If you like to clap for England, clap your hands…

Croatia. I was 20 minutes late, having popped into Lidl for cat litter on the way to the pub; meanwhile, Harry Kane was purring for England, having put his country 1-0 up. My heart sank upon entering the hostillery and clocking the score, worried the jeopardy for the night was already over. Nobody wants a whitewash, do they? (Although, these days, you just can’t be sure…).

A frothy pint in one hand, and, to my surprise, a raffle ticket placed in my palm by the barman.

The bar wasn’t empty, but modestly filled with a few midweek football casuals. Me and my friend had a spot in front of the big screen, each on a little low stool. A table of dedicated England fans (strange!) towered above us at a grand oak table away to the right.

A father and son sat down nearby. Croatia equalised. The father “yeh-hoed!” and I, feeling confident, let out a firm, “go on yiz-boys-yiz.” The England fans beside us coughed and stared politely, the message clear: There’d be no call for that type of ballyhoo here.

The half-time whistle came (2-2). A raffle ticket was pulled from a hat, and suddenly the place emptied, all following the barman like a conspiracy. Time for a nip to the loo and a walk. It was my first time in this pub since they’d done it up, and it was vast: an empty pool room. The gigantic smoking area. A wee corner with fruit machines. Glorious. Finally, the toilets, where the sound of match analysis was being piped in from somewhere above. Lovely stuff!

Walking back through the ghostly tavern, a door was ajar. Doing nothing more innocent than prying it open, I encountered a host of 20 men and women battering and roaring at a giant piñata.

All turned and stared, like the scene with the bear and hotel guest in The Shining.

The England manager was on the screen now, and I followed him back to my seat. Despite the apparent differences in their teams, Thomas Tuchel and Gareth Southgate themselves are very similar in their actual speech and mannerisms: clearly spoken, uber-logical and calm. Southgate’s pragmatism and honest vulnerability made it difficult not to root (a bit) for his squads when they went on deep tournament runs in 2018 (World Cup semi) and 2021 & 2024 (European Finals).

There was, though, the best schadenfreude when the 2021 game went to absolute pot, I will admit.

Back to the match, and England began the second half in a fury. When Jude Bellingham banged in England’s third goal, there was little to do but shake your head agreeably, then nod, and, damn it all, begin to clap. This was turning into a jolly good show, old boy. I felt so very filthy taking part in this hearty round of applause. I had indeed caught the clap.

At school, our History teacher shouted at us, ‘Youse are nothing but hypocrites, boys!’ It was a non-uniform day, and the Liverpool and United jerseys were all on show. Years earlier, I was a young and impressionable boy watching Seaman arc through the air, as England bowed out of Euro ’96 in glorious failure on penalties. And, by the way, if you can listen to Baddiel and Skinner’s Football’s Coming Home and not give it a bit of a Sheringham shimmy, a Shearer step-over, or a Beckham blasty then you’re a better mawn or woman than me. It’s got a harpsichord, for crying out loud!

Some of us are just, deep down, closeted anglophiles. We must want lockin’ up.

I think back to my young and impressionable boyhood once more, asking my mum: ‘if there’s ever a United Ireland, will we still get BBC 2 and The Simpsons at 6 O’clock?’

The full-time whistle had gone, with England victorious; 4-2.

A man (who didn’t even support England!) had his shirt off and was wandering round the bar, lost and harmless. Probably harmless, but there’s no need to take chances and it was time to go home.

Outside, a Wednesday night, and this seaside town was quiet, leaving just the sweep of the lighthouse to jump across the bay.

Tonight, I’m orf down the pub to watch England V Ghana. Who wants some?

Jason Conlon

Jason is a proud native of Tyrone, living and working in County Down. A teacher by trade, he has been writing for the past 15 years on all things Brexit, Pets, Irish Politics, Family Life, and anything that’ll jump out and burrow deep inside.