Boys in Brazil

Since the eldest was seven, our house has been festooned with England flags, football charts and other bits of red and white tat every time a World Cup comes round.

In the face of their boundless optimism, I am the lone voice of reason: “You do realise it’s highly unlikely they’re going to win,” I tell them.

But still, poor delusional souls, they can’t help themselves.

This year, my husband and 20-yearold Charlie went one better when they realised Charlie’s uncle would be working in Brazil for two weeks during the tournament.

“Why don’t you go and stay with him? He’s got a hotel room right in the centre of Sao Paulo. You’re not doing anything at the moment,” my husband enthused to Charlie.

I had just been laughing at the misguided England fans interviewed on TV the day before who had given up jobs and spent life savings to travel to Brazil for what they called a “oncein- a-lifetime experience”.

“Since when did something that happens every four years become a ‘once in a lifetime’ experience?” I asked Charlie, in an attempt to derail their crazy plan.

“You just don’t get it, Mum,” he said when I pointed out that he didn’t even have any tickets for live games so would end up watching it on TV in bars, which he could do at home.

Given he’s only earned a small sum working part-time in a National Trust tea room since he came back from university, he too would be joining the league of unhinged England fans spending his “life savings” on the trip. At least he didn’t have a job to give up: “And that isn’t a good thing,” I reminded him.

“It’s all about the atmosphere, Mum,” he explained.

“I can give you atmosphere,” I proclaimed.

“What do you want? Rattles, whistles, drinks and nibbles? Shouting, screaming, cheering, crying?

I can produce the lot, right here, for less than 20 quid.”

“You just don’t get it,” he repeated, shaking his head. “You don’t get it,” echoed his dad. “She just doesn’t get it,” said the other boys.

Despite the fact the media and public started out by suggesting no one believed England would do well this year, my boys, of course, had allowed their hopes to soar yet again.

In a strange sort of doublethink, they were soon convincing themselves that, since there were no great expectations, 2014 might just be the year they actually win.

NOTHING was going to stop Charlie. And while his dad might have been miffed he couldn’t go, he was happy to experience the atmosphere vicariously through his son. So he agreed to make up the cost of the £2,000 flight.

Charlie was gone two days later: “You realise they’re not going to win,” I cautioned as we waved him off. “And be wary of strangers, don’t flash your phone about, don’t travel on public transport alone at night, keep your money and bank card hidden in the sole of your shoe…” But I don’t think he was listening.

I read articles about anti-World Cup protests and the safety of fans in Brazil. Everywhere I looked there were stories of muggings and of English fans being beaten up.

In one area of Sao Paulo, known as Crack City, you can buy cocaine for as little as £1, I read. The rich travel with bodyguards by helicopter because of the ‘critical’ criminal threat, said one report.

Another advised tourists to always have money on them: “Because muggers tend to get murderous if they are given nothing.” And I’d just told Charlie to keep his cash in his shoe.

I texted my boy in Brazil constantly, looking for reassurance that he was still alive. He didn’t respond for the first few days. Then I got this message on my phone: “All OK. Just had a bit of a wander down some strange alleyways today. The locals seemed very touchy-feely.”

I couldn’t sleep. He next contacted me two days later: “I was joking.”

His messages since then suggest he’s having a great time.

Sadly, it was all over for England in the space of three hours, in one of their worst World Cup performances.

Of course, Charlie is disappointed.

But he’s still loving all the football, and, of course, the atmosphere.

“Has it been worth it?” I ask him. “Definitely,” he says.

I still don’t get it…

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