Firstly, thank you to everyone who has read, liked, commented on and shared my ramblings from the Chaise Lounge over the last few weeks. They were never meant to be anything more than the thoughts of a middle-aged bloke shouting at a television and occasionally frightening the dog, but so many of you came along for the ride. It made the World Cup feel like something we all experienced together and I genuinely appreciated every bit of it.

This morning I woke up with something that felt remarkably like grief.

It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. It’s football. Twenty-two people chasing a ball around while the rest of us convince ourselves it somehow matters. Yet for a few glorious weeks it mattered enough to make everything else fade into the background.

A Holiday from Reality

I remember feeling something similar during Italia ‘90. When England went out, Nessun Dorma suddenly stopped being an uplifting anthem and became something I couldn’t hear without feeling a lump in my throat. Friendships were forged in pubs over those few magical weeks, only to quietly dissolve once the penalties had been missed and everyone drifted back to ordinary life.

Thirty-six years later, the feeling wasn’t really about football.

For a few weeks it had disguised everything else. The loss of my dad. The little reminders that 58 isn’t 28. The odd ache that wasn’t there last summer. The conversations about pensions that somehow creep into everyday life. The uncomfortable thought that there are probably more years behind you than in front of you.

Football, of all things, became a holiday from reality.

It gave me permission to forget. For ninety minutes, and then for the days in between, life was simply about the next match, the next team, the next impossible dream. All the other worries politely waited outside the door.

Then yesterday it ended.

The Cruellest Morning

This morning felt strangely empty. The sort of morning that should have been grey, windy and drizzling to match the mood. Instead the sun was shining, the sky was blue and the birds carried on as if England hadn’t just committed the sporting equivalent of calmly locking themselves in their own garden shed.

I couldn’t help thinking how beautiful today would have felt had we simply held on. The same sunshine would have looked brighter. The coffee would have tasted better. Every conversation would have started with a smile rather than a sigh.

Instead we were left wondering how on earth we managed to lose from exactly the position we’d spent the whole tournament trying to reach.

The Moment We Lost Ourselves

That is probably what hurts most.

Argentina were there. On the ropes. They weren’t some unstoppable footballing machine. They were cynical, streetwise and held together by the fading brilliance of a 39-year-old genius who, with a little more courage and a little less panic, might just have been contained.

Instead England scored, immediately forgot how to play football and spent half an hour behaving like a man carrying a priceless Ming vase across an icy car park. The more terrified they became of dropping it, the more inevitable the smash felt.

It wasn’t a tactical collapse as much as a psychological one. It was as though the fear of throwing away the lead became so overwhelming that we handed Argentina the very escape route they’d been desperately searching for.

When the equaliser finally came it was less of a surprise than a confirmation that the nightmare we’d all watched unfolding had finally caught up with us.

The Long Journey Home

Perhaps that’s why today felt so flat.

It was like coming home from the best summer holiday you’ve ever had, opening the front door and remembering it’s Sunday evening. The suitcase still needs unpacking. Work starts tomorrow. The holiday tan is already fading and before long you’ll be wondering whether it really happened at all.

Those wonderful few days between matches had become part of the holiday too. Reading previews. Watching endless analysis. Imagining the next hurdle. Believing, despite decades of evidence, that maybe this time would be different.

Now there is only the third-place play-off, a fixture with all the emotional appeal of the Charity Shield. It exists because somebody decided tournaments need a consolation prize, despite nobody ever looking remotely consoled.

The World Cup can’t end quickly enough now.

Although one small favour would be appreciated.

Spain, if you’re listening, could you please do the decent thing and beat those dirty, cheating bastards that we so generously invited back into the game?

Tomorrow is Another Day

Then perhaps, by Monday morning, the spell will finally be broken.

The sun will still be shining. Life will quietly get back to normal. The grief will fade into disappointment, the disappointment into memory and, before too long, someone will mention qualifying for the Euros and we’ll all convince ourselves that this time will definitely be different.

After all, supporting England has never really been about winning.

It’s about hope.

And despite everything, despite the heartbreak, despite the psychological collapses and despite the years of glorious, inventive ways of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, we’ll all be back.

Because that’s what we do.

The holiday may be over, but eventually the sun shines again.