I couldn’t understand why my husband was suddenly supporting Germany.
It was the 2006 World Cup. I had bought a flatscreen TV in Selfridges expressly so he could watch every match, unemployed as he then was. I added a Terence Woodgate sofa I had queued at 8am to buy in the SCP Curtain Road sale so he’d be both comfy and stylish. Snacks from Ottolenghi down the road. But, hang on, why in god’s name was he cheering on Germany?
He had told me his ambition that summer was to watch every single match, while I was working every hour god sent. (Even that shopping trip for a flatscreen was interrupted by a call asking me to go to London Fashion Week, like, now, and report on the problem of skinny models; I am never, ever off duty. I got home having interviewed David Bailey’s cadaverous wife and told my husband I had 20 minutes to file 2,000 words. ‘Tell them to f*** off’ was his unhelpful response.)
But well, OK, I thought to myself, it is only once every four years. At least he has a passion other than watching porn. It turned out, of course, that the reason he supported Germany was that he had met Daphne while travelling in India on my credit card: a New Yorker whose parents were, you guessed it, someone my father had fought in the Second World War. Or her grandparents, to be more precise. Yes, of course, she was younger than me: the only score that counts.
Football became both the glue in my marriage and the thing that tore us apart. When I took him, not long after we met, to Ian Fleming’s villa in Jamaica, he insisted on watching every match of the Euro 2000, blinds drawn against the sun, while I scrabbled on my knees in the middle of the night to find a phone socket so I could file my column.
But football also brought us closer: I bought a TV for our bedroom so we could watch Football Italia together. Result? I became more intimate with Italian stars Nesta and Maldini than I did with him. He was a Spurs fan so I drove him to matches, even called Karren Brady to ask for special away-game seats.
Liz Jones with her ex-husband Nirpal Dhaliwal… football became both the glue in my marriage and the thing that tore us apart, writes Liz Jones
On their wedding day… Why did I travel many times to my husband’s parents’ birthplace, India, but he never showed the slightest interest in getting on a train to Chelmsford? writes Liz
This is what I do, you see: I am the person polishing the ice in our marital game of curling, while he just opened cracks, crevices. How lovely it would be to have someone arrange something special for me; I am racking my brain, but I have to admit that has never, ever happened. No tickets to anything, no tech bought so I could sit back and enjoy. No treats, no surprises. Why is that?
During the 1990 World Cup I was working in Haymarket on a new magazine, renting an attic flat in Finsbury Park. I would hop off the 38 bus at M&S in Angel on the way home, buy salads in pots as I had no plates, no cutlery, and be enthralled by Gary Lineker and Paul Gascoigne, entranced by Nessun Dorma.
I was inspired by the players’ bravery, talent, tenacity, and I was utterly convinced my life would change for the better. Life wouldn’t always be a struggle – one day I would win. Football inspired me. You simply have to never give up.
And here the football is again. A marker, asking me where on earth I am now. When I met Neil, the cheating b*****d, he would text to say he was watching a match, which I thought gave us something to talk about. He was staggered by my soccer knowledge, the fact I adored Zinedine Zidane. Had done a cover shoot with David Beckham. Been in the Chelsea dressing room for a piece about Armani.
I shared his passions… but when I showed him my passion, videos of my horses, all he said was, ‘Nice’
But when I showed him my passion, videos of my horses, all he said was, ‘Nice.’ Why do men show no compunction to learn about our hobbies, our obsessions? Why don’t these matter? Why did I travel many times to my husband’s parents’ birthplace, India, but he never showed the slightest interest in getting on a train to Chelmsford? It’s hardly exotic, I grant you, but it’s what made me. Why were you never interested in that?
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- Nic is claiming compensation for her injury on my insurance. To do so, her consultant must fill in a tiny section of the form. After three months it is finally returned, riddled with errors, such as saying Nic is only partially disabled, when she can’t work or drive, and omitting to say her torn rotator cuff requires surgery and a long period of rehab. Me? I’ve lost £17,000 in earnings already…
