England are up and running.

 England open up with a convincing World Cup match against Croatia.

So England are up and running and judging by their highly impressive 4-2 victory against Croatia in their opening group match, it does feel like that the American and Central American adventure is destined to go the full distance or maybe we should err on the side of caution. We know what we're going to get from the England football team because the preliminary group stages of any World Cup can often provide us with the most painful headache of them all.

England love to qualify for the World Cup but then it all seems to go horribly wrong, the darkest shade of them all. Perhaps we should approach World Cups from a different angle. Expectations dissolve and then disappear and a grotesque air of anti climax sets in with a vengeance. England have never done things the easy way because that would be far too logical and straightforward. So we bury our heads, clutch at thick clumps of hair, blow out our frustrations and thwarted hopes and just forget about international football for as long as possible. 

The trouble is that we are now fully conditioned and hardened to t England's almost farcical acceptance of the status quo. If defeat on opening night seems a way of life for England, then perhaps their unswervingly loyal Barmy Army should just expect nothing less. But against Croatia, those standard patterns of behaviour have now changed quite dramatically. Suddenly England are winners and it all feels as if the tone has been set, the signs are much more positive and, for the time being, it's onwards and upwards. 

The trajectory for this edition of the World Cup was, as has always been the way in recent years, smooth, completely stress free and undemanding. Sometimes the delusions of grandeur that always seem to accompany England teams to the World Cup are much more of a liability than they should be. But for Thomas Tuchel, their upbeat and cheerful boss, this is the perfect project, the most realistic of ambitions. It looks as if England are fully prepared, beautifully balanced, aware of their deficiencies and shortcomings, just reading from the right script.

During the first 20 and 25 minutes England looked groggy, wobbly, unsure of themselves, nervous and tentative on the ball and hiding in the shadows of their uncertainty. There was a sense of terror and trepidation about England that could only be described as deeply worrying. Maybe they were acutely aware of the fact that thousands of St George's flags were waving forlornly and not having the desired effect. But surely England have had enough of this practice only to find a huge psychological barrier in front of them. 

And so it was in the oil rich fields of Texas and Dallas, England struck gold. Deep in the heart of debonair Dallas, there was always an air of a billion dollar prosperity that has to be seen to be believed. Not that far away, you could probably see the ghosts of the past drifting through naturally pessimistic English minds. In the Wild West saloons of cowboy country, Dallas seemed a gloriously improbable setting for a game of English soccer but then JR Ewing would have probably giggled his head off if somebody had presented Tuchel with a baseball shirt and ball. But they did and nobody cared.

In recent years the World Cup has flaunted its most colourful scenery. From the historic majesty of Russia's onion shaped Kremlin, to the charming amiability of South Africa, the World Cup's direction of travel has taken us to places that some of us could hardly have imagined possible. But from the dusty deserts and often ugly immorality of Qatar four years ago, the World Cup has now come to the USA, Mexico and Canada and the air of glamour, showbiz superficiality at times and then polished professionalism is undeniable. 

And yet for England this was very much business as usual. This was the confident England who had once swotted aside Tunisia in their opening group match in France 1998. Certainly for much of the second half England were decisive and incisive, wound up and animated, reinvigorated and rejuvenated, hungry for goals, direct and purposeful while never losing sight of the passing game that has now been their characteristic imprint under Tuchel. 

With the likes of Reece James, a marvellously assured defender for Chelsea, John Stones, oozing command and composure as a now seasoned centre half and Manchester City's Nico O' Reilly emerging and maturing at a most encouraging speed, England's back four is holding fast and, at times, looks firmly impregnable. Both Declan Rice and Elliot Anderson were gliding around and  floating at the base of England's wonderfully rotational defence as if they'd been programmed with a disciplined efficiency. 

Suddenly, there was a distinctively sharp mood shift within England's first half attacking approach. The captain Harry Kane, Barcelona's patient and now destructively penetrative winger Anthony Gordon and the exceptional Jude Bellingham, were gelling harmoniously and brilliantly. Where for a while there was a sluggish listlessness and battle fatigue about England, now there was a genuine desire to score with every single attack. 

Ten minutes into the game and England were in front with a goal that had to be replayed in case somebody might have missed it. Noni Madueke, showing immense promise and a lightning turn of pace on the flanks, drove into the Croatia penalty area with gratifying purpose. Now the veteran Luka Modric, for whom this has to be his last World Cup, tripped Madueke in the penalty area. The referee pointed to the spot immediately. 

Harry Kane stepped up to take the penalty area, stuttered inexplicably and his shot bounced off the keeper's chest. The penalty kick had to be retaken because of a moving goalkeeper on the line and encroaching Croatian players. This time Kane was not hesitant and steered the ball high into the net for England's opening goal. From that point onwards the floodgates seemed to gush forth and England constructed movement after movement. 

And yet Croatia are never to be lightly dismissed and written off at any point. In the Russian World Cup of 2018, Modric was at his most superlative and sumptuous, as England were overwhelmed in the semi final. Now though Croatia were back in contention with the best they could offer. Another inventive attack culminated with Martin Baturria following on with a nod of the ball into his path and Baturria thrashing the ball powerfully into the net. Jordan Pickford, England's goalkeeper could only look on helplessly. 

Then something quite remarkable seemed to happen. From another Declan Rice corner. the ball was swung invitingly to the back of the Croatia penalty box. Now lurking in complete isolation, criminally unmarked was Harry Kane. Kane in the centre of the penalty area, must have thought all his birthdays had come at once. Kane was left with free rein thundering his header mercilessly into the net. Croatia were visibly deflated and never the same, their resilience now gone and nowhere to be seen.

But just before half time Croatia struck back once again. Breaking menacingly at England's now shaky and deeply retreating defence, they reached into their repertoire. Petar Mesa grasped his opportunity and a half that contained four goals would seemingly be too good to be true. The second half though began with yet another early England firework that the Croatian thought they'd dampened. The creative genius of Jude Bellingham was once again at its wondrous best.

The Real Madrid playmaker carved a magnificent pathway into the heart of the Croatian back four. Bellingham just kept going and going until the position was just right. Bellingham, carrying the ball for seemingly ages, went toe to toe with his defender before pulling the trigger and firing his shot wide and deep into the corner of the net. England had regained the initiative again and everything looked rosy in the garden for the Three Lions. 

Croatia had now exhausted themselves of all feasible options. England were in cruise control, prodding and probing with short, succinct cameos of passing perfection. By now Croatia were puffing and panting, worthy and well intentioned but never a force for good. With minutes to go, England picked up the ball for the umpteenth time. England were stampeding forward almost at will and after another clinical, forceful break, the ball travelled rapidly and efficiently between several England feet. The ball was ultimately moved across a hapless Croatian back four and one pass found Marcus Rashford. Rashford tucked back onto his favourite foot and the Barcelona striker curved the ball around the keeper with a typical poacher's goal. It was 4-2 to England and we'd heard that scoreline before. 

And so England meet Ghana in Boston on Tuesday comforted by the knowledge that their first litmus test had been an outstanding success. This is for real and there are no more dress rehearsals. It is hard to form any judgment when England reach any World Cup. Form can often be misleading but against Croatia there was a feeling of accomplishment, a palpable sense of job done, three steps forward rather than back. By the time England face Panama, England could well be looking ahead to even brighter horizons. We must hope so.   

   

Andy Burnham- the next Prime Minister?

 Andy Burnham - the next Prime Minister?

It's all turning rather ugly and unseemly at the top of the political hierarchy. This is not a good nor is it an edifying watch. You can look away if you like because things are so unsavoury and unpleasant in the British government's highest circles that it may be advisable to switch off your TVs or screens now. It started a couple of weeks when the vultures were hovering around Westminster and the House of Commons began to resemble a bearpit where an explosion of discord and discontented rumblings could be heard as far away as Land's End or John O' Groats. London was a busy and eventful city once again. 

Meanwhile deep within the whispering corridors and lobbies of the House of Commons there was all manner of chaos and bedlam. Malicious rumours were circulating that were so rampant and toxic that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that there were evil spirits haunting the old building. Perhaps there were medieval executioners still in existence waiting for the right moment. The axe was about to fall on yet another Prime Minister and the smell of blood was ghastly. Surely not another fallen Prime Minister. 

But then again why not? We'd seen exactly the same film and read a similar novel on innumerable occasions. You know how it goes? You give a new Prime Minister the benefit of the doubt and then a year or two later down the line the whole deck of cards is sent toppling over and it's just a complete disaster. We've afforded this particular Prime Minister far too much time and leniency so for Sir Keir Starmer, it was time to pick up your P45, leave 10 Downing Street now and don't forget to feed Larry the Cat before you go. 

So here we go folks. It's showtime, that pivotal moment in a Prime Minister's tenure when the good folk of Britain turn against you, becoming totally fed up with you, exasperated beyond belief, boiling over with righteous indignation, fuming and furious, utterly incensed, beyond the point of forgiveness and steaming over with despair and disenchantment. And that was only yesterday. So Starmer comes out all guns blazing, the gloves are off and what else do you expect him to do? He's given it his best shot. But, clearly this is not good enough. 

There is a boredom threshold within British politics that means if the current Prime Minister hasn't instilled the feelgood factor within at least the first five minutes, they'd better think again because for Starmer's Labour party, this particular idea isn't working for anybody least of all the great British public. Being Prime Minister is officially the poisoned chalice and it won't get any better before it gets worse. This is becoming so comical and amusing that if it were to appear at the end of a seaside pier, you might want to give it a visit. 

And then a gentleman who used to be the Mayor of Manchester decided to throw his hat into the ring. He was rather curious whether there were any jobs going at Westminster. He'd heard about the catastrophic losses that the Labour party had suffered at the recent local and national elections and he was definitely interested. He didn't want to stir up any hornet's nest or muscle into territory where his presence would not be welcome but he did fancy the top job in 10 Downing Street. Any chance of that happening? It was worth a try so why not?

For over a month or so there have been  incidents of scandalous back stabbing, members of the Cabinet breathing fire, storming out of 10 Downing Street, resigning on the spot, bickering childishly and sticking the proverbial two fingers up in the air at any Labour minister within earshot. They were  mad with anger, demeaning and denigrating one another with personal abuse. Poor Sir Keir Starmer. Nobody deserves this kind of treatment. And then there was Andy Burnham. 

Yes folks Andy Burnham. That Andy Burnham who's done so much to transform the landscape of Manchester in recent years. Burnham would probably go into raptures about his club Everton's famous 60 goal a season Dixie Dean. A couple of weeks ago, Burnham was seen running around the streets of his local Makerfield community and wishing that Everton could win the Premier League just to  prove that he cared about the people, the common man, the football supporter who would faithfully stand on the terraces at the old Goodison Park and then move his allegiance to the Hill Dickinson Stadium. 

He pounded the streets wearing an Everton shirt, concentration fixed, a devoted Labour party supporter, red through and through although blue when Everton were playing over the weekend. Of course he was ambitious, aspirational, straining every muscle in his athletic body and desperate for recognition. At first he'd have been quite content to stand in the shadows of his boss Sir Keir Starmer. But you know what it's like? The boss is just not up to the job and, quite frankly, he's getting on your nerves. 

There are even louder noises of  criticism, red blooded disgust and opprobrium, a nasty air of vindictiveness, almost, dare we say it, a vendetta against Starmer. You could hear and feel it in every brick and mortar in the House of Commons. They were stamping up and down madly, the natives were definitely restless, all was not well. They were hurling insults and pejorative comments at the Prime Minister and they were nasty and personal. 

But some of us were delighted to see Burnham in such fine form. He could be the man to step up to the plate because he had the finger on the pulse of the nation. How hard could it be the Prime Minister? If the likes of Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, Rishi Sunak could do it why not Burnham? But the truth is that we'd given the Tories 14 years to get it right and they were so polarised and divided at the end that it looked as though they were just colliding into each other, not knowing which direction to go. 

But Andy Burnham looks credible, the real deal, personable and likeable, the most eloquent of all orators, down to earth, full of common sense and just a decent chap. He seems to be expressing all of the right statements that the country needs to hear but this may be time to err on the side of caution. There has to be a skeleton in his cupboard, an underlying agenda, something he'd rather not tell us about. He's a great talker, a natural communicator, a charmer in dinner party conversation and he'll be the one to boost flagging Labour party spirits. Then again we do have worrying reservations because they all say that.

And yet it could still go horribly wrong, backfiring on him and hitting him in the face quite painfully. Look at where the Labour party have got us in the past. Historically, Tony Blair was probably the most intelligent, successful, capable and resourceful Prime Minister Britain have ever had. He gave us Education, Education and Education. But then things rapidly went downhill when Blair frogmarched us into the Iraq - Afghanistan  war and President George Bush thought they he and Blair were the best of friends. It was all terribly awkward, irresponsible, careless, warlike and very aggressive. 

Further back in time there was a passionate Welshman called Neil Kinnock. Kinnock almost snatched the reins from the formidable and incomparable Margaret Thatcher. Kinnock just begged and implored the public to vote for him at the General Election and much good that did him. Kinnock started falling out with the unions and just couldn't get the message across to Britain quite as effectively as he would have liked. So Kinnock bowed out of the limelight and was more or less forgotten. 

Finally there was Michael Foot, a leader of the Labour party with no dress sense and was about as likely to get his feet behind the doors of 10 Downing Street as Larry the Cat. Foot was all fiery political double speak and rousing rhetoric which went down so badly at the House of Commons Questions and Answers time that comparisons were made to damp, wet and dirty cloths. Then Foot disgraced himself with that celebrated ragged, old, threadbare donkey jacket on Remembrance Sunday in November. What on earth was that all about?

And so for Andy Burnham, the next rabid Socialist weekly wannabe. Burnham would vehemently distance himself from any Socialist proclivities. He hasn't a Socialist bone in his body and besides, he would tell us, he probably doesn't read the magazine. But Burnham is photogenic at the moment, an excellent public relations man, cautious and diplomatic and just taking things one step at a time. 

But Burnham is progressive, go ahead, listening to those who may have their doubts, in touch with the dustman, the working man or woman, the postman who delivers your post, the milkman who regularly drops several pints of semi skimmed milk on your doorstep and Great Britain as a vast collective. 

Shortly the good citizens of Makerfield will be given the choice as who should become the next leader of their constituency. If he can negotiate the minefield that is the Green Party or the Reform UK party then you never know. These are turbulent but exciting times for the Labour government. There is a chance that for those who remember the old days, Harold Wilson is still looking benignly down on Burnham. Then again Wilson was a fervent Huddersfield Town supporter so maybe not. Who would be a Prime Minister? Certainly not.   

The World Cup at the age of eight.

 The World Cup at the age of eight

For an eight year old, the whole bewildering concept of a World Cup must have seemed like some incomprehensible language and yet you were acutely aware that something of vast significance and cultural enormity had taken place.For most families in Britain the now familiar sight of black and white TVs was becoming increasingly less common and the startling emergence of colour TV had now installed itself in our living rooms at home. It is hard to remember a time when the myriad colours of our TV set were few and far between. Of course we take them for granted now but at the time, it was all grey monochrome way back then. 

So to the best of your recollections it was black and white in 1970 and it was a 12 inch set tucked away discreetly in the corner of our dining room and, as a child, it was always there. But football was yet to be discovered and although you may have been more pre-occupied with exhilarating games of football with only yourselves for company, this was your voyage of discovery. You were your own goalkeeper, defender, midfielder, winger or striker. It was about individual excellence and your brother had just arrived in the big, wide world.

Back inside the family home, mum was busying herself with the important domestic duties, cleaning up the dishes, plates, crockery and cutlery and then hanging wet clothes on the washing line. It was all very simple and yet mundane if perhaps a daily necessity. You'd been at infants school for a number of years and the prospect of a major global football competition seemed about as fascinating as wallpaper. And yet there was an awareness of something in the air. Football and sport had gripped your imagination and you became addicted to this extraordinary spectacle for no particular reason. 

Every week your late and lovely mum would buy the still available TV listings magazine TV Times, which took up residence on the family coffee table every Wednesday for ages. So you rushed in and out of the family garden and then wandered into the dining room again. You can still remember leafing through the magazine and perusing the usual variety of only BBC and ITV programmes. Then you stumbled across an amazingly colourful World Cup wallchart in the middle of the TV Times. You scanned the chart and noticed pages that were heavy with symbolism and imagery. 

For the first time every country's flag was clearly delineated and illustrated on the wallchart. At first sight it was rather like turning the first page of a thick novel with over a 1,000 pages, bright, vivid, almost kaleidoscopic, rich primary colours, the vibrant yellow of Brazil, The Star of David of beautiful Israel, the red, white and blue of England, the blue and white of Italy, the exotic design of Mexico, the white of West Germany and too many good to be true. This explosion of colour in a magazine was a feast for the eyes and you were hooked. 

Scattered around in a circle were a huge array of the sublime and the ridiculous. Uruguay had that light blue and white shade on their gleaming shirts and then there was El Salvador whose flag you'd never seen before and a country you were yet to be taught about at school. So here was this giddy, heady mix of stunning cosmopolitanism, a world wide amalgam of hugely different cultures, nationalities and identities. This was decades before the the Wall that separated East Germany and West Germany crashed down, the stern imposition of Glasnost and Perestroika on an ageing and tired looking Soviet Union and the map of the world was torn apart by division, hatred, prejudice, racism and a war footing that was ablaze with hostility. 

But you were transfixed and spellbound, desperate for more information and enlightenment. This was not quite a transformative moment in your life because you had yet to be introduced to the finer rudiments of the game, the textures and flavours of the Beautiful Game. That would come later on your adolescence, a mystery yet to be revealed but one that would be described and analysed in lucid detail in a thousand newspapers and magazines in years to come. But there was football in black and white TV and that was settled. 

So you switched on that goldfish bowl on the tiniest DER black and white TV set. ITV bore no relation to the third channel we'd always thought of and a random number led us to extensive coverage on Thames TV and London Weekend. Meanwhile the more established and conservative BBC had already captured our imagination with Match of the Day which was slowly developing into the must see football magazine TV programme introduced, at the time, by the inimitable David Coleman.

Then there was the quality of the picture on your screen. The 1970 World Cup Finals were held in Mexico and, for the BBC and ITV, Mexico must have felt like the other side of the world in those far off days but for the commentary teams on both channels, this represented the ultimate challenge. How to manoeuvre a whole load of unwieldy, bulky cameras into this Aztec paradise? Then you had to hook up all of the sound equipment, connecting wires, complex logistics that somehow bore fruition when all seemed lost. 

It was the sound on your TV which was totally disembodied from your young, receptive ears. You felt you were listening to a live broadcast from a game reserve in Kenya or the Borneo jungles, a remnant from one of the first Moon missions in space shortly before the 1970 World Cup. Kenneth Wolstenholme may just well have been on the planet Mercury, David Coleman was on some isolated lagoon next to a gorgeous island far, far away. Now nobody knew why it all felt so distant, remote and barely audible. 

In those days, legendary commentators such as the great Brian Moore were seasoned campaigners who had already launched the Sunday lunchtime football programme The Big Match. Moore was the consummate professional, smart, elegant, pipe on his desk and, for the first time, accompanied by a guest list of ex professionals, managers and learned pundits. But when Moore took us over to the Azteca Stadium in Mexico, the likes of Hugh Johns, Keith Macklin and Gerry Harrison sounded like high tech robots and some of us wondered whether Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin had kindly presented the microphones to them as birthday gifts. 

In those days football commentators were our idols and heroes, jewels of verbal dexterity, the tones of their voices so perfectly pitched that you almost felt you were in Mexico sitting next to them. But it was all reminiscent of some old Western film where the likes of John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart had rolled into the Wild West on their trusty horses with shot guns to announce their arrival. Radio commentators only had radio microphones which were the only available means of communication in 1970 and for many following years. So there was a crackling, humming sound on your TV set that did rankle with some for a while but there was an acceptance of the status quo. 

In 1970 ITV showed us the full box set of innovations and radical experiments. Now was born the ITV panel, Brian Moore, deep in animated conversation with the men who had done it all before. There was Pat Crerand, Manchester United's secure and reliable defender, who'd won the European Cup two years before at Wembley when United polished off Portuguese titans Benfica 4-1 at Wembley. Crerand was softly spoken, wise, perceptive and almost objective at times. But his was the definitive voice of authority. 

Then there was Malcolm Allison, fedora hat on his head but without cigar in the TV studio. Allison was unashamedly flamboyant, garish in his choice of shirts and always with a controversial line in footballing rhetoric and choice comments. Allison was unstoppably talkative, blisteringly opinionated and fiercely critical of Sir Alf Ramsey's England. Allison had transformed Manchester City and then walked into Crystal Palace during the latter years of the 1970s as if he owned Selhurst Park. 

The appearance of Brian Clough on the ITV panel was a temptation too good to resist. In 1970, Clough was a young  manager yet to taste the delicious puddings of League Championships and European Cups with Derby County and, gloriously, with Nottingham Forest. We now know why that he should never have come anywhere near the grenade that went off in his face at both Brighton and Leeds United but Clough was a voice in the background, firm, outrageous, serious, businesslike, a mouth that spoke at the most passionate volume, gregarious, ruthless and never afraid to challenge the Establishment. 

And finally there was Derek Dougan, Wolves prolific striker, tall, gangling, the most uncomfortable opposition for any helpless defender. Dougan scored goals from every Pythagoras Theorem angle and would rough up full backs and centre halves on gluepot pitches that resembled allotment sites. So Dougan offered his pragmatic pearls of wisdom, shrewd, insightful, probably factually correct and accurate even if it was hard to tell. But Doogan was a model of modesty, studious and quietly reflective.

After Dougan we later learnt that Dougan had become involved with the combustible world of football politics, a strong and forceful personality, honesty personified and a trouble shooter at the heart of the FA's decision makers. Dougan argued the case for those gullible men at Lancaster Gate, then the FA's home. He never held back and reminded you of a militant trade unionist vehemently making his presence felt. 

So it is that we now find yourselves in the present day. This evening, the current edition of the World Cup for men is now hours away from another rendition of those delightful skills and thrills. To those who aired those perfectly understandable moral objections to the last World Cup of Qatar in 2022, there is a widespread air of confidence, positivity, creativity, an extension of yet greater frontiers and more teams than ever.

This time the expansion of the World Cup to an unprecedented and astonishing 48 teams may sound bloated and beyond any understanding to those who feel it's almost overwhelming in its scope. England will be there, Spain and France will join in quite artistically, Germany can never be discounted or written off because we know everything we need to know about Germany. Brazil, Ghana, Cape Verde, Panama, Australia, South Africa, hosts USA, Canada and Mexico, Croatia and Scotland, Ecuador, Morocco and Turkey have rounded personalities, a galaxy of grandstanding gadabouts, showmen, delusional in some cases but nevertheless warmly welcomed to the greatest blue riband international football tournament in the world.

Some of us will be watching loyally and devotedly because we know about England because it's now so well documented that we can already see how it might turn out. Gareth Southgate, England's groundbreaking former manager, will be watching as a media observer this time and he's got several portfolios on the subject of international management. Southgate almost delivered but then found himself thwarted at the winning line because somebody should have told England to take a deep breath.

We would love England to win the World Cup because we were two going on three in 1966 and totally oblivious to all the fuss and commotion. In later years we found out all about the emotionally repressed and phlegmatic Sir Alf Ramsey, a man so broken with nerves and crippling anxieties that by the end of the 1966 World Cup Final, Ramsey just buried his head in his hands and had no idea how to react. England had undoubtedly won the World Cup but Ramsey looked shell shocked, numb and dumbfounded. Then the realisation sunk in and Ramsey grasped the World Cup with the broadest smile.

Clearly, Ramsey was privately delighted but still a tormented soul, still registering the greatest sporting achievement of all time. And yet four years later, this seven going on eight year old living in the comfortable and salubrious suburb of Ilford, Essex, was still deciphering the complex rules and regulations of the Beautiful Game. The masterful maestros who were Pele, Tostao, Jairzinho, Gerson and Carlos Alberto were gentle and enormously well respected footballing teachers to this small child who once wore a tank top for a primary school group photo in the middle of June. You were young and foolish but nobody seemed to care. 

Days to go before the World Cup.

 Days to go before the World Cup.

So here we are days away from the beginning of another World Cup. Football waits with bated breath, surveying its wallcharts, the thousands of permutations, possibilities and logistics. Around the world, millions of families will be hanging on its every word, dramatic turning point, the breathless anticipation of a global festival with its footballing superstars and inquisitive celebrities from the world of fashion, art, science and modern technology. 

More so than ever the World Cup, this year hosted by a combination of USA, Mexico and Canada, will be infiltrating our souls, the core of our being, draining our senses, suspending our beliefs, holding us in a strange state of bewildered abeyance because we've no idea how England might do this time. It's the most well documented fact of them all. It's been 60 years now since Sir Alf Ramsey's battle hardened players ran themselves into the ground, busting a gut, straining every sinew and testing our patience to the limit. On a magical day in July 1966 England did win the World Cup and yet since then, there has been nothing.

England have never meant to do this to us but they have almost without thinking about it. They've been close, agonisingly close at times but tumbleweed has blown over the horizon of every English landscape you could imagine. It has been 60 years of abandoned hopes, horrendous quarter and semi final nightmares, the brink of the spectacular only to find a desert of desolation. Yes, the England football team have driven us, quite literally to drink and then we drown our sorrows because it's quite definitely the manager's fault.

For the last couple of years, a navy waistcoated, sharply suited, bearded gentleman has done so much to revolutionise the shape, pattern, mental mindset and overall psychology of football's confusing thought patterns. Gareth Southgate, a smooth and commanding central defender for Crystal Palace, once stepped up to take a penalty for his country in Euro 96 and committed the cardinal sin. He missed a penalty and the Germans went on to win the trophy in the Euro 96 Final against the Czech Republic. Unforgivable or maybe not. 

But then Southgate became England manager and within a couple of life changing seasons, the England manager was being feted as the Messiah. He was a managerial genius par excellence. Within several Euro and World Cup tournaments, he'd guided us to the promised land of a World Cup semi final in Russia 2018 only to lose to Croatia. Then he secured two consecutive Euro Finals in which they were heartbreakingly beaten by Italy and Spain. In hindsight, though, Southgate had achieved much more than met the eye. 

What becomes abundantly clear is that  international tournaments have never come easy. In fact the mental block which has proven so hard to overcome and obliterate from their minds, is further proof that England seem to be afflicted with some inexplicable stage fright, a fear of the unknown. There is a nervousness and trepidation about those crucial 90 minutes when English legs turn to jelly. And we simply don't know why and never will so it'll probably be a mystery wrapped in a riddle. 

Four years on from one of the most corrupt, morally dubious, outrageously scheduled World Cup of all time, the Jules Rimet trophy will be returning to the Land of the Free. America will be embracing all of the heartwarming tradition and history of football's greatest global Shangri La. Mexico, a nation with a proper football storyline and narrative, will be joining forces with Canada who may not be quite so enlightened and well informed about football's most delicate nuances but will welcome the world amiably.

In Qatar of 2022, the World Cup was subjected to a barrage of sinister goings on behind the scenes, repeated allegations of human rights abuses, a blanket ban on alcohol and the horrific stigma of being gay. Some of us were almost mortally offended at the way the game was being used and manipulated for all the wrong reasons. At the end, one of the finest players of recent times on a world scale did hold aloft the World Cup. Lionel Messi is the most exquisitely talented player and, in the twilight of his stunning career, Messi had finally won the World Cup for Argentina.

But then we return to the subject of the England football team. We still don't have the required answers to important questions. Why did we spend the whole of the whole of the 1970s,  hiding behind our sofas, growling and scowling as another penalty landed in a metaphorical back garden. These were the wilderness years, years of scratching our heads in stunned amazement. Over and over again we were left out and excluded from the party because it was our fault and nobody else was to blame. 

When the traitorous Don Revie packed his suitcase for Saudi desert riches, Revie was slaughtered, vilified, despised, blown out and ostracised as if the man had been responsible for the most notorious bank robbery. The former Leeds United man got out before the FA had had time to drive him out of the back door. The sense of betrayal would haunt Revie for ever more. The damage though had been done quite irreparably.

England failed to qualify for both the 1974 World Cup Finals in West Germany and then carelessly botched another attempt to reach the 1978 World Cup in Argentina. Hollow and fallow years would follow and Don Revie became the pantomime villain, the man who had deserted England in its direst need. There was something inherently wrong and diseased about the game at both club and international level and the evidence was there for all to see. 

The 1980s would prove much more fruitful though. The late and much missed Sir Bobby Robson, a refined player for both Fulham and then Newcastle's favourite son as manager, was appointed as England manager. Robson took us to the World Cup in Mexico and endured the full gamut of reactions and, ultimate failure. England had though made positive progress in the tournament but then an Argentine footballing beauty named Diego Maradona scored one of the most hotly disputed goals of all time and then embarked on the most mesmerising bossa nova before waltzing past the whole of a flabbergasted and speechless England defence. 

It was hard to know what must have been going through the minds of Peter Reid and Terry Fenwick nor Terry Butcher. But it looked, for all the world, as though they'd just seen a ghost or perhaps it was a figment of the imagination. England though had reached a World Cup quarter final for the first time in ages. A long ago distant image of Bobby Robson though slumped over a hotel swimming pool somehow illustrated the extent of their frustration. But Robson had experienced a breakthrough moment for the national side.  

Then briefly, a man named Graham Taylor was entrusted with the England job. Now Taylor was never one to hide his feelings away from the public domain. On another traumatic evening for England in the early autumn of 1993 there was a sense and sound of impending doom. Taylor had been branded as a dull, long ball, functional football man. The Watford empire did challenge the mighty at the top of the old First Division and then Aston Villa came calling and, admittedly, we did believe that things could change for the better. 

But on a cool autumn evening in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, who had overwhelmed England in Euro 88, were back on the warpath again. Taylor spent the whole of the game ranting and raving at officialdom on the touchline. Then he must have had another private meltdown when England thought they had scored but were then denied. When Ronald Koeman chipped over a beautifully curled free kick over the England wall and into the net past David Seaman, Taylor must have thought there was a vicious conspiracy against him.

England would not go to the World Cup of USA in 1994. Taylor was clobbered over the head, branded a fool, blamed for everything and never really forgiven. He was derided mercilessly, hung out to dry, compared to a vegetable and was never seen anywhere near the FA's hallowed corridors again. What followed was another period of time when England once again withdrew into their shell, a world of rigorous self examination, uncertainty and sheepish introspection. 

Then the former Spurs midfield maestro Glen Hoddle came and went before being engulfed by the darkest shadows. England once again stumbled and staggered before collapsing against Romania in a group stage match in the World Cup Finals held in France. England were limping around the world like a wounded First World War soldier bandaged and bloodied from the ravages of a major battle. 

Suddenly we discovered Terry Venables. Venables had enjoyed a distinguished player with Chelsea, Spurs and QPR. But now the cheeky chappie from Dagenham grabbed hold of the national team's reins and the sorcerer worked his miraculous ways. It was Euro 1996 and the limelight had fallen over England again. England were the centre of attention, adulation and admiration. What could be better?

England went most of the way and for the most of that unforgettable summer, England reached deep into its fulsome reserve of patriotism and a real sense of pride. There were Three Lions On the Chest, the roaring masses on the teeming terraces. England promptly disposed of Spain who would win both Euro and World Cup trophies in years to come. The match against Spain took us to the very edge of unashamed excitement and Stuart Pearce redeemed himself with one of the winning penalties.

And so we trusted the first Swedish manager to take over as head honcho as England boss. The FA had now broadened their horizons and Sven Goran Eriksson's private life had often overshadowed his role as football manager. Eriksson was never mysterious but was certainly friendly and forthcoming at Press conferences for the assembled Press. 

The introduction of Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard was almost a breath of fresh air but then it all went stale when we discovered that both Gerrard and Lampard were attacking midfielders reading the same books at the same time. Both imposed a definite identity on the central midfield area but were like identical twins. But both men gave sterling service to the national team but never quite clicked together seamlessly when the big occasion demanded it.

Finally there was Fabio Capello and the striking phenomenon who was Wayne Rooney in the World Cup of 2010. The Italian gave Rooney his freest role but then it all unrivalled. England struggled awkwardly and embarrassingly against Algeria in their opening group match and Rooney stormed off the pitch after an appalling goal-less draw with an impassioned rant aimed at grumbling and crotchety England fans. But we'll never forget the lovely and noisy vuvuzelas that blared across South Africa for most of that tournament. 

So it is that Thomas Tuchel is entrusted with the latest responsibility as the England man in charge. Tuchel is German and therefore thorough and meticulous in his preparations. Now Harry Kane will once again be the striker designated to score those vitally important goals. Jude Bellingham will be appointed as head boy, prefect and creative catalyst for England, the playmaker, the man pulling the strings, instigating all of England's most defining movements.

We will of course be watching with an almost morbid fascination at home and abroad. We will gather in kitchens and beer gardens across Britain, footballing tribalism at its most authentic and raw. England open their group match with what could prove tricky and troublesome opposition in Croatia. Croatia of course knocked out England in the 2018 World Cup semi final in Russia as if it came naturally to them. They were fully aware of England's vulnerable and fragile chin and England promptly came a cropper. 

But now England head towards meetings with Croatia, Ghana and Panama. This is always a jolly journey with the England football team. The trajectory is bound to be both bumpy and rocky but then it was always thus. Realistically, England may well go far into the land of Disney, Mexican mariachis and Canadian Rockies but who would be a betting man or woman? England will be carrying their usual and cumbersome baggage of high hopes and sometimes misplaced optimism. It should, though, be fun. 

England have always made us grit our teeth but as long as the Barmy Army are in melodious voice then who knows? A re-run of the World Cup Final against West Germany 60 years ago? Now that would really push credibility and could only be considered to be wishful thinking. Bring on the 2026 World Cup Finals. It has to be England's turn. 

National Cheese Day

 National Cheese Day.

Today is one of those days with a very specific texture and flavour. For most of us cheese represents something that has been regarded as essential on any shopping list at the end of the week. We'd probably be craving this food if it had been somehow forgotten. And yet there it sits in the fridge comfortably rubbing shoulders with the butter, the milk, the yoghurts, the mayonnaise quite possibly and a dear old sandwich be lost without it. It's cheese, cheese, cheese and smile for the camera.

A couple of weeks ago, the good people of Gloucestershire witnessed one of the funniest, quirkiest, silliest and yet the most remarkable of yearly cultural events. It was dotty, potty, absurd, shocking to those who may have never seen it before and just inexplicable. But it did take place without any last minute hitches or technical problems. Middle England wallows in its peculiarities, its out of the ordinary rituals and, once again, we were neither disappointed or surprised. 

What followed was the annual cheese rolling race. Now the cheese rolling race is one of the daftest sights you're ever likely to set eyes on. But every year, it just unfolds before our disbelieving eyes, the most incredible manifestation that almost defies explanation. So off they all went, intrepid, fearless souls taking part in a mass participation activity or, if you do take it seriously, sport at its most fiercely competitive. 

High on top of a hill in this most royal of counties, seemingly hundreds of folk gathered en masse, primed and ready to go, refreshed and revitalised by a quick pint or two in the local pub and facing one of the craziest challenges. For this is quite clearly madness personified or maybe its perfectly sensible, harmless and inoffensive. It looks frightening, nay less terrifying but these daring enthusiasts just love to be out in the open on a late spring day. The British countryside is swaying in the bright sunshine and the human race has always challenged itself to the limit. 

But yes folks. It's National Cheese Day. You're impressed aren't you? It's something you've always wanted to be reminded of because cheese has been around for centuries. We venture into our supermarkets every day whistling a tune and going about our way quite happily. Now let's see. Don't forget the jam, bread, vegetables, the meat and fish, the cereals, the dog or cat food, the sweets and chocolates for kids and the the family sized bags of crisps, the fruit of course, all of those savouries and indulgences we take for granted. 

Then, suddenly, you realised the necessity for cheese, that lovely slab of yellow dairy sustenance. But where does the fascination for cheese come from, its irresistible appeal  when lunch demands it.  Did it occur to the farmers of the world that the cows who so generously provide us with the milk and the calcium from our favourite Hereford animals could be converted into something so nutritious and wholesome.  Then there was the light bulb moment? We'll take that milk, allow it to curdle before going off. 

Then we'll allow the milk to curdle, go hard and bob's your uncle. In no time vast slabs of cheese appear on our dinner table in a ceramic dish. Now way back when, a large brick sized cheese would sit snugly on the dining room table, right next to the bottle of tomato ketchup, also flanking the salt and vinegar cellar. Ah how satisfying is cheese? So what's your favourite cheese? Or perhaps you've no preference as such because it comes with pies, omelettes, melted, grated, kids strips, salads or just something that's bound to take your fancy after a lavish Christmas Day turkey feast.

Now most of us love nothing better than a good, old fashioned early evening helpful of cream crackers, plenty of margarine or butter and, of course cheese. There's the reliable Cheddar, the scintillating Stilton, the mouth watering Red Leicester, the Double Gloucester, the delicious crumbly Irish cheddar, Gorgonzola, Brie, Camembert, cottage cheese, goats cheese, Edam and cheese with salad dressing or another blob of mayonnaise. It's a most succulent and deeply appealing combination. 

During the 1970s, the middle classes or upper classes would meticulously organise cheese and wine parties. Nowadays cheese and wines are, quite, probably a dated anachronism, a throwback to a time when those with the disposable income would happily part with money for those little sticks and several hundred cubes of pineapples. There was something cheerfully pretentious about cheese and wine parties because it was a symbol of wealth, influence and your lofty position in high society. In other words you'd arrived and you were entitled to such harmless luxuries. 

Back in the mid 1970s, the BBC's Play for Today featured Allison Steadman in the TV classic Abigail's Party. In a slightly embarrassing moment during a polite, well mannered party, there was a painful silence. If memory serves you correctly, Ms Steadman glided around the coffee table and asked her guests whether anybody liked the Greek singer Demis Roussos. So the turntable was employed and there was music. Presumably Steadman had already offered the obligatory cheese and pineapple sticks to grateful party goers. 

Now of course the upwardly mobile and the professional lawyers, merchant bankers, doctors and well heeled economists probably devour vast quantities of vol au vents, or those tiny sausages that take at least one bite to eat, although the wine, be it red or white, is carefully chosen according to its vintage. Maybe they'd plump for a latte, a cappuccino, espresso or the straightforward tea or coffee. But cheese invariably makes the party swing and should never be excluded.   

So folks, let's mark National Cheese Day. The brilliant plasticine characters Wallace and Gromit, as created by the supremely gifted Nick Park, once again emphasised the tasty virtues of cheese, a gastronomic delight. Cheese Gromit and Gromit agrees immediately. So they slice off another piece just to finish off the evening meal but, according to our eminent dieticians, you'd probably pile on the pounds and stones if you eat too much of it.  But hey, it's time to make a cheese sandwich with maybe a pickle or chutney for good measure. Enjoy your cheese and don't forget the mayonnaise.

Britain's Got Talent winners the Hawkestone Farmers Choir.

 Britain's Got Talent winners the Hawkestone Farmers Choir. 

Last Saturday evening something pretty life affirming and morale boosting happened. No it wasn't an updated version of that vastly popular BBC quiz show the Generation Game introduced by the wondrously funny and versatile Bruce Forsyth. Nor did it mark the welcome return of Sale of the Century once presented by the fabulously professional Nicholas Parsons, one of the great showbusiness after dinner circuit speakers and a hugely impressive orator on any given subject. The 1970s now seem like some golden generation for light entertainment on the TV and Saturday nights have never seemed quite the same. 

Over the weekend though, TV switched on all of the right buttons and filled a gaping vacuum in the schedules more than adequately and succeeded in converting the hardened sceptics that there was life after public exhibitions of pottery and clay moulding, people dressing up in silly clothes and then acting out in daft plays with Bruce Forsyth. It all seems such a long time ago and on Saturday evening the tried and tested formula of the good, old fashioned talent show, a concept probably long since forgotten in the mists of time, returned once again to our TV screens.  

On Saturday night, Britain's Got Talent reached another sensational and glittering climax. This is TV at its most redemptive and entertaining, a perfect remedy for the disillusioned, and an uplifting panacea for those who are fed up and sick to the back teeth of a constant diet of depressing documentaries, shocking investigations into the lives of savage murderers, and nothing but doom and gloom. The news is almost incessantly repetitive, tedious and enough to drive you to the local pub. 

The winners of  Britain's Got Talent were the Hawkestone Farmers Choir, inspired by the charismatic and sometimes controversial celebrity and former Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson. Now Clarkson has become one of the most engaging and likeable of farmers, a man so committed and besotted with his dramatic change of career that you almost feel as though he should be appointed to some prestigious position in political circles.

Maybe Clarkson would make an excellent Cabinet minister or someone associated with the running of the country, a deeply influential figure who could definitely be the answer to Britain's enduring troubles. But then you probably wouldn't want to argue with somebody like Clarkson if somebody referred to him as incompetent and hadn't a clue what he was doing. But it was all very different on Saturday night because he was the man taking a vicarious pleasure in some triumph that he was responsible for. So we settled down for the evening and listened to the Hawkestone Farmers Choir because they had got it absolutely right. And they were outstanding. 

They sung from the same hymn sheet, harmonised melodiously and must have restored your faith in humanity because we knew it would and did. You were convinced that one day a collective choir with the most musical and powerful of voices would warm the cockles of British hearts. We hadn't really seen anything like them because talent shows are normally dominated by magicians, comedians with a familiar line in modern banter and bonny badinage or singers with monumental voices who just capture our imagination for ever more. 

A couple of years ago, a Scottish woman in the most ordinary looking of outfits, exploded into our consciousness like a meteorite from another planet. Susan Boyle walked onto the Britain's Got Talent stage and suddenly burst into a life changing rendition of a song I Dreamed a Dream from the blockbuster and epic, long running and record breaking musical Les Miserables, adapted from the Victor Hugo novel. Boyle proceeded to sing like an angel, an operatic voice from heaven that none of the audience could ever have hoped to hear again. But Britain's Got Talent had captivated TV viewers once again and who could ever question its right to entertain the multitudes of millions watching. 

Throughout this year's variety of the barmy and barely believable were brightly lit drones creating remarkable patterns and bringing them to spectacular life. There were the visually stunning stunt acts of bravado and derring do, the lyrical poets extolling the virtues of Great Britain and of course the obligatory performing dogs who jumped through hoops and spent the whole act dancing. But the Hawkestone Farmers Choir will be travelling down to the Royal Variety Performance in November in front of King Charles the Third and Queen Camilla and deservedly so. 

Some of us remembered some of those original talent shows from yesteryear. During the 1970s there was New Faces where the judges included music song writer Tony Hatch, comedian Arthur Askey and presented by Derek Hobson. Hatch was the honest, ruthless and uncompromising man who has often been regarded as the predecessor to the blunt and forthright Simon Cowell. A now distant memory of New Faces was of a fresh faced Victoria Wood, a brilliant exponent of word play and amusing anecdotes about people and places in song form. Sadly, the exceptional Victoria Wood passed away several years ago but now she remains one of Britain's national treasures and is fondly remembered.

And then there was Opportunity Knocks during your childhood. Opportunity Knocks was a trend setter, a ground breaking talent show that none of us had ever seen the like before. Among innumerable acts was the splendidly gifted poet Pam Ayres who came onto the show launching into a series of homespun verses about country life, the human condition and funny interpretations of everyday events and cultural British traditions. Pam Ayres set the bar to the highest standard and won Opportunity Knocks with the love of the nation showering upon her from every direction. 

There was also one man who would leave an indelible mark on British TV. He was Britain's muscle man Tony Holland. Now Tony Holland was the most extraordinary of individuals, a muscular, athletic and Arnold Schwarzenegger look alike Mr Universe. On one incredible night, Holland stood before a transfixed audience as Holland flexed well honed muscles, now commonly known as a six pack, pulling his pectorals and then emphasising his now well defined chest with sharp, jerky motions. Opportunity Knocks would fade then disappear because Hughie Green, a hitherto unknown Canadian TV  personality and precocious child film star, was exposed as a dubious and then unsavoury character with a troubled past. 

But on Saturday in the present day, it was Britain's Got Talent that won all the garlands of praise, a talent show for the ages. Its latest winners the Hawkestone Farmers Choir was a major shot in the arm for the agricultural industry, one often taken for granted and always cast as one that always seems to be struggling and declining. But Saturday night was their chance to shine and they took full advantage of that moment in the limelight. We will remember where we were when it all happened and that it made us feel good about the current state of British TV. In isolation, it was both heartwarming and deeply enjoyable. And that's to be highly recommended. 

Paris St Germain win the Champions League.

 Paris St Germain win the Champions League.

On the sprawling boulevards and pavement cafes of Paris, the artist quarter and the Arrondissement that provides much of Paris with much of its cultural vibrancy, Paris St Germain or, affectionately known as PSG, sealed back to back Champions League final victories, as Arsenal, valiantly and spiritedly, whole heartedly, but ultimately fruitlessly, lost to the now Parisian giants on penalties. At the Gare Du Nord they were celebrating outside railway stations and flying flags from the latest models of  Peugeot and privately remembering the wise philosophies of Napoleon Bonaparte. But this was hard on Arsenal.

It only seems like yesterday since Arsenal goalkeeper Jans Lehmann was foolishly and recklessly sent off in Arsenal's one and only other Champions League final defeat to Barcelona. Was it really 20 years ago that Arsenal were beaten by Barcelona as a result of one keeper's rush of blood and foolish impetuosity? But history should always be buried as soon as possible and last night Arsenal were on a mission again. 

It goes without saying that Arsenal have richly deserved their Premier League title, a side of classical proportions, an often unparalleled majesty and impeccable breeding. Arsenal have set all of football's exemplary standards,  a team of smooth sophistication, passing of the most breathtaking virtuosity and some of  football's most elegant patterns and rhythms. Their geometric angles and dainty one touch football are something to be deeply admired but this was not to be their night. 

The criticism levelled at Arsenal this season that they may have become too dependent on corners and free kicks for most of the goals has now propelled them to the top of the Premier League. Last week's confirmation of the Premier League title now seems like a long time ago for Arsenal but today, the Gunners will be honking loud car horns and cheering themselves hoarse in Finsbury Park, Islington, Highbury, Barnet and all of the local watering holes. The Premier League is theirs to hold and none can take that away from them. 

At times though there were moments during their Champions League final battle royale when, in intermittent spells, PSG may have felt both trapped and marooned on a desert island. They simply couldn't find any clear pathway out of Arsenal's most stifling blanket defence. The navy shirts of PSG were switching the ball between themselves without ever finding the keys to open up Arsenal's vault. PSG certainly had both a method and clearly defined strategy but were almost stumbling around in the darkness going nowhere in particular. 

And so it was that Jurrien Timber, William Saliba, the unfortunate Gabriel and Riccardo Calafiori were providing Arsenal with magnificent looking shields at the back. Declan Rice was his normally authoritative self while Myles Lewis Skelly grew in confidence with every minute that passed. Martin Odegaard was both painterly and purposeful, a genuine midfield player with the most delicate of touches on and off the ball. Bukayo Saka was mischievous, mesmeric and mercurial, full of the winger's magical soft shoe shuffle and always threatening. But by the game's end, Arsenal's 64th game of a long, hard gruelling slog of a domestic season had taken a severe toll on them. Arsenal were out on their feet. 

Admittedly, Arsenal did take the lead after roughly 10 minutes but that was good as it got for the side who play at the Emirates Stadium. But the momentum and propulsion could never be kept up or sustained for any great length of time. For most of the first half, Arsenal were simply pinning PSG to an invisible wall, smothering the attacks of the French side with hundreds of feet wrestling back possession on the turnover. 

There was, though, a stylish assurance about some of Arsenal's football but it didn't really look as if they had any idea how to hold onto their slender lead. PSG were driving into Arsenal cul-de sacs.Then, it was Arsenal who took the initiative when, after the ball had hit Trossard on the back in the centre circle, Kai Havertz raced away as free as a bird, streaking away towards the angle of the penalty area before motoring forward and then rifling the ball firmly high into the back of the net. Arsenal were in front and nothing else seemed to matter.

Arsenal were seeing much of the ball but always looked unsure of themselves, that air of easy and footloose fluency now fading into obscurity. Saka and Odeggard were magnificent and PSG looked both frustrated and bewildered but Arsenal kept blocking and holding PSG at arms length. The first half was now approaching before half time presented the Gunners with greater opportunities and adventures in the second half. 

But the North London side were probably haunted by the Barcelona defeat in the Champions League Final of 20 years ago and there was an uncertainty about Arsenal, a worrying disturbance in their minds. The football was still there, thriving and prospering with cultured, feet to feet attacking movements. By now, though, Mikel Arteta looked seriously concerned and his biggest fears came to fruition. The bitten lip of stress and anxiety was now patently evident. Arteta at his usual, animated self, was restless and impatient, living and breathing every kick, pass and tackle in his minds, now worried and clearly unhappy.  

He then frowned, before flinging his hands into the air rather like a man who might have lost his Pools Coupon behind the sofa and looked on horrified when he hadn't won a penny. By now PSG were dropping further back into their own half but always looked both dangerous and ruthless into the bargain. Now the game was teetering on the brink and could have gone either way. And that's part of football's charm offensive. 

Both Achraf Hakimi, Marquinhos, William Pancho and the beautifully talented Nuno Mendes were back in the game. PSG's rocky looking midfield looked wobbly and distracted until the hour mark of the game. But then the stunning Warren Zaire Emery, Vitinha, Joao Neves and Ousman Dembele began to play on Arsenal's weaknesses and defensive collywobbles. There were obvious holes and deficiencies in an otherwise immaculate Arsenal's defence. PSG looked comfortable and cosy, weaving and carving open Arsenal, a side of impulsive first time passing and bewildering close ball control. 

For the first time in the game, Arsenal began to look confused and nervous, anguish and agitated before losing the ball and never regaining any real possession. And so PSG kept pressing Arsenal further and further back, driving them right back on to the edge of their own penalty area. The French finesse and panache looked like something out of a Monet masterpiece. The passes were fizzing effervescently through the lines of the Arsenal defence and Arsenal, although still gallant, had nothing left in the tank. 

And then before you could blink, PSG hauled themselves back into the game. Their equaliser came from the sweetest one two on the edge of the Arsenal penalty area. Dembele then bundled into the area before tumbling awkwardly with what looked to be a penalty. After much deliberation, the referee went back and forth to the VAR screen. The penalty was given and Dembele blasted the ball high into the net past an otherwise excellent goalkeeper in David Reya. That's how the game remained and ended. 

Extra time brought nothing but a stifling stalemate. Both PSG and Arsenal had nothing left in their attacking repertoire and were now staggering towards the finishing line. It was a penalty shoot out which were all taken with admirable ease. Both PSG and Arsenal missed their spot kicks before Gabriel,  who had never put a foot wrong during the evening, stepped back at a diagonal pace or two but then hit the ball with far too much power and venom. Essentially, the Brazilian had done nothing wrong at all but you could sense that the pressure had almost been overwhelming and Gabriel shot too high and the ball landed in the ecstatic throng of PSG fans.

So it was that PSG of France had trodden on the turf where the legendary Ferenc Puskas had once so decorated the Beautiful Game with so many Hungarian embroideries. Hungary had seen the new European champions or the Champions League. It had been a night when Arsenal had come so agonisingly close to winning the Double of Premier League and Champions League but not quite close enough. Mind you, today, the open topped bus parade will be inching its way through the joyful streets and roads of North London. Arsenal have still won the Premier League and the congratulations will continue for many a day, week, month and years to come. Good old Arsenal, we're proud to say your name.