‘Why don’t you support England, mate?’

Gethin Owen

With yet another FIFA World Cup almost behind us and the dust settling on another English knockout, let us reflect on an age-old question often asked of the other UK nations once every couple of years.

Usually posed in a friendly-but-really-offended manner, and only very occasionally from a man wearing jeans and sheaux, the question invokes in the subjects the puffing of chests and an impulse to regale the quizmaster with tales of yr Hen Ogledd and Cantre’r Gwaelod. Of Owain Glyndwr’s uprising and the Welsh Not.

This time, ubiquitous “boshmeister” and social media personality Big John appears to be the main voice asking the question.

It would be all too easy to issue the truthful but facetious answer of, “well, only an Englishman has ever called me a sheepsh*gger”, but that doesn’t give nearly enough detail to justify getting repetitive thumb strain by “liking” so many England-bashing memes on social media on the night of their inevitable tournament exit.

Let’s, then, unpack the issue in a little more detail.

First off, I’m not sure that anybody from Wales really despises the personalities in the England team.German agent Thomas Tuchel chose a fine squad which included the likes of well-spoken child Jude Bellingham and spot-kick supremo Bukayo Saka, who all mostly seem like decent enough, stand-up role models for young people in the UK.

They are chalk and cheese compared to the likes of Wayne Rooney in his heyday, whose favourite pastime appeared to be chasing women of an age which meant that they themselves, could barely stand-up.

So why then do the tears of sad English football fans form such a sweet, energising elixir for the Celtic brethren of these British Isles when the evil Anglo-Saxons inevitably falter and exit each tournament?

Shouldn’t we all be one big footballing happy family?

In a word – arrogance.

Dijo que, pet?

Let’s roll back to Euro 2024. In the hours after England fell in Berlin, former captain Alan Shearer wrote for the BBC, “Spain were the superior side, but I think we were all expecting more from England in Berlin”.

I won’t have been the only one to read this piece with incredulity. But I may be the only one sad enough to remember it.

What, exactly, was Shearer expecting? What did England do on the road to that final to make anybody – objectively or otherwise – think that they deserved to best spectacular Spain and win the tournament?

Was it the stunning 0-0 draw with Slovenia? How about the 1-1 showstopper against the Danes? Maybe it was the penalty shootout prison-break against the Swiss.

Back on planet earth, La Roja, who played with searing style and finesse that year, had won every single game up to that point.

Spain were statistically better in almost every single possible area both during the final itself and in the runup.

I’m only partly sure that the fact that the Spaniards have a Welsh namesake in Nico Williams had nothing to do with it.

Contrast this with the Three Lions’ lukewarm displays, bar one or two genuinely great goals. In any case, it seemed like everybody could telegraph the end result based on a body of evidence, before it happened – apart from the English media.

Shearer’s column is the quintessential example of an institutional entitlement that surrounds public discourse when it comes to England in football tournaments.

The fans, media and establishment not only desire, but expect tournament victory from day one, despite there being no evidence to suggest such an achievement being in any way likely.

The England men’s team last won a major trophy in 1966: 60 years ago by my calculation. Yes, they’ve come close in recent years, but only after securing lucky routes to the latter tournament stages.

Like clockwork, they have faltered whenever they met a world class team – cut to Argentina this year.

Lineker’s The Rest is Football cabal and others in the BBC are the only serious pundits on Earth who believe in a divine right to win a trophy based purely on the length of a dry spell rather than reality.

The media would do well to reduce expectations on team which does not warrant nor need the pressure.

Hope or hubris?

Don’t get me wrong. Hope and optimism is welcome and healthy. And believe me, as a Wales supporter, that is all we run on as the memories of Bale and Ramsey begin to fade.

But there’s a fine line between hope and hubris, and the balance is more often than not in the latter direction with England.

Think back to Euro 2016 in France. A memorable tournament for so many reasons – not least Wales’ unexpected progression to the semi final in our first tournament since 1958. But also because of former England gaffer and master of the Dutch accent, Steve McClaren’s bizarre propagandic meltdown live on Sky Sports.

“It’s been the perfect response”, McClaren drawls, adopting a confident grin, eyes glued to England’s duel with Iceland. “Keep dominating, keep getting pressure on the Iceland back four”, he commands – or perhaps pleads.

At this point you’d be forgiven for thinking England were 3-0 up with all the action taking place in Iceland’s box. Only, it was 1-1.

Seconds later, McClaren’s voice begins to falter: “the only threat they’ve got is the big boy up front, Sigurdsson…Sigthorsson”. No time to get the dastardly foreign name right, McClaren thinks, as the “big boy” dribbles past the English defence.

Suddenly with a widening of the eyes and a feeble sigh, Iceland have their second goal, signalling the end of the road for Roy Hodgson’s lads.

A comical conclusion to a shameless display of chutzpah that everybody else saw right through, which only served to magnify the embarrassment.

Unapologetic media bias

Contrast Shearer’s column and McClaren’s punditry with the way the media covers the other Home Nations. There are never any expectations, which, to be fair, is occasionally justified on the pitch.

Nevertheless, the language is always negatively framed, the nature of the losses almost always sensationalised (“shambolic”), the teams painted as inherent losers even when they manage to pull off decent performances.

But for England, there is always a glorious, dominating tournament victory written in the stars, no matter the opponents.

This has a rallying effect. It makes every Welsh, Scottish and Northern Irish victory seem hard fought, every game mean so much. It places a whole sack of potatoes, never mind chips, on our shoulders. Add to this English losses commanding more space on the back pages than other nations’ footballing achievements (when they occur).

The lack of any understanding from most of our English friends about Welsh history and culture. The Welsh Not. The flooding of Capel Celyn. Having to put up with institutionalised snobbery, and, and, and – OK, you get the picture.

It makes us the perennial underdogs by invoking history, fortifying the fanbase and our stadiums. All the while our distinctly similar neighbours are, for unknown reasons, heralded as long-uncrowned champions months before even the first kick of the ball.

Then there are the fans.

We are sh*t and we know it – except when we’re good

Some distinctive traits which run through the Welsh football fanbase – apart from cheap beer – are indomitable streaks of self-awareness, self-deprecation and humour. To put it bluntly; we are sh*t and we know it. And we know everybody else also knows it.

This is a mindset shared amongst the Celtic nations. I distinctly remember walking with my family past a pub in Riverside, Cardiff, aged 11, before Wales played Northern Ireland. Donning the Welsh kit of the time, we drew the attention of a group of pissed Ulstermen who pointed at us and started the inspired chant of, “you’re f*cking sh*t, you’re f*cking sh*t” x6. Cue my parents hastily moving us past the rowdy cabal, before they suddenly changed tact, wide grins breaking across their intoxicated faces and fingers pointing back at themselves: “we’re f*cking sh*t, we’re f*cking sh*t” – x6.

What of the English fanbase? Thanks to a not insignificant subsection thereof, they are better known on away trips for having a hard time deciding between slap-up or smash-up when it comes to al fresco dining in European cities, and they consequently have one of the worst fan reputations in world football.

This has implications for the Welsh, as it no doubt does for Scots and Northern Irish, because foreigners tend to think that we share the English’s appetite for throwing French waiters through café windows.

A seemingly little known fact across the border is that Wales and England have both won the same number of tournaments this century (zero, in case of any doubt), a titbit often commemorated through the medium of self-deprecating song.

In Cardiff City Stadium’s Canton End every international window, you will bear witness to the thundering tones of “we know what we are, we know what we aaare, sheepsh*gging b*stards, we know what we are!” blaring across the terraces, in a proud and dubious display of patriotism – and possibly Stockholm syndrome.

Another personal favourite from the past poked fun at the creative lengths the Football Association of Wales went to in order to register players for the national team: “Hal Robson Kanuuu, Hal Robson Kanuuu, as Welsh as a zebra, but he’ll f*cking do.” Genius.

Meanwhile, in the library that is Wembley, they are still waiting for “it”; “it” which is apparently on the way home, because Frank Skinner said so. This year, whatever “it” is will knock on the door. And if not this year, maybe in two years’ time. Okay, maybe four.

Does anybody even remember what “it” is? Fat Les and his vindaloo? Delia Smith? Or is it English fans booing their own players at home after beating an opponent 3-0?

To quote one famous Dane: “has it ever been home?”

Let me take you down equality street

Taking all of the above into account, it really should be no surprise that Welsh fans continue to delight in the misfortune of the English football team. It is not necessarily aimed towards the efforts of the athletes on the pitch; it is poking fun at the sheer nonsense that emanates from a shamelessly biased media which does not lend the same support to the other home nations, and at those fans who buy into it. That, is why many of us choose not to support England.

As long as the arrogant press continues in this vein, we will continue to scour our family histories for Croatian, Ghanaian, Panamanian, DR Congolese, Mexican, Norwegian and Argentinian ancestry prior to big games. We will continue learning to make tacos, wear Viking helmets and sombreros, and we will revel in being proven right, time and time again.

The stark reality is this: all four home nations have won the exact same number of football tournaments in the last half a century. We are not that different to one another.

It’s time for the English press and fanbase to recalibrate expectations. Forget about winning the whole thing and get some self awareness. Why not just enjoy the ride? If the pressure on the men’s team is reduced, then maybe – just maybe – it will pave the way towards one day winning the big one, and for us all to get along and back each other like the brothers we truly are, and for “it” – whatever that is – to finally waltz home.

Pah. As if.

Ever heard of the Welsh Not?

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