World Cup Fever Reaches Audlem

GPs Advise Avoiding Penalty Shoot-Outs

There should really be a public health warning. Every four years, without fail, Audlem is struck by a highly contagious condition. There is no vaccine, no known cure and absolutely no point trying to reason with those affected. It’s called the World Cup.

The first symptoms are easy to spot. A St George’s flag appears in a window. Someone dusts off the England shirt that’s been hiding in the loft since the last tournament. Then, before you know it, the village has more red and white on display than a Morris dancing convention and the pubs become field hospitals for the emotionally unstable – particularly when penalty shootouts occur.

By kick-off, every seat is occupied by someone who, until last Tuesday, couldn’t remember whether there were eleven players on a pitch or thirteen. Suddenly they’re discussing high pressing, inverted full-backs and defensive transitions with the confidence of people who invented football. (I have no idea what any of those mean!)

One chap, who still reverses into a parking space using both mirrors and a prayer, is explaining exactly how England should break down a low block. Nobody laughs. Football has that effect.

The Bridge and The Shroppie Fly are transformed into theatres of hope. Pints are carefully balanced. Crisps are consumed at industrial levels. Kick-off arrives and the atmosphere is electric, and only Trump could turn a football red card into a diplomatic incident. VAR now stands for ‘Very American Reversal.’ Who knew FIFA had introduced a new rule? Red cards are now reviewable by the President—provided he stays awake long enough.

Every misplaced pass is greeted with the sort of groan usually reserved for discovering Cheshire East has closed a road for six weeks. Every successful tackle is applauded as though we’ve just cured the common cold. Then England score.

Suddenly, complete strangers are hugging. Dave, who normally complains if someone’s hedge is six inches too high, is embracing Joe Bloggs from Hankelow. Someone spills lager down someone’s back, and instead of starting an argument they’re congratulated on showing commitment. It’s beautiful. For seven glorious minutes.

Then the opposition score.

The silence is so profound that the ducks on the canal briefly stop quacking out of respect. Instantly, the nation’s greatest collection of unpaid football managers springs into action. ‘Should’ve made the substitution.’ ‘We’ve lost the midfield.’ ‘He’s useless.’

Curiously, these opinions are being delivered by people who struggle to programme the television remote. The greatest miracle, however, is the resurrection of 1966. Every tournament, it rises from the dead. Those who remember it tell us how wonderful it was. Those who don’t remember it nod knowingly, having heard the story every summer since they were born. And then comes the sentence that defies all logic, reason and historical evidence.

‘This could be our year’. ‘Could it?’ Probably not. Will that stop anyone in Audlem believing? Absolutely not.

By the quarter-finals, half the village has already mentally cleared space on the mantelpiece for a trophy that hasn’t even left FIFA headquarters. By the semi-finals, someone is pricing flights. By the final whistle… well, let’s just say the phrase ‘there’s always the next World Cup’ gets another outing.

Yet here’s the funny thing. The result almost doesn’t matter. The World Cup reminds us why villages like Audlem are special – we have our own successful Audlem FC who have done us proud and a walking football team ready for action! For ninety minutes, nobody worries about potholes, planning applications, leaking gutters or whether the recycling bin goes out this week. Neighbours become teammates. Arguments are postponed. Laughter is guaranteed. Hope is shared. And for one glorious evening, everyone in the pub is convinced they could do a better job than the England manager.

Steph