The Brown Horse, Winster... in happier times...

With the World Cup just a month away, the flags of St George are starting to appear, like a red and white rash. Pubs are usually the first to fly the flag - informing their customers, in a simple, graphic way, that 1) the football will be shown live on Sky, and 2) that racism, nationalism and rampant xenophobia will be tolerated - even encouraged - for the duration of the competition. And beyond...

I’ve never been a big fan of what Pele called “the beautiful game”. For every moment of beauty and drama (Gazza’s exquisite goal, say, against Scotland at Euro ‘96) there are hours of cheating, diving, time-wasting, passing the ball sideways across the park, booting the ball into the stands, making cynical, career-threatening tackles, claiming the ball, for a throw-in or corner, every time it goes out of play, arguing with the referee about every decision that goes against them, and a sustained level of boorishness and aggression that makes football hard for me to watch with much pleasure.

I’ve tried, at various times, to get involved in the game... especially when the big international competitions come around. On a warm sunny day, four years ago, during the World Cup in Germany, I walked over the fells to a pub that was showing one of the games. England v Portugal, I think it was. Usually a tranquil haven (as evidenced by my photo), the village pub was packed: mostly big guys with abbreviated necks, wearing rugby shirts, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a massive TV screen. I fought my way to the bar, bought a beer and found somewhere to stand.

The football itself seemed cagey and unexceptional, as big, important games so often are. No-one wants to lose, of course, but all too often it looks like no-one really wants to win either. What I do remember was the relentless fusilage of racist abuse aimed at the Portugese players. I looked around me, at these red-faced buffoons shouting at a TV screen in a pub in the Cumbrian countryside; then I looked out of the window at the countryside itself. I drained my glass, squeezed through the scrum of people and made my escape. I carried on walking, through the beautiful Winster valley, and never looked back.

I don’t have any photographs of football... just the pub.