(the braying mob watching England v. Australia Sunday afternoon, would-be William Ligues, every last one of them)
In a plea for decorum so stirring it puts Phil Mushnick to shame, the Independent’s Peter Roebuck suggests there’s an distasteful side to England’s increasingly likely Ashes victory.
Something ugly happened at the Oval yesterday, something so alarming that any surviving member of the liberal intelligentsia ought to take note of it. Not content with bombing civilians in a foolish war, not content with passing fatuous laws directed at admittedly infantile members of an immigrant community, not content with tolerating Alastair Campbell, this once mighty country reduced itself to the pitiful state of orchestrated nationalism.
No sooner had the umpires ludicrously and pathetically taken the players from the field for bad light despite the fact that two spinners were bowling, than some bright spark decided that what the crowd needed was a chance to join some shrill chanteuse in a recitation of “Land of Hope and Glory” and that stirring ditty, “Jerusalem”. Words were provided on the big screen in case some poor soul had forgotten them.
Before long the crowd, or at any rate those not cringing with embarrassment, was in full voice. Conduct appropriate in the more relaxed environment of The Last Night of the Proms had been transported to an international arena. A team had been invited to play a series of matches only to be subjected to this abject and crass self-glorification. They had come from a country that has fought side by side with its host in four wars. Numerous foreigners had also arrived to support their team. Thousands of children were watching.
Why? Manifestly spectators were more interested in England winning than in watching top-class cricket. They were happy because the interruption meant that their team had a better chance of drawing the match. To that end they were content to spend hours twiddling their thumbs. Anything was better than the possibility of defeat.
Even when cricket was played, the mood of the crowd bordered on the demented. To watch the faces of English supporters in the public stands when an Australian wicket fell was to see a mixture of hatred and hysteria. Not the least shock experienced while sitting amongst spectators was the discovery that the people singing about Andrew Flintoff were not inebriated students but well-heeled 40-year-olds. What the hell are these people doing with their lives? What the hell is happening in this country?
Quite. One would rather see a return to the days when the action at the crease was incidental to the commentary on the radio about the various cakes sent to the Test Match Special team by concerned listeners.
The silly singing and flag waving by the alleged “barmy army” was a bit much, but to be fair the Aussies have done a fair job over the years into building up the jingoistic rivalry between us (“the whinging poms”) and them (the sheep buggerers). And what is the Ashes trophy itself, if not a hysterical nationalistic over-reaction to a Victorian sporting defeat? Those of us weaned at the teat of Graham Gooch (yeuck- that sounded much, much worse than I intended) in the 80s and 90s appreciated the cricket while the shouting battalions of Sun readers had a jolly good time yelling and dodging work. If all this hooplah inspires some young disadvantaged kid to pick up a cricket bat and play rather than drink alcopops then I’m all for it.
” If all this hooplah inspires some young disadvantaged kid to pick up a cricket bat and play rather than drink alcopops then I’m all for it.”
Those are the saddest words I’ve ever read!
Not this Jonathan King, surely? I understand why he would like his teenagers drunk and short on inhibitions.
Having been there on Monday for the climax of the series, I must say I also found the stirring, patriotic singing highly embarrassing.
But Roebuck is an appalling writer, IMO. He seems to believe that using short sentences lends his prose some gravitas, but it just makes him sound insufferably pompous.
actually, I’m just angry that Roebuck ripped off everything i’d had to say about the Niners/Rams game, especially the part about the mood bordering on the demented.
What, no Opera Dogs?