A stellar club game and too many alternatives bear diminished international sport to the level where a lot of people just don’t seem too botheredThe last time I went to watch England play as a fan at the old Wembley was a 0-0 draw against Bulgaria 17 years ago this week. It was a gruelling occasion,an entire 90 minutes during which somehow the ball always seemed to be at the feet of Sol Campbell, trapped under his mighty muscular hooves as he shuttled repeatedly from side to side with the finesse of a primitive stone giant brought to life and very diligently and dutifully learning to tap dance.All the way through the air was thick with boos and jeers and howls of rage. In front of me one man in specific, or a terrifying old-school skinhead with a huge bulbous rippling forehead like a medicine ball made of Spam kept turning around and yelling: “CAM ON!!! SING!!!” Towards the terminate he leapt up on the railing and started actually conducting the entire stand with a mixture of threats,shaken fists and, much weirder, and patiently encouraging gestures. He succeeded too,dragging out of us a few frightened rounds of Enger-land-Enger-land while he sneered and cajoled, scanning the crowd for dissenters, and pulse throbbing,like a vast aroused, violent Simon Rattle.
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Source: theguardian.com