I’ve always been a Gareth fan, simply because the Gareths of this world need us. Young people aren’t called Gareth anymore; it’s all Phaedra and Boo and Gambarzio, but in the old days your name pretty much dictated your life — you grew into it. So Petes and Pauls and Steves were all good, Ryans and Garys were cool, and Gareths and Brians and Martins were mild-mannered and pretty geeky.
Gareth Southgate, right, fulfilled this of course with his managerial style, but observing him I always liked the way he defied his name fate. There were the natty waistcoats at the World Cup, recently dropped for straight-up Garethy white polos at the Euros, but still the man had an eye for style.
Then there was the modern extension of mild-mannered geek, the confident stretch into actually showing that you were kind and sensitive: he supported charities, LGBTQ rights and encouraged his players to talk about mental health.
If only Gareth had won, it would have been a triumph for a new kind of masculinity. But he didn’t
It was all lovely and warm and inclusive and diverse. He was less England manager, more head of HR. But incredibly, he also won big games. We hit semi-finals, then finals, then quarter, then final again … he was an actual winner. Well, very nearly. Almost. I mean, not the actual trophies. They stayed just out of reach. But really the main thing was showing that nice guys can come … nearly first.
This is what’s been bugging me in the depressing and meaningless days I’ve had to fill since the final. If only Gareth could have lifted the trophy, it would have been the ultimate triumph for a new kind of masculinity. But he didn’t and it wasn’t. It’s not just the loss, it’s the excuse for the same old blowhards to demand a return to the good old days when England was England, and footballers were footballers. Which meant they were nutcases and beer monsters, carthorses and donkeys.
They didn’t even have first names most of them, only nicknames: Robbo, Gazza, Psycho, Butch. And playing for England was going to war, specifically the First World War, heading over the top to have their bodies blown apart for the cause: Bryan Robson with his dislocated shoulder, Terry Butcher with his bloodied head wound, Stuart Pearce with his indestructible thighs. They were great, but always lost. We tried hard with lion hearts but it wasn’t never enough.
This idea of Englishmen was increasingly out of time, despite the usual nouveau Oswald Mosleys blowing on the embers for some opportunistic cash-ins. And in football, which always tends to lead the way in the male national identity — which is its own problem — it was now Gareth’s time. He wasn’t a Pep Guardiola genius but he was a behind-the-scenes man, a stats guy, an intellectual, a thinker. This was a better kind of manager/father figure than Terry Venables’s Del Boy schtick or Bobby Robson’s indulgent vicar, one which could have led the way as a true new ideal. If he had won. But he didn’t.
So now we have to revert to received wisdom. That unless it comes to Big Tech or the sciences, nice guys are nice to have around but are, in the end, losers. They’ll get you in the room but won’t seal the deal. For that you need bastards. And expect the next England manager to be a bloody massive one.
The Euros are over... and so are all the hugs
I’m not suggesting I’m lonely and desperate for physical affection, but one of the pleasant off-shoots of watching the Euros was being touched all the time. Old friends with whom I would normally only share a nod when we meet up — or if it’s been years and someone’s had a death in the family, a quick handshake — were suddenly all over me during the football. Bear hugs, arms draped around shoulders, lingering high fives with laced fingers, and a weird twirling erotic folk dance when England won on penalties. Strangers were on me in the pub too, with hearty hugs and an encouraging “come on!” even when I was just going to the loo. It’s a shame men can’t be like this all the time with each other, but I feel a bit nervous about initiating it without a game on in the background. Still, as defeat continues to linger, I need it now more than ever. Hold me, someone, please.
