Jean wass already fed up with the World Cup – and it hasn’t even started yet. Her family was football mad, football bonkers, her family being her husband Harry, their four sons and partners and their eleven grandchildren. Eleven grandchildren at the last count, she could never be sure of the number as her fourth son, the most handsome of them all, had had girlfriends since he was twelve years old. And serious ones at that. He was the most handsome, the most careless, and the most irresponsible and Jean loved him best.
It was the expense of it all that bothered Jean the most. She was always keen to treat her children and grandchildren, she was always ready to help them out if they needed a bit of extra cash. And she loved doing so. But this World Cup malarkey was getting ridiculous. Yet it seems to be all over the place. The news is full of these football fans paying out thousands for air tickets, not only to the United States and Canada and Mexico but the high priced internal tickets once they had got there. Then there was the exorbitant prices of the tickets themselves and we haven’t even considered accommodation and food and treats and even more World Cup paraphernalia.
So far Amazon had delivered to their and their son’s homes five World Cup footballs, twelve England shirts, three United States shirts – their eldest was married to a girl from Texas and I do not mean the DIY shop – and two Scotland shirts as son number two lived in Edinburgh. A couple of shirts each for France, Spain and Italy and one for Portugal completed the purchases. The numbers didn’t add up but, as her husband told her, some allegiances were not yet set. Then there were wallcharts, hats, and mugs. Then there were all the extras bought locally that did not appear on their Amazon account.
This, for heaven’s sake, was holiday money. This was money for a villa with a pool near Malaga. This was money for her new summer wardrobe since she had lost two stones - no chocolate, no wine, no thick slices of fresh bread covered with butter – in three months. And of course this new wardrobe had to include a brand new slinky swimsuit with matching caftan.
Of course she complained to Harry but got nowhere.
“The World Cup is every four years, Jean” said her husband. “It is a real celebration of the wonderful game. We cannot let it go unnoticed. We have to dress up and really take part. That is how we enjoy it. I can’t wait”. Of course, all this was said with Harry wearing an England shirt, still with the tag hanging down the back and covered in what looked like tomato ketchup.
At this point the doorbell rang – another Amazon delivery. “I thought we should get a few spares for when the first lot of shirts were in the wash. And I got one for you Jean” he said ruefully.
Jean shook her head and went out to the garage where she was met with piled up boxes of lager and crisps and all sorts of other foods that would very quickly put back the two stones she had lost. Jean shook her head again. Somewhere in the garage, underneath all this football paraphernalia including bunting and flags which will be draped around the garden when this blasted rain stops, were the toilet rolls.
“How had it got this bad” she wondered. She thought back to the last world cup in Qatar. She remembered the same sort of fuss and bother then but it was never this bad. Or was it? Had she blocked out the memories of all the men in her life with their wives and partners and children sitting in front of the new huge TV and cheering along whoever was playing? When England were on she and Fergus, the newest grandchild had gone out for a walk – he couldn’t sleep with all that racket. Now he was four years old and was in a miniature England strip including socks and shorts and was clearly very pleased and proud to be in his new outfit. His new England pyjamas added to his delight. This World Cup she expected to be out and about with baby Mia – without her tiny England bucket hat if Jean had her way. Jean will cope with Mia’s tiny England Teddy bear if she has to.
During the normal football year there was none of this nonsense. Harry and her sons all supported different teams, and not all in the Premier League, but this togetherness when England were playing brought them all noisily and enthusiastically together. “Bother” said Jean.
At least the TV was the same for this world cup. A bigger one had not been bought- or so she hoped. Mind you, there was still time for a Curry’s delivery before the big day when the football fest started.
Of course discussions between her husband and their sons were all about football. The telephone was constantly in use.
“Harry Maguire should be with them” was a regular grouch. “Anthony Gordon will be great on the wing, he is so fast. Such a pity he has left Newcastle for Barcelona. Did you hear him speaking Spanish?” was another theme. “If only GordonBbanks was still alive” said her husband who had doubts about Jordan Pickford”. When there wasn’t a World Cup Harry was a Liverpool fan and Mr Pickford was in goal for Everton. “Harry Kane has to be captain” was the general consensus.
The football chat was constant, whether it was face to face, or on their mobiles or by text. Two of her sons had even taken annual leave from work so they could see as many matches as possible. The time differences between the UK and the other side of the Atlantic were a nuisance. “Better to be safe than sorry” said one son whose wife and daughter had gone to Spain for the duration. “It’ll be the same there, the Spanish are even dafter than us when it comes to football” he had said as he and their son waved them off at the airport. “Yes but at least we are guaranteed sunshine” replied his wife. “See you in a few weeks, and yes I promise to wear my shirt and don’t feed Gareth rubbish”
As his wife and daughter disappeared into the departure lounge he whispered to young Gareth, “Come on son, it’s time for a MacDonald’s.” Young Gareth, named after Mr Southgate, beamed with excitement. It was going to be a few weeks of forbidden treats.
Jean decided to do a bit of gardening to get away from the constant football racket. She was happily busy when a Curry’s van pulled up outside their drive.
“TV for Harry Field, is this the right place?” said the van driver. Jean shook her head in despair.
About the author
ith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshireforty-five45 years ago and is married with four grandchildren
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