Like the person at the heart of a sad montage. The one who’s awake when everyone else is passed out around them, with bottles and cigarettes and torn one dollar bills strewn across the room. The one that lights a cigarette from the embers of last night’s fire, feeds vodka to the house plants before going out to watch the sunrise alone.
That’s how I felt when I went to bed last night. After washing up the Pimms and the crisps bowls, after a joint in the garden with friends, after that final penalty saved by Italy, after semi and quarter finals and weeks of screaming and laughing and hoping in that euphoric way that only sports can make you feel. Even after knowing that Italy, the better team, would win, I was hoping, still hoping, and utterly heartbroken when they lost.
It’s not even my country. It’s my home, my adopted country, but not mine in any way. It’s a country of drunk, arrogant fans with colonial and superior ideas of themselves. After Brexit and Boris and other bollocks, it would be right for Italy to win. Outnumbered at Wembley they were still somehow the underdog. But the English are also so fun, tough and mad in the best kind of way. And I was cheering for them, and really really wanted them to win.
And that’s how I surprised myself with how disappointed I was as I went to bed. So sad in fact that I flat out refused to floss.