My lack of devotion to football had been, of course, nothing unusual among the youthful intelligentsia of my college days. It was in fact highly fashionable. In 1980, sport was for rugger-bugger Tories and their lumpen lackeys. Sexy post-punks and their radical ilk smoked rolling tobacco, drank Guinness, talked revolution.

At some point in the late eighties or early nineties, this all died. Soccer mushroomed even in the liberal pages of The Paper. I, though, took no more part in this sea change than I had in the Summer of Love. I was rarely even aware of who was leading the Premiership, and for my national team, I felt emotions which only a good German or a decent Yank can possibly understand: mere relief whenever the gang of repulsive thugs allegedly representing us got kicked out of whatever, thus ending the revolting hysteria.

Ah yes, here it was. Sports News on Virgin Media. The Big Match.

Oh no, for God’s sake, I groaned. It was the worst possible result. England were playing France tonight.

I loved France dearly. France was the main surviving alternative model to free-market neo-con American ultra-liberal imperialism. France was cultured. France resisted Coca-Colonialism (as I intended boldly to call it in the Very Important Presentation). France had workers’ rights and a concern for social traditions. And splendid wine and attractive cafés and bold strikers and people who drove tractors through the walls of McD’s. France had not invaded Iraq. It was true that most of these could be said of Germany as well, but, like most people who study Germany, I did not really like the place very much. I found it fascinating but entirely unloveable. France, on the other hand, was very highly loveable. It was European. It was Europe. Yes, there was the odd glitch in liking France, such as Greenpeace boats being bombed and nuclear tests being continued, despite worldwide pleas, on the orders of Machiavellian Presidents who called themselves socialists but had collaborated with the Nazis. And the fact that France’s multi-ethnicity seemed confined to the football team. But these were aberrations. Without France, and hence without the EU, where would we be? A mere client state of America! Had I found myself in a friend’s or colleague’s house with England vs France on the telly in the background, I would have openly applauded every French goal, as in all likelihood would the friend or colleague. But I could hardly do it in the local bloody pub, sitting next to Phil.

In any case, what was I thinking of? I couldn’t stay and watch the match anyway. I had to escape from the pub soon and get back home to sort out the bloody gun.

But how could I leave an England match halfway through without making Phil and all Phil’s mates think I was a weirdo who merited a nutting and whose sons deserved a good kicking? There was only one way: I had to get someone to call me away from the pub on some urgent pretext.

Who?

Sarah would still be on the plane. I could hardly leave a message asking her to call me as soon as she landed. Telling her that I had found a machine gun in our garden might well worry her somewhat, possibly even ruin the holiday. If I tried to tell her any other story she would know I was lying and suspect the worst. But I had to call someone, to get them to summon me from the pub.

There was only one person left..

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