England miss out on World Cup Final against crowing Croatia.

England miss out on World Cup Final against crowing Croatia.

Deep in the heart of England, the willows are still weeping, the chaffinches still chirruping, the magpies are melodious and the robins are still rejoicing. Far off in the countryside the sheep are bleating, the cows chewing on the cud, the stone walls sternly impregnable  and the village bakery is a seething hive of activity. But all is well in England.

Two days after that night of all nights England, although nursing sore heads and a real sense of crushing disappointment, can still find reasons to celebrate even in the direct aftermath of a World Cup semi final defeat. Of course they could have been contenders but then the World Cup wouldn't have been a World Cup without an England who almost reached the ultimate summit before slipping up at the most crucial moment.

But this is surely not the time for regret, remorse or self questioning because back in 1990 we were doing exactly the same thing and where did it get us then? We kept cursing the Germans, always vilifying Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle because they'd somehow blasted their penalties into some obscure market town in Italy where everybody drops off to sleep at lunchtime. Surely, the English fans must have felt it couldn't happen again but history, without quite repeating itself, bore an uncanny resemblance to it.

These last stimulating three weeks or so England have entered a mystical land of fantasies, imaginings, dreams, occasional ghosts and demons before finally realising where they were and why they were. Sometimes the path has been littered with unnerving reminders of the past but when all was said and done, Gareth Southgate will sit down tonight with his England men privately convinced that it couldn't have gone any better. At long last it did go right on a number of occasions even if that final hurdle couldn't quite be overcome when perhaps the potential was always there.

And so England clutched its arms, buried their faces in some inconsolable state of mortification, grieved over something there was nothing to get all miserable about and then decided to console itself with the knowledge that maybe modest expectations were completely fulfilled. In Hyde Park, London and every town, city and village, bar and pub across the land, the fanatical supporters of England folded up their flags and banners, chucked their beer into the nearest available bin and just became very philosophical.

This is not the end of the world for the England football team because before boarding for Russia many of their carping critics had suggested that there was no point in going to the World Cup. They were no hopers. mediocre, simply there to make up the numbers, too young as a squad of players and inexperience at the biggest of all football tournaments would take its toll eventually. But this was far from the case. England were surprisingly good, sometimes very good and even exceptional at times. The journey was worthwhile and it could have been far worse. We did step up to the plate and we were absolutely brilliant.

From the briskly efficient dismissal of Tunisia in the opening group game to the wholesale destruction of Panama and then the somewhat more emotionally taxing second round match  against Colombia before finishing off Sweden with businesslike professionalism, England did all the right things when they were required to do so. They ticked all of the boxes, followed the job description to the very bitter end and then found that the mood of the nation back in dear old Blighty was exactly in tune with them. They hadn't deserted the team when it looked as though they might have done so and they stayed onside with them all the way when the victories were reeled off  one after the other.

England manager Gareth Southgate of course was the saintliest of all football managers, a paragon of virtue. calm, articulate throughout, enunciating all of his vowels and consonants in a very prim and proper manner, oozing cool, karma, that most sober of perspectives, sangfroid and utter nervelessness.

Southgate reminded you of one of those young investors about to open up a new account in their local bank. Of course he's worried about interest rates, mortgages and capital tax relief but they wouldn't be human if they weren't. There was something richly heartening about Southgate's behaviour, his impeccable handling of every challenge that came his way, that uncanny ability to keep everything at arm's length while everybody around him was literally getting over excited and dreaming the impossible dream.

We'll miss that now famously extensive wardrobe of waistcoats, the waistcoats that came to define Southgate because at times it looked as if they were some kind of lucky mascot. But Southgate will always be remembered for that moment after an England match when that cute and whimsical fist pump of celebration began to look like some therapeutic release for the man in charge and a lovely snapshot of what probably happens to us all when something simply astonishing has happened to us when we were least expecting it. Maybe this had been Southgate's Lottery victory.

Sadly, this was England's final curtain and final tantalising glimpse of a World Cup that had lasted for much longer than they thought it would. And yet it all started so promisingly, so encouragingly and then spectacularly for England. In retrospect England seemed to peak at the wrong time and found that there was too long to go and too much time on their hands. If only the match had worked out differently, if only that schedule could have been re-arranged and the time frame had been  more to their liking.

England flew out of the starting blocks and spent the whole of the first half against Croatia bossing the game, dictating the flow and tempo of the game, calling all the shots, leaving their pronounced imprint on the game. For lengthy spells of that first half an hour England actually looked like a potential World Cup winning team, cannily constructive, building their movements with care, deliberation and stealthy cunning. It lifted the collective hearts of all English supporters watching back in England and made the rest of the world sit up and take notice.

Once the athletic and superbly mobile Kyle Walker found his bearings with those harrying, hurrying sprints up and down his flank England found both a first and then second wind. Walker was rugged, tireless and full of adventurous ambition. Walker was always first in the tackle, thrusting and lunging forward in a way that Mick Mills or Phil Neal would have been proud of during the 1970s. As they say Walker gave us sweat, blood but very few tears. He was committed, ruthlessly uncompromising.

Beside Walker was the hugely impressive John Stones, one of a whole handful of England players to have experienced the muck and bullets of English football in the lower leagues. Stones is rock solid at the back, a player of stylish interventions and interceptions, totally unflustered by the chaotic bedlam around him and completely equipped with all of a good centre half's technical resources. Stones glides forward out of defence, carefully taking stock of his surroundings and then using the ball with absolute attention to detail.

There was Harry Maguire who, while not quite a Phil Thompson or Dave Watson at the heart of the England defence yet, still looks powerful, quietly intimidating at the back against rampaging forwards and heading goals with the same ferocity as Stones from almost identical corners. In fact set pieces had successfully yielded a bumper crop of goals for England which may always have been the national forte anyway. But who were we to complain? Maguire had headed home England's first goal against Sweden and once again appeared capable of scoring in much the same way.

Alarmingly though, England's midfield, generally in complete control during the first half, still has to be a work in progress. The glaring absence of genuinely creative midfield playmakers is almost painfully obvious. England are in desperate need of another Paul Gascoigne, another definitive game changer, a sparking plug, a dynamic catalyst who, once in possession of the ball, will nurse and cherish it while at the same time plotting secret routes into the opposition's half. England need the elegance and beauty of a Trevor Brooking, a Tony Currie or the driving force of a Bryan Robson.

Still, for much of the game against Croatia they did have Jordan Henderson, a player of precise measurements and neat distribution of the ball. From time to time the Liverpool schemer can find his colleague with devastating cross field passes or damaging balls into critical areas of the pitch. But for all of his authority and assurance, Henderson is still missing something, a stronger influence perhaps although the panache is still there at times.

Jessie Lingard of course has been a startling revelation for England throughout this World Cup. Lingard hovers around opposition penalty areas like a predatory vulture, picking up the ball swiftly, hunting for space and then swooping down on his prey with hungry relish. Lingard's goal against Panama was simply outstanding, the result of almost exotic England build up play. Lingard curled the ball into the net like a seasoned golfer chipping out of a bunker and directly into the hole.

Dele Alli has been one of Spurs most consistent of midfield players and for England Alli has made the step up to the national side effortlessly. On one or two occasions some of us were beginning to tremble in the early stages of the Sweden game but then we realised that English vulnerabilities were always likely to be exposed. Alli does look a player of foresight and initiative, of all round vision and perceptive passes to those around him but there are one or two disturbing rough edges that may need to be ironed out.

Finally, there is the captain Harry Kane, whose meteoric rise to fame and prominence as an England forward has been nothing short of amazing. Kane could well pick up the Golden Boot for the abundance of goals scored at this World Cup. Regrettably Kane, although eager and dangerous in previous games, didn't really look like scoring. When England went in front against Croatia, Kane perhaps should have made much more of a goal scoring chance but this is forgivable. Kane, dare we say it, looked sluggish and off the pace slightly, a man aware of the immense contribution he'd made throughout the World Cup but then finding that he'd run out of petrol when it counted.

England though did produce the goal scoring hero against Croatia from the most improbable source. Kieran Trippier, whose name very few around the world had ever heard of us, made the vital breakthrough. After five minutes England were awarded a free kick just outside the area. Trippier, whose set piece expertise had yet to be acclaimed, did something that came almost naturally to David Beckham. He gazed at the wall in front of him, trotted forward like a silent assassin and sent a dipping, soaring shot which flew over the wall and bulged the net in no time at all. Croatia keeper Daniel Subasic could only admire the goal.

For the rest of the first half England continued to rotate the ball with short, smart and staccato passing cameos that looked as if they'd fully absorbed a German or Brazilian reference book from yesteryear. The passes were sugary sweet, arrogantly accurate, the result of studious research in quiet libraries rather than some ugly, ill designed building that looked to have seen better days. England were now in the driving seat, caressing the ball rather than neglecting it.

Then in the second half Croatia, now fully aware that the game appeared to be drifting away, snatched the ball away almost rudely and without ceremony. How dare those English tell us how or how not to play football. Croatia, were livid, incensed and fiercely intent on revenge and retribution. Suddenly, the team who normally wear red and white diamonds on their shirt, slowly wiped out England's attacking advantage.

 Now in black Croatia, inspired brilliantly by their astoundingly imaginative playmaker Luka Modric and now ably assisted by the aggressively combative but ever available Ivan Rakitic, almost mercilessly pulled England from one side of the pitch to the other.  It was rather like waiting for a public execution and finding that the gallows were about to be prepared. England looked weary, exhausted, condemned men, ready and waiting for their brutal punishment.

And so it was that Ivan Perisic, now apparently wanted by Manchester United, made his mark on the game. A ball just outside the England penalty area, was casually knocked back into an open, yawning gap by Mario Mandzukic where Perisic pounced immediately by clipping the ball back across goal and into the net for the Croatia equaliser. 1-1 with a large slice of the game to go.

For the rest of this World Cup semi final England just vanished into the dust, collapsing like a fragile sandcastle and toppling over like an old industrial chimney. England had lost the plot, fought themselves to a standstill and now reminded you of a once great actor fluffing their lines and being subjected to complete embarrassment by their understudies. It could have been 1990 revisited but this time there were no Germans, no penalties and you can only imagine what Sir Bobby Robson would have thought of it all.

Deep into extra time, with England flagging and wilting like long distance marathon runners, now fell back helplessly into the ditch. beaten, eventually overwhelmed and desperate for the final whistle. Madzukic, in the right time and the right place fired home the winning goal for Croatia. And now it was that a nation that had only achieved independence in recent times, demonstrated the full gamut of their emotions. Croatia had reached a World Cup Final and few could have begrudged them their place in the sun.

When the final whistle went England, who had come so far in the shortest time, sat slumped on the pitch, staring around them as if privately hoping that somewhere they'd find ample consolation for their gallant endeavours. This had, undoubtedly been, one of the best World Cups for England since that year of 1990 in Italy and none should readily criticise or denigrate this latest crop of very young English players.

So it was that the players in white shirts reluctantly left Moscow with hanging heads perhaps but straight backs in defeat. Among the crowd three handsome Israeli flags fluttered easily on the Russian breeze. The England band were still experimenting with variations of 'Earth, Wind and Fire' classics while far away the St George's flags and banners were forlornly waving their farewells. These last three weeks in Russia have told us much more about the England football team than we'll ever know. Our England, brave England, heroic England. We can never thank you enough.