06:10: Way too early to wake up! I told myself last night that I don’t need to get up until 7:45, so I can make tea and toast before the game.
Everything else can wait until the gap between quarter finals.
Yeh, but I need to go to the loo, so I might as well take the next antibiotic, which means I need to eat a banana in bed with it, which means I’ll just finish reading that chapter in my bedside book.
That’s it.
Lights off.
Back to sleep now.
6:35: Sod it! Brain’s racing.
Still dark outside and no, just chill out and read another chapter.
07:45: Gave up on bed an hour ago. Made the fire and showered. Caught up with the latest from Westminster.
In a parody of Sky Sports, they’re calling today ‘Super Saturday’, as it might be the day that sees Brexit sorted, and (yawn) it might not.
If Letwin’s vote fails, there’s a slim chance the government might win their vote and pass the deal. Unlikely, and right now nobody knows, so time to cook eggs and bacon.
08:05: Noshing cooked breakfast with a mug of builder’s tea, WhatsApping with my mates in London who are equally excited, sending photos of themselves in their England shirts. Come on England!
09:07: I want to live in the place where Owen Farrell’s eyes go to before he kicks. I totally understand his ritual.
Whether he’s right in front of the posts or aiming at a crazy awkward angle, he treats each kick exactly the same way; the same rocking arms back and forth; the same peering at the ball, the same eyes rolling off into another dimension; the same run-up and the same kick.
There is no easy kick nor hard kick: just the kick. A little spooky to watch, but I get where he’s at.
11:00: Fired up for Ireland. I’ve completely bought into the hype, instead of listening to expert friends, who suggest that Ireland aren’t as good as they think they are.
More to the point, they advised me, it’s irrelevant Ireland have beaten them twice in the last 3 meetings, as the All Blacks are a different outfit when they’re playing a meaningful game.
Before kick-off, my mind wanders to the possibility of an England v Ireland World Cup Semi Final.
In previous years, my loyalty would be 100% behind my native country.
Although I’m Irish now, I have lived as an Englishman in Ireland for nearly 30 years, and nothing makes you feel more patriotic than being perpetually blamed for 800 years of history that was nothing to do with you.
Today though, I feel a bit different, and that disturbs me.
England have won the Rugby World Cup and Ireland are yet to win a knockout game in the competition.
If England made the World Cup Final, the country would be thrilled to bits.
If the Irish beat the All Blacks, this nation would be gripped in a rabid frenzy of excitement.
If then they beat the Auld Enemy, to make the Word Cup Final, these 32 counties would go absolutely ballistic.
November would be cancelled and we’d party all the way to Christmas.
It’s impossible to imagine not shouting for England, yet part of me would love to see Ireland make it through to the final.
Throughout this interminable Brexit debacle, the English have shown arrogance and ignorance to the island of Ireland.
Ignoring the fact that Northern Ireland voted to remain, successive Prime Ministers have clung to and then discarded the votes of DUP extremists, as and when it suited.
The average person on England’s streets doesn’t have a clue about this island, and doesn’t give a monkey’s about it.
I know, as I was one of them.
If it comes to England v Ireland then I think, for the first time, I’d shout for my adopted home.
Ireland deserves it - all 32 counties, shoulder to shoulder - by way of an apology for all the suffering that Brexit has bought and is yet to inflict.
12:50: Oh dear. Oh dear dear dear. Make a metal note not to mention this game to any of my Irish friends.
Still, at least my heart won’t be torn in next Saturday’s semifinal. I will be wholly English, and while there’s always hope, I don’t fancy our chances against the All Blacks.
There’s always hope.
Off out to buy newspapers, milk and victuals, and back to catch up with the debate in the House of Commons.
In or out, up the wall or round the bend, whichever way they’re voting they’d better get it done before Chelsea’s 3 o’clock kick off.
14:50: Come on! Hurry it up, Westminster! Tension rises to critical levels in my living room, as I wait for the result of the Letwin vote. Aha! Amendment passed. Brexit delayed. Time to watch footie.
14:55: Not yet. Johnson is claiming he won’t ask for a delay. Like an over-excited six-year-old, through his cunning wheeze of sending two letters to Brussels and only signing the one he likes, the PM is going to obey the law and simultaneously ignore it.
14:57: Completely confused by my day’s shifting lines of devotion and feelings of belonging.
It looks like my beloved native nation is oozing slowly towards civil war, along with Spain, and so many other crumbling countries formed of dubious unions.
Ho hum.
15:00: Off to Stamford Bridge. The eggy balls confused my heart, but this round one offers the pure and simple pleasure of one loyalty that holds no controversy for me: I’m Chelsea, through and through.
Come on you Blues!
©Charlie Adley
28.10. 2019.
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