WINNING AT LOSING

So we lost.

It was I'm afraid, as Thanos would say, inevitable.

But we should take some comfort in the fact that as a nation of perennial whingers we are the world beaters at complaining. It is our favourite pastime whether it's the weather, politics or sport. We can find fault with the smallest of things, including even on those rare, sunny, summer days where we become aggrieved by the merest chill of a breeze that passes by momentarily to disturb our spot of garden sun bathing. We'll then retreat back inside having concluded that it is now winter again and wrap ourselves up in a comfort shawl whilst clasping our hands around a mug of hot chocolate that we lament is far too bitter. I'm pretty sure even if we'd won the Euros last night some soccer misanthropes would have complained about the low standard it set for the world of football. I know this because I would have been one of them.

Listening to a couple of call in shows on Talk Sport and BBC Radio 5 after the match, you might well assume there had been some civilisational collapse for which Gareth Southgate and Harry Kane were solely responsible. Several callers sounded on the brink of suicide as they contemplated the existential possibility of never seeing England 'bring it home' in the remainder of their lifetimes. Perhaps we need to reframe this whole 'it's coming home' business and put a ban on any more singing of the wretched Baddiel and Skinner song 'Three Lions' which goes straight into my Room 101 top spot, with D-Ream's 'Things Can Only Get Better' and the entire back catalogue of M People and Lighthouse Family fighting for second, third and fourth rankings.

And if there was a face that perfectly sums up the state of the nation post defeat then it has to be the glum, equine-looking visage of Harry Kane which seems to encapsulate our eternal 'nearly' men reputation that's becoming increasingly cemented. Heavy lies the crown for England's all time leading top goal scorer as he proves that stats mean nothing when it comes to trophies on shelves neither the amount of followers one has on TikTok or Instagram. Southgate too seems to be making us all pay for his biblically long redemption arc where he rights the wrongs of his own missed penalty back in the Euro 96. Poor chap. But we're also being made to suffer having to watch Gareth attempt to put to bed his own demons of the past through his management of the national football team. With each high stakes loss, his nervous blinking becomes more pronounced and I can only assume he is suffering from some form of PTSD. Surely therapy would be cheaper. Personally, I would rather a return to the smashing tea cups style of management of Terry Venables and Bobby Robson than this group therapy approach where not one of us can identify a distinct characteristic of our way of playing or our collective team spirit which seems wholly vague. I believe we're living out the final chapter of what I've been calling the Nick Hornby gentrification of English football that has sucked all the life out of our national game. We surely need to return to something a little more 'blood and guts', 'a touch of the old Dunkirk spirit, know what I mean?" as Harold Shand played by Bob Hoskins gleefully reminds his American business associates in 'The Long Good Friday' (1980).

Of course, just like yesterday's newspapers that we used to wrap our fish and chips in, this defeat will be quickly forgotten and we'll look ahead to the 2026 World Cup which will mark exactly sixty years since we last won anything. That means we have exactly two years to learn how to receive a ball with effortless grace and execute a deft pass like a geometric master just like the Spanish who last night played like kids in the playground, simply enjoying their knockabout as if it wasn't for anything more but the sheer love of the game and not an elite international final.

How about we bring back the love and the passion and blast some 'Jerusalem' in the dressing room and we might just be able to win something. I might even accept the irony of a German coach such as Jürgen Klopp helping us secure glory by winning the 2026 World Cup. But please, for the love of God, no more Baddiel and Skinner. That's triggers my PTSD right there and gets me all a twitching.

No. We can do better. We MUST do better.

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant Land.