The World Cup and the storm in a (big) tea cup

It’s funny how politics can be compared to football. So, Turkey and England have prepared themselves for the World Cup and will name the team before the game but what happens if the manager is bashed on the head and nine players are not picked and are kicked out of the team and their country. Step forward the new opposition leader who has decided to throw out 9 leading MPs for the crime of having a personality and for not worshipping their new ordained Sultan. Technically speaking, nearly all the MPs could be suspended for being disloyal. Leaving behind a hollowed parliament, and in football terms one half of a pitch. Now I wonder who will be the winner, over to you.

The mood in both countries prior to the start is quite similar. England last won a major trophy before the earth was made, now expectations year on year diminish. Turkey is slightly different, they had a good Euros but this time it doesn’t feel as strong. There is, however, quiet optimism, if they win a few games the country will beam like an Antalya sun.

In a parallel universe, a little old man sits in a room surrounded by red flags, signing autographs for himself, while the guy he kicked out is surrounded by thousands at a rally and adored across the country. I wonder if he will ever realise he may have made a tactical error. 

The game was due to start at 7am. I woke up just before, sorry I didn’t, I overslept. When I finally woke up at, um, midday, I implored my wife not to tell me the score or to turn on any electronic things, she was in the dark about the game too. It would have been better if we had stayed that way. To summarise, Arda kicked the ball, Aktürkoğlu kicked the ball and Çakır forgot where the ball was, twice. Onwards and upwards. Two games to go, need just one win which is very possible. 

As light relief, one of the “new” leaders of the party taunted the “Pit-Bull” MP, that’s how I describe him due to his dogged determination. He replied with three sick emojis. Sometime a picture does paint a thousand words.

As I prepared for England’s first game, no I’m not playing, but the nerves are like I am, pondering also how well on the pitch the tournament had started. My wife rushed into my room, “He’s gone!” Surely that’s not the English manager, they could at least have the decency to wait till we are inevitably knocked out. No, it was the head of the party in Istanbul who I fondly named as “Dracula.” The “new” old leader was carrying out the great replacement theory, like Doctor Who’s fossilised Dalek was exterminating the party. 

The clock is ticking… There may be nothing left to write here.

So, England won and everyone danced around like over excited puppies. Turkey slipped out by the back door lacklustre, their fate sealed even before a ball was kicked. They had been dealt a poor team and an even worse coach. 

The previous night the homeless undertaker graced our screens. The “new” leader was asked “proper” questions on an opposition channel. We learnt that he went for a walk one day and out of the blue thought oh I’m the leader of the opposition. When asked about all the awful things happening. He said “I know nothing about that I’m only the leader of the party” and then Chaplinesque wobbled of stage. 

I’d had enough of this madness, rule books were toilet paper and nothing made sense. It was with great relief that I was invited up north to promote my book at an international art festival. The coach hugged the coast line, down below small fishing boats and huts hid beneath us. Then in Giresun green everywhere, it was as if God forgot there were other colours, gorgeous. We entered a tunnel like cutting through a giant tree, darkness resting gently on you and me in this beautiful land. (DM/VK)