A new version of a scene from Waiting for Godot, as rewritten by one despairing England fan.

ROY HODGSON:

(having tried in vain to work it out). I'm tired! (Pause.) Let's go.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

We can't.

HODGSON:

Why not?

THE ENGLAND FAN:

We're waiting for an England win.

HODGSON:

Ah! (Pause. Despairing.) What'll we do, what'll we do!

THE ENGLAND FAN:

There's nothing we can do.

HODGSON:

But I can't go on like this!

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Would you like a radish?

HODGSON:

Is that all there is?

THE ENGLAND FAN:

You’re all radishes and turnips. Remember Graham Taylor?

HODGSON:

Am I not a carrot?

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Carrots. Help you see in the dark. Make you realize that your love of the long, aimless ball lumped toward a tiny center forward is nihilism.

HODGSON:

Then give me a radish. (THE ENGLAND FAN fumbles in his pockets, finds nothing but turnips, finally brings out a radish and hands it to HODGSON who examines it, sniffs it.) We’re no good at the back!

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Cahill, Hart, and Smalling ...

HODGSON:

I only like the pink ones—Danny Rose, a man by any other name—you know that!

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Then you don't want it?

HODGSON:

I only like the pink ones! And Milner.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Then give it back to me.

HODGSON gives it back.

HODGSON:

I'll go and get a carrot.

He does not move.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

English football is becoming really insignificant.

HODGSON:

Not enough.

Silence.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

What about an approach based on passing, movement, good first touch. That kind of thing.

HODGSON:

I've tried everything.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Different boots?

HODGSON:

Would that be a good thing?

THE ENGLAND FAN:

It'd pass the time. (HODGSON hesitates.) I assure you, it'd be an occupation.

HODGSON:

A relaxation.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

A recreation.

HODGSON:

A relaxation.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Try. These players care only about their boot contracts anyway.

HODGSON:

You'll help me?

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Nothing will help you now.

...

HODGSON:

Ah!

THE ENGLAND FAN:

There ... there ... 90 minutes. It's all over.

HODGSON:

I was managing—

THE ENGLAND FAN:

It's all over, it's all over.

HODGSON:

I was a football manager—

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Don't tell me! We’re about to walk off.

He takes HODGSON by the arm and walks him up and down until HODGSON refuses to go any further.

HODGSON:

That's enough. I'm tired.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

You'd rather be stuck there doing nothing?

HODGSON:

Yes.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Please yourself.

He releases HODGSON, picks up his coat, and puts it on.

HODGSON:

Let's go.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

We can't.

HODGSON:

Why not?

THE ENGLAND FAN:

We're waiting for an England win.

HODGSON:

Ah! (THE ENGLAND FAN walks up and down.) Can you not stay still?

THE ENGLAND FAN:

I'm sick and tired.

HODGSON:

We’re out too soon.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

We’re always out too soon.

HODGSON:

We fall.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

We fall all of a sudden, like today. Like Ice. Like a land made of Ice.

HODGSON:

We’re out.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

We can go.

HODGSON:

Out out out. (Pause. Despairing.) What'll we do, what'll we do!

THE ENGLAND FAN:

(halting, violently). Will you stop whining! I've had about my bellyful of your lamentations!

HODGSON:

I'm going.

THE ENGLAND FAN:

Well! It’s about time.

HODGSON:

Farewell.

[No one moves. Except Iceland. They move ... on.]