to let them out of a back road into Mont Millais.
Having the time to muse, I assumed that there was either a large number of Scottish drivers behind the wheel or the Anyone But England campaign was having an effect.

The campaign is gathering support among the other nations of the union who failed to qualify for the greatest sporting spectacle in the world. As with most things in the British Isles, or to be more precise the UK, England is the dominant country, just as it has been since Anglo Saxon times. Fed up of being portrayed as eternal bridesmaids, the Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish are aggrieved at having rammed down their throats the supposed superiority of a national football side that has not won a major trophy for 44 years.

While each of these nations produces brilliant football players – and not forgetting world-beating individuals and the odd successful team in other sports – their national sides rarely fare well in football competitions, despite unstinting support from dedicated fans.

England may have won the World Cup in 1966, but apart from the odd heart-stopping penalty shoot-out hasn’t fared brilliantly in competitions since.
The trophy cabinet at FA headquarters has been empty since the Jules Rimet Trophy was handed back in 1970, yet the nation keeps harking back more than four decades to the last great victory. That is an awfully long time to go without winning a major tournament and an indictment of persistent failure that would be better forgotten.

As Kenneth Wolstenholme so famously commented in the dying seconds of the 1966 final against West Germany: ‘They think it is all over … it is now!’ Yet it isn’t, as 44 years later the country still harks back to one long-gone Saturday afternoon.
The national media’s fascination with past success was typified by a red top rag’s reaction to goalie Robert ‘Butterfingers’ Green’s blunder by letting the ball slip thorough his hands to give the Americans an unexpected draw. The over-enthusiastic sports hack consoled Green by reminding the nation, yet again, that England drew their first round match 1-1 in 1966 – so no worries yet, lads as history always repeats itself!

The country is being whipped into a frenzy by the national media, which should take note that its newspapers are read, and programmes are watched and listened to, not just in England but also in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland.

The problem is – as the opening match illustrated – that England, on current form, are unlikely to win this World Cup, let alone reach the final.

Rather than throwing themselves behind the England team in an exhibition of British solidarity, as tends to happen for the Olympic Games, the other nations of the union – not to mention and all football fans who are sick of hearing how the English invented the beautiful game – are supporting any team other than Fabio’s boys.
Whenever England run out onto the pitch, it’s a sure bet that football fans in the other nations will be cheering the opposing side.

Football is a funny old game, but it is not, as the legendary Bill Shankly said, more important than life and death. The tragedy of Hillsborough shot holes in that oft-repeated football quote. But football does, more than any other sport, ignite passions, divide families, cause fights and riots and breaks hearts.

As Nelson Mandela said, football, more than any other sport, has the ability to bring about change. Except in England, where the clock stopped in 1966.

While I sympathise with the Scottish, Welsh and Irish, who are cheesed off with often being portrayed as also-rans, what a wonderful sight it is to see the Cross of St George flown with pride as England fans get behind their side. So recently viewed as a symbol of the bully boys of the far right, and now reclaimed as the emblem of the English nation, it makes me want to shout out: ‘Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’

However, patriotism to my father’s homeland aside, when it comes to football my allegiances lie with a little flat country that, when not producing superbly skilled if neurotic footballers, spends its time attempting to keep the North Sea at bay. In the absence of England qualifying for the 74 and 78 World Cups, I was bowled over by the Dutch masters, even though they lost in both finals.

With a European Championship and more semi-finals in Euro competitions and World Cups than I and the cheesemakers of Edam can remember, the brilliant Oranje have a respectable record, albeit blighted by some dire penalty shoot-outs and an ability to fall apart because of infighting among the players.

They won my heart in 74 and have held a special place there ever since through highs and lows, disappointment and elation, stunningly executed goals and penalties so high of the mark that they were almost over the moon. As they say in the Netherlands: ‘Hup Holland, hup!’