{"id":359,"date":"2018-07-12T09:06:26","date_gmt":"2018-07-12T09:06:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/?p=359"},"modified":"2018-07-12T09:16:28","modified_gmt":"2018-07-12T09:16:28","slug":"on-nationalism-and-sport","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/?p=359","title":{"rendered":"On Nationalism (and Sport)"},"content":{"rendered":"

ON A DAY WHEN England is about to play Croatia in the semi-finals of the World Cup, when every passing white van seems to have flags of St George sticking out of its wing mirrors and the local little Hitler has unfurled four giant Union Jacks from the corners of his property, I have been thinking about the rights and wrongs of nationalism.\u00a0 \u00a0A week ago, when the World Cup quarter finals were being played, a friend who had been at a cricket match at Edgbaston, England versus India, told me how the crowd, predominantly Asian, after clapping and cheering\u00a0 and singing the Indians to an 8 wicket defeat of England, had then stayed behind to watch the end of the England\/Sweden game on the giant screens. He said how strange and moving it was to hear a crowd who had been humorously booing the English cricketers, become so involved in cheering every move of the English footballers,- especially how strange it was to hear the anthemic \u201cIt\u2019s coming home\u201d<\/em> song being chanted by this mainly \u2018Asian\u2019 crowd.<\/p>\n

Clearly a need to belong, to support with fanatic loyalty, some local identity, has deep roots in our psyche\u2026 however fickle and irrational that support may be.\u00a0 Thus, having supported Norwich City football club for some 40 years while living in Norfolk, following every match, every twitch, every rise and fall in their fortunes, I have, since moving to the West Midlands, blithely switched my loyalty to the Wolves,- \u00a0for no better reason than that I like the famous \u201cold gold\u201d of their kit plus something of their history.<\/p>\n

I suspect that our almost tribal need to support (and feel supported?) must go back a long, long way into our personal insecurities and prehistoric past.\u00a0 Also I suspect that it is mainly a male phenomenon. Women don\u2019t seem so fussed about whether England or Croatia will win tonight.\u00a0 One mother I know hopes that Croatia will win because otherwise the next round, the World Cup Final on Sunday, will interfere with her child\u2019s birthday party\u2026and who\u2019s to say such motherly priorities are wrong?<\/p>\n

As to the ancient roots of our loyalties, Margaret Macmillan, in a recent Reith lecture about War, has suggested that hunter gatherers, always moving on to new territories, were probably more peaceable than the farmers of the Bronze Age who, having settled on desirable farming land, would therefore become more supportive (and defensive) of their local tribal areas. Certainly hill forts seem to have developed at that time – suggesting a\u00a0 link (especially for the male<\/u> warriors and their male<\/u> chieftains) \u00a0beween place and a kind of early patriotism.<\/p>\n

Of course at its worst Nationalism as well as being narrow-minded can be fiercely hateful. After the recent match against the Colombians I overheard several pubsters ascribe the tricks of diving and tripping and feigning injury to the innate tricksiness of the Colombian character; in less politically correct times they would perhaps have called them \u2018dirty dagoes\u2019.\u00a0 And, while respecting much about Scottish culture and character, I know that when the rugby Six Nations matches are being played, I will always get a primitive delight in seeing a Scottish team humiliated. \u00a0I think that prejudice must go back to when I was at boarding school and had several uncomfortable dealings with a Mc***** who seemed to embody, with his freckles and flame-red hair, all of the more fiery characteristics of the Picts. He has probably grown into a charming respectable member of society, but my deep down fear of him and his race remains, especially where sports are concerned.<\/p>\n

We all know what terrifying excesses the Eugenics preachers, the pure race merchants, of the last century predicated.\u00a0 Perhaps it is a reassuring fact that so many of our best football teams, including the Brazilians and Colombians as well as our own \u201cnational\u201d English team, are such a wonderful m\u00e9lange of races and mixed races.\u00a0 Indeed maybe the Final Solution to Nationalism in its nasty narrow aspects will be the increasing evolution of genetic intermixing?\u00a0 Meanwhile the best of our instincts must be supra-national, transcending our silly local loyalties\/prejudices?<\/p>\n

While on a tour of Northern Nigeria ten years ago, our driver (named \u201cDriver\u201d!) took us past a valley entrance hidden among the ancient piled up boulders of the Gwoza hills. \u00a0Local memory placed this secret valley as where a culturally mixed people\u00a0 from many different tribes, having escaped from their Arab gang masters (the valley was to the side of one of the old slave routes from Lake Chad to the Coast) \u00a0built a new conglomerate society, even evolving their own language. One would like to think of that place of refuge and cooperation as a metaphor for supra-nationalism.\u00a0 Similarly, it is forgotten that the nurse Edith Cavell, who was shot by German firing squad for sheltering wounded servicemen from both sides during the first world war and whose image became a recruiting poster-girl for anti-German nationalism, should really be celebrated as an icon of supra-nationalism. Her last written and spoken words were to insist that \u201cNationalism is not enough.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I append an unpublished poem about my (then) loyalty to\u00a0 Norwich City Football Club \u2013 unpublished because I suspect that, although intended to be humorous, it is really rather misogynistic!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Marriage <\/strong><\/p>\n

compared to being a Norwich City supporter<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Not exactly what you\u2019d choose. More a case<\/p>\n

of where you happen to find yourself.<\/p>\n

Mostly mid to low table non-Premier stuff.<\/p>\n

The likes of Chelsea (their film star lives<\/p>\n

featured in \u201cHello\u201d, stables full of cars<\/p>\n

and fantasy WAGs, the latest models)<\/p>\n

impossibly beyond our dreams and pocket.<\/p>\n

Mostly a struggle, just scrapping to survive.<\/p>\n

But still you remember<\/p>\n

the good times. Those cup runs of \u201959 or \u201985.<\/p>\n

Also the torture of last year\u2019s Play Off.<\/p>\n

Mostly it\u2019s thankless, travelling away<\/p>\n

to stand, a lonely knot of yellow and green<\/p>\n

on the blasted terrace of some Northern town<\/p>\n

wondering why you\u2019ve come. The brutal truth?<\/p>\n

It\u2019s one part hope to ten parts\u2019 disappointment.<\/p>\n

Just occasionally at the Barclay End<\/p>\n

surrounded by a thousand bodies pumping as one<\/p>\n

like a porno film as Huckerby weaves his magic<\/p>\n

down the left wing and the gathering roar<\/p>\n

of the crowd builds to a last minute GOOOAAAAL!!!<\/em><\/p>\n

you feel ecstatic, raised above yourself<\/p>\n

by more than old loyalty, bringing home<\/p>\n

the post-coital glow of a close win.<\/p>\n

That – or you feel like nut-crackering the cat.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

ON A DAY WHEN England is about to play Croatia in the semi-finals of the World Cup, when every passing white van seems to have flags of St George sticking out of its wing mirrors and the local little Hitler has unfurled four giant Union Jacks from the corners of his property, I have been […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-359","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-uncategorized"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/359","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=359"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/359\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":362,"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/359\/revisions\/362"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=359"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=359"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/keithchandlerpoet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=359"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}