England beaten by Belgium - now for Colombia.

England beaten by Belgium - now for Colombia.

It was always likely to happen and indeed it did. England reserves were beaten by Belgium's reserves or that's how it seemed to some of us. These were the last, flickering embers of England's final group match of World Cup 2018 and some of the natives were restless. The beads of sweat are trickling down our faces and finger nails are being bitten to the quick once again. We've all been here with England so what's new?

 Out there in the pubs, clubs, restaurants and wine bars of England, there were one or two stifled moans, a number of weary yawns and the first signs of scepticism from England's hitherto loyal fanbase. The flags of St George were still flying from the highest steeples, rooftops and, for that matter, firmly plastered on every shop  window and living room window. England's international football team are still on our minds.

But last night some of the hinges seemed to be creaking, a fair quantity of oil was needed and from time to time England were wobbling, tottering, slipping and sliding without ever really collapsing. Until now things have been tickety boo, good as gold and most of us have been singing a song. Everything has been going swimmingly well for Gareth Southgate's young, freshly scrubbed, and angelic team. This has all been very new for this current crop of England players and you suspect that Belgium was one game too far for England.

After the demolition of Panama and the more workmanlike victory against Tunisia, England came into their final group match against Belgium rather like poker players who insist on keeping their cards close to their chest. In the end Belgium's winning goal was rather like a sharp prod in the back of the England team because up until this point England have been like tourists in Hyde Park casually minding their business.

For a team who had already scored eight goals in their first two matches, England looked as though they were ready to lay out their rug on the grass and indulge themselves in a hearty picnic. Sadly though, this was never the case and nor did we expect it to be. At times it almost looked as if both Belgium and England had signed a contract whereby none would break any clause in that contract at any time. It was all very honourable and respectable with both sides agreeing to abide to the small print.

And so the game proceeded in quite the most casual and leisurely fashion, both sides tip tapping hundreds of small, sweet, short clusters of passes to each other and then circling around each other in some conspiratorial huddle. Then there were more rotations, military two steps, several cha cha chas before eventually the game found a rather blurry, indistinct shape and pattern. England began slowly and didn't really get out of second or third gear. England were well intentioned, serious and vaguely threatening but never really on the same wavelength.

This was an England reserve side who knew what the requirements were if they were to meet opposition who wouldn't unduly trouble them in the next round of the competition. It was either Colombia or Japan and never the twain should meet. It was hard to understand what exactly the England players next plans consisted of. Should they throw the dice in the hope that the calculated gamble would pay off or would they endeavour to go for broke?

And yet for the first time in this World Cup, England looked leggy, laboured and careworn, a pale shadow of their former selves, slightly out of kilter and maybe subconsciously thinking of more pressing tasks ahead of them. It is annoying when England football teams take their eyes off the ball for a second and it all loses everything in the translation. Still, at least nobody was hurt and England will live to fight another day. It's Colombia next Tuesday or it may have Japan on another day. Methinks there's a song in there. 

The fact was that England were not nearly the same side as the one who'd flattened Panama and marginally if impressively beat Tunisia. At the moment Gareth Southgate's young pups are still wet behind the ears and have yet to encounter opposition of genuine quality. Against Belgium they were struggling to find the right co-ordinates and when the ball did fall at their feet they invariably fumbled around with it like a hot potato, losing possession wantonly and then recognising an admittedly technically superior Belgium had a far greater worldliness about them.

At the back Spurs Danny Rose reminded you of a young foal stumbling awkwardly in the field and then falling to the ground helplessly when the stable looked by far the safer option. For the first half an hour Rose looked as if his positional play would save him but then a tide of red Belgian shirts surrounded him and Rose became a thorn in England's side.

For Phil Jones this was not one of his better evenings. Confident in possession quite regularly Jones began to look heavy footed and slightly cumbersome. When Jones pulls on a Manchester United shirt he looks both secure and responsible but in an England shirt Jones didn't quite hit the ground running. He carried the ball forward out of defence positively at times but Belgium then put the frighteners on him and everything looked uncertain.

Gary Cahill and John Stones dealt capably and efficiently with most of Belgium's smoothly purring attacking movements but Cahill is now reaching the twilight of his international career and Stones is just starting out. Stones does indeed look very powerful in the air and shrewd in his distribution. The goal he scored- England's first in the Panama rout- was highly encouraging- but there was to be no repetition against Belgium. There is something of the Terry Butcher about him, a tall, brave and no nonsense centre half who will very rarely allow anything to get past him.

Then there was England's patchwork midfield, a rag and tag and dysfunctional collection of players who just seemed to filling in as substitutes for the evening. Eric Dier, Tottenham's centre half, was moved further into an advanced midfield holding role and looked like a fish out of water. Dier seemed lost, bewildered and disoriented, a man searching for something he couldn't find.

Fabian Delph, who can look authoritative when the mood takes him, wasn't quite the player he can be at club level. Delph is more than capable of using the ball sensibly and productively but when it came to Belgium, Delph was more or less swallowed up by Belgium's perpetually dangerous attackers in full flight.

Liverpool's Trent Alexander Arnold, literally a novice at international level, does look as though he needs time to become fully acquainted with the pressures and demands that playing for England may impose. Still, generally speaking, there was nothing inherently wrong with Arnold at full back, cool, unfussy and competent at the back without ever grabbing the limelight.

Reuben Loftus Cheek, in some quarters at least could develop into one of England's most original and composed of midfield players. With the right kind of encouragement and guidance, Loftus Cheek may well one of the few players who can run at players at speed and still pick out splendidly measured passes to colleagues in space with both short and the long ball diagonal variety.

Alas though the likes of Marcus Rashford- who really does look a permanent fixture for England in years to come- can score goals whenever he likes in some profusion, horribly miscued what looked a certain goal for England. Put through once again, Rashford ran into the penalty area and with only the goalkeeper Thibald Courtois to beat, Rashford scuffed his shot and pulled the ball wide.

Jamie Vardy, the Leicester striker who, a couple of seasons ago, blasted open Premier League defences as Leicester cruised towards the Premier League title, now looked willing but not able. Vardy is a born goal scorer but for lengthy spells against Belgium, he seemed to be huffing and puffing laboriously, doing his utmost but without ever really threatening to score.

And so it was that Belgium, attractively supported by the ever progressive likes of Mousa Dembele, always a livewire in the Premier League, Thorgan Hazard replacing his older brother Eden, the unmistakable Marouane Fellaini and Michy Batshuayi up front, still managed to produce the cleverer and more judicious football.

However this was more or less Belgium's second eleven and with the superb Eden Hazard, the quite astonishingly gifted Kevin De Bruyne taking a breather on the bench and the brawny, bustling Romelu Lukaku desperate for a full run out in the team, Belgium look well equipped to go as far as they possibly can in this World Cup.

The winning goal for Belgium was a goal that deserved to win any match. After a quicksilver attacking burst just outside the England penalty area, Belgium found their decisive breakthrough. It was the former Manchester United youngster Adnan Januzaj who found the English net. Shuffling his feet, he dragged the ball across from one foot to another before bending a sumptuous shot high into the net, leaving Everton goalkeeper Jordan Pickford grasping at the thin air.

Now of course both Belgium and England are now required to have another go at constructing a case for winning the World Cup. Belgium will meet Japan, while England meet Colombia again in a World Cup. Football is full of weird and wonderful ironies and you have to wonder whether England can still find the necessary techniques and formulas for going all the way to the World Cup Final.

It was 20 years ago that David Beckham's fantastic free kick provided one of the goals for England to beat Colombia in France. Now they face the same opponents again in similar circumstances and for those snarling critics the sense of deja vu has once again crept back into this England team. Still, we're all right behind England and maybe the gloom and doom mongers should make themselves conspicuous by their absence.

At the end of the Panama game England boss Gareth Southgate, both stylish and fashionable, went over to the England fans gathered at one end of the ground. He clapped his hands appreciatively, carried out the most celebratory of fist pumps and then acknowledged the England fans very visible role in his team's ultimate success so far.

Meanwhile, out on the terraces the England fans were doing what seems to come naturally. For reasons best known to themselves they now seem to have adopted the most improbable of songs. 'Earth, Wind and Fire's' wonderful 'September' was music to some ears but singularly inexplicable. Maybe they're bored with 'The Great Escape' and think that it may become a self fulfilling prophecy when they come to the Colombia game. Still, 'From Russia with Love' still has a lovely ring to it.  It is time for some good, old fashioned English optimism.

Argentina reach the last 16 of the World Cup

Argentina reach the last 16 of the World Cup.

We always knew that somebody would cry for Argentina had they left the World Cup in Russia. Argentina have always been an acquired taste for some while strongly dividing opinion with others. You either like what you get with Argentina or you simply wish they'd just get out of the room and never come back again. Then there are times when you just can't take your eyes off them so lovely and entrancing is their football.

Last night though the current Argentinian incarnation reached the last 16 of the World Cup with a performance which, while never entirely convincing, still stuck very closely to their well prepared script. Watching Argentina is rather like a tragic opera where all the leading protagonists invariably end up either killing each other or just leaving a trail of broken hearts behind them. Argentina love to leave you on tenterhooks, sitting on the edge of your seats with both well rehearsed excitement and drama.

With their last group match against Nigeria balanced ominously on the edge, the light blue and white flags and banners of Argentina were on their feet, screaming, singing, bawling, imploring, biting fingernails, waving for the cameras and then pleading for their country's winning goal. For a country who haven't won the World Cup since 1986 Argentina are almost bending over backwards to win it again knowing full well that their supporters somehow feel they have a divine right to hold on to that World Cup for eternity.

Then we looked up at the hospitality boxes and the VIP box and we saw a horrible caricature of a world class footballer. Diego Maradona, now very disturbingly and somewhat horrifically overweight, adopted some of the most peculiar poses and reactions football has ever seen. But for those who fondly remember his 1986 pomp when a much younger Maradona was an almost masterful influence on his team, his appearance at last night's game against Nigeria was a sobering reminder of what can happen when drugs and drink combine in a toxic cocktail of utter self destruction.

It was hard to believe that such a wondrous footballer could so recklessly allow both his face and  body to become some grotesque figure of fun. Frequently, Maradona would react in much the way you'd expect of a proud patriot. When Lionel Messi, his successor to the throne of genius, scored quite the most breathtaking of goals for Argentina, Maradona clenched his fists together, eyes closed in a state of silent ecstasy and then seemed to go off into a world of his own. It was both sad and pathetic, a graphic illustration of a once world class footballer whose sharp decline has now turned into what seems like a wasted talent.

Still, at least Maradona had something to cheer in this year's World Cup. When Lionel Messi quickly and smartly latched onto a gorgeously weighted through ball over the top of the Nigeria defence Argentina seemed to come alive. For their first two opening games Argentina were sleepwalking through games, sloppy, slovenly, bleary eyed, full of Latin soul and impulse but not quite up to the unreasonably high standards they've always set themselves. The bar has indeed been set so high that even Argentina have had to reach up on their toes to try to touch it.

But it was now that the gifted likes of Nicolas Otamendi, the evergreen Javier Mascherano, bleeding profusely from one eye after the match, Gabriel Mercado, Eduardo Salvio, Angel De Maria, formerly of Manchester United, Marcus Rojo and company finally came of age. Until this moment they've been hiding away in some dusty cupboard, afraid to show their true selves and almost overcome with self consciousness.

The Messi goal though, was perhaps that iconic moment in world football when one of the globe's greatest of all modern players executes the most perfect of movements. From a memorable lofted ball into his path, Messi, in one swift manoeuvre, swept the ball away from his defender. Anticipating the ball dropping invitingly over his shoulder, Messi moved his body gracefully away from his defender, chesting the ball down and then with almost delicate deliberation, following through with a shot that seemed to be deliberately steered away from the Nigeria keeper and into the net. It was a goal to treasure for many generations.

Then although Argentina continued to flick their passes between themselves almost self indulgently rather like counters on an old board game, something was missing, something indefinable. Their infatuation with their natural passing game was still in evidence but from time to time, the links were missing and the chain effect that has led to such a bumper crop of important goals and victories over the years had been loosened. The tango rhythms had gone and the sparkling momentum of their attacking movements didn't seem to be where it should have been.

During the second half with Chelsea's Victor Moses and  Wilfred Ndidi much more of a potent force for Nigeria, the game seemed to hover in a state of intriguing uncertainty. Nigeria looked as though they'd forced their way back into the game both constructively and powerfully but this proved to be a disappointing illusion. If they'd looked carefully enough they'd have realised that the light blue and white Argentina shirts were still in their wide rear view mirror.

After Victor Moses had gently stroked home the Nigerian's penalty for a richly deserved equaliser, Argentina were stung into action. It was as if somebody had hit them with a red hot poker. Suddenly their football began to re-assert itself, the sweet sensuality of that close passing game, the almost intimate ball control and the remarkable comfort on the ball seemed to return in a matter of minutes.

 Lionel Messi once again smuggled his way into the Nigerian penalty area, protecting the ball, nursing the ball, weaving, slipping and swaying before knitting together a whole succession of wall passes. It was out of this world and Messi knew it. Sometimes gifted sportsmen know exactly what they're doing even when others are still working out for themselves. Lionel Messi is that unique sportsman, an exhibitionist at times but a man whose abundant gifts elevate his sport to a different plateau.

With minutes to go and Argentina displaying all of the heroism and daring determination of men who looked as though they'd never get to the summit, they broke away once again. The passes were still precise, pristine and almost crystalline. But as the match approached its final stages you almost felt that the team who can still light up a match with their diamond encrusted touches and enlightening techniques, would in all likelihood hit the magic jackpot.

After a whirlwind production line of passes that stretched the length and breadth, Gabriel Mercado, galloping and willing to sacrifice everything, sped forward into space on the flank. Now was Argentina's moment to shine, to transform the mood of a nation with one run. Mercado, easing his way onto the ball, scampered up the touchline before driving in one final low cross. Then, improbably and inexplicably, Marcos Rojo, who'd enjoyed a successful season with Manchester United, raced into position and then volleyed home the most spectacular goal you're ever likely to see from a traditional centre half. Where on earth did that come from? But how welcome and timely was it.

Argentina, still haunted by the painful memories of Eva Peron, tyrannical dictators and the military junta, found themselves released from pain, suffering and history. For now is the time for Argentina to remember their footballing heritage, recall where they were and hold on dearly to the present. The past, for now at least, is indeed another country and even the greatness of another era can still be felt even now. But then we looked at Diego Maradona and wondered if perhaps a broken figure could be properly repaired.

It seems highly unlikely that the impish Lionel Messi will ever follow in Maradona's footsteps but as a nation celebrates a place in the knockout rounds of the Russia World Cup it may be a time for reflection and sensible judgments. It is hard though not to laugh at the new VAR system, regularly employed for the tournament. The sight of a referee trotting over to a small TV screen to determine either a legitimate penalty or not as be it the case, is  both hugely amusing and surreal at times.

Still we're all having loads of fun watching our excessively healthy diet of football from a deeply respectful distance. It's an undoubted privilege to watch the game as it should be played rather than the way others would perceive it. The Russians are having a ball, presumably Vladimir Putin is just having the time of his life and presumably the Kremlin has never been so popular a tourist attraction. For Argentina this could be the beginning of a journey to remember. Hopefully. The world awaits.   

England reach the last 16 in World Cup hammering of Panama.

England reach the last 16 in World Cup hammering of Panama.

And so it was that in the final week of June 2018 that England finally slumped over the line. Slowly but surely the England football team are beginning to look as though they mean business. At long last they've made it  through to the last 16 of the World Cup for the first time in what seems like ages. In fact the last time England qualified for the latter stages of a World Cup cave dwellers were carving their initials into the wall and mankind had yet to discover the joys of the Internet.

But ladies and gentlemen it can officially be told to the rest of England and its shire counties across the country that its football team have cracked the code, deciphered its meaning and found their worthy niche in world footballing folklore. For a long time now most of us had just given up, accepting reluctantly that we somehow don't belong in the honourable company of football's great and good.

It's true. England, that fair minded, independent and objective isle in the middle of Europe has conquered part of the world and completely demolished a nation whose current status in FIFA's world rankings may be no more than a passing thought. Panama were not only beaten 6-1 by England they were humiliated, demeaned, overwhelmed, overcome, totally sliced, diced and made to look both foolish, foolhardy and reduced to a laughing stock by those with an acerbic sense of humour.

England, that noble country of spinning wind turbines besides busy motorways, rolling hills, trickling streams, murmuring meadows, commanding pine trees in secretive forests, stern and unyielding bridges, cosy tea- shops, organic cafes, motorway service stations, cottages nestling next to quiet churches, old fashioned sweet shops with jars of sweets behind the counter, vicars of purity and red post boxes that are fundamentally English.

Yes everybody, England are through to the next round of the World Cup and how relieved are we? It's been a slog, war of attrition, a battle through the complicated mazes of world football and then finally Gareth Southgate's England, my England, our England, stood proudly at the groaning top table of the World Cup glitterati and found that they were no longer in need of oxygen because the air is so much fresher than ever before. Well, since 1966 perhaps.

But hold on. England have only qualified for the last 16, the mid way point of the competition, the half way stage and it's time to rest our fevered brows because we know what happens when you get all excited, hot and bothered. We find ourselves lulled into a false sense of security and drawn into a bubble of complacency where dreams become assumptions and then it all seems to unravel and go terribly wrong. It all becomes rather knotted, twisted and anti- climactic before descending into disaster.

We are not though about to be carried away by it all because we know what England, we know about their frailties and fragilities, their deficiencies and glaring shortcomings. We know that once we've negotiated those first, tricky stages of any major football tournament, everything seems to lose something in the translation. We know that somewhere along the line that big match temperament suddenly goes missing and nobody knows why and it all ends up in a penalty shoot out mess.

And yet for just 90 minutes this up and coming team of blossoming, wet behind the ears youngsters passed the first part of their driving test. These are the learners and novices at World Cup 2018, the ones whose initiation ceremony at a big football tournament seems to be turning into a roaring success. So far anyway. So far so good. Could do better but there are no complaints so far.

For the first half of this monumentally one sided mismatch England did what perhaps they may have been threatening to do for ages at World Cup. They took out all their pent up frustration, exploded into action and proceeded to cut open Panama rather like a surgeon in an operation theatre. It was cruel, merciless, hurtful but nonetheless incisive and devastating. England dissected Panama, swarmed forward like locusts and ultimately buried their opposition with six of the very best goals you will ever see scored in an England shirt. It did seem a horrid shame but there must have come a point yesterday when England became past caring.

It is now time to declare our unqualified admiration for England captain Harry Kane. Kane is quite definitely one of the nicest blokes in international football. Kane is cool, calm, well balanced, well adjusted, vastly intelligent, agreeable, personable and very good at the art of diplomacy. Not for Kane those outrageous promises and claims that England will undoubtedly win the World Cup, Not for Kane those grandiose statements about being the best international team in the world.

There is something very grounded and sensible about Kane that has to be respected and demands respect. Kane has a realistic perspective as captain of England. He knows for a fact that arrogance and presumption can do no good at any time, that if the country believes that we've already got one foot in the World Cup Final, then such outlandish delusions have to be dismissed completely. Because where on earth did that get England World Cup teams from yesteryear? Nowhere. So be prepared for some honest re-appraisals and quietly confident mutterings.

Still, even Kane must have thought he was in Disneyland after roughly half an hour of this 6-1 goalfest for England. The goals were pouring into the Panama net with all the majesty of a stunning waterfall and Kane not only achieved the hat-trick he could only have fantasised about but he also delivered the most vehement statement to the rest of the teams in this World Cup. Come and get us because we're ready for you.

Once again John Stones and Harry Maguire were the towers of strength and complete authority that must have lifted the heart of Gareth Southgate. Stones in particular was impeccably dominant, safe in possession, unruffled by the magnitude of the occasion and responsible in his distribution of the ball. Not for one moment were England ever concerned and tested by a team, who, in all fairness, must have thought they were about to face a bulldozer. Which was indeed the case.

Now it was that the ever immaculate and almost aristocratic figure of Jordan Henderson once again reminded us that he has to be regarded as a permanent fixture in the England team. Henderson floated around the pitch with all the ease and elegance of a butler serving drinks at a high class garden party. His passes were simple, understated, modest and almost unassuming. Henderson was neat, precise, charming, neat and meticulous, a man with a mission and a player with a sense of destiny.

Further up the pitch Ashley Young, although now perhaps approaching the twilight of his career, was still full of street knowledge and utterly capable of  slowing the game down, choosing the easy option while always aware of his equally as perceptive colleagues. But by a strange irony it was his Manchester United colleague Jessie Lingard who would provide the game with its most outstanding moment.

Quietly and unfussily Lingard has blended into England's now very cohesive attacking unit without panicking when the ball was lost. Lingard oozes the classiest of touches, drifting around the fringes of the England attack like a loitering stranger determined to ingratiate himself at a party where nobody wants to talk to you. But Lingard is the real article, finished and refined, ready to rock and roll and he was the one who scored the best goal of the afternoon and quite possibly the best goal of the tournament.

Raheem Sterling, for his part, did suggest that when the mood takes him and the temperature is right there can be no holding him back. Sterling was quick, electrifyingly fast, perhaps too clever and cunning for his own good but still an essential part of Gareth Southgate's grand master plan for the future. Sterling can certainly take on his man, dancing past defenders with an almost graceful impudence and then driving powerful crosses for the inrushing Harry Kane. But all too often Sterling reminds you of the school playground kid whose only objective in life is to beat all of his opponents with one mazy run.

So now for the unusual conveyor belt of goals. England opened the scoring in no time after an outswinging corner found John Stones charging into the penalty area. Stones, sensing that this was his time to grab the limelight, leapt into the air and sent the most powerful header soaring into the back of the Panama net. It was an incredible start but one that had to be tempered by the calibre of the opposition. Panama were punch bags, rag dolls, sadly lightweights but brave heroes nonetheless.

Then in a mad and seemingly interminably crazy spell of farcical Panamanian defending- or lack of defending The Central American gallants crumbled into the ground rather like one of those ancient housing tower blocks in England where a wrecking ball or a controlled explosion, brings down the entire building. Panama came tumbling down to the ground, knocked over like a set of dominoes in a pub.

Lingard, so lively and happily enthusiastic throughout the game, went surging into the penalty area, hurtling towards the Panama keeper before being foolishly and unnecessarily bundled over for an England penalty and not for the first time. It may have seemed like naivety of the most humiliating kind but that wasn't about to worry Harry Kane. Kane stepped forward, instantly decided which direction the ball was heading and blasted the ball high into the net. Two up with four to go.

Minutes later England were three up and hardly able to believe just how straightforward this exercise would be. This was indeed the most aesthetically pleasing goal England had ever produced for quite a while. In fact if this had been an exhibit at the Tate Modern Britain Museum in London then most of us would have elevated this one to the highest plinth. It was indeed a work of art, a beautifully constructed, elegantly carved and joyously executed goal that was straight out of a Brazilian, German or Spanish brochure.

A flurry of passes from just inside the Panama half resulted in Jessie Lingard latching easily onto yet another pass, cutting in from the flank and then curling the most beautiful shot past a keeper who by now must have felt extremely victimised. It was one of those moments in football when you just want the game to stop for a minute, collect your thoughts and believe that even the impossible is possible. It was time to catch your breath and smell the coffee, a vintage moment of quality, a goal suitable in any art gallery.

By now a distraught Panama team were just praying for the final whistle let alone the half time version. England destroyed their opponents, breaking their hearts with every single attack,  converging on the Central Americans, stampeding forward like ferocious bulls on the prairie and just blasting open the Panamanian defence like a bank safe in an audacious heist.

It was now time for England's fourth goal. A deep, towering Harry Kane free kick was launched into the penalty area like a missile, Henderson deftly flicked on towards the far post and after a brief scramble, John Stones was ideally placed to clip home a goal that had floored Panama into submission. It was now that you could begin to see the smouldering debris of a defence that must have been privately giggling at their misfortune.

It may have been an opportune moment for damage limitation but England were in no mood for either charity or leniency. From yet another set piece, England profited from complete defensive silliness. Harry Kane, who by now must have been lost for words, was manhandled, shoved, pulled back and unceremoniously bundled to the ground. After repeated warnings from a baffled referee, the man in charge pointed to the penalty spot again. Qute what was going through the collective minds of the Panama defence is anybody's guess. Still, Kane stepped up to the plate and smashed the ball high into the net for number five.

The second half of course now simply fizzled out into a training ground five- a- side match where the team with a substantial half time lead just pass the ball around with nothing at all in the way of positive attacking intent. Shortly into the second half England enjoyed the icing on the cake with a sixth goal. Kyle Walker, also unflappable at the back, came forward to join an England attack who were now feasting themselves on goals, laying the ball back to Reuben Loftus Cheek. Loftus Cheek, a player of considerable potential, thumped a shot fiercely towards goal only for the back of Harry Kane's foot to deflect the ball fortunately if gladdeningly into the net for the sixth goal of the day.

With the whole of England now celebrating like never before, Panama looked as though they'd now been given the freedom to do whatever they liked. England had offered some brief respite from an incessant wave after wave of attacking from England.  Step forward one Felipe Baloy who met a nicely driven ball towards him and Baloy swept home Panama's consolation goal on the day.

Oh what a night indeed. Late June 2018. England, for all their past World Cup troubles and anxieties, have advanced into the next round of the World Cup. Now the probabilities are thrown into a giant vat of possibilities and now England may find that they'll have to keep their cards close to their chest because this is all about bluff and counter bluff. It's time to fly the St George flags, display the Union Jack and hope against hope that this year could be our year. What a game, what a team. We can hardly bare to look at times. You can stop hiding behind the sofa. England are still in Russia. Yippee!

Germany squeeze home in World Cup victory against Sweden.

Germany squeeze home in World Cup victory against Sweden.

It was always the way in World Cups. Throughout the ages Germany have always had a special relationship with the World Cup. At first, they carefully mark out their territory, cautiously feel their way into the tournament and invariably come up trumps when it looks as if those vulnerable weak spots will be exposed for everybody to see. But not this time because Germany know how to pace themselves and know what may be required of them when the odds are, quite possibly, stacked against them.

For the whole of their second group match in this World Cup against Sweden, the Germans chipped away at stubborn Swedish resistance without ever really seeming to find the killer blow in them. The Germans threw every piece of IKEA flat pack furniture at Sweden and still found themselves battering away at a blue and yellow Swedish wall. But it all came right on the end for Germany and when the referee blew the final whistle you'd have thought the Germans had actually retained the World Cup rather than a won a game at the group stages of this competition.

And yet there was once again that well rounded air of professionalism and organisation which we've always associated with the Germans. How do they keep doing this? Where are all those psychological tools that the Germans can always call upon when things aren't going their way? There have to be plentiful reserves of stamina, sheer single mindedness and bloody mindedness, sheer nerves of steel that sustain Germany when the chips are down for them.

After a frantic start to the game both sides seemed to go head to head with each other like gladiators with shining shields, furious, intense, determined to win at all costs, crashing and clashing with each other remorselessly, thrusting and parrying, attacking and counter attacking at every opportunity. Sweden should have scored when one blue and yellow shirt found himself clean through one on one with only German goalkeeper Manuel Neuer to beat and still had an attack of stage fright. The chance went begging and was missed.

Then Sweden saw the whites of the Germans eyes and thought they'd try their luck again. A ball chipped sweetly over a lumbering German defence caught them napping and Ola Toivonen, a Swedish battle hardened warrior, bustled his way past a white German defensive unit and lifted the ball exultantly over Neuer for Sweden's amazingly unexpected opening goal.

From that point onwards the blue and yellow of Sweden played that classic game of Russian Roulette which may have been appropriate in this year's World Cup. They streamed forward, closing down the German assaults whenever the white shirts had  possession and then shuttling the ball around quickly  as if petrified that the Germans would rumble their cautious strategy.

During the first half though the Germans seemed to shift the ball between them as if planning a major military campaign, strolling and rolling the ball from one white shirt to the next. They were, as usual, rigid, disciplined, straight laced, straight faced, measured, considered, cool and calculating. There was that menacing, subtle, crafty and stealthy air about the Germans which has almost become hard wired into them.

On the touchline German boss Joachim Low was a vision in black, casual black shirt accompanied by black trousers, stern, impassive, businesslike and face totally concentrated on the task in hand. You felt that Low had lost all his worldly belongings, a face that was blank and devoid of emotion. There was a solemnity about Low which suggested that his whole world had fallen apart for him.

Then there followed over an hour and half of Germany thoroughness and absolute efficiency, something of a hallmark within German culture. There was a rigidity, structure and seamless smoothness about this German team that most of us have grown accustomed to over the years. When it comes to World Cups the Germans do like to make the game seem effortless and easy going. There was almost a formality and inevitability about some of  Germany's attacking football that couldn't be faulted.

The highly rated Julian Draxler, stylish, arrogant and very much in complete control of his footballing faculties, gave his German side, flair and continuity, roving about the pitch like a man determined to stamp his authority on the game. Draxler had an almost balanced detachment about him which might have implied that he wasn't really interested in the final score. But Draxler had the loveliest touch on the ball, real sensitivity, a guiding influence on proceedings which made the Germans feel so much better about themselves.

Then Jerome Boateng began to move forward into attack, cleverly linking with his colleagues with an intelligence and wisdom that could only be marvelled at. Once again Antonio Rudiger was a shining light in a Germany attack that wheeled forward and whirled around with the minimum fuss. Tony Roos of course is the German poster boy and provided Germany with much of their poise and grace in attacking positions.

With Joshua Kimmich, Sebastian Rudy, Thomas Muller and particularly Timo Wenner all exchanging passes at breakneck speed and devastating one touch football, Germany, without ever really threatening anything of significance. Then Draxler, who by now was beginning more and more like an Uli Hoeness from another era, cottoned onto a pass in another free flowing German attack, cut in on the edge of the penalty area, pulled the ball back sharply across the Swedish penalty area and Marco Reus, wrapping his foot around the ball before swinging his shot into the back of the Swedish net.  It was 1-1 and none of us knew quite to expect next.

Suddenly. the game adopted its very own mood, changeable and wildly dramatic for the remaining half an hour. The boxing analogy was just wonderfully apposite. The game now had piercing jabs, tentative rabbit punches to the stomach and then sparring of the most savage kind without ever descending into a warlike battle. Germany flung out several very brutal hooks to the jaw but then found that Sweden too had their artillery, a side of courage, directness but little in the way of subtlety.

Then in the game's final stages Germany upped the tempo, picked up the pace considerably but then fell disastrously into a hole of their own making. Jerome Boateng, who'd enjoyed one of his better and more committed games for Germany, lunged over zealously into a bad tackle and was sent off. You might have been forgiven for thinking that Germany had seen red such was the ferocity of their response.

The white shirts flooded into the Swedish half like condemned men who'd just been told that their punishment would be a severe one. At this point most of us must have been convinced that Sweden would take up the baton and conduct their very own orchestra. Not so. Sweden instead were, if anything, deeply intimidated by the German surge and dropped right back into their introverted shell.

The match was now well into injury time and the Swedes rightly felt that an injustice had to be righted. How dare they allow their opponents to be lulled into a false sense of security without German permission. The Swedes had been given no authorisation to play for the draw and besides the Germans were still world champions.

Right at the very end, a respectful hush fell over the stadium. The Swedes had given away a terribly rash free kick from way out on the touchline.  A Tony Kroos free kick was just what the doctor had ordered. Kroos had been his usual skilful self and now the spotlight fell on him. The ball was lofted into the Swedish area and after a desperate scramble, Marcos Reus bundled the ball home for Germany's deserved if slightly fortunate winner.

Once again German attention to detail, brilliant planning and relentless perseverance had worked in Germany's favour. The Germans had done it again. Oh, how often have we heard of that one before? Just when you think that that almost Teutonic self righteousness had made sure that Sweden could never stop Germany. English supporters would perhaps believe that familiarity can only breed contempt when the opposition are Germany. But for Sweden this must have felt like the knockout blow to the head where the only reaction can be one of genuine loathing.

And so the world champions were let off the hook when it did look as though they'd made a rod for their own backs. How cliched this contest had now become? Germany had won their first match of this World Cup after Mexico had left them gasping and shocked with a 1-0 defeat last week. Germany are back in World Cup contention and the chances are, will make gentle progress into the knockout round with just a slight gulp of anxiety at the beginning of the tournament.

Back in England some of us were privately hoping that the misfortune that had paid a brief visit to the Germans against Mexico would flare up again. So far this World Cup has given us a very poor and limited Argentina team who really look doomed at the moment, a Brazil who will hopefully give us that traditional mixture of sweet honey and delicious ambrosia, football with a genuine samba beat and a Poland team who had to be the worst ever seen in any World Cup.

For both Spain and France this World Cup could produce any number of plots and sub plots. France are all artistic flourishes and sometimes pretentious posturings while Spain give us Latin lessons, a side of quick witted impulses, wonderfully attractive passing football but every so often given to annoying carelessness and sloppy amateurishness.

The general opinion at the end of this first week of the World Cup is that the standard of football has been excellent at times but fraught with fear at the others. Comparisons with previous World Cups are always odious and the salad days of Beckenbauer, Pele, Cruyff, Tardelli, Rossi, Kempes, Moore, Hurst and Peters are now no more than historic names of the World Cup's gold embossed pomp and pageantry.

The Germans though have proved something we always knew about them. Their renowned powers of stamina, longevity and resilience can never be questioned. We're all aware of their uncanny powers of recovery, that mechanical grinding down of their opponents which they seem to specialise in and then the finishing power up front which almost seems to go without saying. We must hope that within the next couple of weeks nobody mentions penalties and England in the same breath. How the Germans must be rubbing their hands again! Still, there's a long way to go yet and much that can and probably will happen. We can't wait.

Spain and Argentina - the World Cup at its most sublime and shocking.

Spain and Argentina - the World Cup at its most sublime and shocking.

A couple of nights ago the World Cup in Russia presented us with football at its most sublime while last night the World Cup left us feeling distinctly deflated. It is hard to know where this World Cup may be taking us. It could be some Garden of Eden paradise where the roses and begonias always bloom or it may struggle over the half way line before flopping horribly into some very thorny bush full of weeds and thick scrubland.

Yesterday evening Argentina fell desperately short of those sentimental years where everything seemed to go right, the football was beautifully designed and furnished with the finest material and the players came from the best traditions of the tango and the bossa nova. Argentina, it has to be said, were simply dreadful and after promising briefly in the first half, collapsed like a folding deckchair washed out to sea.

Argentina's opponents Croatia tucked into the South Americans ravenously, gorging themselves on the blue and white striped shirts as if attending some bountiful banquet. But perhaps the most desolate figure was once again Lionel Messi, certainly one of the greatest players in the world. Messi didn't quite know where to put his head after Argentina's limp and soulless 1-1 draw in their opening World Cup group match against Iceland.

 Even the likes of Javier Mascherano and Manchester City's viperish striker Sergio Aguero had nothing in their box of tricks to baffle a Croatia side driven forward by the inspirational Luka Modric, formerly of Tottenham and now ensconced comfortably as a Champions League winner with Real Madrid.

In the second half though Argentina looked like one of those long distance lorries whose engine may have blown at the wrong time and place. Manchester City's other Premier League victor Nicolas Otamendi seemed off the pace and leggy, perhaps emotionally exhausted by another gruelling if remarkable season for City. Then there was Marcos Acuna from whom perhaps too much was expected of. Acuna was quick and purposeful but, although oozing composure on the ball, never quite got out of first gear on the night. Enzo Perez was another bright spark for Argentina but by the time Perez clicked Argentina had already switched off completely.

So there we were dearly looking forward to seeing an Argentinian side who genuinely appeared hell bent on re- creating the ticker tape World Cup winning heroics of 1978. This time there were no players like Daniel Passarella, Rene Houseman. Osvaldo Ardiles, Ricky Villa, Mario Kempes and Leopoldo Luque to enthrall a fiercely nationalistic Argentina crowd whose World Cup Final victory against Holland may never be forgotten in Buenos Aires.

Earlier on in the week Spain and Iran fought out one of those very low scoring games that, to the outsider, might have been regarded as disappointing. But there was never any point during the game when Spain seemed remotely troubled by Iran. Here was a short passing masterclass from Spain that was not only a pleasure to watch but a salutary lesson in the arts and crafts of the Beautiful Game.

At times it was rather like watching Brazil 1970 when Pele, Jairzinho and Rivelino seemed to baffle their opposition with beautifully embroidered attacking tapestries. There did seem to be a blizzard of passes, a torrent of passes sweeping and flooding over an Iranian defence who didn't quite know which way to look or go.

 The circles were ever increasing as the educated feet of Isco, Andres Iniesta, Sergio Busquets, the evergreen Manchester City midfield string puller David Silva, the adventurous Sergio Ramos wove together their patterns and imposed those profound thought processes on the game.  This was the Spain that still gave tantalising glimpses of what could be as the tournament progresses and may yet develop into something much bigger and more important.

Finally, this afternoon Brazil finally delivered on the first part of their ever colourful project. A World Cup without Brazil of course is rather like fish without the chips, bread without butter and all of the ingredients that make them one of the most riveting sides in the history of international football. Brazil are like a permanent art exhibition, more Monet and Matisse than some scribbled drawing on a pavement.

For the first time Philippe Coutinho, the world class Neymar, Firminho of Liverpool, Gabriel Jesus of Manchester City, Miranda, Willian of Chelsea, Marcelo and the hugely entertaining Thiago Silva all gelled, blended, forged together effectively and often quite thoughtfully as indeed they should given our expectations of Brazil at any World Cup.

Once again Brazil looked like a renaissance team, utterly humiliated in their own backyard four years ago by a rampant German side who quite literally cut them in half, bombarded them, dismantling and dismembering Brazil with the kind of 7-1 semi final thrashing that must have left them extremely traumatised for months and years afterwards. But now it's different and four years of course is quite naturally a long time to dwell on the aches, sores and torments that went with the territory at the time.

Brazil beat Costa Rica 2-0 in a not entirely convincing last minute victory but this is still a Brazil side in evolution and transition rather than the finished article. When we think of Brazil we normally think of that romantic age when lovers meet at the top of the Eiffel Tower, a side of fantasy and freedom, of fizzing exuberance and glorious attacking extravagance. You can never tire of watching Brazil because Brazil are Brazil and play the kind of football we all wish we could play, a side of the quickest wits and the simplest of passes.

We are now entering the second week of this World Cup of 2018. So far the good citizens of Volgograd, St Petersburg, Sochi and all have dispelled all those deep seated notions and stereotypes of a Russia that refuses to smile. Russia, to all outward appearances, looks as if it's having a ball, enjoying itself hugely. So far the wonderful party is in full swing, the caviar is always available and Russian high society may well be pinching itself.

Of course there was that very dark episode in Salisbury where a perfectly innocent father and daughter were attacked with what could have been a potentially lethal poison. Then there was the messy aftermath followed by political hostility between Russia and Britain that thankfully blew over. But we're all friends now. Relationships have been repaired and Gareth Southgate's England are going where few dare to tread. This is time for shaking diplomatic hands and trying to put the worst behind us.

So here we are on the verge of week two and the World Cup is about to pause for breath. The usual suspects are flexing their muscles while others whose footballing traditions may stretch back much further in time are being severely examined and tested to the limit. Brazil could still provide us with their usual element of surprise and the unexpected while their South American neighbours Argentina still look edgy, nervous, temperamental and underwhelmed.

As for Spain and France the World Cup is very much part of an artistic movement where style and sophistication meet up once again for a neighbourly argument over the garden fence. Art was never a case of the classic baroque or rococo period and if either the Spanish or French believe this to be the case then they may be seriously deluded.

Oh well! Every England and their fans will now be turning their thoughts to Sunday and Panama neither of whom would ever ordinarily crop up in discussion over the Sunday roast or any dinner party for that matter. But it is England against Panama, a game that probably sounds like the greatest mismatch of all time. Still, there was Morocco in the 1986 World Cup, Algeria in the 2010 World Cup, the USA in the 1950 World Cup and of course there was Iceland in Euro 2016. So who are we to assume anything? The World Cup in Russia is slowly warming up and may yet come to the boil.  It is time to keep the faith in England and Gareth Southgate. Time for those three lions to roar again.

England beat Tunisia in World Cup last gasp drama.

England beat Tunisia in World Cup last game drama.

At long last. Finally, the ghosts of World Cup opening games for England have been banished to the touchlines and hopefully for good. How do those hardy English supporters do it? Every four years they subject themselves to the excruciating agony and purgatory of struggle, pain, rejection, disappointment and dare anybody say it, a sense of alienation from the team. This is turning into a repetitive cracked record that may just as well be a regular occurrence.

Last night though there was a classic re-enactment of that famous World Cup moment when England keeper Rob Green fumbled a lousy shot from an American player and gifted the USA the kind of equaliser that maybe even they must have thought they were imagining. While not quite as calamitous as that careless blunder, England were still in a lock down with Tunisia, trapped in the vice of a 1-1 scoreline that must have been haunting everybody and shocking others.

 Not another World Cup horror show surely they thought. But ah yes, this is England and the sense of embarrassment which has come to visit the England football team on too many occasions came back again and some of us were also resigned to England's fate with well over half an hour of the game to go. We checked our watches and the time was ebbing, slipping away and England began to look like men whose brand new car had completely run out of petrol.

In the beginning it had all so looked fine and dandy for Gareth Southgate's young, puffed out chests, patriotic players. They had flown from the starting blocks like Olympic sprinters, scurried after their opponents as if their life had depended on it and looked as if they just wanted to finish off the game in no time at all. They were sharp, positive, alert, receptive to any advice that Southgate had given them, generally bright, bubbly and buoyant with the kind of devil may care approach to the game that perhaps we weren't really expecting.

And yet last night's game began with a major concern. By the banks of the River Volga England were under attack by swarms of midges, flying persistently around the likes of Raheem Sterling as if determined to throw England off the scent. But this was no night for butterflies in the stomach and on another first night for England in another World Cup, certainty and assurance was followed by chronic hesitation, palpitating panic and a dose of the collywobbles. Woe England and World Cups! When are they going to remember their lines and not fumble around the living rooms of world football like Victorians with candles in their hands as darkness falls?

 Still, as was commonly acknowledged by most England followers, this was not entirely unexpected. We are constantly reminded of the fact that whenever England reach a World Cup or European Championship they lose their keys, their balance, their  concentration and any sense of where they are and who they are. Everybody trotted out that same old tune over and over again. There are no expectations except modest expectations and besides we've only been repeating the same sentence for at least 52 years. You suspect that Sir Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters and Bobby Charlton are sipping a satisfying glass of wine confident that 1966 will remain planted in the subconscious for ever.

The fact remains that against Tunisia yesterday evening England were still a mass of contradictions, initially in the ascendancy but then falling away into a kind of drunken stupor in the second half when somebody told them that Tunisia had equalised. England would eventually become sloppy, idiosyncratic. wayward, unreliable and completely lacking any kind of alternative thinking when the winning goal would not come their way.

For the first half an hour though England were irrepressible, a team with clarity, fluency, flow and decisiveness. There was a crispness and precision to their passing that truly stopped us in our tracks. They began to pass the ball with the fluid accuracy of a team who knew exactly what they were doing and where they were going. There was a real sense of movement, speed of thought and a heightened awareness of the occasion itself.

And once again we turned to England boss Gareth Southgate, all smart blue waistcoat, calm, always rational thinking, never flustered, angry, unnerved and seemingly oblivious to all the fuss and hype around him. Southgate continues to convey the air of a building society manager, always friendly, easy going, delighted to see new customers, willing to engage in any discussion about the game. Here was a man with a thick beard,  polished vowels and consonants in his speech and an excellent dress sense. He is a sensible and admirably articulate man with a thorough knowledge of the game's vital inner mechanics, manners and etiquette.

Last night Southgate stood in his dug out rather like a man surveying the English countryside, standing proudly on a mist shrouded hill, eyes gazing out on a stunning vista of lush green meadows that look like bedroom quilts from the air. Then his mind absorbs the sights and sounds of whirling wind turbines and cormorants flying in perfect formation around stern and unyielding lighthouses.

For that first crucial first half an hour in the first half, the naturally gifted Jordan Henderson, truly one of the England's most stabilising of influences, dropped anchor and then brought chaos and order where mayhem and jittery nerves may have existed in this English side. Henderson is the very epitome of a master craftsman, chiselling out well carved passes to all areas of the pitch and growing in stature as the game progressed. It was hard to believe that Henderson, who had been England captain for a while, could only hand on the baton to Harry Kane. Then again there is something of the Tony Currie, Trevor Brooking, Ray Wilkins and Glen Hoddle about Henderson that continues to impress.

Then there was Raheem Sterling who has just enjoyed a sensational season with Manchester City, not only winning the Premier League title by a country mile but also rapidly growing as a winger and forward. Of course Sterling has blistering pace and acceleration to burn but then you look at him in moments of self indulgence and you wonder if he may be trying too hard. He wanders and roams around  the flanks and into the centre of the pitch like a man who never quite knows whether to stick or twist at pontoon.

Sterling's back story of course is both painfully moving and deeply affecting, a man whose father was tragically shot when the youngster was quite possibly too young to understand. Then there was the absurd tittle tattle about that gun tattoo on his leg which now seems like a publicity stunt. But Sterling certainly has what it takes to progress and evolve as an England player and the ability to run at defenders fearlessly surely warrants far more attention than any gun tattoo.

Dele Alli of Tottenham had one of those energetic and fully committed games for England which can only bode well for the future. Alli does look like a goal opportunist, breaking forward imperiously into the right areas at the right time. Sadly, an early injury to Alli took much of the impetus and momentum from deep that only he can generate. Alli remains a vital attacking link in any of England's attacking approach play.

For Jessie Lingard of Manchester United the tale is a similar one. Lingard could count himself dreadfully unlucky in the number of goal scoring attempts that England mustered during the second half. Lingard does look the genuine article but you did get the impression that he was desperate to be joined by his United colleague Marcus Rashford who towards the end of the game came on a sub. Lingard is eminently capable of scoring goals, arriving at the opportune moments to score goals as and when the mood takes him.

With John Stones and Harry Maguire towers of strength at the back for England and Kieran Trippier harrying and hustling forward in support, the bolts and nuts are completely secure for England at the back. Kyle Walker, who was unfortunately at fault for the Tunisia penalty remains one of the quickest and sprightliest of full backs charging forward like a bull out of the gate.

Ashley Young although now at the latter end of his career at Manchester United, can still manoeuvre himself into position for neatly delivered crosses and isn't afraid of mixing it with the younger generation. Young was always available for the right weight of pass and spent most of the evening quietly minding his business, hovering with intent and linking effectively with the rest of the team.

But then came the winning goals for England which had frustratingly eluded them for so long and so many years. The irony - not lost any England fan- was that 20 years ago England had won their first game of the World Cup in France. That day Alan Shearer and Paul Scholes were on the score sheet and 20 years later it seemed as though England were still dwelling on that result like a reflective philosopher who doesn't quite understand society and people.

The facts are these though. A high, inswinging corner to the far post seemed to hang in the air for a minute or two and after roughly quarter of an hour England were in front. John Stones, wonderfully dominant in the air rose handsomely to head the ball ferociously towards the goal, the Tunisian keeper could only get a hand to palm out Stones well directed header and Harry Kane, that hungriest of strikers. tapped the ball home simply for England's opening goal.

From that point England seemed to bombard the Tunisian goal from all sorts of acute angles and passes that were almost mathematically correct. All over the pitch England were hunting in packs, spreading the ball around with a short, short, quick quick tempo before pouncing on their opponents with lightning breakaways.

Briefly England were brought back to equality when Kyle Walker seemed to bundle over his defender quite accidentally. Fergani Sassi clipped the penalty past a diving England keeper in Jordan Pickford who did well to get a hand to the ball but couldn't quite to get to it. It was 1-1 and remained so for much of the match.

England started the second half as if still suspended in a state of shock. Was this the USA game all over again or worse had Iceland come back to darken England's corridors. Subsequently England never really re-established the total control they had enjoyed at the kick off. They were slightly ragged, leg weary and almost entirely lacking in any of the rhythm that had accompanied their earlier efforts.

Then, deep into injury time and with most of the England supporters about to sigh their annoyance, irritation and disapproval at the prospect of another England draw that man Harry Kane, England's very polite skipper joined the rest of his defence for a corner. Another highly propelled, sky high corner came swinging in yet again and this time Harry Maguire, Leicester's reliable strong man, nodded forward towards the far post where Kane, so cleverly placed, turned his neck muscles to their fullest extent and flicked the ball in with his head too easily for England's thoroughly merited winner.

And so it was that England had conquered first night nerves, stage fright, drying in front of a huge England following on the terraces and then remembering their lines. There is still a long road to travel for these well scrubbed, well adjusted and infectiously enthusiastic England players. But once they have settled and recognised that all those Russian Cossack dancers are just trying to humour us then England may find that Red Square isn't so bad at all. This may be the right moment to think about negotiating the Panama canal on Sunday. Panama on Sunday has a certain ring to it. 

Lionel Messi- a world class player but World Cups are not for him.

Lionel Messi - a world class player but World Cups are not for him.

Lionel Messi and World Cups simply don't seem to go together. One of the world's greatest players of the modern era has conquered Barcelona and club football but once he finds himself on the big global stage, something in the rarefied World Cup air seems to overwhelm him. Football can be the cruellest of games at times and when the game conspires against you, it does seem as though the forces of psychology can exact a horrible revenge when you're not looking where you should.

Yesterday in Argentina's opening World Cup group match against Iceland, Messi, although untouchable and mesmeric at times, found himself wandering into the barbed wire defence of a resolute and forbidding Iceland defence. By the end of the game Messi was bowing his head despairingly, staring at the ground and wondering if it was worth all that effort. Clearly, the man was a troubled soul and totally inconsolable, a man who had obviously lost a fiver and couldn't even comfort himself with a pound.

Argentina, of course are renowned for their beef, cattle, the vast, rolling pampases, the palominos in all their stately magnificence, Ossie Ardiles and Ricky Villa, Estudiantes and Boca Juniors, the two leading Argentinian football clubs and the ticker tape confetti that swirled down from the terraces when Caesar Luis Menotti celebrated his Argentine team's World Cup victory exactly 40 years ago in Buenos Aires.

But yesterday was all about Lionel Messi and his singular contribution to a World Cup match. In 1986, his world class predecessor Diego Maradona had stopped the world on its axis when, in a heartbreaking quarter final against Bobby Robson's England, Maradona upset, infuriated and antagonised the whole of England with that famous handball goal that should never have been.

Still, a stocky, bullish and muscular centre forward with illicit thoughts running through his mind flung out a fist to punch the ball past England goalkeeper Peter Shilton in the aerial challenge of all aerial challenges. Maradona was never sorry, apologetic or remorseful for many years convinced that the goal was perfectly legal and England were just being cry babies.

Lionel Messi, for his part, is a completely different football animal. Messi is fair minded, respectable, presentable and without a single bone of deviousness or deception in his body. Messi glides, floats, cuts through defences, waltzing, jinking, shimmying, running at his own pace and with the minimum of effort. There was a time when Iceland had very few answers to the Messi body swerve, the endless drops of the shoulders, the suave and almost dapper air of complete command, the impeccable close ball control, the animal magnetism, the sexy, sinuous, sinewy athleticism and, above all, the natural talent.

But against Iceland yesterday Messi came up against an impenetrable road block, hundreds of cones everywhere, a wall the size of China and white Iceland shirts that were almost locked together with a thousand keys, bolts and shutters. Wherever Messi went Iceland followed him like puppies determined to get their bones. Eventually Messi just seemed to run out of room so formidable had that wall become.

And this seemed to be the recurring pattern of the game for Argentina. You were reminded of those insurmountable obstacles that can never be overcome, brick walls that can never be climbed, white shirts that just kept multiplying in front of Argentina. Every time Argentina had the ball they must have felt like bank robbers trying desperately to find the right number for the safe. There were tiny knots of black Argentine shirts, flickering and fluttering around Iceland like those pieces of ticker tape in 1978.

Finally, after a series of relentless runs, dummy runs, decoy runs, ducking but never diving, Messi's head dropped down in helpless dejection, a man who should have been destined to become the man of the match but instead had to settle for nothing at all. True, Argentina hadn't lost but deep inside the Messi mind there was a very real sense that something had been lost. He'd failed in his mission to become the revolutionary figure who could upstage everybody with the boldest of footballing statements.

So there we were. Lionel Messi has now two more opportunities to emulate his countryman Diego Maradona. There were those who rightly believed that Pele could never be replaced by any player in any succeeding generation. But then there was Johan Cruyff and rather like Messi, Cruyff, although blessed with delectable ball skills, was on the beaten side in that famous World Cup Final of 1974, when English referee Jack Taylor awarded a penalty from which the Dutch scored. But then a striker with the lethal goal scorer's touch called Gerd Muller ruined Holland's day.

Messi, although the complete article, will surely be playing at his last World Cup and the chances are that he may well end up as frustrated as Cruyff. But this World Cup is in its infancy and Zabivaka, the World Cup mascot in Russia, is still limbering up for the days that now face his home nation. Zabivaka means charm and confidence in Russia and if you've got any of those Russian dolls in your cupboard it also means that this World Cup may have a much more distinctive character than ever thought possible and it could be a crackerjack of a World Cup. Hold on tight everybody.

Portugal share a glorious 3-3 draw with Spain in World Cup thriller.

Portugal share a glorious 3-3 draw with Spain in World Cup thriller.

Sometimes footballing banquets can give you the most awful indigestion and this was no exception to the rule. On the second day of this slow burning World Cup in Russia, Portugal and Spain locked horns in the most spellbinding, transfixing, gripping, mind blowing World Cup qualifying group match of the tournament. By the end most of the Sochi crowd were simply wiping their eyes with genuine amazement and wonderment.

In a pulsating, fascinating and occasionally flawless display of technical excellence from both of these sides in the classic Iberian derby, Portugal and Spain served up the tastiest dishes of the day with football that swung from defence to attack in the most delightful fashion. It is at times like this that you begin to realise why you fell for football hook, line and sinker as an impressionable teenager.

But it was one man who quite literally seizes a game by the scruff of the neck, times his moment in the sun and then scores a goal of quite outrageous individuality. A couple of weeks ago Cristiano Ronaldo had once again picked up another valuable Champions League Final winners medal against Liverpool and once again in front of a captive and captivated world audience Ronaldo delivered a free kick of such superlative technique that maybe it should have won something for artistic merit.

With three minutes of the game gone Ronaldo's Portugal immediately announced their intentions when Ronaldo tucked home a penalty after a poor Spanish defensive challenge in the penalty area had given the Portuguese their first footprint on the game. It was now that the game flared into an explosive firework display of end to end, flowing, fluctuating football that ebbed and flowed, backwards and forwards, never letting up for a moment.

Then somebody must have flicked the switch because from that point afterwards both teams decided to go at each other like bloodhounds in a haunted forest. Portugal frequently lunged and darted at the Spanish with menacing swishes of the sword while Spain, who once held lengthy bragging rights over their neighbours, pushed and prodded with those familiar one touch dabs of their oil paints. It was the neatness and delicacy that we've come to expect from Portugal against the equally as intricate but simple and beautiful Spanish.

Literally twenty minutes into the game Spain were back on level terms when Diego Costa, once the scourge of Premier League defenders at Chelsea, scored the most technically ingenious of equalisers. Turning, twisting and then deliberately leaving his opponent on his backside, Costa twirled and swirled in the most confined space before slamming the ball firmly into the roof of the net. Typical Costa and typical Spain. 1-1. Game on.

Minutes later Spain struck once again when Portugal must have thought somebody had snatched their initiative after cruising through the early stages of the game. A high, towering free kick from way out in Spain's own half  dropped easily onto the head of Sergio Busquets and the defender's brilliant nod back into the penalty area eventually found Costa yet again and the dark skinned, swarthy striker with a hint of Latin about his face, steered the ball furiously into the Portuguese net. How football can change its mind in a matter of minutes.

Then as if the game was balanced on some very sophisticated scales Portugal made it abundantly clear that this was personal, snarling and growling ominously at their opponents as if refusing to believe that they could ever be beaten by their Iberian rivals. This game meant much more than a friendly glass of muscatel at the end of the game just to prove that they were still good friends.

With the game now approaching its fever pitch climax Portugal gingerly picked their way through the Spanish defence but as if by predestined fate the man with the dark matinee idol looks re-connected with the game yet again. There are moments when football matches at any level can produce one man with a natural ability to decorate and embellish a game with his intuitive genius. Cristiano Ronaldo stood head and shoulders above every player with a moment to savour and relish at the same time.

After a frenetic burst of Portuguese attacking movements Ronaldo began to hover around the Spanish penalty area like one of those famous modern day drones in the sky. Suddenly he picked up the ball from just outside the area and smacked another drilled towards David De Gea. The Manchester United, then uncharacteristically fumbled the ball and the ball dribbled under his body and into the net. Portugal were back in the game and the psychological balance of the game seemed to sway back in Portugal's favour. Not so.

Spain poached the ball back again like children in a playground who stubbornly refuse to give the ball back when they may feel as if they're being too selfish or just plain awkward. The white shirts of Spain, still recovering from the  major shock of losing their manager before gaining a new one before the match, now poured forward like a cascading waterfall, the likes of veteran Andres Iniesta, the ever lively Koke, effervescent and everywhere Jordi Albi and the roving, roaming Sergio Ramos all joining forces with some of the loveliest football of the evening.

Then as if inspired by the occasion itself Spain took the lead with what looked to be the most important goal of them all and what a gem it was. After some careful orchestrations from David Silva and the quickest transfer of passes Nacho, from quite a distance, manoeuvred himself into position, pulled back his shooting leg and then drove the ball with an air of precision engineering as the ball seemed to bend and dip in front of De Gea in the Spain goal before flying into the net off a post.

But that was not to be the final grand performance because Portugal had one last trick up their sleeve. Now that William Carvalho, strongly fancied to become a Premier League player next season, Cedric Soames and the on loan to West Ham Joao Mario became much more focused on salvaging at least a draw from the match. Ronaldo began to sniff the scent.

Cometh the hour cometh the man. For a number of seasons now the so called pretty boy from Real Madrid and once Manchester United showed that he too could produce the destructive weapon when it was sorely needed. With the game in its final act Cristiano Ronaldo did what he'd been threatening to do for most of the evening.

You may think him vain, arrogant and narcissistic but the man who Sir Alex Ferguson once turned into the darling of Manchester United lined up a free kick in his sacred territory. Standing straight as a soldier and hitching up his shorts in some strange affectation, Ronaldo strode forward with only one objective in mind. A soft shoe shuffle towards the ball was followed by a lofted golf putt of a free kick that barely lifted off the ground at first but then whistled past Spain keeper De Gea into the roof of the net.

And that was that. Portugal and Spain, in what looked to be the juiciest and spiciest match of the World Cup so far shook hands diplomatically after accepting an honourable draw. If this is the benchmark for the rest of the World Cup then we may be in for a street carnival, a siesta, a fiesta of football, a colourful kaleidoscope of football that far exceeds any expectations and reaches the most cultivated level of refined beauty.

These are the early days of World Cup formalities and introductions. The image of Vladimir Putin somewhat patronisingly gesturing towards a Saudi sheikh after the Russians had rattled up a roulette of goals against Saudi Arabia in the opening game, still leaves us with a slightly embarrassed and painful image on our minds. Still, as long as we are left with a generous helping of caviar in our football none of us should have any complaints. Make that a vodka for Mr Southgate please.

Robbie Williams entertains us at World Cup opening ceremony.

Robbie Williams entertains us at World Cup ceremony.

It had been a mild and moderately warm Moscow afternoon. Then, suddenly from the corner of our eyes a young gentleman from Stoke on Trent danced across the vast acres of grass of the Luzhniki Stadium and a nation that could barely believe what they were seeing, burst into wild cheering and applause. This was the moment they'd all been waiting for and they weren't about to miss the opportunity to make full capital out of what could only be regarded as the finest their sporting public had ever seen.

In 1980 this same stadium had been the host to one of the most controversial Olympic Games when, after politics and sport met in a head on collision nobody seemed to achieve anything of note. There were boycotts, petty behind the scenes arguments and tit for tat reprisals. The USA, for reasons best known to themselves, decided not to turn up for the Olympic party and then four years later Russia somewhat spitefully reciprocated the gesture.

But now FIFA, in their infinite wisdom - or maybe that should be utter ignorance if you were to believe some seasoned football commentators- handed the World Cup to Russia because perhaps they felt that bygones should be bygones and football is essentially the global game without the complicated baggage that comes with it. Those in the higher echelons had chosen Russia rather than political mind games and nonsensical back biting.

 This was a time for a World Cup football festival rather than some Communist uprising led by military activists and Vladimir Putin's alleged anarchists. But this is surely not the time for any hard feelings or bitter resentment in the Kremlin. This was the time to bury the historical hatchet, forgetting swiftly about the evil dictatorships of Joseph Stalin and Vladimir Lenin. It was that moment in time when the whole of Russia made up its mind to concentrate on the present day rather than the grisly and gruesome past.

Yesterday Russia welcomed the world footballing community with a typical bear hug of affection. There was a sense indeed that old scores had to be settled and a feeling of warm reconciliation could only be of wholesome long term benefit to global footballing harmony. We know all about those vindictive squabbles that had so often irreparably scarred the Olympic Games both in Moscow and the USA. Now was the time to stop those nasty and heated exchanges in back rooms and just get on with the business of the World Cup.

And so we return to our contemporary rock star of the World Cup opening ceremony. He supports Port Vale and he is the unmistakable, incomparable Robbie Williams. Yes folks Robbie Williams. Here was Williams at his most flamboyant, cocksure and confident, a modern pop icon whose cheeky schoolboy charisma and jokey relationship with the equally as famous boy band Take That captured the collective female hearts of the world. Williams then pursued a  solo career that soared phenomenally to the highest of heights.

Ladies and Gentleman! Will you put hands together for Robbie Williams, your master of ceremonies for quite possibly the shortest World Cup opening ceremony in recent times. The mind went back to Euro 96 in England when, with some of the most original production values in the history of opening ceremonies we were given medieval jousts, men on horses galloping across the old Wembley and a whole panoply of English traditions which made yesterday's damp squib look much like a tea party from an Alice in Wonderland classical tale.

Still, this was Robbie Williams and once again this strutting showman with the twinkly red jacket and trousers, reminded us once again that football and music can still strike the happiest of mediums. Another unfortunate memory from World Cups from yesterday takes the mind back to USA 1994 when the legendary soul diva Diana Ross burst out of a football in 90 degrees of heat and then farcically flapped at a pretend penalty kick which still remarkably found the net.

The fact remains that Williams had been entrusted with the daunting task of kicking off the World Cup in 2018 and had achieved a lifelong ambition that perhaps he felt would never come to fruition. The 20 minute set of course was the ultimate in cheesiness and corny light entertainment. But then  we somehow suspected that something bizarre and unusual would come to life as the most pleasant of surprises.

Williams surrounded himself with a showbizzy cast of men and women in football related costumes, jumping up and down, giggling helplessly, prancing around gleefully, enjoying their moment in the limelight. There were circus acts, shooting flames lighting up the stadium in the manner of a wondrous light show and then the court jester who was the World Cup mascot. There were high jinks, frivolous party pieces and an opera singer who sounded as if she couldn't quite believe where she was and what was happening around her.

Then Robbie gave us his extensive back catalogue, a fusion of classic standards and great rock tunes. His opening number immediately ignited the crowd with a joyous Williams masterpiece. 'Let Me Entertain You' was Williams at his best, a song that almost sounded like a Williams autobiography that may be about to be written.

Now the man from Stoke on Trent was firing on all cylinders, larking around uninhibitedly with all the restless enthusiasm of a teenager about to make his debut at Glastonbury. 'I Just Want to Feel' was and remains feelgood, full of passion and vibrancy and the kind of song that sounds as though it belongs at a lively wedding disco. This was Williams in his pop concert pomp, a man who'd suddenly been given the keys to the toy cupboard and allowed the full range of expression.

And finally Robbie gave us 'Loving Angels', a slower and more thoughtful ballad number that came directly from the passionate Williams heart. What we had here was a genuine football supporter clearly articulating his love for the Beautiful Game. He remains steadfastly loyal to his Port Vale team and for this he must be commended. But Robbie Williams and World Cup football opening ceremonies will probably occupy a very unique place in the folklore of Wold Cup history. It may never happen again but then whoever thought Russia would ever be the hosts for this blue riband of football tournaments. Robbie, you were superb.

When English club football ruled the waves.

When English club football ruled the waves.


There was  a time when English club football could do no wrong at all. In fact for the last few years of the 1970s and the first two seasons of the 1980s English club football simply ruled the waves. Nobody could touch the likes of both Liverpool, Nottingham Forest and finally Aston Villa for four rip roaringly triumphant years.

 After Liverpool's recent Champions League Final defeat by Real Madrid at the end of this season it almost seemed as if we'd come full circle. But memories are so much sweeter when nostalgia comes calling and although now regarded as historic events from another age, English football can still pat itself on the back.

Last night ITV took us on a brief journey down memory lane to a time when old English First Division clubs became impregnable powerhouses who won one of the biggest prizes in world football and perhaps more pertinently European football. It is hard to believe now but Liverpool once dominated English club football, winning every trophy they could get their hands on. The story might have been that the Anfield trophy cabinet had become so congested that at times you'd have been hard pressed to find any more room for more.

In 1977, after those magisterial seasons of League Championship victories and that steady accumulation of silverware, Liverpool approached the climax of the League season with all of the carefree, cartwheeling, freewheeling, somersaulting, exquisite, free flowing football that would become their permanent trademark. Liverpool played with a freedom, flexibility, theatricality and immaculate improvisation that very few critics had ever thought English teams were capable of.

When the friendly, easy going and avuncular Bob Paisley took over from the immensely clever and remarkably visionary Bill Shankly most of the Liverpool fans were desperately worried. Besides, Shankly had achieved  almost Messianic status at Anfield and legends were few and far between in English club football.

But when a certain Kevin Keegan asserted himself forcefully in those final weeks of the season, after so many outstanding goal scoring exploits in front of the seething, swaying Anfield Kop, Keegan was reaching his prime. Keegan had that ripped, toned, well honed athlete's body that would have been the envy of any gym.

 By the start of the 1977 European Cup Final against Borussia Monchengladbach, he could hardly be held back, straining every muscle and sinew, fully motivated, energised, always eager, a bustling, determined, ambitious, headstrong striker, a stick of footballing dynamite about to explode in front of an ever feverish fan base - intent on creating back page headlines.

When the ever willing and powerfully industrious Terry McDermott weaved his way through a retreating Borussia defence to guide the ball into the net for Liverpool's opener, most of the Liverpool fans must have suspected privately that this would be the evening of all evenings. With Steve Heighway, ever the footballing intellectual, joining forces with the always probing, prompting, inquisitive and wisely influential Ian Callaghan, Liverpool were sailing and gliding into the sunset. Their first European Cup Final victory could almost be felt and sensed. A young Jimmy Case had also begun to make his playmaking presence felt, a cultured and wonderfully intelligent midfielder.

Then suddenly the Germans hit back at Liverpool with a well worked equaliser from Danish wonderkid Allan Simonsen that temporarily sucked the air out of Liverpool's potentially devastating strike force. Parity though was only partially restored because that rugged, rumbustious, hard as nails centre half Tommy Smith leapt with almost balletic grace from a Heighway corner in the second half and sent the most perfectly timed header past the German goalkeeper. Liverpool were back in cruise command, in the lead and seemingly well on course for that distinctively big eared European Cup.

When Kevin Keegan, not for the first time ran heroically at Borussia's equally as hard running full back Bertie Vogts, Vogts reminded you of one of those Olympic long distance athletes gasping at thin air and then assuming the role of the valiant pacemaker. To quote footballing parlance Vogts had been turned inside out, Keegan sprinting for goal before being dragged down in the penalty area. Phil Neal, that loyal and dedicated full back tucked away the penalty as if he'd done the same thing since he was a kid in his back street.

On that sultry summery evening in Rome, Liverpool thought they had literally conquered the world if not Europe. Only Celtic and Manchester United had done anything to preserve English blushes with those masterly European Cup Final victories in 1967 and 1968. For those who were in Lisbon and Wembley Stadium on those royal variety performance evenings for English club football, it seemed that Liverpool had jumped onto the same bandwagon and everything in the garden would always be rosy.

The following season Liverpool also embarked on one of those emotionally stimulating, roller coaster European Cup runs that left most of us flabbergasted and lost for words. At the beginning of that season Liverpool unveiled their latest destructive striking weapon. Sir Kenny Dalglish as he should be referred to as, arrived at Anfield at the beginning of the 1978 season from Celtic. The fresh faced and angelic Scotsman had ravaged and rampaged through most of the old First Division defences with a bumper crop of remarkable and breathtaking goals.

In that season's European Cup Dalglish became the familiar force of nature, shouldering and shepherding defenders all over the place into zones of maximum discomfort. He could shield the ball away from his opponents as if protecting a valuable set of rings before careering towards goal and striking the ball firmly past helpless goalkeepers.

But the 1978 European Cup Final against Belgian side Bruges had to be Dalglish's for the taking, his occasion, his most salubrious environment, a striker who knew that this was his night. Liverpool had admittedly struggled and laboured their way through the game as if it were some arduous slog and chore rather than that special occasion destined to end in a convincing victory. Dalglish though, anticipating that crowning moment on his head, responded joyfully.

When Graeme Souness joined Liverpool from Middlesbrough, it had appeared that Liverpool had added a huge sheet of steel to their team. Souness was never a shy and retiring wallflower because Souness was never that kind of anyway. Instead Liverpool had brought a classy, stylish midfield playmaker who could pick out his passes as if somebody had given him his very own tape measure. Of course Souness could be hard but then when the mood was right he could also do passion and aggression that always bordered on the criminally illegal.

This was also Souness big night. With minutes to go Souness, hovering just outside the Bruges penalty area, briefly sniffed the old Wembley air, controlled the ball with his educated feet before dabbing a handsomely weighted ball through the eye of a needle. Dalglish, moving quickly into his place, latched onto Souness dainty ball, hustling forward into the tightest of spaces, and chipping the ball delightfully past the Bruges keeper for Liverpool's winning goal. The European Cup had been retained for Liverpool and the smile on captain Emlyn Hughes's face was as wide as Mersey.

By the following year there was a noticeable sea change. There were intruders and impostors at the gate and Liverpool were no longer in ownership of the Cup they'd thought had become their rightful property for ever. The Merseyside monopoly had now been snatched away from Liverpool and there was another voice, another accent, another manager, another team ready to take over. It was the rudest of awakenings and the most dramatic of all football's rags to riches stories was now about to burst into life.

A certain Brian Clough, who'd won the old First Division championship with both Derby County and now Nottingham Forest was like one of those rooting tooting cowboys who swagger into some Wild West saloon. Clough was everything that football had privately longed for and in some quarters dreaded. Clough was strong willed, fiercely opinionated, blunt, forthright, maybe too pompous and bombastic for his own good and anything but quiet. Clough expressed himself clearly and honestly, destroying characters and reputations with one swift verbal attack that occasionally amused but frequently hurt for much longer than his opponents would have cared for.

But Clough was a purist, a subtle technician of the game, an academic student of football's finest arts  insistent until his very final game at Forest that the game should of course be played on the grass rather than the planet Mercury. Clough carefully sculpted, fine tuned, moulded, fashioned and refined a Nottingham Forest who had played most of their League games on the sticky, cloying mud baths that had become so commonplace back in the late 1970s.

Now though Clough had gathered around him a Forest team that were quite clearly going places. He had at his disposal those hard grafting, industrious blue collar, boiler room workers who were prepared to sacrifice everything if they knew Clough would approve. There was Archie Gemmell,  dashing, darting, hurrying, hassling, pestering opponents for the ball, badgering away and then winning the ball decisively for Forest. There was John O Hare, the smoothest of midfield operators who like Gemmell had followed Clough from Derby. And finally John McGovern, another Baseball Ground tireless toiler who gave Forest a thick layer of craft and silky skill on the ball.

There was also and quite importantly and famously Trevor Francis. Having served his City and Guilds Apprenticeship at Birmingham City, Francis became the first £1 million player in Britain. A notable landmark had been reached in a game that was now rapidly evolving. When Clough interrupted his game of squash at the Press conference which heralded Francis arrival at the City Ground, football took a sharp intake of breath.

After an intriguing and fairy tale route to the European Cup Final, Forest quite stunningly beat Cologne in the semi final when most experts were convinced that they were on the way home from Germany with a flea in their ear. Forest may well have ground their way through the competition but now against all ridiculous odds Forest beat Malmo in the Final.

 John Robertson who may well have been cruelly dismissed as a shuffling, lumbering slowcoach with very little in the way of any pace, played the classic winger's game, hugging the touchline, drawing defenders deceptively out of position, teasing and taunting with another show of deviousness and then bursting along the flank.

With minutes to go before half time, Robertson, after another game of pat a cake with his struggling defender, powered for the touchline and then drove in a superb cross. The ball almost seemed to have Francis name on it as the former Birmingham City goal machine lunged himself at the ball with a glancing header that flew into the Malmo net. Forest simply went through the motions in the second half and, although not the greatest of any European Cup Finals, were now acclaimed European Champions. All of Clough's bluff and bluster had proved wondrously well judged.

The final chapter of this first in an ITV series, saw Forest, quite astoundingly holding onto the European Cup after another stodgy and flat Final against Kevin Keegan's Hamburg. By now the miracle that had been achieved a year earlier had once again fallen out of a sky of twinkling Nottingham Forest stars. This time John Robertson, a winger par excellence, had pinched the ball out of a chaotic tangle of legs steering the ball neatly past the Hamburg keeper without batting an eye lid.

For the next two years English club football flourished and bloomed like the most eye catching of orchids. When Bill Shankly had retired from the game at Liverpool it was widely felt that Bob Paisley would never be remotely as successful. Shanks would though have given grudging approval to both the exploits of Clough but most certainly his noble successor Bob Paisley. Football does seem to go through any number of cycles. Maybe that's the reason we continue to watch the game in our global millions. It's time for that World Cup in Russia. 

Cricket's shock of the year so far - Scotland beat England. Incredible.

 It was cricket's shock of the year so far- Scotland beat England in a One Day International. Remember where you read, heard and saw it. A huge shock was registered at Lords headquarters and the members of the spiritual home of cricket briefly paused for breath, spluttered their disbelief into their cognacs and brandies, lit a pensive cigar, blamed the selectors, blamed the weather and then accepted the harsh reality of the moment.

Yesterday at one of those British postcard perfect cricket grounds in Edinburgh the cricketers of Scotland enjoyed another healthy Dundee slice of cake after Sir Kenny Dalglish had threatened to steal the thunder of the Scottish cricket team. To quote the famous old song anything you can do they can certainly do better. Even in hindsight it still seems as though that it didn't actually happen but it did and who can take anything away from our boys in tartan because this may be the right time for a huge helping of respect and appreciation.

But at the Grange cricket ground tucked away in the embracing folds of an Edinburgh beauty spot, the cricketers of Scotland did many a Highland jig around the swords of an England team who probably thought that, although they've been playing the game for a number of centuries, there had to be a moment in history when just for one day - or maybe more in the future- the fates of fortune had dictated that Scotland would actually beat England at cricket in the second week of June 2018. Sport can be so magical at times.

Yes, believe it or not Scotland beat England with a mammoth one day total of 371-5 winning by six runs as the tea buns were about to be served and the first shadows of a Scottish evening began to lengthen gently in the gloaming. Deep in the heart of Edinburgh the heartbeat of a nation trembled for just a minute or two at the sudden realisation that Scotland- yes Scotland - were taking their Auld Firm neighbours to the cleaners, ripping them to shreds, leaving them demoralised, stunned, bewildered, horribly shaken, shattered, broken, in tatters, totally dishevelled. The day could hardly have got any worse.

Those of an English sporting persuasion had nowhere to hide their heads in the terrible aftermath of what looks like another embarrassing defeat. We must have thought we'd seen it all when little Iceland got the better of us at Euro 2016 and poor Roy Hodgson, the England boss looked as though he'd have given anything to jump into a dark hole. But two years on and now English cricket has been wounded. poleaxed. lost for words, wishing that they could have been anywhere but Edinburgh.

Step forward one Callum Macleod. Now there's a Scottish name to conjure with, as traditional as haggis, as resonant as a bagpipe and vastly impressive into the bargain. Macleod mercilessly and barbarously smashed a century for the Scots and then rubbed salt into the English wound with 140 not out. Presumably he clubbed, clouted, lofted, pulled his way to all sides of Edinburgh and almost reached Glasgow with some of his beautifully resourceful strokes.

And just to make matters even worse for England Macleod even had the brass neck to notch up 93 with his medium pace bowler colleague Richie Berrington. Macleod, as if he hadn't quite finished with England, then succeeded in whipping up a storm with George Munsey with an incredible stand of 107. It was all very bruising, hurtful, insulting and almost derogatory. How dare those English lords of the manor challenge Scotland to a game of cricket? Besides it was about time England got a taste of their own pungent medicine. It only seems fair.

For England this had to be one of the lowest points in the history of their game. True, there have perhaps been more shameful days in English sport. But for a country who have been playing the summer sport for so long and, from time to time, quite brilliantly, this was a game that left a nasty dent in the English shield and a few scratches in the once golden escutcheon of English cricket. Fear not though English cricket will return and maybe with a vengeance.

On the plus side Eoin Morgan did present us with a one day side more than capable of stacking up barrow loads of runs on any pitch. But the one day game for England does bring with it its problematic complications. Occasionally England seem to take their eyes off a red cricket ball, longing desperately for the five day Test match routine where two sets of innings are built painstakingly, the bowlers send down their missiles, the tension can be felt almost constantly and the umpires seem to take all the time in the world at mid wicket.

Admittedly Johnny Bairstow, ever reliable and punishing every loose ball that came his way, rattled up a well crafted century, blasting the Scottish bowling aggressively into a small corner of the Grange pavilion. Liam Plunkett also chipped in with a healthy and positive 47 not out while all around him English cricketers were struggling to find out what exactly was going on around them. They must have thought they'd done enough on the day but then realised that they had a contest on their hands and that Scotland were not about to be rolled over and have their tummies tickled submissively.

Both Alex Hales. the ever popular and engaging Joe Root, Sam Billings and David Willey seemed to stand on ceremony as Scottish doggedness, drive and sheer grit, propelled them sky high. By the end of this astonishing piece of sporting gallantry, Scotland raced through to the end and won by six runs. The dark navy shirted players rushed towards each other in one helluva celebration. They hugged each other playfully and then the magnitude of their completely unexpected victory suddenly dawned on them.

Did this really happen or were they indeed just fantasising? Indeed, time had stopped still on this day of days, when logic takes a temporary back seat, the form book takes itself off to the Costa Brava for a week and sporting observers from far and wide hold their breath, look to the skies, check they haven't wandered onto some Hollywood film set and let out an enormous cheer. Wow, what a day that had been! And how those English must be sorrowfully licking their wounds and then applying sticking plasters on bloody gashes.

Yesterday in a pretty, prim and, doubtless, religiously puritanical corner of Edinburgh, a nation flooded back to Sunday evening churches, smiling broadly, hugging themselves proudly and barely able to take it all in.  Who would have thought that Scottish sport could ever have had it so good? Firstly, there was Kenny Dalglish with his knighthood and now the Scottish cricket team had delivered a sucker punch straight into the English stomach, right into the solar plexus where the toughest blows are often landed. Scotland had beaten England at cricket. Now how gloatingly satisfying that was.  Take that you Sassanachs!