Billy Bragg writing on FBOOK about doing a gig during the football final:
I donāt get nervous about gigs very often. I get excited, fired up, buzzing about the prospect, but not nervous. My appearance at the Cambridge Folk Festival was one of those exceptions. My nerves were nothing to do with the event itself or the venue. Iāve played there several times and the audiences are very attentive, as is often the case at folk festivals. My nerves sprang from the fact that I was scheduled to go onstage at 18.40 on Sunday ā five minutes before the end of normal time in the Womenās European Football Final between England and Germany.
Once my excitement at the audacious display that the Lionesses put on defeating Sweden 4-0 to reach the final had subsided, the awful realisation dawned on me. I didnāt worry about missing the match ā I correctly assumed that the signal at the festival site would be intermittent at best, making it hard to follow the game via streaming or digital radio. What concerned me was my emotional state. How would I feel going onstage if we were winning? Losing? More importantly, how would the audience feel?
As this was a folk festival, I wondered if there would be much interest in the game, but Cambridge is an urban folk festival, whose audiences tend to be more attuned to the present day. What if it the match required extra time, if the game is still going on through my set? What if it goes to penalties while Iām onstage? How would winning under such circumstances or - try not to think about it ā losing to Germany on penalties affect the mood of the crowd?
I determined to focus on the gig not the game, to watch what I could of the first half, but to concentrate on doing what I had come to do from half time onwards.
Things didnāt quite turn out that way. I wasnāt able to avoid seeing the first 30 minutes of the second half ā including Ella Tooneās breakaway goal ā but with ten minutes to go until stage time, I was about to change my shirt and do my vocal warm-ups when my tour manager arrived in a panic: my amp was broken. I went straight up onto the stage where the line check was underway and confirmed my amp was unserviceable. A replacement was drafted in, but not the same model. Crucially it had no channel switch capacity, which I rely on to get my smooth (Valentines Day is Over) sound and dirty (Levi Subbs Tearsā) crunch. However, at this point in proceedings, I didnāt have much choice.
I was still fiddling with the sound on the amp, when the stage manager gestured to me to start my set. I was stood onstage in my ācivviesā having had no warm up nor moment to focus my thoughts. I even had my phone in my pocket. I pulled it out to check the time and it opened on the page I had last been looking at. When I left the dressing room, England were winning 1-0. The phone now showed that the Germans had equalised. My heart sank.
āLadies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr Billy Braggā¦ā¦.ā
I took a deep breath and began the set. Concentrate, I thought to myself. You have on hourās worth of songs to play to these people who have gathered to see you deliver a main stage set. With CJ Hillman on pedal steel and guitar and JJ Stoney on keyboards, we performed proficiently, but I could not settle my nerves. Normally, I would focus on something in the far distance and relax into a flow state to allow the lyrics and chords to just come to me, but, looking out of the tent, there were a few thousand heads, a massive sign saying BAR and, unmissable, a huge English flag, drawing me back to the footie.
I was unable to stop myself from scanning the first few rows, looking for someone who was watching the game on their phone, hoping to get some intimation of what was happening at Wembley from their expressions. Sure enough I spotted a gaggle of men and women who were clearly monitoring the game. Unfortunately, standing adjacent to them was a guy who loved the songs so much, he threw his arms in the air on certain lyrics in a manner that looked like he was celebrating a goal. Even when I was looking down the tent, his constant movements drew me back to the game.
I noticed a ripple move through the crowd. England had scored! The group with the phone confirmed the fact and said there were eight minutes to go. At this point, I will admit, I kinda lost the thread of the gig a little. After a couple of more songs, I asked how much longer there was to go. Someone said two minutes and, in desperation, I told the elaborate story of how I fashioned a world class pun at the Electric Picnic in Ireland back in the early 00s. But I got to the punchline before the game ended and, for a moment, I was stumped. But I remembered that people had come to hear me play songs, so we launched into Greetings to the New Brunette. It went like a rocket and the crowd sang along in all the right places, until we got to the end of the last verse.
As I began to repeat the line āgive my greetings to the new brunetteā a wave of jubilation swept through the audience, a cheering, air punching burst of emotion that hit me like a tsunami. CJ and JJ had to end the song. I was screaming with joy, arms aloft, eyes filling with tears. A song immediately came to mind. Not āSweet Carolineā, nor āFootballās Coming Homeā, but Blakeās āJerusalemā. We sang it together in celebration of the victory of Englandās women. āAnd did those feetā¦.ā
It seemed fitting on a number of levels. Firstly, Hubert Parry, who wrote the stirring tune and was appalled that it was used to stir up jingoism in the First World War, gave the copyright to National Union of Womenās Sufferage Societies, led by Millicent Fawcett. They referred to it as the Women Voterās Hymn.
Secondly, England is a nation without an official national anthem: the Lionesses sang the UKās anthem God Save the Queen before their games. āJerusalemā is by far the best candidate for the role among the āRule Britannia/Land of Hope and Gloryā type songs sung at the Last Night of the Proms as, unlike the others, it actually mentions the name of our country.
And thirdly, most anthems are declarations of national exceptionalism: we are great! āJerusalemā is a song of aspiration. It challenges us to improve what we have, to undertake a mental fight to build a better society in our green and pleasant land. Over the past month, the Lionesses have certainly made a contribution to that better society, inspiring girls and women to reach their full potential, challenging men and boys to recognise females as equal in their pursuit of sporting excellence and in their aspirations as individuals.
I still had a couple more songs to play, but the show had already reached itās emotional peak. As I walked away from the stage I knew that this was one of those special gigs, like my show in Belfast the night Thatcher resigned, or the Left Field gig at Glastonbury on the night after the Brexit vote. Both those events were memorable because of the mood of the audience; in Belfast, elated; at Glasto, angry. Cambridge was different, because the mood changed as the gig went on and I was charged with the responsibility of trying to reflect that outpouring of emotion (what would I have done if weād lost?).
And itās not just the victory that we should be celebrating. The atmosphere in the stadia has also undergone a remarkable change too. Fans of the womenās team have shown us that there is a different way to enjoy football, without the belligerent tribalism that still disfigures the game, especially when England men are playing.
Thatās in part down to the way that the womenās team have behaved, their exuberance spilling over from the pitch. Male footballers take themselves so seriously, mumbling cliches in post-match interviews. Could you ever imagine Harry Kane and Raheem Sterling leading the menās team in a jubilant invasion of their managerās press conference?
Iāll never forget where I was when our women won Englandās first top flight silverware since 1966. I could have been sitting alone in my hotel room, or home with my partner. But I was onstage at Cambridge Folk Festival, experiencing the jubilation with several thousand other people. Short of being at the game, I canāt imagine a better place to be.
Two games in to the season and Carlisle are unbeaten.
Admittedly most of the xG came from that Crypto FC game, where Carlisle showed that you donāt need to have possession of the ball much to deservedly win a game.
And we have a contender for the Fallon dāFloor award, in the first round of the season.
Lee Tomlin got what he deserved there.
In the National League, Dulwich Hamlet won their first game of the season
Clapton CFC Men start their season at home to Stonewall FC this weekend, a game between friends rather than rivals.
I think however many concussions Favre has had is too many because 50 concussions per year is simply impossible. Thatās one concussion per week. They had 17 weeks of play and six to seven weeks of preseason/training camps. Unless heās running around and playing tackle football for the remaing 28 weeks, this means that heās concussed multiple times in one week. (Note: practices are essentially touch football during in-season play, and it verboten to tackle the QB.)
Also note, I was using Favreās 16 game schedule.
Its possible Brett Favre has no real recollection, mainly because of concussions
Woman beats dog
Aaron Rodgers offers āIm sorry you misunderstood me when I deceived youā non-pology.
And he did so on the Joe Rogan podcast.
I get the impression this guy is a dick.
Excellent news!
(NY Times reprint on Yahoo)
Amuricah is at its core a violently competitive country. 
End of reign stops play
Bit late on this, game complete.
