NO

Xfm drivetime host Dave Berry says bring it on

So completely obsessed was I with what Steve McClaren should do with that clump of ginger pubes on his forehead, that I almost didn’t notice there was a chance England may not qualify for Euro 2008. And in the time it took to say Veet, the flame-headed Klingon was peering out from under his big umbrella and down the barrel of the ‘you’re fired’ gun. England – like the Republic Of Ireland, Northern Ireland, Wales and, probably most unfairly of all, Scotland – were out.

So what should we do? Cry? Burn our clothes? Boot pigeons across Trafalgar Square? No. We must go to that place deep inside our minds, that magical vault that is only ever unlocked during big football tournaments. The place that makes beer taste a little bit more like liquid gold and that tells you it’s OK to leave work three hours early to watch Europe’s best footballers at work. Maybe there are no British teams in it (but let’s face it, the Premiership is a European league now), but that won’t stop me wanting to sit in my living room, in my pants, eating cool original Doritos, drinking Stella and trying in vain to find an angle for the TV where the sun doesn’t shine down on the screen so much that I could be watching fucking EastEnders for all I know.

Once the above has been achieved (I call it my football tournament tick list) regardless of England playing or not, I, as a football fan, want to see Fernando Torres playing for Spain and Cristiano Ronaldo’s skills for lucky bloody Portugal. And if you don’t want to see any of that, it makes you one of two things: (a) a non-football fan or (b) a girl. And between 7 and 29 June 2008, I’ve no time for either.

YES

Maxim’s Jason Timson says he’ll be sulking all summer

Hands up if you knew Steve McClaren was shit and incapable of taking England forward even before he was offered the position? I’m guessing your hand is up – and so is everyone else’s. Even Steve’s wife Kathryn is currently washing-up single-handed. England’s failure to reach the European Championship finals is nothing short of a national disaster.

With the NHS underfunded, old folks being happy slapped, 14-year-olds pissed, pregnant or both, a travel system slower than Frank Lampard, knife and gun crime on the increase, drug addicts, constant pissy rain and a job you hate, life all adds up to a stressful and generally miserable day-to-day existence.

As a nation we long for some type of escape and cling to anything that may pull us together. Flags hang from buildings, scarves fly from car windows, old men wear tiny plastic hats given away free with the paper and pubs are packed with hopeful faces – and for a little while we remember what pride feels like. So desperate was I for this warm feeling of pride, I even found myself cheering on the Eurovision dustman we sent to Belgrade. But now, thanks to mundane McClaren, we have nothing.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am a massive football fan – but the chances of me sitting in a pub drooling over Poland vs Austria are as likely as seeing Gary Lineker without a tan. For me, the summer is officially cancelled. I no longer give a flying fuck who wins it and no amount of Ronaldo’s step-overs will change my mind. Oh look, Scott Carson’s hand has just gone up in my McClaren survey. Keep working on those reflexes, son.…