One problem with writing a diary for this particular week is that there is an event at the end of it that will change the character of all that came before. I’m writing this first entry before I know the result of the Euro 2024 final, so it feels like diarising in the dark. I know that describing, for example, how things felt on 6 July – the night when England scored five penalties to beat Switzerland in the quarter-final – is pointless, as an experience that was, at the time, euphoric will become in memory melancholic if we don’t win the tournament; conversely, it will be more upbeat than it was at the time if we do. All memories will shift, added by joy or subtracted by sadness, depending on the result.
Something I’ve been wrestling with is the amount of people inviting me to places – to their houses, to pubs, to parties – to watch the football. I never want to. I am too anxious if I watch it at someone else’s house, as I worry that I will not be sat, in relation to the TV, at the exact the angle I want to be, or there will be someone who’s not entirely focused on the game who wants to talk to me, or – worst of all – someone will get up to go to the toilet and block my view just as a goal goes in.
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