Promise

They died in their millions, these children of all nations, in tragedy in pathos in cruelty in pain in futility in valour in heroism in horror they died across the earth, many of them at an age where they should be kicking a football round a field with their mates...

And it is our particular lot to recall this, as we do when we do, because we took it upon ourselves. Others honour in their way, this is ours. We made a vow that as a people we would remember and honour them at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. We do this because whether we consider it heroism or a horrible waste, the promise was made, and it falls to us to keep it for the sake of our oath if not for the sake of the dead.

We can watch football every other day of the year, and chuck money at the corrupt joke that is FIFA if we want to be mugs; but on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, we dedicate two minutes to respecting the dead.

It's only a game. Just turn off the telly.