The morning after

Apologies for the late arrival of today’s blog. I have been unwell this morning, almost certainly as a result of having drunk something that disagreed with me. Seeing the game run into extra time, I was forced to delve into my emergency stash of Thatchers Gold. Luckily, penalties weren’t needed, otherwise I’d have been ploughing through my partner’s impressive selection of ‘craft’ real ales. Thanks to Harry Kane for saving me. Oh, what a night!

Anyway, that game. On balance, I thought England deserved to beat Denmark. In the cold light of day, I have to acknowledge that our penalty was never a penalty in a million years, although at the time I was convinced that the otherwise brilliant, and at times unplayable, Raheem Sterling was taken out by a Danish defender and not thin air. That Harry Kane missed the resultant penalty but knocked in the rebound was of little concern to me. An own goal and a dodgy penalty. How very England.

As befits the one-eyed, completely biased football fan, who spent the previous evening cursing the BBC’s Steve Wilson and the execrable Danny Murphy for rubbishing the Italians who, they explained, would be rolling around at the slightest contact as they beat Spain, I was quite happy as Harry Kane and Jack Grealish ‘won’ a series of free kicks and were praised for so doing by the dull as ditchwater pairing of Sam Matterface and Lee Dixon. The truth is that everyone does it, at every level of football, but when emotion takes over everything else doesn’t matter.

I actually do remember the last time England were in a World Cup final in 1966. I watched the game at my grandparents’ house on Sandown Road in Brislington on their tiny black and white television. I could have been at the game, too, because my dad had tickets for the England v West Germany match. He wanted me to travel by train and he’d meet me at Paddington and take me to Wembley. But I was only nine and far too much of a wuss to undertake such a journey. It was probably not the best decision in my life. I won’t have tickets for Sunday’s final against Italy but I just can’t wait.

Roy Keane, on ITV, declared that England and Italy are “the best teams in the tournament”. In terms of achievement, you have to say that’s correct but surely his assessment is purely subjective. I’d struggle to say England are better than France, Belgium and even Spain, but in the end it doesn’t matter. We’ve made it and now just 120 minutes and the lottery of a penalty shoot-out separates us from even more glory.

I’ll definitely be glad when the tournament is all over. I’m not sure that all this stress is any worse for my heart than the Thatchers Gold is for my liver. But for all that, we have that rare opportunity to be proud of our country. In recent years, our so-called leaders have sought to divide us through endless culture wars and today those very same people are riding on the back of the success of the national football team. Yet this isn’t about fake patriots like Boris Johnson or Priti Patel: it’s about a thoroughly decent manager, Gareth Southgate and his group of mainly young footballers who have allowed us to dare to dream, to dream that a better world is possible and for most of us to unite behind one thing, football, instead of being at war with each other on just about everything else.

Yesterday has gone and for England football fans we focus on Sunday’s final, where Caroline will be sweet and our team will never stop us dreaming. If history is anything to go by, this could be the last major final England will play in during our lifetimes. That will be foremost in my mind when I order in supplies for Sunday’s final.

But always remember: it’s the hope that kills you. Let’s enjoy it while we can.

Photo: NME