Bedlam revisited.

I thought I’d recap the events of the World Cup Final in 2002; now it’s fair to say that I’m no eager football fan but every four years I get as close as is possible (for me) to becoming an expert in the finer points of soccer and particularly forecasting the parentage of the many referees who grace our screens.
I have a fierce sense of national pride which I can change to suit the occasion and like to flick from one channel to the next and learn from the so called football pundits. I admit the off side rule is still a hit and miss affair and will gladly leave it to those who know.

My story starts early, very early on the Sunday morning of the final for it’s completion a return to normality.

For electoral purposes my household consisted of three women: my partner Jan, my daughter Sarah and stepdaughter Felicity. Their names have been altered to stave off and legal proceedings and on their insistence to disassociate themselves from me.

A morning in Bedlam:

World Cup Final 2002

Sunday a.m.

I was abruptly woken at 4.0 a. m by continuous door bell ringing, I pretended to be asleep so that Jan would get up and answer it, if it was an overzealous Avon Lady I was sure that she would benefit more than me. Before Jan had reached the bedroom door our trusty guard dog Tyke partially leapt over the stair gate which confined him to the top landing where his ever moulting fur could be vacuumed up. He sent the gate crashing down the 13 stairs, one at a time, it sounded like the Welsh Guards solute for the Jubilee. Felicity had forgotten her front door key and had come home early (4.0 a.m) to watch the World Cup final later which was to be televised later that lunchtime. There was a brief exchange of words between Mother and daughter which was finalised by the sound of Felicity’s Goth boots up the staircase which I suspect would have sounded familiar to Anne Franke. I gathered she wasn’t too happy with the exchange that had taken place and disappeared into her bedroom slamming her door behind her.
I managed to repair the stair gate and coax Tyke back behind it with a box of biscuits, Fox’s not Shape’s he knows what he likes.
I slept late till 9.0 a.m. and was awoken again by Tyke doing his morning session. On appropriate mornings he will practise his barking and whining at the front door, he has found that if he starts to scratch the perspex covered front door panel Jan will beckon him from the morning room where she watches TV from 6.0 a.m. onwards. She will let him out of the patio door and watch him have a crap before rewarding him a biscuit. He’s a very clever dog, I’m sure I couldn’t get her to do the same for me.
I arose to find my usual mug of coffee on the bedside table, stuck to a book that had been placed there to protect the matching coaster to the bed linen. By the time I had waited to see whether Jan was going to briefly join me after my shower; I dressed and went downstairs to find that I was alone. Jan’s car had gone which is normally the precursor to one thing: the phone would start to ring. The phone always rings whenever Jan goes out; in fact the phone always rings when Jan’s in; in fact the phone is always ringing
.
I carefully unfastened the bolted door to the front room which is beneath Felicity’s self-contained apartment (a bedroom with a fridge) and positioned myself for the World Cup final. I had fetched a mug of coffee, and a Heineken cool-filter for half time. I switched on my surround sound system with 15 separate speaker cones and hit the mute button so as not to wake and upset Felicity my non paying guest, I discretely plugged in my 30 year old headphones to watch the pre-match tactical appraisal by the team of football has-beens. Gary Linekers had done a smashing job covering the competition and had completely knocked Des Lymeham into oblivion. After watching a few minutes and many fabulous action replays the phone in the kitchen started to ring, I let it ring hoping that Felicity would wake and answer it, I hoped in vain, after an age, I disentangled myself from the headphones and went into the kitchen to get the phone; there must be a sensor fitted which stops the ringing when a my hand is 3 inches away, it worked perfectly. I resisted the temptation to dial 1471 and took the phone back to the front room placing it with the other 6 remote controls and continued watching the run up. By now it was getting close to the kick off and Felicity had woken and switched on her TV on without the same volume restraints, which I was working under. I found that even wearing my headphones Felicity’s music from above pervaded Lineker’s Leicestershire accent and the Scots twang of Alan Hanson. The dual, music and football commentary was then accompanied by a third sound of water running through the house pipe’s to refill the depleting hot water system as Felicity filled her bath up to the brim. Eventually this background noise subsided and I was able to understand and get the gist of what was being said, some foolish woman had asked for the offside rule to be explained again and I was at last starting to understand it myself when, the phone rang again; this time after two aborted try’s answering a DVD remote control and then a set top box controller I answered it. It was Jan’s son Rupert asking for his Mum. He phones whenever his Nan ‘Davinia’ doesn’t answer her phone (he phones her several times a day) and whenever Davinia isn’t contactable it can only mean one thing; she’s house bound and only leaves when she is brought here.

The match started and looked like an exciting demonstration of football skills. I was able to remove the headphones and enjoy the surround sound without too much distraction from the two-second sound delay from Felicity’s TV commentary upstairs. After ten minutes Tyke started his operatic vocal chord exercise as Jan’s car drove up to the front door clipping a few more inches off the front lawn. Jan and Davinia came into the lounge to greet me and stood in front of the TV telling me about wondrous 2 for 1 offers at the supermarket and Tony’s Textiles before leaving me to watch the game in peace. I continued to watch the evenly balanced match waiting for the spearheaded attack which I sure was imminent. Every few minutes there was a strange noise coming from the rear left speakers that even the Brazilian fans couldn’t muffle. I checked the set-up of my 15-speaker system and was baffled until I opened the door and found Felicity sitting on the bottom stair sobbing. I wanted to put my arms around her, to comfort her, but the sight of what was contained within her low cut blouse precluded that action full stop… I turned her to face me so that I could continue to see the tele through the glass lounge door and feigning interest asked what was wrong before listening to a tirade of swear words which aptly described her mom; I did the appropriate thing……….went back to watch the match without making any comment. I admit it was a little difficult watching the match after what I had heard and more importantly what I had seen, for some peculiar reason I couldn’t quite concentrate.
Apparently, Felicity felt that she had been ‘unjustly’ told off during the early morning altercation for causing the early morning disruption, it was obliviously Jan’s fault for locking the front door when Felicity hadn’t taken her keys, an easy mistake to make.

At half time Jan moved the Dyson closer to the lounge door but thankfully didn’t switch it on; even Jan’s not that brave. She politely enquired whether I would like to go to a garden centre and seemed a little puzzled as to my reply. I warmed a dozen Dolmas for Davinia’s lunch and breathed a sigh of relief when the front door slammed and Felicity went out. Ten minutes later my daughter Sarah arrived home after being at her boyfriends for the night. She briefly said hello before disappearing upstairs. Tyke came into to see me a couple of times with his tennis ball and choose to show me his ball control skills silhouetted by the TV screen just when Brazil scored the opening goal; his life was spared by the action replay.

One day I’ll see an entire football match without interuptions; I look forward to obtaining a better understanding of the passion that the game stirs in the lives of so many simple folk. I look forward to understanding the tribal rituals which take place on the terraces and the sense of belonging when taking part in the mass chanting of anthems. I long to feel the close proximity of a thousand bodies as they press against me. Oh, to take part in a Mexican Wave with the hope of seeing myself briefly on the stadium screens.
All of these delights will be experienced one day I am sure.
Does anyone know what the score was?
I thought it was all over, but it is now.