Review: WHY I STUCK A FLARE UP MY ARSE FOR ENGLAND at the Garrick Theatre

It turns out that WHY I STUCK A FLARE UP MY ARSE FOR ENGLAND written and performed by Alex Hill (which he mockingly disparages as coming on the back of three years drama school training) has acquired something of a cult following from its previous outings at the Old Red Lion, Edinburgh Fringe, a subsequent run at Southwark Playhouse and further afield. The 'for one night only' nature of the West End presentation serves as a prelude to an imminent UK tour and off-Broadway transfer designed presumably to educate New Yorkers' sensibilities on the obsessions of English football fandom — which should prove an interesting experiment.

Billy Kinley (Hill) is finding his extended tribe through football, and in particular, the match day machinations of his club's more mature fan base (although it is immaturity which causes a revelation and turning point, later in proceedings). He spews his love for the beautiful game with gusto and verve, recounting the time he was gifted a Bobby Moore signed leather ball which started everything for he and his mate Adam who bonded as a pair of un-sporty outsiders. Later, falling in with the wrong crowd led by a tall aggressive psycho named Wine-Gum, they embark on ferocious, post-match bouts of toxic masculinity, fuelled by pints and cocaine. Understandably and somewhat predictably, both Billy's girlfriend and best mate, gradually distance themselves from him as he goes off the rails and a telegraphed revelation provides the tragic dénouement and funereal soul-searching which seems de rigueur in this mental wellbeing obsessed age.

On the night of the performance, gently mocked latecomers were treated to a speedily ad-libbed recap as they made their way gingerly to their assigned seats, which garnered raucous audience approval. There was certainly no lack of boisterous bonhomie directed towards the man on stage who during the course of the 75min performance worked his socks off, sweated buckets, downed two pints and theatrically reproduced the act which broke the internet and unwittingly spawned the title for the play.

Directed by Sean Turner and with a simple set backdrop of multiple draped St George flags, the expletive-laden piece manages to conjure the crazed tribalism and irrational projection which means that for many fans, their hopes and dreams literally live or die depending on the result of a match.

For the purposes of the show, the 'othered' character and his eventual suicide, felt a tad tagged-on, but as a box-ticking exercise it provided a moment for theatrical tears and character reflection, which served as an antidote to some of the more garish elements. The excess of swearing alone means this won't be for everyone, but you cannot deny the amount of work and energy expended in bringing WHY I STUCK A FLARE UP MY ARSE FOR ENGLAND to the stage, but goodness only knows what New Yorkers will make of it!