Panic On The Eve Of Glory.

Yep, another Saturday morning. But today, the air is electric with pulsating anticipation. As tomorrow's all-important clash between England and Italy is splattered on the first 13 pages of the Daily Mail, plus a further 16 pages in the middle of the 112-page newspaper devoted to the coming football match, together with the back page spread, this gives a total of 30 pages devoted to Wembley. It's quite a contrast to the five-page devotion to the Wimbledon tennis finals that are also set to take place this weekend. And under the shadow of Wembley, Wimbledon is almost forgotten, hiding towards the back of the newspaper.

Wembley Stadium.

And so I stand in line, waiting to be served at our local Starbucks, this particular cafe is annexed to the out-of-town Sainsbury's superstore. Wearing a mask, I watch as my patience begins to drain, as the queue refuse to move. At the counter, this young man was holding his mobile phone over the card-swiping terminal, but it fails to scan.

As the dialogue continues between that person and one of the females behind the counter, I began to sweat as the tension grows. Unfortunately, my patience is often in short supply and today was no exception. The man continues to swipe the terminal. Still no response. Maybe that's why I'm more of a technophobe than a technophile. The old, stone-age, out-of-fashion cash transaction had always been infallible, so reliable. And it kept the queues moving fast. 

Then came the "advancement" of writing cheques. At the superstore tills, I have found this method of payment so slow and frustrating! It's always the customer in front of me. She takes a chequebook out of her handbag and begins to write. She then scribbles, Thirty for pounds 65 pence, and then signs it. Then she keeps looking at it, tears it up and starts again on the next page, Thirty-four pounds 65 pence, and at last, hands it to the teller, who examines it thoroughly before stamping and then activates the till. Meanwhile, I stand there with my head ready to explode. But like any true Brit, I remain calm. And that's despite my 100% Italian bloodline - renowned for shouty protests and wild gesticulation!  

Then came the electronic payments, first, by typing in the bank account PIN code, then by swiping the bank card, and now by holding a smartphone to the terminal. All well and good. If all functions correctly, that would allow the queue to move even faster than even by cash payment. At least one does not rifle through a handful of coins to find that last penny.

But when the smartphone method of paying goes pear-shaped, then that was the nadir of frustration. There was an elderly couple in front of me whose calmness somewhat impressed me. However, after about ten minutes, the young man who held up the queue eventually collected his drink and made for the exit. How the transaction was settled, I can't say for sure, as I wasn't watching him all of the time he stood there. But quite likely, it was done by typing in the barcode, either on his phone, or at the terminal, or both. However, during the long wait, I had built up a sweat, the mask began to irritate, and so I peeled it off whilst still waiting in line.

Being maskless was, once again, the cause of pandemonium. This happened when the elderly couple, who were in front of me, had paid for their fare and were waiting at the collection point. Having then paid for my normal croissant and cappuccino as well, I moved on to join them. They were both masked. I wasn't, as I was due to sit at one of the in-house tables, as I always do.

Immediately, one of the servers behind the counter began to panic. Shouting at me to the point of hysteria to move away from the couple, she ordered me to "stand over there!" Meekly, I did so without making a fuss. Actually, not only were they both wearing masks, but I came no closer than a metre from the wife, who was nearer to me. Throughout the incident, they remained totally calm and did not say a word or even move away. After they had gone - they had bought a takeaway - I was next to collect my coffee. I saw the server's look of annoyance as I collected my cappuccino and made my way to the table.

I felt ill at ease as I tried to read the paper. I rose up and walked into the superstore and bought a pack of three blue biros (blue ink is nicer than black ink.) Then, having returned to the table, I wrote a sincere note of apology at the back of the receipt for upsetting her earlier on. I waited for a lull in the queue before handing the note to her. Almost immediately, she called out and with a wide smile, acknowledged and accepted my apologies. Ah! Peace was restored.

Oh, dear! What kind of a world are we living in? As I collected my coffee, she made sure she had kept a safe distance from where I was standing, despite the presence of the large Plexiglass shield separating us. There is something apocalyptic about the whole population going about wearing facemasks as if hit by a thermonuclear war that had permanently contaminated the entire globe's atmosphere. Indeed, I find this whole scenario rather unsettling, a reminiscence of those futuristic horror movies where everyone wore breathing apparatus to survive. Furthermore, I was taken by surprise by the panic my maskless face had caused. And that's not the first time either.

I haven't counted the times when a passerby had deliberately veered away when we passed each other on a public footpath. A few were even wearing masks - outdoors. Then not to forget last Summer when a Christian group met for an alfresco Bible study in warm weather. After leaving our house late due to the need to nurse my wife whilst she was in pain, I was the last to arrive and the Bible study was already underway. When I attempted to join in, those nearest to me (more than two metres away on both sides) - a near panic ensued, as if I was the disease, a source of potential danger.

Stock Photo.

I could never forget that incident, and it enabled me to realise the psychological damage the pandemic had caused. Instead of seeing each other as fellow human beings, brothers and sisters in Christ, each receiving a greeting of politeness and respect, and to evaluate the best for each other, instead, each one of us had turned into objects of fear, repulsive, to be kept away from. What the heck had happened to us? And the reason to wear masks? The official line is to protect the next person from breathing in your viral breath droplets. But I tend to believe that the real reason for wearing masks is fear. Fear of catching the virus.

I was intrigued when I read about and saw the pictures of the 60,000 who poured out of Wembley Stadium after England had defeated Denmark last week. The mask was a rare sight. In fact, It looked as if there were more fingers on my hands than football fans wearing masks. The exuberance over the win for England had eliminated all fear, or at least most of it, to enable these fans to go about in a crowded environment with hardly a mask in sight. And I would feel very disappointed if I were to turn on the TV to watch the Final tomorrow evening - only to see a crowd of 60,000 (out of the 90,000 when at full capacity) at Wembley, all wearing masks and all remaining quiet if England scores. Dream on! I'll eat my own head if England scores without as much as a whisper from the excited crowd! Yet, didn't our Government ask precisely that during last week's match against Denmark?

Alex, my wife, and I will be on holiday by the time of kick-off, God willing. Knowing my beloved, she detests football so much, that it's unlikely we will watch the match - or at least the first half. But who knows? Even as two football sceptics, I would still be keen to watch at least the second half of the most important football match for over half a century.

And who would I prefer to win? This, for me, can be a difficult question to answer. First of all, as already mentioned, I'm a full-blood Italian. But I have lived all my life here in England. Italy has won four World Cup tournaments (second after Brazil with five wins) and one European Cup (in 1968). In turn, England has won only one World Cup (in 1966) and no European championships. Then to add to this, all my friends are keen England supporters. If I were to cheer Italy, would I be looked down upon with disdain, or even down their noses if England wins? I know one or two who would, and they are Christians. And to support Italy would go against the national flow. Yet considering all that, I would still give Italy my preference due to family loyalty and being my original homeland.

 

The very fact that the England football team is symbolised by the three lions - indicating strength, courage and the ability to win the battle. I believe that the three lions are synonymous with the British Bulldog, that icon of courage, strength and emotional restraint, that ideal typification of the Englishman. My PhD friend Andrew had used this icon in his Facebook posts to equate the British Bulldog with Brexit. Although others have disagreed with him, nevertheless, I can see his point. According to one recent article that appeared in The Daily Mail, those who are more likely, by a narrow margin, to ditch the mask after Freedom Day are Brexiteers. Those more likely to hang on to their masks after July 19th are Remainers. Hence, my friend's perception of equating Brexiteers as having the Bulldog spirit.

Of course, some Brexiteers will prefer to keep their facemasks, and some Remainers will dump them. But I wouldn't mind betting that the majority of the jubilant England fans who poured out from Wembley last week had voted to leave the EU in 2016. But how wide or narrow the margin between Leave and Remain is, that would be anyone's guess, short of a thorough survey.

Yet, this is so, so ironic! Some who are Brexiteers have been accused of "lacking the Bulldog Spirit" by other Brexiteers for not wanting to ditch their masks after Freedom Day, but instead, to keep on exercising caution, including the wearing of facemasks in shops, public transport, and other enclosed spaces. 

On Facebook, I have used my travel experience to demonstrate that the Bulldog Spirit isn't tied exclusively to Brexiteers. As a Remainer, I have hiked the Grand Canyon twice in my life, in 1978 and again in 1995. Before hiking, I became aware of the risks of undertaking such a venture. Hikers have lost their lives on the trails, others were rescued by the ranger, still, others had suffered heatstroke, others still, hyponatremia - the lack of salts in the bloodstream caused by excess drinking of water without an adequate intake of salt. This brings severe pain due to muscle cramps that immobilise the hiker. Yet, I took on the challenge, aware of these risks, to fulfil my dreams and created a photo album full of stunning pictures. The opposite of taking risks is to be over-cautious, thus refusing to hike and missing out on a life experience that is treasured forever.

Given the opportunity, I would walk the Grand Canyon trails again tomorrow. And I voted to remain in the EU in 2016. Risk-taking is not exclusive to Brexiteers.

The Grand Canyon. Stock Photo.

All I can do is wish England well at the Finals. This is a time of joy, excitement, hope. A relief from the months of the pandemic lockdowns and more optimism for the future of the nation, families and individuals. But, instead of relying on human strength and self-confidence, wouldn't it be wiser to remember what King Solomon had written in Proverbs 21:31:

A man prepares his horse for battle, but the Lord gives the victory. 

Far better would it be to give all the glory to God and to credit Him for the victory. To acknowledge God and to submit to His ways through faith in the death of His Son Jesus Christ by crucifixion, His burial, and His physical Resurrection, then not only England, but the whole of the UK would be on a winner.