Homeward Boundaries

What can happen whether we win or lose

A time-sensitive post today.

Here is my late son, Jackson—snapped by a friend on July 11, 2021 in Trafalgar Square, just before England met Italy in the Euros final.

Back then, I objected to Jackson posting similar images on his — and other friends’ and family members’ — socials. I pointed out that we lived in a world where, taken out of context, certain imagery may be potentially compromising; he had a skinhead simply because it suited him… however, would everybody read it that way?

And that was three years ago…

Was I being a bit sanctimonious? Possibly, though I had only the best interests of a then-19 year old young man at heart. However, Jackson (and others!) told me in no uncertain terms that I was being completely ridiculous. And (because context is everything) now, of course, any image of my late son looks beautiful to me.

Yet I still instinctively feel very uncomfortable with demonstrations of tribalism. I don’t enjoy crowds, I find mass singing/chanting/marching and (unless it’s a gig or festival audience) placard/flag/phone/lighter waving all a bit too martial-gladiatorial. I’m just not a rally-round-ANY-flag kinda girl… But I very much want England to triumph this evening. There is something about the individuals in this team — and Gareth Southgate’s dogged belief, his calmness and apparent sweetness — that makes me feel like *everyone’s* mum.

Anyway, I posted a version of this on my socials this morning and a couple of friends kindly suggested I punt it out for print. However, while flattered, I don’t want to write about Jackson in newspapers. (Yes, The Mail on Sunday published an article about Jackson by me back in April, however that was a reprinted Substack).

Interestingly, on Facebook, one of my (female) friends then posted: I am actually reading sports pages, I’m so interested and engaged and we will be watching tonight. But sometimes the very male massive bellowing chants that erupt from the stalls can fill me with a low-level buried feeling of something almost like dread. Can’t really explain it.

I replied: Hm… I think (never having thought about it before!) that’s it’s an instinct saying: if this mood turns, you will need to run. It’s essentially the fight/flight ‘thrum’ - and for women, specifically, that invariably means flight…

As a recently qualified online (human) *chatbot* for Refuge, I stepped back from that role when Jackson died. I hope someday to return, however in the meantime I do very viscerally think that the feeling — the ‘thrum’ to which my friend so cleverly refers (and my ‘thrum’ is very much in my solar plexus) — is linked to a sense that mass gatherings always have the potential for violence… while acknowledging that my friend’s own ‘thrum’ may be something entirely other.

Almost immediately after this exchange I hopped randomly over to another social platform, where the journalist Jo Elvin had just posted this (and I hope she doesn’t mind me reproducing it here!):

Absolutely do not want to kill anyone’s buzz about the match tonight. And we know that in many ways football is a force for good. But I’m sorry that it’s also a fact that domestic abuse incidences increase by 26% when our national team plays. It’s up by 38% if they lose and 11% the day after, regardless of the result.

So, yes, I really do think that’s the ‘thrum’.

Meanwhile, somewhere beyond any thrumming, out there in the great Whateverness, bouncing on his toes on the periphery of the Event Horizon, my dead son — the passionate, knowledgeable Spurs/England fan with a brainful of player/match stats — may be singing his heart out, again. And in London, where he is spending the day with some of Jackson’s mates, I hope his younger brother will be doing exactly the same.

And just now I’ve found out that one of my stepsons (who conveniently lives in Berlin) has miraculously bagged himself a ticket for the Final… wow. Come on England!