The England Football Team Is Clearly Punishment for Crimes I Do Not Remember Committing

I am 28 and I am watching Joe Hart – the greasy palmed little Head and Shoulders fuckboy – I am watching Joe Hart's weak wrists succumb to a speculative Iceland shot that squirms and wiggles beneath him, and it is the 19th minute and I am thinking, 'Come on, England – come on.' I am still positive, there is still hope.

I am 22 and I am watching Robert Green – Robert fucking Green – I am watching Robert Green essentially have a panic attack at a speculative Clint Dempsey shot, Robert Green lying on his front, somehow, feet away from goal, crawling and scratching at the ball as it squirms and wiggles away from him, and it is only a group match and I am thinking, 'Come on, England – come on.' I am still positive, there is still hope.

I am 14 and I am watching David Seaman – the most lobbed man in football history – I am watching David Seaman get lobbed from afar by Ronaldinho, David Seaman running backwards, David Seaman's head one way and ponytail the other, one grasping hand reaching up high into the air, and the ball drops, perfectly – because Ronaldinho was essentially a blessed saint in Mercurial Vapors – drop perfectly behind him, and I am sat cross-legged on the floor of my school's assembly hall and I am thinking, 'Come on, England – come on,' and I am still positive. We have Michael Owen; there is still hope:

I am eight years old and I just fell in love with football thanks to Gazza – perfect Gazza, Gazza at full gallop and streaking through the Scottish defence, Gazza's limbs flying at all angles but still, somehow, making one perfect connection with the ball and tonking it past Andy Goram. That Gazza goal changed my little life; I am a football fan now, I spend my days in the park doing kick-ups and my nights watching obscure-to-me Romanian players compete in European Championship games, and I am up late on special bedtime provision watching England in the grey kit play Germany, and it has been 120 minutes now and Gareth Southgate has nestled the ball on the penalty spot and taken two nervous steps back, Gareth sure to settle it, sure to; Gareth Southgate is going to send England through to our first final in 30 years, and I am thinking, 'Come on England – come on,' and I am still positive, there is still hope.

Fuck. You. England. Football. Team. I. Hate. You. With. My. Life.

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Think of England fans and you think of: a man with a nine-foot by six-foot England flag tied tight around his neck like a cape, topless, plastic pint glass in each arm, arms extended out like Christ the Redeemer, shouting "WAHEY" in a Parisian street while a roving ITV camera tries to avoid a fistfight; a fucking relentless oompah band being jollied on by a stag party's worth of men in full rubber Knights of the Round Table outfits, a constant drone of derr duh derr, derr duh derr, derr duh derr derr duh derr NAH NAH; six unconscious builders lying beneath a single gargantuan Russian dude, in a piazza littered with broken decking furniture; a van with three shaven headed men in it, silently chewing gum and wearing old Umbro tops, attachable England flags streaming from every available surface; hundreds of England flags, thousands of them.

There is this unshakeable feeling that the core of the England support is built around the same disgruntled white working class stereotype that supposedly just voted us out of Europe "because foreigners". The reality, obviously, is more nuanced than that. The reality is we are all – in one way or another, and especially during the high emotional summers of tournament football – somehow invested in the England football team. It is the curious, acceptable, unironic patriotism. It is killing me one thousandth of a cut at a time.

The build-up to England entering a football tournament is characterised by a slow abandonment of my own internal cynical logic for this sort of dumb, puppylike wonder and optimism for the future. One month before a European Championship, I am like: "I'm not even going to hope about it. France have the squad. They are going to win." Ask me a couple of days before and I will take you by the shoulders and scream, "GARY CAHILL IS FRANZ BECKENBAUER 2.0! PLAY HIM IN THE SWEEPER BEHIND STONES AND SMALLING AND WE WILL BE IMPENETRABLE! PLAY WAZZA AS A PIVOT!" I almost always end up buying a £65 England away kit. I sing the national anthem – a song I loathe for a country I mostly hate – with gusto at the start of games. I am crawling up a mountain of expectation, pushing the boulder of hope with my nose. Eleven men in perfect white home kits consistently cause me to entirely abandon my senses.

What is it about England that causes me to hope? And what is it about the relentless cycle of that hope followed so inevitably by full-scale crushing despair that causes me to fall for the same trick, again and again and again? Why do I always think England are going to be good? Why do I always expect them to magic up some sort of imperceptible, transcendent, perfect squad harmony, become immaculately drilled defensively, front line interchanging and moving like the gleaming cogs in an intricate old device? Why do I ever expect anything more than underwhelming 4-4-2 and a second round exit? Why have I been so consistently fooled by England squads, by Joe Cole, by Rio Ferdinand, by Yung Michael Owen through Bad Michael Owen, from Wayne Rooney 2004–2006 through Wayne Rooney 2007–2016? Why do I spend hours in the pub debating the merits of Andy Carroll? Why did I ever try to mentally crack the "Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard playing in the same midfield" conundrum, i.e. mathematics' final un-solveable puzzle? Why am I trapped in a Groundhog Day where England give me a false, fleeting flutter of hope, then snatch it away again with 70 straight minutes of Dele Alli passing it to no one?

The definition of insanity, so the old quote goes, is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. That is England, going into an international tournament with eight uncultured-but-alright-in-the-Premier-League defenders, five decent-but-paceless midfielders, two midfielders who could just about do a job in Europe, one world class striker and four clunkers, three goalkeepers and one 18-year-old who everyone secretly hopes is Messi. Again and again and again. And again. And again. And I keep falling for it. Who's the real let down here? Is it the England team, cursed by a witch to forever go out at the first non-group game? Or is it me, for never learning? I am starting to think that the entire England football team is an elaborate joke being played on me and me alone, and everyone has been going along with it for the past 20 years. That this whole thing is some Truman Show-level prank to make me shout, "Fucking COME ON, JACKIE WILSHERE!" three cans into a session, alone in an England training top, sat in my front room.

On one hand, it's comforting to think of the England football team as some sort of elaborate thought experiment to keep me entrapped in a mental cage of order and disorder, that I work out all my latent rage by telling Danny Rose (by way of my television) that he is a "shit nonce", and that this stops me from going out into the streets and doing crimes and beatings, because I am sated. My primal urges are met completely when Roy Hodgson brings Marcus Rashford on in the 85th minute, a mere six minutes after I suggest he bring Marcus Rashford on. I am God, I am Lord, I should be in charge of the England team; I know all.

On the other hand, deep down and truly, I know we lost and keep losing because we are shit. Maybe that's just what being English is all about: logic dictates that we should be competitive on the world stage, while truly we are a tiny dour island full of failure. And there is me, the biggest failure of all, in an England shirt and with an oil-based flag painted on my face, crying into my beer. Fuck you, England. Fuck you for making me feel this way, every second summer of my life, forever.

@joelgolby

More stuff about England:

Assessing England's Euro 2016 Chances Based on Hearsay and the New Squad Announcement Alone

Three Lions, Fat Les and the Far Right: How the England Team Affects National Identity

A Deep Dive into the New England Football Team Official Euro 2016 Suit Photos