They had really believed it this time. It was coming home. This mercurial and infuriatingly inconsistent England team would be the one to finally end the 58 years of hurt that its fans never stop talking about.
Yet by the end of the night England’s latest attempt to win a major championship had, in one London pub at least, ended in familiar fashion. The denouement was of deflated fans with fingers interlocked and hands resting on their pates, cheeks puffed out, shaking their heads in silence at screens beaming down the footballing glory of yet another nation victorious at the expense of theirs.
The poet William Blake wrote that in every face in London he saw “marks of weakness, marks of woe”. Blake must have been inspired after stopping in for a pint to watch an England match at the Alexandra pub in Clapham. The woe flowed out the door and down the High Street at full time.
The day had started brighter. In the afternoon, bullish England fans in Three Lions jerseys thronged a nearby street festival showing the men’s Wimbledon final on a big screen outdoors. It should have been an omen as Spain’s Carlos Alcaraz triumphed.
Ruben Amorim begins the task of weaving mainly average United players into a cohessive unit
The bird-shaped obsession that drives James Crombie, one of Ireland’s best sports photographers
Malachy Clerkin: Ireland can’t afford to miss the women’s Euros - once momentum is lost, it’s hard to get back
‘We’re not hiding’: Heimir Hallgrímsson making no excuses for 5-0 loss to England
Later, English optimism filled the warm, early evening air as the Euros football final with Spain beckoned. Clapham Common, normally crowded on a summer’s evening, emptied at about 6.30pm as crowds marched in all directions on nearby pubs. There were queues, and ebullience, everywhere.
The Alex, as the pub in Clapham is affectionately known, normally has a fair share of Irish patrons among its trendy young crowd. There wasn’t an Irish accent to be heard last night as kickoff neared, the local Hibernians all at home nervously watching proceedings from behind the couch.
The pub swelled to capacity by 7pm. England fans have been waiting since 1966 for a major title. They’d have been waiting longer for a pint, as the bar staff struggled to cope. They pumped up the music to keep the thirsty crowd entertained. Sweet Caroline, the Neil Diamond tune that is an anthem for England fans, was played at 7.10pm. At 7.20pm, they played it again. By 7.30pm, a half hour before kickoff, they were tempting fate with Queen’s We Are The Champions.
The atmosphere in the Alex crackled as kick-off approached and the music was turned down for match commentary. One group of young women, who had hitherto sounded like well-to-do professionals, seemed to transform amid the nervous energy sweeping the pub. “Let’s ‘ave it!” roared one of the women, bug-eyed, as the teams lined out.
There wasn’t much to shout about in the first half yet the sense of belief remained in the crowd. Expectations rose as England upped the tempo from about 25 minutes. A young man in an Arsenal jersey frantically waved imaginary yellow cards at every Spanish tackle.
The crowd didn’t quieten even when Spain went in front just after half time. The pub’s patriotic fervour was punctured by a young woman in high spirits shouting “viva Espana” and dancing around for the goal. Was she Irish? Was she mad? She turned out to be a New Zealander who had worked in Spain for two years. The Alex crowd generously indulged her banter.
Anxiety rose. The guy in the Arsenal jersey was by now waving imaginary cards in both hands. The England team drove forward and when they equalised, the roof almost came off the pub.
“Don’t be so cocky,” said the Kiwi-Spain fan, laughing, to the England fans near her. “It’s not over yet.” But soon it was.
When Spain took the lead in the dying minutes she chanted “olé olé olé” but was shushed by a few of her more judicious companions. Now was not the time for taunting. The final whistle blew and English hearts broke. Much of the crowd slipped quietly out on to the street to mourn in groups.
One fan, a young man with a moustache and a face as pale as his England shirt, was in a trance as he contemplated the outcome. Asked if he would give his reaction to the defeat, he didn’t look up. He didn’t even blink. “Absolutely no chance mate,” he said, quietly.
The Arsenal fan with the imaginary cards, Clapham resident Sam Milverton, was more forthcoming.
“I am gutted,” he said. “The referee blew up too quickly – we should have got more time. Right until the end, I fully believed we would make it to extra time and penalties. Gutted.”
Milverton reckoned England manager Gareth Southgate’s time was up: “He just wants to be loved. But we need somebody now who can do the business. We have some of the top players in the world and they’re being held back.”
One of the bar staff, Terron Evans from Peckham, was more sympathetic to the manger.
“I’m annoyed we lost but I’m also not annoyed, if you know what I mean. We shouldn’t have even got out of the group. Southgate has brought youth through. He made good substitutions. He’s a good manager,” he said.
“As a fan, of course it hurts we lost. But as a worker, the pub would have shut at 1am if we’d won and now we get to close it at 11pm. So that’s the silver lining.”
The England fans drifted off into the crowds on the streets of Clapham where, once again, the accents of Irish people could be heard, having come out from behind their couches. Fifty eight years and counting…
