There is something triumphal

There is something triumphal

About a football win,

It's not cricket or tennis.

There are pennants and flags

Streaming from windows

Car horns honk,

People cheer and wave

“High-five me, mate.”

Whilst I buy another crate

Bring it on boys

Bring it on

Though we brick ourselves in

Surround ourselves with distance

Tell ourselves we are special

Keep our borders clear

Home fires burn with

Barbed wire extremism

Sink the boat

Women and children first

Slake your thirst

Fuel a collective desire

For sober separation

From the masses.

Walk from car to house.

Wear dark glasses,

Indoors.

Shelter from the storm

With a collective celebration

A street party

For the nation.

Wear the flag with pride,

A Rainbow one will do

Ride the tide.

We are nothing

If not contradictory

We hate and conciliate

We are the hawk and the dove

Often at the same time.

It is a modern Anglo norm

To be masters of our universe

No matter how small

How far we fall

There is always a corner

Of an English heart

That is forever Inger-land.

Wimbledon is genteel

Lords is for the toffs

Wembley is a vibrant pit

Full of spice and grit

European expeditions

Are the grand tour

Of working-class tradition

Bring it on

Blow the trumpet

Bang the drum

Beat the buggers

One by one

Until we don’t

And at the death

We miss a penalty.

It is the English way

Hold your head up

There is glory in defeat

And if you believe that

You are not a nailed-on fan

An English man

On a beano abroad,

You are a tourist.