Be still my beating heart. Tonight it will be all over. But for now, I am – what’s the word I’m looking for? Anxious? Overwrought? – I think that rushing to the loo every time I think about the football match, is probably more apt.

We can just get lost in the most beautiful game in the world- Kristina Chetcuti

The past week has been measured by a countdown to Sunday. It’s not “What will you be doing on Sunday?” but “Where will you be watching the match on Sunday?” It’s been 10 years since the last encounter: England and Italy playing against each other is the ultimate match we all long for in every international tournament.

Remember the World Cup in 1990? I don’t for the life of me remember the final but I recall every minute of the token third place play-off the day before: Italy vs England; Gascoigne vs Schillaci. And Italy won.

No surprises there. I did some counting the other day and realised that in my lifetime I’ve watched the two countries play each other a whole of nine times.

Out of those nine times, England won only once. They lost six and drew twice. And you will now understand my hyperventilation: because I support England I have signed myself to perpetual prescriptions of bitter pills.

I watch all their matches with a heavy heart, eyes half-closed, my head hanging to one side. I tell you it was such joyous relief these past two games to actually straighten up and be able to look at the television screen straight in the eye, so to say.

But then again I don’t really want to get too excited – England always crash out in the quarter-finals on penalties. Arrgh.

Which of course begs the question: why on earth do I support the boys in white? It’s a family thing. I always watched football with my father, a Rule-Brittania-supporter if ever there was one. It never sort of crossed my mind to side with anyone else. It still doesn’t. Mainly because the love of football is not about the present game,but in having a massive collection of past (lamentable though they maybe) memories.

My daughter unfortunately is having none of this ‘God save the Queen’ singing. When during the last World Cup, England kept losing, as they do, and Spain kept winning, she announced she was going to cross the floor. Ah, the pain of that.

I have no option but to try and see the glass half full. Maybe the new generation is moving on: maybe this is the end of acute rivalry on the island. All very well and la-di-da, but it sort of spoils the fun, doesn’t it?

It’s odd, this frenzy of ours to side with either Italy or England when it comes to international football competition. It is of course a direct result of the fact that Malta is always out of it and that being Mediterranean, we need to root for someone and be loud and make noise.

But undoubtedly it stems from the political language question at the turn of the century. Lou Bondi once went so far as to say that if you side with Italy in football, then you automatically vote PN. Which of course is utter balderdash. But there might be crumbs of truth in the fact that the original PN founders were quite Italianised, and of course favoured the Italian language over Maltese and English.

So politics and football are in a sense intertwined here. This time round, football is certainly a welcome break from politics. JPO? Franco Debono? Who gives a damn. Unless they catch a flight to Kiev, jump on the pitch starkers carrying a baked beans can to cover their parts, we’re safe for a while from their voices and their faces.

And we can instead focus on 22 lads kicking a ball around a pitch. We can let ourselves be enthralled by their Alice hair bands (precisely bits of hair they’re trying to keep out I can never understand).

We can contemplate what’s with footballers and ponytails this year (cringe). And we can mull how come they are millionaire stars despite looking like they’ve grown out of the ground (Wayne Rooney).

Best of all we can just get lost in the most beautiful game in the world.

If England lose out tonight, there’s a Plan B. Here’s an exclusive scoop: the two teams will be meeting again in a friendly on August 15. That’s on Santa Maria: 70 years to the day when the British-manned World War II convoy sailed into the Grand Harbour. Surely, surely England would win on such a day?

krischetcuti@gmail.com