The Beautiful Game
Robert Wingbottom was the Labour M.P. from Whalley Range and Quentin Dorset-Wibbs was a Tory for East Woking, Surrey. They were mirror images of each other in the mirror of political beliefs. Rob had been a staunch supporter of Jeremy Corbyn and Momentum, but after what happened to Diane Abbott, he chose not to express his credo too openly, but he never reneged on his core beliefs. Quentin thought Thatcher was a softie, and had on more than one occasion wondered if he would not be better off in Reform, but worshipped her anyway. The two men had often thrown vitriolic invectives at each other, and had both been rebuked by the speaker for their use of unparliamentarian language.
That the MP from Whalley Range supported Manchester City should not surprise anyone, but not the logical and no-nonsense Dorset-Wibbs himself could explain his attachment to that same team, with its working-class affiliates. Except perhaps that surprisingly, the man who had single-handedly destroyed Harrow at Lords in 2011 could read the beautiful game better than most football pundits. If he was not engaged in running the country, Lineker might have needed to fear for his job.
The two men had often seen each other at Etihad, but had both made it clear that they had no wish to join Sheikh Mansoor over Champagne, caviare and prawn sandwiches. If one was with the Sheikh, the other kept as far away as possible from them.
Inevitably, however, on the day of the derby (v the hated Man U), a serious miscalculationn from both parties saw the two men in the vicinity of a Platinum Box, and the Sheikh pounced on them and dragged them in. They could hardly refuse.
The men who had never exchanged more than a curt nod to each other, more preoccupied with the form of Foden or Haaland than the fate of the zero hour which was a hot issue at Westminster at the time, actually winked at each other. Sheikh Mansoor got an urgent phone call and the two sworn enemies were left together with no chaperon.
The two parliamentarians raised their glasses to each other in silence, neither showing the slightest intention of taking it further. Outside the roar of the crowd was quite deafening. They both exulted in the obvious love that half of Manchester bore in their hearts for their team, and this filled them with a serenity which only a football fan can experience, without being able to explain, let alone justify it. There was, however, a small minority of people that they both knew, who found this fascination for the game a complete mystery. The sort of people who pretend that football is just twenty-two people chasing air encased in a dead animal’s skin, kicking it about with the aim of making it pass through a wooden structure backed by a nylon net, to stop the ball getting lost.
There is no record of who of the two first forgot their unformulated promise, to utter a few syllables. Quite possibly, they did it at exactly the same time. It was something like, “we’ll make mincemeat of them reds to-day.” Again, who followed the first sentence with, “who’s the noisy neighbours now, eh?” is not known. It was Robert who wordlessly filled Quentin’s glass and then his own, before raising his. This was the first time the two men exchanged an expression which was not one of hatred for each other. “In the certain knowledge of who is the best team, may the best team win,” said Wingbottom. Quentin resisted the temptation of showing off and did not point out that when ony two teams are involved, you don’t call the better one the best. Cheers, mate.
After another glass, the teams had filed past the tunnel, to the roar of the near one hundred thousand spectators. “We thrashed Arsenal without effort,” said Robert. “Aye, that we did,” said Quentin, “only been beaten the once for the whole season, so far, I’ll grant you.” They found themselves agreeing that City was by far the best team in Europe. Perhaps in the world, they both corrected themselves. Care for a cigar? Aye, ta, don’t mind if I do.
The reticence was not all gone, and still neither was able to forget that the other fellow was a political enemy.
The match started briskly, and it took City no more than three minutes to score their first goal. It was a bad pass to the keeper by Casemiro, pounced upon by Foden who made no mistake. The two men cackled like a pair of drunken fishwives. Call themselves a premiership contenders. They’ll struggle to avoid relegation. Our B team would beat them senseless any day. Ferguson never reached Gardiola’s knees. That Bruno Fernandes is such a whinger. That Casemiro is the dirtiest player in the premiership. Höjlund should be playing Championshp football. Only if the team has no expectation of promotion. United is so pathetic.
They went on along the same lines for another five minutes, scarcely paying attention to the game, at the end of which time, they felt a strong affinity for each other. Today was going to be special. As every City fan knows, City winning is bliss, United losing is heaven, and City beating United is … orgasmic. City scored number two just before half-time. Once the two men concurred, a bond sprang up between the two men, forged in the fires of hatred for Manchester united, that not even a confrontation at Westmister could dent.
