When I was small, Big Ben meant a little bit more. The picture of sophistication, fancy accents, tea and scones, England and Great Britain, the Queen, and elegance, red busses and funny-dress soldiers.

Football, not soccer, the beautiful game. I fell in love, my first love, even before I knew it, I’d love it until today.

Then came Chelsea. I was about ten years old back in 2006 when my cousin and I decided, this is the best team, they never lose, this is now our team.

London, the bridge, the great prophecy that it is always falling down. I love it.

Then, the dark years came. The teenage years, when I discovered reality television. Geordie Shore, Newcastle, up in the North East – somewhere near the Scotland border…

The image quickly began to change, as my pubertic years grew on, so too did the picture of England as the center of crazy, drunken, passionate youths of Europe, we’ll at some point, probably the world.

History. You know William Churchill was captured here in my country by the opposition in the Anglo-Boer war?

History. My ancestors probably hated they colonization at the hands of the country of my dreams?

I always did love studying history, knowing where all of this comes from. Testing my will, identity and zeal, will I grow to reveal retrospection or retroaction?

Progression, I need to see London, I need to feel the Chelsea blues, read the morning news, the Daily Telegraph, share a drink in an old English pub, use words in their original context…

England, a young lad’s fantasy.


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