I’ve never really understood the literal message of the whole ‘football’s coming home’ thing. Great song, wonderful sentiment but football is at home. Well it is in my home, all the bloody time (as Mel would say). Its here. In England. Home. Obviously it means the World Cup is coming ‘home’. Yes, the Jules Rimet trophy is as English as… as a baguette. As a Renault. As a baguette the size of a Renault.

But let’s not get mired down in pedantic literalism on the morning after the GREATEST NIGHT OF OUR FUCKING LIVES!!!!!! Unless you have sufficient personal antiquity to remember that magical day in 1966. But only old people remember that, not us kids.

Everyone had said all along how Columbia are a great team, an underestimated team, a team with skill, talent, ability and lots of goals in them. And all of that is true. But is not how they decided to play the game. Because Columbia is not Japan. Where Japan has sushi, Columbia has cocaine. Where Japan has honour, Columbia has cocaine. Where Japan has a desire and dedication to always achieve to the maximum of individual and collective potential; Columbia has cocaine. And so the Columbians played in a way that their culture accepts. The culture of Pablo Escobar, who murdered, maimed and tortured. That was apparently their model last night as they set out not to ‘play’ but to inhibit, to foul, to wrestle, to disrupt and to try to upset England’s flow and rhythm rather than establish their own.

Unfortunately it worked. And the Columbians didn’t so much ‘park the bus’ as ram it constantly into the England team. Which worked up until the 57th minute when one assault on Harry Kane proved just too much and we won a penalty. Which Harry, obviously, dispatched with the class and style that we’d all expect of the BEST STRIKER EVER TO WEAR THE SHIRTTTTTT!!!!

And then a weird thing happened. The Columbians were forced by circumstance to actually try and play football. And they did. And they are good. Yet in a game of very few ‘chances’ for either side, they never really looked threatening. We were ‘hanging on’ and it looked comfortable. But if 24 hours is a lifetime in politics, 24 seconds is an epoch in football. One great shot from Columbia, one corner kick, one goal. In the 94th fucking minute.

Extra time was dull and predictable other than one lovely move ending in a half-chance for Danny (Spurs-til-I-die!! or til someone else pays me what I’m really worth) Rose. And so to the heart-stopping, nail-biting, hide-behind-the-sofa-ing penalty shoot-out. OMG!!! England NEVER win those. And yet, 10 penalties later, one brilliant save from our goalie and three wonderful strikes from Spurs… sorry, from England, plus some other bits and bobs resulting in anguish for the Columbian-Arsenal keeper, we had won.

We had actually won a penalty shoot-out in a world cup match, FFS.

So is it ‘coming home’? Whatever ‘it’ may be? I have no idea. I’m still trying to digest the obscene amount of pizza I ate last night as my contribution to the ‘national effort’.

Bring on Sweden. I’m ready. Got Dominos on speed-dial.

Amazingly happy Wednesday

A xxxx