Que Sera, Sera: An Alternative Journey to the Fifa World Cup

By Scott Gilmour

Que Sera Sera recounts the factual story of England’s qualification for World Cup 2002 through the eyes of an Englishman on his journey through France, the UK, South America and Italy.

Using a timescale starting with England’s first qualification match in October 2000 and ending with the World Cup Final in June 2002, my journey takes in Bournemouth, Buenos Aires, Chile, Bolivia, Chicago, Paris, Milan and more.

Que Sera Sera describes my quest to watch each England game in the face of adversity, language barriers and uncountable obstacles.

With a strong emphasis on cross-cultural differences and the problems encountered when moving to a new country, this book is part travel log, part football review, and part observation of foreign culture, way of life and language.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326741648

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Que Sera, Sera: An Alternative Journey to the Fifa World Cup

Que Sera, Sera -

An Alternative Journey to the FIFA World Cup

Copyright © 2016 by Scott Gilmour

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

ISBN: 978-1-326-74164-8

www.sgtranslations.co.uk

A Journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

- Confucius

I don’t want Rooney to leave these shores but if he does, I think he’ll go abroad.

- Ian Wright

October 7th 2000

England 0 v 1 Germany

Location: Bournemouth

October 7th 2000: England’s final game at the original Wembley Stadium, against the long-standing adversary Germany. An historic day, evoking memories of Moore, Charlton and Stiles, Hurst's hatrick and people on the pitch.  The importance of the occasion would surely motivate the players and inspire them to a momentous victory over the old enemy in the first game of England's qualifying round for World Cup 2002 . 

Kevin Keegan had been in charge of the National Team for just over a year and a half, and although he still had the support of the nation behind him, results were disappointing to say the least.   The Euro 2000 fiasco had highlighted the England team’s inability to pass a football to another white shirt and only a handful of players came out of the tournament with any credit whatsoever.  The Road to World Cup 2002 was just the tonic the country needed, surely? 

My girlfriend Claire and I had recently returned from Paris where we had been living and working for several years, and arrived at her parents’ house in Bournemouth on the Friday night in buoyant mood.  Due to a series of complicated events and circumstances that really do not warrant further explanation, I had been deemed exempt from "The Talk" that Claire’s Dad Tony gives to any fella involved with any of his 3 daughters.  Fine by me Mr O’Neill.

Claire and I had initially met in Paris at the beginning of 1997 when we were both on year-long work placements from university.  I was sharing a flat with 2 girls from my degree course, one of whom worked with Claire.   We saw each other a few times out and about, but when we left la Capitale that summer we lost touch completely.  That is until we met again, completely by chance, in late December 1999, having both returned to Paris to work after graduating.  It does sound so romantic, a chance meeting in Gai Paris, but if the truth be known, we met in an English bar – my local, the Freedom and Firkin, on rue de Berri, just off the Champs Elyseés.  My brother Lee was over for a few days for New Years and met me in the Freedom after work.  Whilst I was ordering drinks at the bar I felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned around to see Claire.  It may have occurred in an English pub, but, as the Parisiens say – "Paris, c’est magique".  The rest, as they say, is history.   In October 2001 we had been seeing each other officially for almost a year, but because we were far from home, we hadn’t met each other’s family.  This was a big weekend for me. 

The next morning the sun was out, the newspapers were, as usual, full of inflated optimism and it was still warm enough to wear shirt sleeves.  The day was getting better by the minute.  We travelled on Saturday morning to Claire’s sister Emma’s flat in the Westbourne area of Bournemouth where we were to watch the match with most of Claire’s family, and stay the night with Emma and her then boyfriend Nick.  We planned to watch the game in the imaginatively named Westbourne pub, a huge bar offering drinks promotions and boasting a colossal screen.   

By midday we were all in The Westbourne, several pints the better, and looking forward to a new start from Keggy’s boys.  Due to the lack of defensive midfielders available for the game, Keegan had decided to employ Gareth Southgate in a holding midfield role, protecting the defence.  Strategic masterstroke or tactical suicide?  Only time would tell. As rain set in over Wembley, and England walked out wearing their unlucky, and let’s face it repulsive, grey/pigeon turd creation of an away top, things were beginning to look gloomier.

Come on then, get into the bastards!!  Get into ‘em!! Being particularly vociferous concerning all things football, having perhaps the only voice in the pub with an accent deriving from anywhere north of the M4, and being surrounded by my girlfriend’s family for the first time, it was perhaps not the best moment to be gobbing off in such uncouth language.  But 4 pints of Export in, who cares? 

The match itself was a bit of an embarrassment to say the least.  Keegan committed tactical hari-kari in his midfield selection, and Germany ran the show.  After 14 minutes Dieter Hamann scored with a long range speculative free-kick against David Seaman (now where I have I heard those words before?) and England had no reply.  Scheisse !  The final game at Wembley had been an utter washout.  To compound matters, Keegan immediately resigned as national team coach.

Staggering disappointedly out of the pub and into the pouring rain, we stopped at Westbourne’s most famous chippy, Chez Fred, and stumbled the 200 yards or so back to Emma and Nick’s flat.  Chips eaten and feeling decidedly sleepy by 9:00pm, my bed was calling, and in a deep slumber dreaming of Michael Owen’s headed winner, I was woken up with a jolt by an unidentified girl barging into our bedroom, shouting and yelling at a level altogether unsuitable for my delicate state. "Wha’s goin’ on?  Hangover already seriously kicking in, and head banging like an outhouse door in the wind I could only manage the following words; Who are you?", "No, but who the fuck are you? repeated over and over for a good 10 minutes until she departed, whereupon my vocabulary increased to Who the fuck was that?".  I’m sure she was thinking exactly the same thing - and who could blame her? 

So all in all a really good day; we had not only lost our last game at Wembley against the Old Enemy, started our qualifying stage disastrously, lost our national team manager, I had a mammoth hangover, had insulted Emma’s best mate, and quite possibly, unknowingly affronted Claire’s entire family in the pub.   Oh well, back to Paris for me then…

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go.  I travel for travel’s sake.  The great affair is to move.

- Robert Louis Stevenson

Steve McManaman once described Zinedine Zidane as ridiculous. You can't get a higher compliment than that.

- Jason McAteer

October 11th 2000

Finland 0 v 0 England

Location: Paris, France.

In the five years I had spent in Paris, during and after my studies, I had witnessed the transformation of French football, from sleepy European backwater, to all-conquering masters of European and World football.  I had successfully endured several years of gloating and ribbing, both in the workplace and whilst socialising, and was completely accustomed to my French friends' oh-so-hilarious 1966 related gags. 

I had been living in France on and off since 1995, combining studying, work placements and full time employment.   I felt at home there, partly because of the cheap wine, beer and ridiculously good value for money of Parisian restaurants, but also because of the magnificent culture and architecture, fascinating cities and towns and all round different attitude to life. 

At the end of 2000 my time in Paris was coming to an end.  I simply had to tie up some loose ends on the software project I was working on before I officially severed all ties with the company.

October 11th was a Wednesday night, just 4 days after the Germany debacle at Wembley and a chance for England to get back on track in qualifying for Japan/Korea, against a decent Finland outfit in Helsinki. 

In their infinite wisdom (or perhaps simply due to the lack of available alternative) the FA had appointed Howard Wilkinson as temporary coach.  Optimism was pretty much non-existent, but anything less than a point would be catastrophic, and anything less than a win would make things very difficult for us.   

After work I went with a few French workmates and a few English friends to my local, the Freedom and Firkin, just off the Champs Elysées.  There was, as usual, a good crowd of expats in there, but to be honest the general feeling was that these days English players can’t pass, shoot, score, head, tackle, or actually play football.  Basically, we were a long way off the standards of our continental neighbours, and in particular, of la Sélection Française.  French football was, and still is today, a model of footballing and forward-thinking excellence.

I was France when they won the World Cup in 1998 and also Euro 2000.  Both victories thoroughly deserved. However, unlike in the UK, where fans will go football-mad well in advance of a tournament, with shops selling out of flags, merchandise, BBQs and beer, the French seem to take a while to warm up to the tournament vibe.

It often feels like a large part of the population doesn’t really feel any affinity with the National Football Team.   Rugby and cycling are France’s 'real' national sports and between France's great Platini-inspired team of the 80s and a large portion of World Cup 98, the French public were rather apathetic when it came to football. Until World Cup semi final 1998 that is.  On the day of the legendary encounter with Croatia in which Lilian Thuram, scoring a superb brace, emerged as France’s Jean d’Arc, Napoleon, and de Gaulle simultaneously, several of my colleagues suddenly expressed a more intense awareness of the game than the apathy they had previously shown throughout France 1998.  My Parisian boss at the time, a highly driven and rather ruthless lady, with no interest in football whatsoever, enquired as to whether or not I would be watching "le match tonight, as she had been looking forward to it for ages.   What, since the quarter final you mean?  Anyway, I felt obliged to test her newly acquired fascination with the beautiful game; Who’s playing?, I replied.  France, came the response.  No, no, who are they playing against?  Then, mustering all the contempt that would be appropriate had I asked her if she had just craftily let one rip, she gave me a disdainful glare.  And how am I supposed to know?". 

Don’t get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for