In a development that has sent shockwaves through the international football establishment and caused at least three middle-aged men in Croydon to weep into their pints, the Republic of Cape Verde has qualified for the World Cup. Yes, you read that correctly. A collection of ten volcanic islands off the coast of West Africa, with a population roughly equivalent to that of a medium-sized British city like Leicester, has done what the combined might of the Football Association, Gareth Southgate’s waistcoat collection, and a nation of 67 million people could not: it has engineered a triumph of the human spirit that makes you want to stand up and salute something, even if you’re not entirely sure what.
From the cobbled streets of Mindelo to the sun-baked squares of Praia, the scenes have been nothing short of biblical. Men and women, young and old, have poured into the streets waving flags, dancing, and weeping. One local fisherman, interviewed by our correspondent via a crackling WhatsApp connection, described it as “the greatest feeling ever” before breaking down in tears and promising to name his next catch after the team’s goalkeeper. Another reveller, clutching a bottle of grog (the local firewater), told me: “We are a small island, but we have big hearts. This is for everyone who ever doubted us.” And let’s be honest, who hasn’t doubted Cape Verde? I certainly have. Vaguely. In passing. But no more.
Now, what does this have to do with British values? Everything, you short-sighted, pasty-faced naysayers. The Cape Verdeans have displayed more grit, determination, and sheer bloody-mindedness in a single qualifying campaign than the entire British cabinet has mustered in a decade. They have done it without multi-million-pound training facilities, without a Premier League conveyor belt of talent, and without a single appearance on “Match of the Day” (though, to be fair, that might be a blessing). They have done it the old-fashioned way: by being plucky, resilient, and thoroughly decent. In other words, they have embodied the very spirit that we Brits love to claim as our own, but which we have increasingly outsourced to smaller, hungrier nations.
Let us not forget that this is a country whose national football team was only founded in 1979. That’s the same year Margaret Thatcher came to power. Think about that. While we were busy inventing the Sinclair ZX Spectrum and arguing about the Winter of Discontent, Cape Verde was just getting its boots on. And now, forty-something years later, they are preparing to take on the world while we are preparing for another summer of soul-searching and penalty shoot-out therapy.
The British government has been notably silent on the matter, possibly because they are too busy trying to figure out how to claim credit for it. But the people of Cape Verde don’t need our approval. They have their own joy, raw and unadulterated. It is the joy of the underdog, the small nation that refused to be cowed by history or geography. It is a joy that reminds us that football, at its best, is not about money or politics or VAR controversies. It is about the simple, profound thrill of achieving something against the odds.
So raise a glass of gin (or grog, if you have it) to Cape Verde. They have earned it. And if you’re feeling particularly patriotic, maybe buy a Cape Verdean flag and wave it outside your local branch of Greggs. It’s the least we can do.
