Comebacks

Shit! Raul Jimenez scores to make it 2-0. Rubbing salt into wounds, he goes trademark: donning a Mexican wrestling mask to acknowledge his nationhood. We’re down for the count. Laid out on the mat. 1-2-3. It's time to send us back to the locker room for a round of tea and recriminations.

Booooo! (Getty Images)

I should have expected this. We’ve been as profligate as prolific this season. Able to out pass and out manoeuvre teams without winning games. Today looks like one of those days. We haven’t played badly; we just haven’t been clinical up top. There hasn’t been that incision, that brave decision, to cut a defence in two. Three years ago, we were here. In Wembley. A semi-final. Sunnier than today. But with the same gloomy feel. Frustration permeating every pore. The pre-kick off anticipation dissipating into what-could-have-been. We lost then and we’ll lose now. Wolves aren’t Cardiff or Fulham: teams we'd score a bundle against. They are well managed and motivated. I turn to the person I’m about to marry, look at the team I have, and let out a sigh. Loving a team can be bloody painful. “I wish I knew how to quit you, Watford.”

Enter stage left, Gerard Deulofeu. A man on a mission. He wants to prove his manager wrong. Having played most matches this season, he was dropped for this one. Unhappy with his previous contributions, Javi Gracia made the call to bench him. For a man brought up in the Barcelona academy, this is an indignity. I mean people used to say my name in the same sentence as Lionel Messi. And now I’m here on the sidelines whilst a man who goes out with a Little Mix takes my place. Andre Gray! He was playing non-league football a few years ago. Long balls and cold showers. Mud and high tackles. Did I mention I used to play with Lionel Messi?

If Raul Jimenez is the masked Mexican, Gerard is V for Vendetta. Instantly, he changes the game. His positivity sets the Watford end ablaze. His diminutive nature belies his presence. He’s given everyone a lift. Then, it happens. From an acute angle, he sees something. The keeper stands to the left. Two defenders block any potential strike. Yet he sees something. Goods manufactured in Barcelona aren’t ordinary. Like superheroes, they can see through walls. Deulofeu is one such man. With a move befitting a ballerina, he scissors his leg and cuts the ball into the far corner. I can’t believe what I’ve seen. I’ve grown up with Devon White and Neil Shipperley, great lumps of centre forward. I have never seen a Watford player do that.

Goal of the season.

From there, the wind is in our sails. There’s no stopping us. Wave after wave of attack. The pressure is unrelenting. A ball comes into the box, a foot goes into a body, a penalty is awarded. It isn’t so much kicked into the back of the net, but put into a cannon and fired in. 2-2 and we’re going into extra time. Afterwards, Watford striker Andre Gray said, ‘There was no doubt we would win it in extra-time.’ I felt the same. Momentum plays a huge part in football. For all the technical excellence and tactical nous of the great and the good, throw a goal at them and see the confidence drain. We won 3-2 that day. It was Watford’s greatest comeback.

I talk about my favourite comeback because this week has seen two great ones. Normally, this blog is an arts one, where I celebrate such things as film, theatre, music, dance. I would argue these matches have encapsulated all of these forms, coalescing them into staggering, spell-binding entertainment. When football is good it has more drama than theatre, more twists than film, more passion than music, more rhythm than dance. The beautiful game isn’t a cliché; it’s an apt name for something that can be aesthetically pleasing and spiritually enriching.

Liverpool are 3-0 down from the first leg. They don’t have a hope in hell of coming back. Yes, Anfield is a fortress. But Barcelona are little hobbits, able to breach impregnable lairs. Sure, it’s possible that Liverpool will score three goals. What isn’t possible, what I - and no one else can countenance- is they will get through this game without conceding. They have Messi, Suarez and Coutinho: the magic number, a holy trinity, a 5-star trilogy. Liverpool's search for goals will go punished; I do not doubt this.

They cost more than three tenners.

The game starts the way I envisaged. Liverpool are McCartney helter-skelter, all whilst Barcelona create a fairground up front. Yes, Liverpool have an early goal but it’s only a matter of time before Messi puts one away, then they’ll need five. You ain’t scoring five against a defence that includes Pique. The man has been revitalised this season, behaving like a defender who has listened to Marcello Lippi’s audio book, read by Diego Simeone. It can’t be done; it won’t be done.

At half-time Liverpool are forced to make a change. The marauding Andy Robertson, the best left-back in the world, is taken off for Gini Wijnaldum, a consistent performer, but one who doesn’t possess a similar threat. Of course, he scores, powering in a cross from the right. He then leaps to conquer, scoring with a header off the left. It’s 3-3 on aggregate. Barcelona can’t believe what’s happening to them. Normally teams look at our team sheet and quit then. Sure, they come out and play. But their participation is merely symbolic. They know when they read Messi, Suarez and Coutinho that hope is but an illusion. What an indignity! This team pressing, harassing us, as if we’re mere mortals. We’re Ozymandias. King of Kings. Look on our records and despair!... How did this happen? What the fuck do we do? How can we be reactive when we’re proactive? Is there anyone who knows what to do? Please, anyone. Please. Lionel, say you know what to do.

The ball is on the corner spot. Trent Alexander-Arnold runs away from it. I do too. I go to the cupboard to get a pack of Doritos. I miss a moment. The replay shows all. The young scamp has only gone and out-witted grand masters. The run away was but a feint. An illusion. The talk hiding the trick. He wasn’t running away from the ball, but giving us the run around. With Barca players busy watching Arnold, they don’t notice his doppelganger running back and spraying a corner into the box. Origi, a man who wouldn’t get on Man City’s bench, rifles it home. Liverpool are beating Barcelona 4-0. And that’s how the score stays. 

At the final whistle the players conduct a choir. They are Freddie at Live Aid. The song, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’ Thirty years on from Hillsborough, it’s moving beyond belief. I look at The Girl, a Liverpool fan, and hold her hand. We applaud like it’s theatre.

The next night and I’m in on my own. I decide to give the Tottenham game a go, knowing full well that it won’t be as good as the previous nights. Wednesday isn’t a good tele night, anyway. If it was Thursday I’d watch ‘The Good Fight,’ then watch the highlights after. By half-time the game is more or less over. Tottenham have played well but they’re 2-0. down They won’t comeback like Liverpool because they don’t have the momentum. In Liverpool’s game they were starting the second leg afresh. An early goal gave them confidence. Tottenham’s fresh start is worse than their old start. In the first leg they were only 1-0 down; here it’s 2. Goodnight Vienna.

I would have watched this if it was on.

Unlike Liverpool, Tottenham make a tactical change. Fernando Llorente comes on for Victor Wanyama. A big attacker replacing a holding midfielder. Spurs are going for broke. Like Liverpool, a substitute changes everything. Whereas Klopp praised his team as ‘mentality giants,’ Tottenham need to praise their actual one. By sitting on Daley Blind, Llorente squashed his opponent, making him redundant. Everything was going up to the Queen bee with teammates swarming in behind. Soon Lucas Moura had latched onto an Alli pass, spearing it into the back of the net. Then, a Llorente close-yarder was saved miraculously by the Ajax keeper, only for their hero to spill it to Moura. The subsequent ball control was like a Marvel character in full flight. The swish-swish-bang of it was quite insane. Still, Tottenham are behind on aggregate.

To give Ajax credit, they did not surrender like Barca. Being young, they did not have the hubris to expect to be in front. They had their chances, went close, all to no avail. With the clock ticking down, Tottenham kick a Hail Mary into the box. Its knockdown falls to Alli, who pirouettes the ball into Moura. Incredibly, the hat-trick is sealed. From 2-0 on the night, 3-0 down on aggregate, Tottenham win on away goals.

The subsequent celebrations were as moving. Never have I seen a post-match interview be postponed because ‘the manager is crying right now.’ Most memorable is how manager Mauricio Pochettino beckons his staff over to celebrate with the fans. Genuflecting, his arms proceed to tell them he’s not worthy. It’s the players and managers who get the headlines; however, they’re nothing without the staff behind them.

I’ve never seen better back to back football matches. The contrast from agony to ecstasy was the stuff of great narrative. But how has it happened twice? Guardian journalist Jonathan Wilson puts it down to progressive rule changes that mean teams can’t shut out attacking sides anymore. The back-pass rule and protection of skillful players restricts defensive teams from adopting hard tackling, anti-football. On top of that, the top teams aren’t used to defending. In the domestic leagues they’re not challenged, like they are in Europe. Consequently, an emphasis is put on putting the ball in the back of the net and not keeping it out. All of this creates a situation where talented teams are never dead and buried. There’s always the chance for renewal and resurrection. Which is why I’m not worried about Watford’s FA Cup Final next week. Undoubtedly, Manchester City will go 3-0 up, yet with the season being as it is there’s no doubt we’ll win 4-3. Here’s to the comeback!  

Don't Forget The Driver

It’s been a difficult choice this week. What cultural thing have I enjoyed most? Line of Duty culminates on BBC One tomorrow, a denouement that promises to answer the question: who is H? I’m hoping writer Jed Mercurio throws a curveball and reveals Ian Watkins from Steps as the double agent. That ending would certainly piss on the chips of everyone whose been on tenterhooks these past weeks.

It couldn't be him, could it?

I was honestly thinking of doing it on Line of Duty, but the truth is as much as I love the intrigue and tension, I find it po-faced. There’s not much in the way of levity or romantic sub-plots to break up the tension. Don’t get me wrong: it’s great – it’s just a little one note. It’s a great note. A minor or C major (I don’t know much about notation to be honest). I would just prefer to have a few different shades. For all the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet and King Lear, there’s Mercutio and the Fool respectively. If Line of Duty saw a joke book, it would swab it for prints, bag it, catalogue and store it before anyone had a look. Another show I considered was Ghosts, a fantastic sitcom from the team behind Horrible Histories. This week’s episode had a beautiful blend of pathos and comedy, showing signs that it’s developing into something truly special. The one though that I’ve stumped for is Don’t Forget The Driver; I’ve been enjoying it for weeks and I can't ignore it any longer.

Don’t Forget The Driver is written by actor Toby Jones and theatre maker Tim Crouch. The pair met years ago whilst working on a play together. Staying in touch, the two talk regularly on creative endeavors. Crouch’s latest idea was the TV show we see today. Born in Bognor Regis, he saw something compelling in its geography, explaining: “Bognor sits on the edge of England - facing out towards Europe. The modern world has arrived and yet Bognor still has the unmistakable air of a seaside town holding onto its traditional values.” For Crouch, the seaside is the quintessence of Britishness. Its salt, sea and sand serves as a reminder to our past: the holidays that we all took; the smell we all brought back. Further, it remains largely untouched. Technology has not moved in; multiculturalism is elsewhere; modernisation not yet invented. There is still beauty, but it has faded, gathering dust.

Toby Jones (left) and Tim Crouch (right).

A BBC One show earlier in the year The Mighty Redcar invoked a similar mood. The duality of pride and shame felt in these towns. The remembrance of them being busy and bustling, alongside the lament that those times won’t come again. The young want to leave and the old want to survive. Jobs are scarce and the bank manager’s noose grows tighter. Yet for all the neglect and hardship, no one can repossess the sea: the ancient God that provides succour to all. To be by the sea, to have the sand under your feet, to breathe the breeze, is a free kind of therapy.

The first episode begins with a focus on the fridge. There are magnets that cover Edinburgh and Hooky Hole. Nice places but not too far away from home, establishing the parochial character. In contrast to that is the voice from Down Under: on Skype is our protagonist’s brother, Barry, a boorish prick doing nothing to rebrand the stereotype of Aussie men. Peter and Barry discuss their mother who is ill. Thousands of miles away, living the good life, Barry doesn’t seem too interested in her plight. Next, we’re in the living room. A girl and a boy are asleep on the coach. The way their bodies are spread suggests friendship, not coitus. Pete isn’t happy with the girl: ‘Have you eaten my Spanish omelette?’ She can’t remember. She plays sleuth and burps. The evidence is clear: yes, she has. “But that was for my lunch,” Pete replies. This is a comedy of details. Specificity is the stuff of comedy: say ‘omelette’ and you don’t get a laugh, prefix it with ‘Spanish’ and there you have it. Kayla’s burp tells us everything about her: rebellious, uncouth and cheeky. Who needs words when you’ve got gestures? The writing is peerless.

After we’re outside with Pete as he gets into his car, off to work. The camera pans back and in wide shot we see his home against others. You are  There’s the flag of St George flying outside his neighbour’s window. You get the impression it’s not the Patron Saint’s Day or an England fixture; it’s a mark of identity, suggesting a nation that fears invaders. We see one such invader a few moments later. Pete stops for a pitstop and walks the beach where he finds a body washed up on the sand. Afraid, he flees the scene, wanting no part in an international tragedy. Pete has his own problems closer to home: a mum with dementia, an unemployed daughter and a job that just about pays. Charity is fine for those who can afford it, but Pete is time poor and as much as he wants to doesn’t have the strength for it.

Pete (top left) and his problems: Kaya (bottom left), Mum (bottom right) and Fran, his love interest (top right).

Later we find he can escape it no longer. On returning from Dunkirk (he is a coach driver), he finds  a refugee stowed in the luggage compartment. Over the course of the next episodes we see how Pete cannot ignore this young woman. She pricks his conscience and despite his best efforts, his good nature wins out, protecting her in his own cowardly way. Toby Jones who plays Pete is at his conflicted best, perfectly communicating a man caught in two minds, in two worlds: he wants the quiet life, however it doesn’t want him. I think Jones is my favourite actor; I loved him in Marvellous and detectorists for his ability to show the fallible nobility of the ordinary man. He does this again here.

And before I go I must talk about the direction. A few weeks ago I went with my dad to the National Portrait Gallery to look at Martin Parr’s Only Human exhibition, ostensibly about Brexit, but really about our Britain's quirkiness. Like Parr, director Tim Kirkby knows how to show the nation. The camera freezes on British iconography: condiment bottles, food vans, seafronts, cockle stalls and bunting. The camera lingers on these images, contributing to a pacing that recreates the feel of an invigorating walk. The programme isn’t slow, but it doesn't rush around either. I guess it’s the antithesis to Line of Duty cliff-hangers and jump cuts.

A Martin Parr picture. Credit: Martin Parr/Magnum Photos

Don’t Forget The Driver is simply beautiful. So for all the hullabaloo surrounding a certain show, remember there’s an altogether more quiet and dignified one on BBC Two. Don’t Forget The Driver, then – you would regret it.

Don’t Forget The Driver is on Tuesday 10pm BBC2. Alternatively, all episodes are on iPlayer.

Back to Life

George Lazenby didn’t. David Moyes couldn’t. Donald Trump isn’t. Back to Life has.

How do you follow someone, something, iconic that's defined a generation? It’s one of the hardest things to do. Fresh in everyone’s mind is what’s come before: their brilliance, their ingenuity, their class. You’ve been thrown into history too soon. Better if there was a gap, a go-between, to ensure you weren’t juxtaposed against one of the greats.

Back to Life has been put in the TV slot vacated by Phoebe Waller-Bridge. Fleabag achieved what The Office did in 2001, achieving the impossible, writing a second series that surpassed its first, improving on perfection. In doing something original with the fourth wall, in creating a character that captured millennial angst, Waller-Bridge showed she could reflect life and push on art. It was a phenomenal achievement, demonstrating how TV can equal theatre in terms of innovation and experimentation. So how do you follow that?

Fleabag: not an easy programme to follow.

Daisy Haggard’s Back to Life is proving something of an underground hit. It hasn’t been trailed as much as Toby Jones’ Don’t Forget the Driver (which is also great), but for me it’s the TV show of the moment. This week The Girl and I shot through all six episodes on iPlayer. We did consider watching them live on Monday nights, but we were so impressed by the opening we thought it right to watch them all.

The opening episode begins with Miri cutting her fringe. She makes a mistake; tries to even it out; thus making it worse. The camera cuts to a job interview – an interrogation where the ‘no comment’ get out is denied. Nathan presents his findings: ‘Your CV it’s quite gappy. As in there’s a gap in it. It’s mostly gap. In fact it’s all gap.’ Miri hasn’t worked since Fat Face in 2000. Why has she not had a job since? A mealy-mouthed excuse follows. ‘I was travelling.’ The camera cuts to Miri collecting her possessions from prison. Miri hasn’t been travelling; she has in fact been doing quite the opposite. She’s been holed up stationary for the past eighteen years, unable to move a muscle; the only world she's seen is the one from her cell window.

From here, we go back to her release from prison. Her mum and dad greet her. We know they will be entertaining as Carol chides her husband on his hat, “You look like fucking Guy Richie.” On the journey home, Miri breathes her head out of the window, inhaling sensory freedom. Now at home she goes into her bedroom, finding it’s been kept how she left it. Prince, David Bowie and The Naked Chef adorn the wall. Looking at Jamie Oliver, she says, “Thank God, he’s still with us.” Miri, like her parents, has a great sense of humour. Pulling a box out, she observes ancient artefacts: a Discman, printed pictures, a Tamagotchi. The little machine won’t start up; “Rest in Peace,” she retorts. With a wry sense of humour, Miri belies the prisoner stereotype: she has a personality agreeable to all.

The thing is she’s been sent away for eighteen years. You do not serve a stretch for stealing pick n’ mix. Consequently, she receives telephone, online, letterbox and graffiti threats. The community has closed ranks and want her out. Miri doesn’t have many people to turn to. Her childhood friend Mandy is persona non grata (she didn’t visit when she was in prison), her ex-boyfriend Dom is now married with children, even her mother doesn’t appear to trust her (hiding the kitchen knives in top cupboard). Whatever Miri has done has got people scared. No one is buying the idea that prison can reform and rehabilitate: as far as they’re concerned, she is the Bride of Chucky, Myra Hindley, a Kathy Bates character all rolled into one.

Over the course of the six episodes, clues as to what Miri has done are drip-fed. The series has been executive produced by the writers behind The Missing and their influence is felt here. As although it has the beats of comedy, at its heart is a murder mystery. Haggard puts the success of the plotting down to co-creator, Laura Solon. Solon won the main Edinburgh Award in 2005 and went on to adapt Hollywood film scripts. The pair have been firm friends for years, working on BBC sketch show Man Stroke Woman back in 2007. Across the pond, Haggard shared her script ideas, with Solon giving notes for improvement. These skype chats have produced a comedy about a murder that neither descends into spoof (Touch of Cloth) or grotesquery (Nighty Night), instead it pulls off the difficult feat of being serious and funny.

Solon and Haggard worked together on Man Stroke Woman.

For all of Miri’s struggles to forge a new life, she does experience kindness. Nathan, the chip shop owner, takes a chance on her. Like Miri, he isn’t welcome in Kent. The reason is less dark. He’s bringing the worst symbol of hipsterdom to Hythe: leather aprons. An upmarket fish and chip shop is as wanted as a returning killer. Another person who befriends Miri is her neighbour Billy. The two meet when Miri is making a phone call in the garden. Billy isn’t the most socially confident, but his goodness is clear. The only thing coming between a romance is a Brontian madwoman in his attic, raining a volley of cunt curses on Miri. Over the series a Punch-Drunk Love relationship develops between these misfits.

I really loved Back to Life. It occupies the same time slot as Fleabag but shouldn’t be treated the same. Yes there is darkness, comedy, a search for identity, but Back to Life wears its heart on its sleeve from the start; it’s less arch and ironic. Haggard has created something special here, proving the best way to follow greatness is not through imitation, but by being yourself. Back to Life is a laugh-out-loud crime-drama. How many of them have you seen? My guess is none. So watch this one.

Back to Life is on BBC One, Monday 10.35. Alternatively, all episodes are on iPlayer.

The Making of the Women's World Cup

Once upon a time my brother worked for a publication called My News. Its raison d’etre was to provide community news and promote small businesses. Kieran’s job meant leaving the office to report on parish news, council meetings and charity efforts. All important, all vital. However, the one thing that really piqued his interest was sport. During the 2009-10 season he was tasked with reporting on his local team, Watford FC Ladies. A huge fan of football Kieran had never, however, been to a women's game. He was thoroughly entertained. A seven-goal thriller. Unfortunately, all seven went to the away team as Chelsea trounced Watford.

From there a love affair was born. Or more accurately a relationship, as it hasn’t been a passing fling that died a death when he changed jobs, rather a constant in his life for the past ten years. Along with his friend Hamish, they established the UK’s first women’s football podcast. When Hamish moved, Kieran worked with experts from around the globe to provide an in-depth look at the world game. From here, he’s worked with TalkSport, BBC World Service, The Independent and Evening Standard to offer insight into this ever-growing sport. 

If you think he's handsome, you should see his brother.

None of his media accreditations have been achieved by nepotism or luck, they’ve all been garnered through hard work. He’s flown himself around the world, often at his own expense, to report on the game. But don’t for a second think I’m playing the world’s smallest violin for him. When you do something you love, it’s not a sacrifice, rather a pleasure. He has and would do it for no money. (I hope your current employers don’t read that sentence, bro, otherwise your pay cheque might look a bit smaller next month.) Just as fans travel around the world supporting their team, Kieran does the same. First and foremost, he’s a fan. Secondly, a journalist. Probably an entertainer third. (I couldn’t help the David Brent reference.) He loves the women’s game because it is as competitive as the men’s but played with a spirit that befits it. There is less simulation, tribalism and disrespect. There is more personal sacrifice and dedication. With the money being less, you have to really want it.

This love and knowledge of the game has coalesced and led to the formation of The Making of the Women’s World Cup, a book about the origins and evolution of the beautiful game within the biggest tournament of all. The book is co-authored with Jeff Kassouf, a leading light in women’s football journalism, responsible for The Equalizer, a website dedicated to North American soccer coverage. With Jeff in the US and Kieran in the UK, how did these two forge a special relationship? Initially, the pair met through Twitter and then in person at a soccer conference in Baltimore. Striking up a bond, these febrile brains plotted a book on women’s football. With Robinson publishers on board, an imprint of Little Brown Book Group, the two lads have combined to produce a winning tale of inspirational women and teams.

With Jeff being an expert on the American game, he has written most of the chapters chronicling the US’ brilliance. With Kieran knowing less about America, he’s contributed to the sections on England and the rest of the world. The book has a foreword from Kelly Smith, who is only behind Rooney, Charlton and Lineker as England’s greatest ever goal scorer. After that, the book is told out of chronology: a good decision in my eyes as it allows for the writers to crisscross and overlap, adding depth and layers, without succumbing to repetition. Also, it gives it a choose-your-own-adventure feel where you can start with the chapter that most interests you and move through the book how you like.

I chose to start with Jeff’s chapter on ‘The Early Years’ of the Women’s World Cup. What I read re-enforced what we already know: sport, society and politics is intertwined. The racism we’re currently hearing in grounds is indicative of the pernicious rhetoric we hear from today’s politicians. The sexism that female footballers endured was symptomatic of a world where women didn’t have equal opportunity. It wasn’t until 1991 when the first Women’s World Cup took place. Unlike today, FIFA weren’t overly enthused by it. Having Mars company on board as sponsors, they used the confectioner’s as a quasi-stalking horse. If the tournament was successful, FIFA would take credit for it; if it wasn’t the sweets manufacturer would count the cost. As a result, the first World Cup was officially called the ‘First FIFA World Championship for Women’s Football for the M&Ms Cup.’ Even Kim Jong-Il, a fan of big titles, would feel this a little wordy. On top of that, the tournament was truncated into two weeks and 80-minute matches. Clearly, the women weren’t being treated the same as men; the battle for recognition was only just beginning.

The sexism women are subjected to is a trope that runs through the book. When reading about Marta, the greatest player of all time, we read about the challenges she faced to gain acceptance. Born in Dios Riachos in the Alagoas state of Brazil, the region was rife with prejudice. In one sorry tale, she is forced to withdraw from a tournament because an opposition manager refuses to field a team if she plays. As a result, aged just fourteen she travelled three days to play for Vasco de Gama, Rio de Janeiro’s team. From here, she moved to Sweden to play professionally. These tremendous sacrifices got her to the World Cup final in 2007. It’s a travesty that a person who went on to become the world’s best had to leave their childhood, their home, their country to realise their potential – it’s also inspirational, a true sign that greatness cannot be suppressed.

There are so many inspirational stories in the book. One that enthralled was the story of the Japan team. In March 2011, the nation was hit by an earthquake killing twenty thousand, leaving hundreds of thousands homeless. Darkness had descended on the land of the rising sun. With the World Cup just months away, football didn’t seem so important. Japan are a wonderful team on the eye. I saw them in the 2012 Olympic Final with Kieran and was so impressed by their tika-taka style of play. Although they were beaten that day, their use of the ball was sublime, a joy for footballing purists. Poetically, Japan went one step further in 2011. Coming back twice from behind in the final, the game went to penalties. There, Saki Kumagai kicked the winning penalty to take Japan to World Cup glory. Sport cannot rebuild a nation. It can’t reawake the dead. But it can provide dignity, restore pride, when all hope is lost. Even America’s players had to concede that eleven players can't compete with the will of a nation.

So I really loved reading the book, and not just because my brother co-wrote it. I love football and get a kick out of the people who kick it. With sponsorship coming in, participation growing, there will hopefully come a day when we won’t have to hear about sexism in sport. If that day comes, this book will serve as a testament to the people who fought so hard for the chance to play on the biggest stage of all.

The Women’s World Cup kicks off in France on 7^th June, twenty four nations will compete in ninety minute games, with 720,000 tickets already sold. Proof that we’ve come a long way from 1991. It seems if you build it, they will come.

The Makings of the Women’s World Cup is available to buy here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Making-Womens-World-Cup-Defining-ebook/dp/B07K6NR5XF

Wedding Day

The day started early. I heard a knock at the door. It was my mum with a cup of tea and a biscuit. She placed them next to the bed, then gave me a hug and a kiss. Moments later, there was another knock at the door. It was my brother. He came into the room and gave me a hug. I then went downstairs to put sugar in my tea (you just can’t get the staff these days) where my dad was there to give me a hug.

“What happened to the great British reserve?” I asked. “I’ve had three rounds of hugs and kisses and I haven't even sat down.'

They all gave me a look as if to say, “Today isn’t the day for stiff upper lips, for straitjacketed emotions. Today, our borders are unprotected. We will not close off our castle, raise up the drawbridge, stand isolated from others. Instead we will embrace our Europeanness, accepting all, embracing strangers, kiss without quotas, hug without tariffs. Tomorrow, we can go back to being little Englanders, but today we’re the world.” (This was the very look they gave.)

After a breakfast of bagel and jam, I went upstairs to get into my suit. It was really nice to wear something that fitted me properly. Because of running I’ve lost my gut; this means most trousers hang off me like maternity bottoms. My waistcoat also looked pretty dandy. (In a diva episode I asked the groomsmen not to wear theirs, so I could stand out a bit in the photos. This was - as far as I’m aware - my only Groomzilla moment. I mean it’s fine I demanded they call me ‘Sir’ for the day and only speak when spoken to, right?) I also had my dad’s cufflinks on. These were special as these were the ones he wore on his wedding day. He and my mum have had a happy marriage, so I hoped these talismans would serve me well in mine.

Suited and booted, we had some photos outside on the decking, and were ready to go. On the way to the venue I wasn’t struggling with nerves, but my ears. Every now and then my ears confuse the ground for the sky and succumb to pressure. For the whole journey I was struggling to hear a thing and try as I might I couldn’t get the damn things to pop. I tried yawning during one of my brother’s anecdotes. (A difficult thing: he’s been travelling the world working for FIFA.) I tried chewing on an Opal Fruit (yes I know they’re called Starbursts, but I like a name that’s less showy – hence my surname.) I tried holding my nose. (This was fine for the car, but not something I could do at the venue. This gesture could offend my guests.) Fortunately, I’ve been to a lot of weddings. I know the beats and rhythms of the ceremony so well that I could probably do it without listening. Just say ‘I do’ when you’re looked at, and everything will be fine.

Our intention was to arrive early, have a cuppa in the pub nearby, then make our way to the venue. However the pub was closed. My brother and me said they were missing a trick what with wedding season being in full swing. If the pub trade needs advice on how to increase profits, then me and my brother are your guys. Consequently, we waited in the car park for my uncle and cousins to arrive. After a quick kiss and hug, we made our way down the lane to Coltsfoot.

On arriving there was a sign welcoming people to our wedding, accompanied by a stick illustration. I sort of resembled a Golliwog on the drawing, although I was not troubled by this. If my girlfriend wants to commit her life to me, it’s unlikely she is a racist. Or maybe she is, and her guilt is so intense that marrying a mixed-race man is her way of quelling it. No, she’s definitely not a racist. I’m sure of this.

Exiting the car, I was quite overwhelmed. At parties I’m the man who stands on the sidelines, holding on desperately to the person I’ve struck up a conversation with. If they go to the bathroom, I hold onto their leg, crying “Please don’t leave me!” So I found it strange to suddenly be at the centre of things. One minute I was in the car with my mum, dad and brother – just a regular Joe, a Mr Pooter, a nobody, then all of a sudden I was on the red-carpet at the Academy Awards: (“Who are you wearing?” “Debenhams Suit Hire.” “Can I have a selfie?” “Of course.” “How are you feeling about your chances?” “Pretty good. She’s been planning it for 15 months, so I’m confident she’ll turn up.”) Experiencing everyone’s good will towards me was special and very humbling.

We went into the bar area where my brother got me a glass of whisky. I thought about having a pint (of beer that is), but I had visions of getting it down me, and The Girl having to marry a man that looked like the end of a night, as opposed to the start of the day. I was then asked to go over and meet Barry and Brian, our registrars for the day. I did have some misgivings about Barry. I once went to see a fantastic comic called Barry Fearns who did a whole routine about how ridiculous his name is; how no one can take a Barry seriously. This was in my head when I met our Barry. I thought, “This is the biggest commitment of my life and presiding over it is a man called Barry. It’s like having a Chuckle Brother conduct a symphony.” Barry and Brian were great though. Grounded, warm and funny.

The time was now. I stood at the front in a bit of a daze. I could hear again. (Fi lent me a mint that seemed to do the trick.) The sound of the detectorists theme tune rang out, I felt the touch of the kings and the breath of the wind, I knew the call of all the song birds, They sang all the wrong words, I’m waiting for you, I’m waiting for you. And then the bridesmaids appeared, beautiful in burgundy, with smiles suggesting a happy secret about to be revealed. Tailing them was my wife-to-be. I knew nothing about her dress. It was the best kept secret since 'Who shot Phil Mitchell.' When watching Say Yes To The Dress I was ordered not to comment on any of the styles or designs. (I kept my end of the bargain by not watching any of the episodes.) She wanted what she wore to be a surprise. And it was. A lottery win, a special birthday, an injury time winner all rolled into one. Gliding up the aisle to the aching swoon of Dec’s Angel, she was everything and more. Elegant couture framing natural beauty. Breathtakingly beautiful.

Although we were flanked by our nearest and dearest, my eyes were only for her. I knew other people were in our orbit, but she was my sole focus and interest. After our first fantastic reading - Jim doing John Cooper Clarke’s I Wanna Be Yours - we said our vows. In all honesty I can’t remember the sequence of events; it’s all a bit of a blur. But I do remember Hayley, the harpist, accompanying Clea on ‘Your Song.’ I should say at this point that it’s purely coincidental that we asked Clea to sing a song from the man that financed Watford to the 1984 FA Cup Final. Until this week, I didn’t even know Elton John was once Watford’s chairman. Honestly had no idea. Honest. honest. The rendition was so tender and perfect, encapsulating perfectly the song's coda, ‘How wonderful life is while you’re in the world.’ Clea’s mum, Linda, then read a scene from When Harry Met Sally. (Not that scene, the other one.) And with that we kissed; our lives were wed. We walked down the aisle, husband and wife, to Lulu's 'Boom Bang-a-Bang.'

The Girl and I were then ushered away from the handshakes and back pats to have some photos. Sarah, our photographer, was booked because she had done such an outstanding job at Clare's, the bridesmaid's wedding. I thought I would be embarrassed about being asked to pose for kissy-kissy shots. Typically, my photo face is less Casablanca and more Dumb and Dumber. But the beauty of my wife, the sense of occasion, the direction of the photographer, meant I found it easy to channel my inner Bogart and plant roses on her lips.

We were then beckoned into having group shots. This was a lovely moment as it allowed us to have pictures with our family that we don’t see as much as we would like. Also, the friends whose texts and meet-ups sustain us during busy working weeks. We had a lovely photo where our guests made a Guard of Honour for us to walk down, which they then proceeded to make like West Ham fans and blow bubbles at us. (I’ve since looked at the lyrics to the 100-year-old song – and boy is it bleak. I’m forever blowing bubbles/ Pretty bubbles in the air/ They fly so high, nearly reach the sky/ Then like my dreams they fade and die.) Hopefully, this isn’t a portent for our relationship. Hopefully, we will flourish and prosper and not fade and die too soon. Although as a warning against ambition, of dreaming too big and aiming too high, it does suit West Ham - those boys aren't doing much in their new stadium.

After a drink or two, we were ready to be received for dinner to Carole King's 'Where You Lead.' (Usually I’m not received for dinner. The Girl just shouts up, ‘Your supper’s getting cold,’ and I run downstairs.) People stood up for this and wouldn’t sit down until we sat down. I should have conspired with The Girl to stay standing for longer, to see how long we could stretch the people’s patience, but I thought better of it and gave the lambs a chance to graze. Food was great. I had salmon to start, lamb for main and something vegetarian for dessert. (Just 2/3 of my meals and I’ll be a vegetarian.) Following this, we were ready for our speeches.

Andy, my groomsman is a Deputy Head and comedy MC, so he had no problem in getting our cheeky guests into line. Rod, the bride’s dad, went first. His speech was fantastic. He shared ‘it was an accident’ stories about The Girl, before moving onto a bat story that could be an origins story for Batman - if Bruce Wayne was a girl brought up in the Home Counties by public servants. It was then my turn to do a speech. Given the beginning involved mocking my in-laws; the middle ‘I'll have what she's having’ innuendo; and the end contained references only the wife would get ("Hello to Jason Isaacs"), it went well. This shows a Groom’s speech is a cakewalk. You know nearly everyone, so it can’t go badly. I could have done a 10-minute presentation of potential Brexit scenarios and it would probably have gone fine. With The Girl doing a lovely speech thanking my friends and family, my brother stepped up to ‘roast’ me. One of his opening lines was a doozy, the joke of the evening ("Bro, you’re now going to have to pretend to laugh at me for the next five minutes. After all, it’s what I spent the whole of your comedy career doing for you.").

 I turned to my wife and said, “He didn’t, did he.”

She said, “He did.”

When a joke is that well engineered, you have to just accept when you’re beaten. The rest of the set poked fun at my commitment to schooling and approach to carb-loading:  let's just say it had nothing to do with pre-marathon training. But his piece de resistance was his conclusion. Because of his contacts in the media, he managed to get a voice message from Countdown’s Rachel Riley and Strictly’s Pasha Kovalev. Now, I have a bit of a crush on Riley, but The Girl is a Strictly superfan. To have a message from one of the stars of the show turned a ‘ten from Len’ into a 11 out 10 day. It was a lovely speech, so too The Girl’s and her dad’s.

With the room reset, the stage was now set for merriment and mischief. Before the wild hedonism of the disco, a first dance had to be performed. When it comes to dancing, The Girl and I are chalk and cheese. She did ballet for years and has taught dance in school. I, on the other hand, have the hips of a geriatric and the movement of a corpse. If Daniel Day Lewis was to play me in a movie, no amount of method acting would prepare him for my left feet. I love dancing, but I am completely and utterly woeful. It was, therefore, regretful that we chose a four minute song for our first dance. We would have been better with The Ramones ‘Blitzkreig Bop’- I could have just pogoed for two minutes and be done with it. Of course, it didn’t matter. I twirled The Girl, she twirled me. I was lost in love. 

With ‘North Country Fair’ fading, we segued into Hall & Oates ‘You Make My Dreams’ (‘What I’ve got’s full stock of thoughts and dreams that scatter/ You pull them all together/ And how, I can’t explain, Oh yeah, well well you/ You make my dreams come true'). We had gambled on the music. I resolutely said I didn’t want a DJ because I don’t trust them. At my brother’s friend’s wedding the groom had specifically said, “No Black Eyed Peas,” and what did the DJ do? Played them as the third song. Fortunately, our risk paid off. We had great lights from Matt at work, along with a great sound rig from Dec. 

I’ll never forget that last hour of dancing, where we had mass sing-alongs, congas, high kicks, huddles. I’m still laughing at our singing to 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. Garth and Wayne have nothing on us. Louis Armstrong closed the disco. And I shared Louis' sentiments.  During his vocals, I looked around and saw all the interlocking hands: couples, family, friends. I saw my family with hers; hers with mine. And I looked at the woman whose hand I was holding. My friend and future. My reason and purpose. My chin up and well done. And I thought to myself, What a wonderful world.

Married At First Sight

“It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.”

(Freidrich Nietzsche)

In December 2017 I got down on one knee and popped the question. She said yes and my future was sealed.

We first met in August 2013 when I was an aspiring stand-up comedian. (I never got beyond aspiring.) She was a passionate teacher working long days; I was a failing artist wasting long nights. Consequently, we didn't see much of each other. Texts and calls were our lifeblood. And when we did see each other the happiness couldn't last; Monday loomed large, glowering on the horizon. In time priorities changed. As my love for stand-up waned, my love for her unfurled. In May 2015 we moved into a one bedroom flat, providing our relationship with its first true test. Would we live back to back or cheek to cheek? In March 2017 we bought a house.

Over the years we’ve suffered loss, endured failure, been humbled, chastened. We’ve brought out the best in each other, and, now and again, the worst. I think I know her inside and out, what makes her tick, what makes her tock, yet when it comes down to it people are islands; they have their own mind, a place of one’s own, that is for them and them alone. Evidence of this is our 54/80 score on a Mr and Mrs quiz. (She said she cheered more loudly at Watford matches than me. It was this kind of muddled thinking that cost us huge points.) When it comes down to it, I want to know her more, increase our score, whilst recognising 100% is undesirable. (Knowing your partner that well is unhealthy. It suggests you’ve been hit by an obsession virus so hard that you're quarantined from the outside world.)

So I want to spend the rest of my life with her – it’s as simple as that.

I give this backstory because for the past few weeks we’ve been watching Married at First Sight, a Channel 4 programme based on the Danish series of the same name. Now in its fourth series, we’ve watched every one. The premise is this: the modern world isn’t conducive to love. In these fast times of broadband and jump cuts, no one wants to get to know each other. People move quickly: swiping their phone one minute, wiping their dick the next. With sex calling shotgun, love and commitment take the back seats. What to do then when you can’t find someone who shares your goals? You turn to science. The show is like Bear Grylls does eharmony. On that dating site you answer a series of questions; the idea being you’re then matched with a compatible suitor. Only on Married at First Sight you aren’t just paired for a potential date, but an actual marriage.

In the past few series the marriages have either ended in divorce, separation or cold feet so pronounced the aisles been left vacant. Yet show applicants persist: its experts insisting science is the way forward. Now, there is a school of thought here. A lot of the participants say that finding someone for themselves hasn’t worked, so it’s better someone else tries. Reductively, I think some view it as arranged marriage. The thing is it isn’t. In South Asia where arranged marriages are common, they are not done this way. Incorrectly, Westerners see arranged marriage as going in blind. You turn up on the day and hope for the best. The reality is many couples go in with their eyes wide open. Their families have a sense of one another, canvas opinions, co-ordinate meetings and seek their children's consent. And with so many marriages being organised this way, it’s a part of someone’s cultural identity, as expected as sleep. In many countries it would be far scarier if you were given complete freedom on who to wed: all the permutations and combinations would prove dizzying – like being tasked with Brexit. 

Not entirely true.

The problem with the Married At First Sight method is that it falls between two stools: it doesn’t have the sociology of the South Asian system or the psychology of the Western system – instead it carries the heavy stench of capitalism. The advertisers get rich, and the couples count the cost. Putting people who have grown up within one marriage system into another is not going to work. The relationships are doomed before they start.

This series matches Steph and Jonathan. Both lovely people. She works in nursing; he in public housing. The science says they should go together like Trump and non-disclosures; however, it’s more like Donald and Mexicans. As soon as they are married, Steph puts up a wall. Jonathan, despite his best efforts, can’t topple the thing. Steph isn’t to blame – the concept is. She likes a party, whilst he likes a board game. The adage ‘opposites attract’ should apply, right? Well it does if it naturally transpires. As it is, the burden of marriage weighs too heavily. The couples don’t flourish and like caged birds flap for escape. It appears Steph doesn’t treat Jonathan well, but finding two people that work in a flawed system is something no personality test can prepare you for. If I annoy my wife-to-be, she knows it won't be forever. In a true arranged marriage, the cultural expectation means you'll forgive someone. In Married it's full on immersion that your mind can't compute, consequently you can't give it time.

Jonathan and Steph.

For all of my reservations, it seems like the other participants Jack and Verity are getting on pretty well. As we head into next week’s final episode, maybe I’ll be left eating some humble pie. 

Married At First Sight is on Channel 4, Wednesday at 9. Previous episodes are on All4.

I'll be on holiday from the blog next week as I'm getting married. Ainsley Harriott will be standing in.