In defence of supporting both England and Wales

Michael Sheen has had a problem with the royal family for some time – and it’s only got worse since William was appointed Prince of Wales. The actor, best known for playing Tony Blair but somewhat to the left of him politically, has criticised the notion of an Englishman being nominal head of the principality.

Sheen has lately carved out a niche as a pound-shop Richard Burton addressing motivational monologues to the Welsh football team, to little effect thus far. And he predictably stepped up his campaign ahead of the World Cup: how could William, he asked, reconcile his role as President of the English Football Association with his position as Prince of Wales – particularly when the two nations have been drawn to play each other tonight?

William, who is also Vice Royal Patron of Welsh Rugby, responded on a recent visit to Cardiff. ‘I support both,’ he told reporters. ‘I support England more in the football, but Wales in the rugby.’ I was delighted to hear this. The EFWR Club – ‘England in football, Wales in rugby’ – had a prominent new member.

My first encounter with the EFWR phenomenon was via a friend I grew up with in Kent: David had a Welsh father and an English mother, and reconciled this by assigning one sport to each heritage. It must have helped that his youth coincided with the legendary Wales rugby team of Gareth Edwards, Phil Bennett and Barry John – while England’s footballers had been world champions in the not-too-distant past.

I thought back then that David’s was just a one-off eccentricity but later came across it many times in others. And 17 years ago, somewhat to my surprise, I found that I had joined the EFWR club myself. This is how and why. 

I had been a devoted follower of the England football team since boyhood – and been upset by their failure to qualify for the 1978 World Cup. I’d followed the highs and lows ever since, been to any number of games, at Wembley and abroad, and watched the rest from on (or sometimes behind) the sofa. The last time I missed a tournament match was the ‘Hand of God’ game in 1986. And even that I listened, in horror, on transistor radio (I was at Glastonbury and incredibly in those days they didn’t think it was worthy of showing at Worthy Farm).

My England rugby fandom was a little bit more dilettantish. I had been taken to Twickenham on the school minibus in January 1980 to see England beat Ireland. But it was a little underwhelming and I didn’t go to another game for 42 years (even then only because I got offered free tickets, and it was still a little underwhelming). So I was hardly a devoted fan. But I would watch them on TV and feel quite secure in my support.

This lukewarm England rugby fandom culminated in the Jonny Wilkinson-inspired World Cup win in 2003. This was something I doubted I would ever live to see an England football team achieve. It was genuinely thrilling and I was, I thought, as delighted as the next (English)man. But rather than sealing my devotion forever, the World Cup win was to herald the beginning of the end.

The actual turning point came in 2005. To be precise, it came on Saturday 5 February 2005, in a small pub called the Black Lion in the village of Abergorlech near Llandeilo in Carmarthenshire, at some time shortly after 7 p.m. 

Wales were playing England in Cardiff in their first game of that year’s Six Nations. They hadn’t beaten England since the 1990s and weren’t fancied to. In a characteristically tight game the Welsh were trailing 9-8 with just three minutes to go. But then they got a late penalty. Gavin Henson – the Bridgend David Beckham – walloped it, it went over, and the pub went absolutely nuts. 

I went nuts too. I hadn’t been aware of it, but I suddenly realised that the feeling had been creeping up on me since the anthems: I wanted Wales to win. And when they did I was ecstatic. 

I initially ascribed this to a surfeit of empathy. We spent a lot of time in that village around the mid-2000s and I was very fond of the place and the people in the pub – all of whom, including my wife, were supporting Wales. I wanted her to be happy. I wanted them to be happy. I supported England, I thought, but the nicer part of me, the selfless part, wanted these nice Welsh people to experience the happiness of a rare win over their English rivals. 

But it was a slippery slope. After that win over England, I found I wanted Wales to win the next week, and the week after – and they did. And they went on to win the Grand Slam, the first time they’d done that since those Gareth Edwards days of the 1970s. It was absolutely brilliant, and all I had to do to be able to enjoy it as much as all these Welsh people were enjoying it was just to let myself. All these years on I still let myself. 

The only distinction between me and typical Wales fans is that I don’t hate England. I still hope they’ll do well, that they put on a good show – and come second to Wales. I’m like a footballer who won’t celebrate a goal against a former club. 

To be completely candid, I don’t have a drop of Welsh blood in me. (I mean that literally – I’ve done the DNA test.) In that regard I’m like Prince William but without the breeding. My only claim to Welsh heritage is by marriage via my father-in-law’s Valleys ancestry.

But then I don’t have any English blood either: I was born in Toronto to wholly Canadian parents, so despite living here these 54 years my English identity is acquired rather than inherited. Therefore I think it’s perfectly fair for me to identify as Welsh, with the caveat that it’s only for a few afternoons every year in February, March, October and November. 

Supporting Wales is just so much more stirring. It means so much there, so much more. People talk about the All Blacks and the haka but I don’t think there is any greater spectacle in rugby – perhaps in any context in any sport anywhere – than a Welsh home crowd singing ‘Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’. It makes me cry for my semi-adopted nation every time. 

Incidentally I’ve never come across anyone who does this the other way around ­– Wales in the football, England in the rugby – because it would make no sense: football is English national sport, rugby the Welsh, so with EFWR membership you’re getting the best of both. 

A lot of my English friends and family – my brother particularly – have never accepted my 2005 conversion. I come in for a lot of stick. But my faith is too deep to be broken by scorn. And, to be abundantly clear: this only applies in rugby. In football, as in life generally, I’m very much England till I die. 

And I hope Southgate and his boys give Wales a good thrashing tonight.