‘That’s Harry Kane – he kicks the ball into the goal’: The perils of watching football with novices

Like many football people, I’ve been watching England’s Euro games with a group of mixed-ability viewers. This only happens during major international tournaments. The rest of the time we are allowed to pursue our hobby in peace. As an Arsenal fan, I indulge in a pastime so niche these days as to be a borderline fetish. Not only do no normal people want to do it with me, but they would rather not be reminded of what I get up to on Sundays and Thursday nights. At best, it’s a waste of time; at worst, it’s sordid. The humiliation is cleansing, I say, as I trudge back from the living room.

During the matches, though, there’s a level of understanding among the fellow football people I watch with, whatever their allegiance. Everyone knows that shouting “ref” and muttering darkly about VAR are part of the liturgy, rather than serious complaints, and that in the end Manchester City will win. When England are in a big tournament, it’s different. Once every two years, neutrals allow themselves to be organised around The Game. Civilian partners, friends and family members will attend iffy barbecues on sunny days knowing they will be obliged to sit indoors for two hours.

For the year-round fan this creates a dilemma. On the one hand it’s a rare chance to evangelise to the non-believers. Marvel at this spectacle, we will say, which combines the thrill of elite athletics with a harmless sense of national solidarity. “Who’s he, he’s fit,” someone will say. “Kalvin Phillips,” we will reply, beaming. But amateur hour presents challenges, too. I watched England vs Croatia sitting next to my five-year-old goddaughter.

“That’s Harry Kane,” I explained. “He kicks the ball into the goal.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s his job.”

“Why hasn’t he done it?”

After 45 minutes of this line of questioning, I was in despair. Forget offside. Have you ever tried to explain the logic of throw-ins from first principles? Don’t.

It’s not only the children, either. Worse than the genuine innocents are the instant experts and truth-by-obvious-statement brigade. “It’s frustrating they pass it backwards and sideways a lot,” someone’s rugby-loving new boyfriend will say. Yes, Charles, but not in the way you think. “Why are we so shit?” someone’s girlfriend will ask. How long have you got? When the match doesn’t go well, watching alongside these people will send the football-lover into a vortex of self-loathing and despond. Over 90 minutes, they will unwittingly dismantle a significant part of your personality. At the end you’ll be asked why you care so much about this. You won’t know.

If it’s hard for us, spare a thought for the pundits. Apart from keeping a straight face on GB News, analysing and commenting on an England game at a major tournament must be up there with the most difficult on-screen gigs in broadcasting. Election night comes close, but the consolation there is that the stakes are very low. However excitable your interviewees might be, the viewers don’t care which team wins, provided they don’t have to think about it for another five years.

When it comes to England, the match has assumed gargantuan proportions months before kick-off. The pundits must simultaneously speak to the maniacs who have spent two years screaming on 5 Live about Declan Rice, as well as your cousin who has just poked her head in and asked where Becks is. It can’t be easy, straddling this gulf in understanding. Without context, you might be surprised to hear Roy Keane speaking about fellow professionals as though they’ve just dinged his wing mirror in the Asda car park. If you know him as the man who has previously said he would be “swinging punches” at a keeper who let a goal in, he seems like a husk of the man he was.

If you only remember the va-va-voom ads, you might not know about Thierry Henry’s evolution into a pundit of almost radical dullness. If you’re unfamiliar with Graeme Souness’s previous regenerations as the original midfield enforcer/lounge lizard, you might be less intrigued by the bronzed, manicured matinee idol who has recently replaced him. From glower to glo-up.

In the absence of good football, however, we rely on the commentators and pundits for the entertainment. England at international tournaments, as we always allow ourselves to forget, is a kind of Bermuda Triangle for good football. You might get good football in the qualifiers and friendlies. The team might be, as it is this time around, loaded with fast, skilful young wizards, capable of genius. Then as soon as the real stuff begins, the hope vanishes in a puff.

We’re unlikely to be treated to a more dramatic collision between expectation and reality than England vs Scotland. From the moment the fixture was announced, it was subject to feverish anticipation, repeated uses of the word “auld” and cack-handed political parallels. In the event it was 90 minutes of near-frictionless serenity in which the goal was only threatened a couple of times, once or twice by mistake. One day they may use the replay as a therapy for trauma victims, who can watch safe in the knowledge that nothing exciting will happen.

With canny foresight, the producers obviously saw the risk of a borefest and laid on more of a show, with Lee Dixon and Ally McCoist simultaneously on co-commentary. Presumably the theory was to create a kind of aural Punch & Judy in which they would equally whinge about the injustice of the refereeing. In the end the two men were brought together by what they witnessed, agreeing that Billy Gilmour had a good game and that England would need to do more to beat France. The final half hour was basically just Dixon muttering the word “Grealish” to himself over and over like a mantra. We can’t blame him. Even Michelangelo needed a lump of marble.

As you may have heard, England are playing Germany tomorrow. It ought to be easier for the pundits. There has to be a result. Football fans will be asked by innocent non-combatants why the match has special significance for Gareth Southgate. We can only hope that the brave boys of the BBC, the custodians of our shame, will rise to the occasion. Recall Des Lynam’s advice after that other loss, 25 years ago: if you’re going to have a drink, do it with pride and not with aggression. The humiliation is meant to be cleansing.