Notes from the Living Room: They’re Going Home, They’re Going Home etc. - Part Two

By David C. Watson Jul 5, 2006, 15:21 GMT

David Campbell Watson hails from Edinburgh in Scotland and runs a multi-media consultancy in Los Angeles. A proud supporter of the fabulous Heart of Midlothian Football Club, David is happily married to Susie who by no fault of her own is English.

So I roar onto the 405, stereo cranked thinking, “this is what California living is all about.”  I get four hundred yards and stop dead.  As far as the eye can see, it’s bumper-to-bumper stuff going absolutely nowhere. 

Above me is a large neon sign with the message “Brush Fire at La Tijera – Traffic Jammed.”  You don’t say.  The momentary high is gone and I’m back to thinking about the God-awful Italy-Ukraine game.

True to form, the car gets the immediate hump and starts overheating – memo to self, time to upgrade the fleet.  Meanwhile a large hornet has just entered the open driver’s window and looks pretty pissed at the new accommodation.  A couple of vain air thwacks does nothing to improve its mood and I take evasive action by yanking on the handbrake, unbuckling and diving into the back to get more purchase on my killing efforts, at which point of course the traffic starts moving and suddenly it’s horn central.  Fortunately this seems to have the effect of unnerving the stingy thing and it legs it out the window.  I wish it well on its travels coupled with the fervent hope that it takes a swift detour inside the Ford Pickup truck behind me and plants a nasty one on the fat purple face of the owner who’s fairly honked himself into a state of apoplexy.

Having nursed the car for approximately three hot and sweaty hours, I finally stagger onto the beach, brushing past the loved ones in a desperate quest for a reviving cold one. The perfect end to the day comes soon after we pack up and leave.  Not five minutes later, 10 blue whales decide to make an appearance about half a mile off shore accompanied by a school of dolphins and put on a show.  That’s a bit like heading for the exits after 88 minutes when you’re 2-0 down only to discover on the car radio that you’ve scored three in the last two plus injury time. 

Back to the important stuff, and you might be slightly taken aback to hear this, but Laguna Beach, CA, is not your traditional hot bed of football fanaticism.  However a few phone calls later and we’ve located a bar that is opening for England’s Last Stand.  Rolling up at eight in the morning with a large bunch of seemingly disoriented and slightly confused England diehards, breakfast kicks off with a traditional Californian Stella smoothie.  On the bench, Sven is getting in touch with his newly found passionate side by aggressively scratching his nose while the heir apparent looks momentarily panicked when he drops his pencil.  Things are looking good.  You can sense a real improvement in the air.

And for the first half-hour, it really does look better.  There’s a sense of purpose about England in the manner of a bunch of headless chickens making a final attempt to flee the farmyard.  Today’s tactical master plan from Svenny is a sort of 4-5-1, with the much-maligned Owen Hargreaves mopping up and allowing Gerrard to get forward to support the Wonder Kid.  It’s still not working though, due to the fact that Frank Lampard is a shadow of the footballer we know he is and Beckham is exactly the footballer we know he is, i.e. past his sell-by date.  At the break, it’s 0-0 and we’re all wondering what devastating changes the Swede will make.  There are gasps of admiration and awe from the assembled masses as the second half gets under way and it’s apparent that true to form, clueless Sven thinks there’s nothing amiss and has opted for more of the same.  

Then England get a lucky break – Beckham goes off with an injury and on comes Lennon.  Suddenly there’s real pace and movement on the pitch, but the joy is short-lived as Wayne goes into meltdown and indulges in a mild bit of conker caressing on Carvalho followed by an innocuous shove on the disgraceful Ronaldo, who’s busy imploring the referee to send him off.  Down to ten men and cue the finest hour of football that England has managed all tournament. Indeed if Eriksson had done his job properly and picked a fit goal scorer in his squad, they might even have snatched it

But by the time we get to the inevitable shoot out, Sven is shorn of three of his first choice penalty takers and you can just smell the fear.  England link arms in a sort of half-hearted way but the belief has drained from them.  Three misses later and Ronaldo steps up to apply the coup de grace. 

It would only be right to point out here that maybe Sir Alex has been a tad harsh on Van Nistelrooy – Ronaldo is in fact an insufferable, showboating little twat.  According to Ronnie post-match, things are great between him and his mate Wayne.  They’ve been texting.  Call me an old cynic, but I think it will probably play out something like this; having had his testicles severed by a lacerating but wholly accidental bite from his new best friend during pre-season training, Ronaldo will hobble away from Old Trafford and complete his dream move to Real Madrid - only to find that Svennis has been installed as the manager, signaling some demeaning boot cleaning, kit washing, muffin toasting in the rear bicycle rack and ne’er a sniff of a first team jock strap. 

And so it’s over.  Sven slinks off into the sunset clutching his 50 million USD swag for a mere five years work – with a lot of days off in-between which probably accounts for the fact that he’s scored more times than any of his chosen strike force at this tournament.  What exactly has he achieved? - Nothing.  He has led the supposed blessed generation up numerous dark alleys and they’ve followed him blindly, but they undoubtedly deserved better leadership.  

Maybe the FA should give Eriksson a special going-away present – the Golden Boob has a nice ring to it.