Marcus Jakt's story turns a quiet pint into a declaration of war.

Football. A game for gentlemen, played by hooligans. Or was it the other way round?

It was the kind of summer that delighted the local tourist board. All I’d wanted was a quiet pint after a day doing the whole seaside thing. Lazing on the beach, frying like a sausage on a grill, smouldering like a kipper in a smoke house. Now I needed a drink. Preferably cold.

I don’t know what possessed me to start winding up my fellow drinkers, their eyes glued to the screen as they knocked back their beer.

Nothing brings out tribal instincts quite so much as football. Except war, I suppose. Maybe it was the sun.

“The funny thing is,” I said to my neighbour during half-time, “that’s not England playing. That’s not England battling it out with other countries. It’s simply the English team.”

My neighbour, dressed in a team shirt and perched on the bar stool next to mine, forced his gaze away from the TV commentary. “What do you mean?”

He clearly found me baffling.

“If they do well, that’s great. And sure, they represent their country in as much as they’re born in England and English football organisations fund them.” I paused, checking to see that he was following me. I think he was. “But why can’t we just acknowledge the talent and skill they display, rather than where they come from?”

“Don’t know where you’re coming from there, mate. We do appreciate talent and skill when we see it, and not just when it’s England playing. But when they are playing, we’ll support them every bit of the way. They play for us; they represent us; they are us.” Thinking for a moment, he added: “Just like other fans support their teams. It’s no different.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, “but few other countries seem to get as worked up about it. Look at the French and German teams. Arguably the best in Europe, maybe the world. There aren’t half as many national flags being flown there. And if they do lose, they don’t seem to feel as humiliated.”

“Well,” said my neighbour, taking a contemplative sip of his pint, “I’m not so sure. The German fans have been known to misbehave as badly as the English have. But anyway,” he added, “like you already said. The England football team is funded by the FA – that’s us in other words.”

“So what? You want to see value for money?”

“Well,” he snorted, “that’s certainly one way looking at it. Value for money. Yeah, I like that.” He plainly didn’t.

I continued regardless. “Well you already get that: English league football is amongst the best you’ll see. It’s just the national team that fails to perform.” I looked around, noticing that our conversation was drawing growing interest from other faces in the pub. “Even then, that’s the same for lots of national sides. Just look at the Spaniards, for example. Even the French have their bad days. As do the Germans. Rarely does it lead to rioting and smashed up towns.”

Clearly, they were curious to hear a heretic speak within the sanctity of a shrine to football. A tanned middle-aged man with a beer-gut and tattoos visible just inside both shirtsleeves spoke up.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “So where you from then?” His tone was aggressive. He had rumbled my foreign origins. Normally, I wouldn’t have minded, but I didn’t see that it was relevant now.

“Let’s just say I live in Britain, and have done so for a long time. My origins are less important.”

“Go on mate.” His voice was less malicious now, almost as if he’d caught himself being too antagonistic. Amiably, he continued. “Nothing to be ashamed of. Tell us.”

I told them.

“And you reckon we’re extreme?” he asked, almost hurt that anybody could possibly think that.

“No,” I began, “no different from fans in many other countries. It’s just that sport is meant to bring us together. Not divide us. I mean, if the England team win, does that make English people any better or superior to others?”

“It’s just a bit of harmless fun!” replied the same man, unconvinced.

“Yeah, that’s the idea. But there’s always a rougher, less savoury edge to it. And all too often it breeds narrow-mindedness and prejudice.” It was pompous, perhaps even patronising, but then I always did like the sound of my own voice.

“Maybe for others.” A bloke whose white face was intersected by a skinny red cross chimed in. “But I don’t see that there’s much to be ashamed of in our history. I mean, sure, bad things must have happened too, but for the most part we got it right. Why shouldn’t we celebrate that?”

“Well, do so if you must,” I said, “but remember that nationality is an accident of birth. Nobody gets to choose their parents.”

A young man wearing a white plastic bowler hat emblazoned with an England cross spoke up. “Well, I’m bloody glad I won the top prize then! I mean, like they say: if it wasn’t for us, we’d all be speaking German!” This was reinforced by a determined nod.

“Yeah.” A laugh from amongst the crowd. “Or French.”

"Or Spanish,” said yet another, catching fast to the mood. At least they weren’t taking it too seriously.

"Even Russian,” concluded the prize winner.

I let it hang in the air for a while.

"Because what?” I began, “England beat the Armada, Napoleon and Hitler, and staved off the Soviets – single-handedly?” But I was too agitated for my own good.

"Us,” said my neighbour at the bar smugly, “and the Yanks.”

"The English-speaking world?” I asked, with sarcasm.

The prize winner spoke again. “It’s true. No other empires have been as benevolent.” He believed it.

"The Spanish Armada granted,” I replied, “was overcome by the English fleet alone. But the moment we start venturing past the 17th century you really have to start acknowledging the Scots, the Irish and the Welsh as well, don’t you think?”

Much nodding. I waited to deliver my killer punch.

"Yeah, obviously. Brits,” agreed an unidentified voice, markedly more sympathetic than the people before him had been.

Here it was: an open goal if ever there was one. “But beyond that, gentlemen, at Waterloo you tend to forget the Belgians, the Dutch, and the various German states that contributed to the French defeat.” I paused, looking around at blank faces.

Silence for a moment.

Unimpressed, the tanned beer-gut spoke up. “Yeah, but under British leadership.” Thinking for a moment, he continued. “The point is, we’ve always been on the right side, even when we’ve had to stand alone to be on the right side. Like against Hitler.”

"Yes. Against Hitler. Alone.” I said.

"Yes, alone,” insisted the beer-gut, noticing the challenge. “Until the Americans came and helped us out. Mind you, we had to wait a few years for them.”

"Ah yes. The Americans, to whom we all owe a ‘blood-debt’ for their part in events 60 years ago,” I said, still waiting to take the ball on the rebound.

"Trust them over the Europeans any day,” interrupted the prize-winning bowler hat. “No offence.”

I looked around the pub, trying to meet everyone’s expression.

"But it’s incredible!” I said, “Okay, yes, history’s important. But leaving aside the highly tenuous notion that it’s possible to owe anyone a blood-debt.” I paused for breath. “Let’s say that it is possible… well then you do a fine bloody job of honouring the, oh, 20 million or so Russians who fell on the Eastern front fighting Hitler!”

Again, there was silence.

The TV announced the second half would begin in another five minutes.

"The Russians just happened to be the enemy of our enemy.” It was my neighbour who had come up with that answer.

I shook my head. “What I’m trying to tell you is simply that all countries are fucked up – even this country – just in different ways, and to varying degrees. And that pride stops us from even attempting to learn from each other.” I finished my beer.

"Great. But what the fuck does it have to do with football?” the beer-gut wanted to know.

"Yeah,” agreed another voice, “if things are so bad, why don’t you fuck off back home?”

It was the kind of argument that I couldn’t reason against. Not with that much beer, and not with that much irrational chauvinism stacked against me. Maybe it wasn’t knowingly malicious, but they simply didn’t want to know. And I was pretty much like them anyway! White, Caucasian, European-looking. Just with an education.

Still, I had to try, if for no other reason than to salvage some remnant of pride.

"Look,” I said, “I’m not saying they are. It’s just that, you know, nowhere’s perfect. There are good and bad things everywhere.”

"Ungrateful bastard!” cried another painted face, scuffling forward, eyes glaring maniacally. “You come,” he continued, “to a great country like Britain, and all you can do is find fault.”

I looked away from him, returning my gaze to my half-full glass. I’d half decided to down it in one and leave when, out of the corner of my eye, I could see him step out in front of me. “You!” he said, “I’m talking to you!”

On the TV, the whistle blew for the second half.

"Don’t bother. I’m just leaving anyway,” I replied quietly.

A fist slammed into the side of my face. Reeling, I was aware of the reflected gleam of the TV in sweat-blotted face paint. “Damned right you’re leaving!”

Leaving the pub, I stepped out of a little bit of what would, if not forever then for the foreseeable future, be a little part of England.

Outside a warm Mediterranean breeze warmed my face. Costa del Sol.

Back home indeed… to my own country?