I didn’t expect to be back here this year.
At some point in the future, maybe. It’s been close a couple of times recently, so the law of averages would probably make it likelier than not. But this year? Wasn’t top of my list.
It was sixty years ago that I was last here. Sixty years! And things have changed, as you’d imagine. Back then it was the swinging Sixties and Twiggy was all the rage. There was love in the air. Carnaby Street was in flower. Pet Sounds had just been released.
It’s different this time. Busier, louder, and under the surface there’s an ominous feeling. I think it’s pressure. Everyone seems to be carrying around an invisible weight, pulling them down.
Back then there was a feeling of lightness and optimism hanging in the air; the country finally shrugging off the last vestiges of the war and moving forward.
This time, conflict is back. Not the physical kind with weapons and fighting and death and fear, although that’s happening overseas. No, this is a war of words; a split in society. You can hear it in their conversations and feel it in the atmosphere.
Where neighbours once felt close-knit, now there seems to be division and bitterness. I’ve seen it before, elsewhere. It was temporary then, I hope it is here as well.
I like to think that my arrival brought people together again, even if for the briefest of moments. I tend to do that when I come to a country. That’s what I like best about who I am and what I stand for. I bring joy, and happiness, and a feeling of invincibility.
For a time that is; It doesn’t last. But it’s good whilst it does.
I’ve spent a long time in South America over my lifetime. I keep going back. The people there are financially poorer, but they are rich in so many other ways. They really love me, and the happiness lasts longer. It helps that they’re confident that even if I leave, I’ll be back soon. And when I return the parties can start again. Samba-time!
I pause as I hear the record playing in the background again. It’s been on repeat this week; every station seems to have it on their A-list. It’s a crowd-pleaser, so why wouldn’t they play it? They’ve been waiting sixty years! They should enjoy the moment.
I feel a fuzzy warmth inside, and pride in the effect I seem to have on people.
I also remember those that didn’t make it, especially those that fell at the last. “It’s only a game!” they cry, but you can feel their pain, their heartbreak. It’s more than that, I say. For a few, it is life itself.
So here I am, and here I will stay, until they take me out of the cabinet and pass me on to the next country. If I’m being honest, I’m hoping it will be somewhere in Asia next time. Unlikely I know, but it would be nice to visit a different continent for more than just a few weeks. There’s just so much of the world still to see.
In the meantime, I’m going to soak up the sights and sounds. The culture, the history, the tradition. The pageantry and the people. Their fortitude, their invention and their diversity. And the rain. The endless rain.
It feels like home. My home. Perhaps that’s why they sing about it.
“It’s coming home!” they chant. Over and over again; in the streets, in the pubs, on the televisions, on the radio. “It’s coming home, it’s coming home, it’s coming, football’s coming home!”
And this time, I did. I came home.