England beat Germany and meet Ukraine in the quarter finals.

 England beat Germany and meet Ukraine in the quarter finals.

In the end we had nothing to worry about. It was a painless operation and the patient is recovering nicely. For the supporters, fans, players and managers who carry so much emotional baggage around with them whenever and wherever they go, this felt like the sweetest of all victories. It always feels like this because this fixture is laden with history, revenge, fiercely competitive spirit, often very personal rivalry and a deep seated animosity at times if only because familiarity quite literally breeds contempt. 

After what seems like an age, England finally beat Germany in tournament football and some of us were convinced that both luck and fate was on our side. Twenty years ago England travelled to Germany in a World Cup qualifier and Munich had probably seen nothing like it. Michael Owen scored, Steven Gerrard scored a 25 yard screamer just before half time and even Emile Heskey lent a helping hand. England's 5-1 thrashing of Germany put the final signature to an England display that has to rank as quite the most improbable and miraculous of all time. Nobody saw that one coming and last night felt just as good. 

Most of us can turn the clock back 25 and 55 years ago to a time when everything in England was perfect. The omens were encouraging, the mood was buoyant and summertime in London had arrived just in time for the wildest party of all time. When Terry Venables, Sir Alf Ramsey and Gareth Southgate led their respective teams out at the old Wembley it all seemed to bode well for English football. England had home advantage in 1996 and England possessed Paul Gascoigne, surely one of the most charming, roguish, cheeky and finest midfield players England had ever produced. 

In 1966 Nobby Stiles was the tigerish, gritty, tenacious and whole hearted bulldog who bit into tackles and left a permanent legacy on West German forwards. Bobby Moore was simply handsome and immaculate, a vision of poise, restraint and detachment from all the craziness around him. Martin Peters, Roger Hunt, George Cohen, Geoff Hurst, Jack Charlton and brother Bobby just dissolved in a pool of poignantly sentimental tears when the final whistle went at the end of the 1966 World Cup Final. Oh what glory they had been an essential part of. 

Exactly thirty years later, England had home advantage again when they hosted Euro 96 and if only we had known then what we now know then we would probably have made arrangements for a repeat performance. We also look back on the dreadful fiasco of the World Cup in South Africa 11 years ago when Wayne Rooney glared into a TV camera and accused the English supporters of a complete lack of loyalty. England were horrendous in World Cup 2010 and left the competition with the embarrassment of a 1-1 draw with the USA on their CV.

In 1972 Sir Alf Ramsey, Gunter Netzer, Franz Beckenbauer and company left England looking very sheepish, remorseful and apologetic. At Wembley the Germans played with a sublime brilliance and effortless authority that made the following morning's headlines look like greasy fish and chip paper. Since then the Germans have established the tightest stranglehold over England and the results have not made for satisfying reading. 

And then two years before then England, in the baking heat of Mexico, had fallen victim to Sir Alf Ramsey's rush of blood to the head. Cruising to victory with a two goal lead, Ramsey hauled off his best players and replaced them with dross. Gerd Muller tucked into second helpings, scored the winner, Gordon Banks had gone down with food poisoning and Peter Bonetti had an unfortunate attack of butter fingers. Then there was the 1996 European Championship when England had only to score an elusive winner in extra time but could only see their talisman Gazza slide in to meet a low cross with a lunging leg that couldn't quite connect. 

So it is that England approached their latest encounter with Germany in much the same bullish state of mind. The group stages had been a wobbly old road and it could have been all so different if the Czech Republic had made the most of their chances and Scotland converted their limited possession into goals. But then the goals came and England, the nation that clings on to its traditional stereotypes like a fond souvenir, came through its stiffest and most stringent test of them all.

And yet for well over an hour of last night's contest, both of these teams seemed to be going nowhere very quickly. The first half was almost as forgettable as the old TV Test Card and all of the fundamental dynamics had been swallowed up by the sheer magnitude of the occasion. England fumbled their way frighteningly into the match for the first quarter of an hour or so but the Germans looked equally as dumbfounded. There were tit for tat reprisals and counter reprisals, jabbing, sparring, flinging out tentative hooks and then being pinned to the canvas.

Then for the rest of the second half you were reminded of two rickety, rackety steam locomotive trains puffing and panting along the track and not quite sure what to make of it all. England laboured, plodded, lost the ball carelessly and occasionally Raheem Sterling would look the Germans in the eyes and just run forcefully at the German defence. But it all looked very slow, sluggish, slovenly, almost  despairing, pathetically clueless and you would have loved a penny for Gareth Southgate's thoughts. 

Slowly Declan Rice began to have the courage of his convictions, moving authoritatively and doing the simple things as and when he felt the time was right. John Stones eventually joined in with his colleagues in the middle of the pitch with pride and assurance while Kyle Walker showed his lightning turn of place at the back, sprinting past a wall of black German shirts. Walker may be approaching the autumn of his career but last night it seemed as though he was still enjoying the summer. 

Harry Maguire, who also experienced one or two minor and private difficulties before the beginning of the last Premier League season, was back on song, looking strong, commanding and calm with the ball at his feet. Maguire also radiated a nerveless composure as if his trials and tribulations were well and truly behind him. He covered behind Declan Rice with tidy efficiency and never really looked flustered. 

Then there was the rest of the English attack and this is where things briefly came unstuck. Kalvin Phillips of Leeds kept cutting in from the flank and into the centre of midfield rather like a lawnmower picking up stray pieces of grass. Philips was all hustle and bustle, passing economically and spraying the ball around with all the confidence of a player years ahead of his time. And yet the machine wasn't functioning as properly and fluently as England would have liked. Any comparison with Martin Peters though would not be a fitting one. 

Kieran Tripper, the hero of the 2018 World Cup with that thunderous free kick that gave England the lead in the semi final against Croatia, just wasn't the same player for much of the game against the Germans. Trippier and Luke Shaw of Manchester United were admittedly blameless but England lacked bite, teeth, urgency and cohesion. England kept allowing the ball to run away from them and it almost felt as if they were playing in the dark at times. 

Finally though England awoke from their slumber, having been snoring away quite happily in the deepest of sleeps. With the match now evenly contested and none ready to make the first move, the Germans saw an English tidal wave in their midst. The football the Germans had been trying to play was shoddy, sloppy and ramshackle, a team caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Do they try to sneak the winning goal in the last ten minutes or do they hang around for penalties yet again. There was an air of cautious circumspection about Germany we don't normally associate them with. Were they going to stick or twist, perhaps preferring poker since there was so much at stake. 

Down in the managerial technical area both managers were either deep in thought in their seat or trying to decipher a code that was somehow beyond them. Gareth Southgate, dressed properly for an important function or just sartorially correct. Southgate of course was that rather sad and forlorn England player responsible for that horrible penalty miss which ironically sent the national side packing in Euro 96 and the Germans into the Final where the Czechs were beaten by the Germans at Wembley. 

Standing a couple of inches away from Southgate was Joachim Low, the manager of Germany complete with grey shirt, grey trousers and grey face. Low's grim, sullen demeanour reminded you of the man who had lost his last tenner and simply ended up with nothing. Maybe he'd taken his cue from the miserable and cantankerous Helmut Schoen who was like a grizzly bear with a sore head when his national team were losing during the 1970s. 

And yet England suddenly woke up deep into the second half. It was as if somebody had given them an injection of energy or the realisation had dawned on them that this was Euro 2020. Raheem Sterling, now the stand out man and main catalyst for everything that was successful, drove forward with turbo charged pace, turning and twisting, taunting and tormenting then facing up to the Germans as if he had a personal score to settle with them. 

In a matter of seconds seemingly the match had flared into life, the  mains switch was on and Sterling was electrifying, irrepressible, a force of nature as if the spirit of Tom Finney and Stanley Matthews was still there and tapping on his shoulder.  Sterling, Phillips and the marvellously precocious Arsenal striker Bukayo Saka were hurtling down the flanks, Saka, quite notably chasing everything, powering forward without fear, jinking, darting, swaying and swerving his body with animal magnetism. 

Then England opened the scoring much to everybody's surprise in the context of everything that had gone before. Sterling was now on the footballing warpath and after a spellbinding Pass the Parcel with Luke Shaw across the face of the German penalty area, captain Harry Kane squared the ball at full pelt and Sterling came sliding in to tap the ball past Manuel Neuer into the net after some of the most constructive football of the match up until that point. 

At this point the Germans decided that enough was enough. The waves of attacking German shirts in black were merciless. Thomas Muller, who had been anonymous for most of this match, went racing through on goal for what seemed a certain equaliser for Germany but Muller was briefly distracted by some outside force and the ball went narrowly wide of Jason Pickford, England's goalkeeper. It was a vital pivotal moment for the Germans and costly. 

With minutes to go England re- wound themselves for one last heroic assault on the German goal. And unlike anything we've come to expect of them the movement leading up to the goal looked as though it had been borrowed from Claire Fontaine, the French academy for purists and learned technicians. You suspect the likes of Robert Pires, Emmanuel Petit, Zinadine Zidane and Thierry Henry would have been purring with appreciation of the goal. 

Luke Shaw, of Manchester United, who had been largely ineffectual, boldly strode into the German half  as if he'd given himself  permission to attack. Shaw rampaged forward, reaching the edge of the German penalty area before offloading to the game changer who was Jack Grealish. Grealish, who had just come on as a sub, adjusted his feet accordingly, tricking and daring his opponent, tomfoolery personified and Grealish laid a simple pass across the six yard box where the ravenous Harry Kane threw himself at the ball with a low, stooping header into the net for a now guaranteed victory for England. 

Finally England had abandoned their hoodoo over the Germans. There were 45,000 fans inside Wembley and a majority of them were England fans. German amber and black were in plentiful evidence. But after a year of synthetic, cosmetic Premier League football where no atmosphere at all could be detected, the St George flags of England were fluttering prominently for all to see. 

England will now meet Ukraine on Saturday in Rome. In another moment of ancient history this would have been the moment for the gladiators to emerge from the amphitheatre and the Colosseum to greet the warriors ready to fight to the bitter end. England will probably brandish their shields and swords but there are no Julius Caesars ready to answer the call to arms for England manager Gareth Southgate. 

The assumption of course now is that this, in theory, is the easiest opposition England could have hoped for. But then you remembered Iceland in Euro 2016 and reviewed your assessment of the game. England have unfinished business in their In tray to attend to. England will have to tread wearily here because nothing is safe in their hands yet. You can only imagine a vast Ukranian fortress is in the process of being built as we speak. Nothing is ever as easy and straightforward when discussions turn to the England football team. Be prepared even if you're not a scout. 

Spain and Switzerland join in the quarter final party at Euro 2020

 Spain and Switzerland join in the quarter final party at Euro 2020.

It isn't that often that the European Championship should find two of its local neighbours knocking on their doorstep and wondering whether a cheese and wine party might be the best idea anybody had had for years. Besides, when football does extend the hand of friendship to two countries who are more or less down the road from each other, you never know what might happen. 

France and Switzerland sounded like the perfect excuse for parochial rivalries to be resumed. Before this Euro 2020 encounter, most of the experts were sure that world champions France would blast a massive hole in the Swiss defence before gorging on goals. At this point the bookies may well have stopped taking potentially lucrative bets. But such is the unpredictability of the game at the best of times what we had was an inspired Switzerland team and a France team who looked as though they'd wrested back control of the game before then slipping out of contention as a penalty shoot beckoned.

Let us not beat about the bush. After the remarkable eight goal thriller which saw Spain hit Croatia between the eyes in extra time, France and Switzerland provided us with more of the same from a different menu but one that was equally as appetising and ultimately spectacular. The goals were flowing like a vintage bottle from a French or Swiss vineyard. You can often be spoilt by the phenomenal quality of international football but last night football exploded across continents with a glorious glut of goals. How honoured were we to see it all in its glittering splendour. 

In the heart of Bucharest, Romania, thousands of fans could have been forgiven for thinking that this game would still be running its course deep into the early hours of this morning. In fact the toaster may well have been readied for breakfast and the cereal prepared for ravenous appetites. But we were more than satisfied with the fare since matches such as this one don't come along that frequently. 

When Kylian Mbappe, the finest striker in the world at the moment, missed his penalty in a nerve shredding penalty shoot out, the world held its breath. Little, gentle, inoffensive Switzerland had finally got one over nearby France for perhaps the first time in their otherwise negligible football history. We caught our breath again and wondered at the sheer incredulity of it all. Switzerland goalkeeper Yann Sommer flung himself heroically to stop Mbappe's fiercely hit penalty and just hesitated for a second or two. Then Sommer started winging his way towards his ecstatic supporters and the celebrations were underway. 

Switzerland had reached their first quarter finals of a major tournament since goodness knows when. But this victory was all the more heartfelt and special because they'd beaten France who quite clearly had all the superstars, egocentrics and pampered, wealthy footballers who are still world champions. But just for one night France had lost their joie de vivre, their esprit corps, the very French air of camaraderie, the all for one and one for all solidarity. France, for an evening, looked fragile, tired, drained, vulnerable and flawed, a team who simply presumed victory was theirs by right rather than taking the opposition seriously.  

With only minutes of the game gone, Switzerland administered the first shock to the French system. It was a hammer blow of monumental proportions. Somewhere in the Alps the cow bells were ringing with a vengeance and it must have felt that Switzerland had temporarily taken back the World Cup from France. A nicely weighted cross from Stephen Zuber was met with a ferocious header by Hans Seferovic that flew past Hugo Lloris the France goalkeeper. The lead was Switzerland's.

Then there came the turning point. Switzerland were awarded a penalty and promptly missed it. The game immediately changed its colour to French Les Bleus. France started decorating the game, embellishing it, forming it, shaping it to their requirements, marking out their very own specifications, tailoring and measuring the match in the only way they knew how.

In the second half France became a different entity. They took hold possession of the ball and just made the game their own, a valuable property, almost a marketable commodity that appreciated in value as the game progressed. Their passing became bolder, their thought processes a joy to watch and their football infinitely more constructive than it had been in an insipid first half. 

After a most ingenious necklace of passes Kylian Mbappe finally fed Karim Benzama and the much acclaimed Frenchman clipped the ball into the net from close range. Then another dazzling attacking combination of three French feet  resulted in flicks and joyful one twos before Benzama arrived just in the nick of time to nudge the ball into the net. 

Then there was the charismatic figure of Paul Pogba, a player who continues to divide opinion. Moody and temperamental at times, Pogba, complete with blue streak in his hair, scored one of the goals of Euro 2020. Picking the ball up from way outside the Swiss penalty area, Pogba bent and swerved a delightful shot that moved so many times in the air that it was impossible to follow the flight of the ball. France were now running away with this match and Switzerland could only look on and watch.

Suddenly Switzerland came swarming forward as if they simply wanted to be involved in the tournament even if in their heart of hearts they knew their time was up. After building up a head of steam and tentative retaliation, Switzerland pulled a goal back. Another surging run down the flank culminated in a powerfully driven cross which Serefovic bulleted home with an unstoppable header. 

Then with seconds left and France clinging on to a slender lead, Switzerland broke away in the most swashbuckling style. Mario Garvanovic, latching onto an astute through ball, charged full pelt towards goal and then tucked the ball past Lloris, the France keeper. The scores were level and there was nothing between the two sides. |Penalties had been missed and shots had hit the post. Truly this was a jewel of a game. 

Now the game entered extra time which once again miserably failed to find a winner. A penalty shoot out followed and after a succession of impressively taken penalties, both Switzerland and France were sharing the honours. The last of the penalty takers was the most highly coveted and brightest of all world class talents. Kylian Mbappe, never really firing on all cylinders, stepped up to take his penalty and saw the whites of the goalkeeper's eyes. Mbappe preferred power to precision and Yann Sommer, the Switzerland goal-keeper, threw his body to one side and the ball bounced away to safety. France will not be following up their gilded World Cup winning exploits of three years ago. Switzerland will be yodelling all the way back to the Alps.     

Wales go home but Italy soldier on.

 Wales go home but Italy soldier on.

Welsh football has seen more peaks than troughs in recent years but sadly Euro 2020 didn't quite  prove to be their triumphant destination. Five years ago Wales conquered mountains to reach the semi final of  Euro 2016 but yesterday, in the middle of their very personal European expedition, they found there were far too many rocks and boulders to overcome. So they simply settled for an early departure from Euro 2020 although they'll always keep a welcome on the hillside for those who just love football's underdogs. 

After making it through to the last 16 of this tournament, Wales must have thought they'd seen everything. They brushed aside Turkey contemptuously in their final group game but suddenly realised that Switzerland were hardly the most testing opposition and then saw Denmark in their headlights. This was one match too far for the Welsh and for the romantics among us there were no candle lights in restaurants. Wales had found more than their match and by the end of this regrettably one sided match, Wales must have thought they were in the wrong place and the wrong time. 

Yesterday Wales revealed all of the battle fatigue and heavy legged lethargy of a team who could no longer re-produce the explosive pyrotechnics that had left most of Europe startled five years ago. Admittedly Gareth Bale's cracking free kick that had opened the scoring against England was no more than some historical afterthought in Euro 2016. Five years on and Bale was back for another worthy attempt at Euro glory but only encountered the harsh reality of life. After winning so much at Real Madrid, this was not to be Bale's crowning glory. 

For older Welsh supporters the World Cup in Sweden of 63 years ago still remains the sweetest reminiscence of them all. When the likes of gentle giant John Charles linked up effectively and beautifully with Ivor Allchurch and company, Wales were in seventh heaven. But the Welsh would have to wait until the mid 1970s before emulating some of the achievements of their predecessors. Wily winger Leighton James, impudent Brian Flynn in midfield  and the mighty John Toshack up front were collectively responsible for waking up the valleys and prompting a mini revival. 

You'd like to think that Wales can still make pleasant noises in world football but then you look at the size of the country, its population and technical infrastructure and then think otherwise. Yesterday afternoon in the Johan Cruyff arena in Holland, Wales were just clutching at straws. For the first 20 minutes or so they did briefly venture into the Danish half and 18 yard area but these were no more than tourist excursions. Denmark were technically superior, studious, cleverer on the ball and far more discerning in their choice of passes than anything Wales could offer. 

True, Gareth Bale and Aaron Ramsey were always up for the battle, always industrious, frequently willing, always brave hearted and never less than fully committed to the cause but the movements were both stilted and often static. There was none of the fluidity and clarity of thinking that had so marked their football against Turkey. Then Joe Allen, Daniel James, Joe Rondon and Kiefer Moore joined in with the fun and good natured jousting but were never anywhere even remotely close to the Danish finishing school of goal scoring. 

After Kasper Dolberg had deliciously curled the ball home from well planned manoeuvres the Danes  then capitalised on a defensive blunder from Daniel Janes who could only clear the ball to Dolberg again, Wales were out for the count, flat out on the canvas. Dolberg pounced on the ball and drove the ball home. Then a quick throw in found Denmark in acres of space and a ball was chipped diagonally over a sinking Welsh defence, where Joakim Maehle cut back low, checked back with the ball and slammed the ball decisively home for another Danish goal. Even Martin Braithwaite's VAR assisted goal which was only marginally onside, rubbed unnecessary salt into painful Welsh wounds.

And so it was that Wales meekly walked away from a 4-0 drubbing at the hands of a Danish side who may have been still emotionally pre-occupied by their neighbours Finland in the Danes ultimate first game defeat. Thoughts are still with Christian Erikssen, Denmark's midfield orchestrator, who so shockingly collapsed with what has now been diagnosed as a cardiac arrest. But Denmark are through to the quarter finals of Euro 2020 and the footballing community will be utterly relieved.

Meanwhile in some far away corner of England, Italy were doing their utmost to re-create those operatic moments of high drama for which the nation is so rightly proud. Unlike some of their ancestors this is an attacking, forward thinking Italy, a perhaps uncharacteristically gung ho, devil may care Italy, a team full of unexpected surprises, progressive rather than regressive thinking and commendably attack minded.

Maybe we should forget about the skeletons in Italy's cupboard and just be content to see them much more assured in possession rather than dwelling about their negative defensive tactics from the past and the more provocative side to their nature. Perhaps the playground bullies should be wiped from our memories. Besides there are only so many times you can kick your opponents to the point of repetition and then leave bloody stud marks all over their ankles. The Italians were never malicious or bloodthirsty but they did leave you wondering whether there was any hope for their future. It may be just as well to think of them in the here and now.  

At Wembley last night Italy eventually won their last round of 16 match against a confident and undaunted Austria team who were clearly intent on announcing themselves at Euro 2020. And that they did emphatically. When the former West Ham forward Marko Arnautovic began to roll his body and turn his defenders inside out, Austria did come out of their shell. In fact the Austrians thought they'd broken the deadlock when David Alaba pumped the ball towards the far post with his head and Arnautovic, waiting for the ball to drop, pulled away from his defender to head the ball into the net from the tightest angles. Heart-rendingly, VAR intervened and the goal was chalked off for offside. 

Come the last thrilling half an hour for extra time and the Italians had found a second wind. They knew they had something in reserve and the Italians just burst into life. The introspective Italians we had just seen in normal time, now became an extrovert collection of expressionists, foot loose and fancy free, experimental at times without losing their focus on the task in hand. 

Suddenly Leonarda Banucci, Lorenzo Insigne, Chelsea's Jorginho, Marco Verrati and Domenco Berardi and, quite notably, Leonardo Spinazzola who stood out for long periods of the game, all  strolled forward in perfect unison, a team of wit, spontaneity, instinctive passing, subtle changes of position as and when required and the ability to turn defence into attack with guile and cunning. 

And then the Italians, sensing blood in extra time, asserted themselves as the dominant force they'd threatened to be towards the end of  the second half. Federico Chiesa masterfully brought the ball down after the ball had been lobbed over the Austria defence and a diagonal ball was trapped effectively by Chiesa on his thigh. He then he simply stunned the ball before driving the ball firmly into the net for the Italians opener. 

Then minutes later the Italians put the game to bed to quote the popular jargon. Another overwhelming Italian attack led to another breathless through ball where a low cross into the six yard box found. Chiesa, alert to the opening who swivelled in the area before planting the ball past the hapless Austrian keeper. This seemed the final sentence to a gripping novel although Italy, by their own admission,  will probably be thanking their lucky stars. 

With minutes to go Austria did find a small chink in the Italians armour. A driven corner to the near post found Sasa Kalajdzic whose low, stooping header crept under Gianluigi Donnamura for an Austrian consolation goal. You wondered what Dino Zoff, the man who once won a World Cup for Italy, would have made of such clumsiness although maybe the Italian keeper may have had one eye on a foody Italian trattoria in London's West End. Italy are once again in football's good books.    

England and Holland are both through to the last 16 of Euro 2020

 England and Holland are both through to the last 16 of Euro 2020.

It may be true to say that both Holland and England have followed almost identical paths since last they came across each other on the way to a major tournament. Holland of course were the team who so incensed former England manager Graham Taylor that Channel 4 thought it was an excellent pitch for a documentary. A superb free kick from Ronald Koeman beat England keeper David Seaman all ends up, as the Dutch denied England their place in the all singing, all dancing World Cup in the USA of 1994.

Last night both the Dutch and English joined the rest of this European footballing carnival in the last 16 of Euro 2020. For England this is quite the most familiar story you'll ever hear. You muddle laboriously through the group stages, scrape your way past Scotland with a turgid, tedious goal-less draw after deservedly beating Croatia and then hope against hope that mathematics will come to your rescue.

Before their last group game against a spirited Czech Republic, England knew they'd come through the preliminary preambles at the knock out stages of Euro 2020 unscathed. It wasn't the prettiest of sketches since you could still see the charcoal and there were smudges on the paper that tarnished all three games. Watching England can often remind you of a gruelling assault course, men climbing over walls, squelching through thick, cloying mud, becoming slightly disoriented before emerging with a clean slate. 

For most of the first half of England's last group game against Czech Republic, England simply went through the motions, patiently feeling their way into the game and moving their opponents around the centre of the pitch rather like pawns on a chessboard. They built their platforms, established their understanding with each other and generally looked very comfortable and cohesive as an attacking unit. It was never likely to be easy since the Czechs were here on a mission to win and they certainly meant business.

But unlike their toils and struggles against Scotland last Friday, England were sharper, faster, livelier and more mindful of what was at stake. Against Scotland England were like a bulldozer trying desperately to smash a navy wall of Scottish shirts. They kept pummelling the brickwork and masonry but the Scots were simply defiant and ultimately unplayable. The tools certainly needed to be stronger to unlock a stubborn Scots defence who just stifled England with the thickest of defensive blankets. 

Normally England take an age to wake up in major international tournaments and although the victory against Croatia was welcome and refreshing, you privately suspected that things would only get harder. You can only assume that Gareth Southgate gave his men a peace of mind without throwing crockery at them in the dressing room. There are times though when you can only take so much and another display such as the one he witnessed against Scotland would have to be avoided immediately. 

Southgate, having dispensed with the waistcoat, looked like one of those building society managers who deliver inspirational speeches at an annual general meeting and dinner. The suit was impeccably ironed, shirt and tie a menswear salesmen's pride and joy. Southgate does not do impassioned rants or four- letter expletives because he probably doesn't think they work as such. Brian Clough would probably have let off some steam but Clough was deeply in love with the game and besotted with its finer arts. Clough, though and the English FA never saw eye to eye with each other whereas Southgate clearly does. 

Last night England played the game at a much higher tempo and intensity than we might have expected. You'd have thought the Scotland match was still playing on their minds. But this was an altogether different and far more reinvigorated England, quicker in their distribution of the ball and more complete as a team. They showed a far greater initiative and whereas they treated the ball like a hot potato against Scotland, this was a much more palatable salad.

And yet after Raheem Sterling had given England the lead after 12 minutes, England, for all their tap dancing with the ball and teasing the opposition for long periods with protracted periods of possession,  only threatened the Czech Republic goal when it suited them. But this was much more like the England who outplayed Croatia even though they never really looked like running away with a conclusive victory last night.  

Before Sterling had scored, the Manchester City man had hit the post and the neutrals must have thought it was just one of those nights when the ball refuses to obey you and you find yourself in a messy predicament you can't escape from. For a while last night England did find themselves in complex mazes and draughty corridors but then Sterling made his presence felt and all was well with the world. 

England have always prided themselves on their wingers through the ages. When the likes of Peter Barnes and Steve Coppell were driving down the flanks with shuffles, swerves, jinks and shimmies, England looked in a good place, ready to embrace their good, old fashioned habits. Further back in time Tom Finney and Stanley Matthews would show the ball to their defenders before thundering down the wings with daring directness and cutting penetration. 

Once again though Raheem Sterling, when presented with the ball, had proprietorial rights to the ball, steadily holding it, shielding it for crucial seconds, before turning and rotating his body with all the suppleness and athleticism he could find. Sterling was, to quote the popular jargon, constantly on the front foot, wriggling sinuously, carrying the ball with unwavering confidence in his ability, taking on the Czech defenders and then charging forward as if his life depended on it.

The winning England goal of course was, quite literally, a thing of beauty. After re-cycling the ball twice outside their penalty area, the young Arsenal forward Bakuyo Saka, certainly one of the most shining lights of the whole evening, burst forward to join in with the England  passing pageant  before the ever stylish Jack Grealish tricked his way to the byline, standing up his high cross towards the far post where Saka glanced the ball on with his head and Sterling came roaring in to head in England's opening goal of the night. 

But then in the second half the firm foundation that Harry Maguire  and John Stones thought they had discovered at the heart of the defence began to loosen in the second half. Then the Leeds busybody Kalvin Phillips began to lose his creative juices while Jack Grealish, indulging himself with some lovely, languid passing, also tried valiantly to tie up the Czechs in ever increasing knots. But every time Grealish so much as put his best foot forward, a red shirt would send him flying to the ground with red blooded tackling that made you wince with horror.

Alongside Phillips and Bakuyo Saka, Grealish was the proverbial pain in the neck, nagging, pestering and hassling the Czechs with some of the most skilful touches of the evening. Grealish is unpredictable, always seeking and then finding, scheming, manipulative, opportunistic, clever and always ready to take on defenders single handedly. Grealish seems to take his time, drawing defenders deceptively out of position and nut megging the ball through their legs with the minimum of ease. 

At the moment Grealish is attracting some of the most ridiculous comparisons to players of his ilk in years gone past. Some are convinced that Grealish is one of those free spirits who simply ignores the law book and creates his own mood music. Last night some of the more looser tongues drew parallels with Paul Gascoigne but Grealish is far from the outrageous or outlandish type who will just drown their sorrows when adversity arrives at his doorstep. 

True, the impression one gets is that Grealish can be wayward and just a touch moody if things aren't quite going his way. But there was nothing disobedient or iconoclastic about Grealish's football. There were of course the cheeky step overs and the dizzying drag backs when faced with a defender who just keeps nagging away at him. Grealish did things though with practicality, tidiness, commonsense but then a mature intelligence that certainly vindicated Gareth Southgate's decision to play the Aston Villa playmaker from the start. 

For England though this was mission accomplished and although the Czechs were extremely troublesome and full of big match wisdom, England played out the second half in the most leisurely fashion. There was a shot from the Czech West Ham midfield player Thomas Soucek that went narrowly wide and one or two minor emergencies for the English defence. But England took a deep breath, crowded out sporadic Czech Republic attacks and just about survived a jittery period. 

England will now face either Portugal, Germany or France which is exactly the path they trod 55 years ago in their only victorious World Cup. Then Portugal had the majestic Eusebio to deal with, then Sir Bobby Charlton loaded up his shooting artillery against France before cracking an unstoppable shot into the net for England's winner. Then Sir Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters and the inimitable Bobby Moore sent the Germans toppling, as England triumphed in a 4-2 World Cup Final victory that has yet to be matched. England may expect but this is the business end of Euro 2020 and there is no room for shy, shrinking violets.

Meanwhile back in the Cruyff arena in Holland, the team who should have won two consecutive World Cup Finals but failed on both occasions, were polishing off little North Macedonia 3-0. Now most of us know what Holland are capable of doing and their history is like some well chronicled tale of dressing room bust ups, furious arguments behind the scenes, internal dissent of every imaginable kind and the kind of toxic atmosphere within the team that isn't conducive to free flowing football. 

At their best Holland are rather like their tulips and canals, peaceful when the mood takes them and clearly a team whose wild infatuation with Total Football almost singles them out as unique and irreplaceable. Their intuitive one touch football, controlled passing, telepathic link up play and immaculate positional sense are like gleaming chandeliers in a well lit ballroom. 

Against North Macedonia, Memphis Depay, their standout player, Patrick Van Aanholt, Frank Gravenberch, the tireless and ageless Daley Blind, the always adventurous Denzil Dumfries and the attractive combinations of the sublime Gigi Wijnaldum all gave colour and personality to the Dutch attack. At times Holland did enough on the ball to suggest that they could provide a shock or two in Euro 2020 but perhaps this is a tournament too soon for the Dutch. 

At varying times Depay became almost impossible to handle and when Depay, Wijnaldum and Blind ganged up on their opponents it was rather like watching an old film that had lost none of its quality. All contributed to every single one of Holland's three goals with cut backs from the by line, passes played at lightning speed and finishing that was out of this world. Holland will make innumerable friends during Euro 2020 but the jury may be out. Holland and England. Two kindred spirits in their own way.              

Hungarian uprising as French are held by the modern day Magyars.

 Hungarian Uprising as French are held by the modern day Magyars.

This was not quite the Hungarian Uprising of old but world champions France did encounter some opposition and there were a couple of odd moments when even the French were longing for a Platini, Raymond Kopa and Just Fontaine to make sure that nothing would go awry for the French. But it did go ever so slightly wrong for the world champions and they were humbled by a hungrier Hungary side who quite literally defied expectations in the Puskas Arena in Budapest. 

For quite a considerable time now Hungary have been moping and sulking in the back waters of international football. They do have fond memories of Ferenc Puskas, Jozef Bozsik and Zoltan Czibor to remind them of those halcyon days of the Magical Magyars when Hungary almost stood head and shoulders above any other team in the world. They will tell you in Budapest that on a foggy afternoon at the old Wembley 68 years ago England were demolished, embarrassed and taken to the cleaners by a rampant Hungary side who left poor England captain Billy Wright treading water and seeing stars. 

Since then though Hungary have been lost in a fog of complete obscurity nowhere to be seen. They have qualified for a number of World Cups and they were unluckily beaten by West Germany in the World Cup Final of 1954 when even the Germans, by their own admission, gallantly conceded that Hungary were the best team in the competition by a country mile. 

But on Saturday the Hungarians, roared on by a huge, macho crowd full of male machismo, went above and beyond the call of duty to hold the world champions to a 1-1 draw.  They did so with a performance of such defensive resilience and plucky pragmatism that even France were entranced by what they'd seen. It isn't often that French revolutionary fervour comes unstuck at the hands of a once celebrated world force such as Hungary and then has the gall to show off all its unashamed patriotism. 

For France this should have been confirmation of everything we've come to know about them. This should all have been about French art and artistry, the flourishing of everything refined about their soul, a platform for flamboyant airs and graces, a proper sprinkling of world class and a sense of high minded haughtiness and effortless style. The French love to be show offs, ostentatious in the extreme, never backwards in coming forwards, always willing to leave you spellbound. 

There is always something more than meets the eye when the French come out to play.. In the old days France were serial underachievers, never quite stepping up to the mark. Their football was always an oil painting but never the finished article. There were missing pieces, rough edges, that elusive touch of match winning genius or any real sense of  accomplishment. But now the French seem to have that important combination of streetwise intelligence and a genuine sense of the cavalier, throwing caution to the wind. 

Paul Pogba was once again master of all he surveyed, loping forward with that tall, imposing frame, inspiring, pushing, prompting, full of wondrous close ball control and anticipation when the Hungarians seemed to getting on his nerves. Then the likes of Lucas Digne, Presnel Kimpembe, Rafael Varane all linked naturally to give the rest of the team that extrovert character, that collective team ethic that has so often adorned their game in recent years. 

Then the Chelsea midfield maestro N'Golo Kante gave another demonstration of all that is best within the game, scurrying around furiously, pressing persistently when necessary and generally unsettling Hungary with his inch perfect passing and all round excellence. Kante was not only the engine room he was also the stoker, the hod carrier, fetcher and carrier, moving the ball with electrifying speed and breathless accuracy. 

We should not of course overlook the contributions of the extraordinary Kylian M'Bappe, surely destined to emerge as one of the greatest of all footballers. M'Bappe and Antoine Griezmann were terrifying up front for France and every time M'Bappe gathered up a head of steam you somehow knew that goals would eventually follow. And so they did. 

M'Bappe was now twisting and racing past defenders and rushing forcefully into the Hungarian penalty area rather like a whirlwind that refuses to go away. Griezmann was also bearing down on goal, always well positioned for the crucial pass to his feet. France eventually took the lead when that man M'Bappe turned his man sensationally inside and out before laying the ball craftily square to Griezmann who steered the ball easily past the Hungary keeper. A goal that owed more to the Louvre than an international football stadium. 

And that appeared that for Hungary. But then in the second half  a totally unexpected revival from the home Hungarian side almost shocked the French into submission. The ball seemed to be travelling through the French feet as if the ball had glue to it. The world champions though were no longer in command of their destiny as the red shirts of Hungary briefly thought of Puskas and the arena they were playing and their football adopted a new life, a more fluent dimension with greater substance and threatening intent. 

Then with minutes to go Hungary equalised and a nation so long starved of any kind of footballing prosperity, went absolutely potty. Picking the ball up from just outside the French penalty box, Attila Fiola, whose name will never be forgotten for perhaps obvious reasons, drove his way purposefully through a succession of French defenders. Now a veteran of Hungarian football, Fiola burrowed a path towards goal before firing low past Hugo Lloris in the French goal. 

So it was that the referee blew the final whistle and the underdogs Hungary had sent tremors through France. This was not the way it was meant to be for the world champions. How dare anybody encroach on their territory and nick a point off them. It was daylight robbery and not to be tolerated but it happened so there. A 1-1 draw had meant that France were effectively, if somewhat awkwardly, through to the last 16 barring a miracle but Hungary were still acclaiming a moral and classical sense of achievement. They hadn't lost to the World Champions but they may well be joining France in the knock out stages of  Euro 2020. Anybody for a bowl of goulash? Hungarian appetites will have been whetted. Bravo!

Meanwhile Spain, everybody's second favourites to win Euro 2020, struggled desperately to beat Poland in the only other game of the day. Alvaro Morata brilliantly swept the ball home for the home side, flicking the ball nonchalantly past the Polish keeper after a high, swinging cross that caught the Polish defence out. But then Poland, fighting back on all fronts and pinning back the Spanish when least expected, equalised when the most consistent and prolific striker in Europe Robert Lewandowski used all of his neck muscles to power the ball into the net for a richly merited equaliser.

It is hard to know what to make of Spain. When they should have been using far less cream or filling on their attacking cake and just going headlong for the winner they chose the easy going, relaxed passing game that should have been far more incisive than it was. For the last 25 minutes Spain were almost over indulgent, their football hampered by over elaboration and far too many cooks spoiling the broth. In the end Spain were just passing and over passing just for the sake of decoration rather than emphatic victory. There is a long way to go yet and Euro 2020 could well have one or two tricks up its sleeve. But France still look the likeliest to follow up World Cup winning glory with another European Championship victory. We await the next chapter.  

Auld Lang Syne Derby finishes in no score bore.

 Auld Lang Syne Derby finishes in score bore.

After all the exaggerated hype, speculation, posturing and the inevitable needle, England and Scotland battled out one of those now predictable no score draws that some of us privately feared. Many decades and centuries of history have passed since that famous first international football match between the two old rivals in 1872. For Glasgow back then read a soggy, wet and inclement Wembley Stadium in 2021 where all of those personal animosities and feuds were once harboured and still exist to the present day. 

Before this latest Auld Enemy confrontation, hordes of fervent Scottish supporters had gathered in London's Leicester Square to let off steam before that celebrated dust up between England and Scotland. The Tartan hordes then migrated to the West End and marked their territory in Trafalgar Square. It was the prequel to the sequel, another outpouring of lively, good natured spirits and loud pronouncements of Scottish pride and, for some, Scottish independence. For if, as you suspect, First Minister of Scotland Nicola Sturgeon gets her way the two countries could have separate identities and, quite possibly, passports. 

But this was the re-enactment of a hundred Bannockburns and Cullodens, a reinforcement of all those old resentments, trench warfare, the baying for blood, revenge, retribution and honour. There have been a number of notable matches throughout the years and, some more than others, that have amused and shocked us in equal measure. The shields have been brandished, the lances and various bits and pieces of ammunition that have fired up this fixture in the past and then the old conflict on the muddiest of battlegrounds. 

There was the now notorious pitch invasion at the old Wembley in 1977 when the stampeding hordes of Scottish supporters flooded onto the pitch in the now defunct Home Internationals. Then they proceeded to climb onto the crossbars, bounce up and down on them violently before snapping them in half. Before you could blink nets were broken, posts and crossbars were no more than the cracked debris of some petty argument.

Then the Scots celebrated their 2-1 win with goals from Kenny Dalglish and Gordon Macqueen as the fans dug up the hallowed Wembley turf, cutting out huge divots of grass and taking them back to Scotland as souvenirs of  their eventful visit to London. It was an occasion almost branded on the history of England- Scotland matches rather like a nasty burn mark that took ages to recover from. 

Further back in time Scotland came to Wembley a year after England had won the World Cup in 1966. Jim Baxter, Tommy Gemmell and Bobby Murdoch were all responsible for one of Scotland's most heroic victories. You'd have thought the Scots had stolen the World Cup back from England's grasp. It may well have been regarded as some kind of Pyrrhic victory for the Scots, a settling of old scores but in retrospect it now seems like some trivial act of childishness, a grudge that had to be resolved.  

Back in 1975, a personal memory took you back to an Auld Firm Derby in the old Home Internationals. By half time England were three goals up and cruising against Scotland, Colin Bell, Kevin Beattie and captain Gerry Francis weighing in with the goals, Francis with a thunderous rocket from outside the penalty area. It was the first time you'd ever seen Scotland looking so sheepish and humiliated. There have been fewer games in the history of this contest that have been so heartlessly one sided apart from Scotland's 9-3 defeat to Jimmy Greaves and co in 1961.

And now England met Scotland again 25 years almost to the day since Gazza collapsed onto the Wembley grass and invited his colleagues to pour water down his throat in what was known as the dentist chair treatment for whatever reason. Paul Gascoigne remains one of the finest midfield players of modern times and when the outrageous foolhardiness was left behind him in his private life, Gazza dominated the match single- mindedly and Euro 96 will forever be England at the height of summer.

On a warm summer day in 1996 the whole of England embraced Gascoigne rather like one of those demobbed War heroes who hadn't seen their family for years and years. Against Scotland, Gazza dragged the dark navy blue shirts across and every which way, cheek, audacity and mischievousness in his every movement. But when he chipped the ball over the head of Colin Hendry, the rugged Scotland centre back, collected the ball on the other side of Hendry, the England scamp, the rascal and rapscallion just brought the ball down onto his feet and calmly drove the ball low into the net for England's winning goal. 

Last night the conditions couldn't have been more different. The rain fell like tears from the heavens and there was an even more theatrical feel to the game as if reputations were on the line. And maybe we should have known that this would never materialise into the same kind of match that so held our attention 25 years ago. Different water has passed under the bridge and after a global pandemic that has now lasted well over a year now, it was good to see the fans again albeit spread out in tight little huddles.

After seeing off Croatia by the odd goal last weekend it may well have been assumed that this would be the second instalment of England's cavalry charge towards the Euro 2020 winning promised land. But this time the words were all very garbled, the script had been soaked beyond recognition and this was a deeply uncomfortable watch. The lines were tangled and communication had fallen down at roughly the hour mark.

England looked clumsy, cumbersome, leggy, leaden and totally incapable of making their passes stick at any time. During the first half, they did achieve a reproduction of their Croatia victory last Sunday. There was a smoothness and cleverness about England for a while against Scotland. Kalvin Phillips was all hustle and bustle, whole hearted industry, honest commitment and application, while Mason Mount fluttered and flickered across Wembley, tickling his passes to all and sundry, delicate as a flower, dinking and jinking past gasping Scottish shirts while Declan Rice tidied up efficiently at the back, feeding simple short distance passes to Mount and Phillips when they were available. 

But chances were few and far between and the game rarely caught fire. There was a wretchedly flat and lifeless air about the game that just seemed to sink into the quicksand. England looked as if an emotionally draining and gruelling club season had finally caught up with them. Passes were criminally undercooked, possession was lost far too easily and there was never a real sense of connection. 

Raheem Sterling, the Manchester City winger who scored England's winning goal against Croatia, looked as though he wanted to bludgeon his way through every Scottish shirt, punch a hole in his opponents back four and then score goals for fun. But even Sterling was uncharacteristically sloppy and tired looking, lackadaisical and just losing the ball like a man confronted with a jar of sticky treacle. The ball would frequently escape Sterling just when you thought he might have treated the ball as if he was  thrilled to see it and would never let it go. 

As for skipper Harry Kane here was a man who looked totally pre-occupied with transfer speculation and his mind  had no intention of focusing on the here and now. Kane trundled his way through the game, trying desperately to engage with his team mates but never succeeding. The legs were not working, while the shielding of the ball and the harmonious link up play was never in evidence. Kane was supporting somebody but you were never quite sure whom. 

In the World Cup down Russia way three years ago, Kane was England's goal scoring inspiration and the goals were flowing like a waterfall. Three years on and Kane looked totally shell shocked at times, perhaps deeply affected by one of Jose Mourinho's biting verbal assaults. Kane, it has to be said, looked exhausted and almost bored by the surroundings. His club future at Spurs is still shrouded in doubt but Kane will now know that Gareth Southgate will be heavily dependent on him to score as soon as possible and preferably a couple against the Czech Republic will do nicely. 

At the back Declan Rice, Tyrone Mings, John Stones and Luke Shaw initially were excellent and supportive influences and Stones did hit the post with a soaring header from a corner. But last night England were gripped with some nervous disposition that just consumed them. When Jack Grealish of Aston Villa came on as a second half sub, the balance, direction and tempo of the match should have changed the dynamics of the match. Grealish has dancer's feet, a waltz and tango never far from his thoughts, tricking his way through forests of legs, side stepping, stepping over, full of bewildering trickery and delightful deception. But this would not be Grealish's night under the Wembley lights. 

Then with time running out England manager Gareth Southgate brought on Manchester United's Marcus Rashford but that was very much a last shuffle of the cards. Rashford did appear for the latter stages of the game but was never up to speed and then vanished. England were out of petrol and gas, the weariness plastered all over their faces, a team that wanted to win Euro 2020 but were obviously on some Mediterranean beach judging by this disappointing flop. 

Scotland, to give them credit where it was due. played superbly or as well as they were ever likely to given that England were so poor. John Mcginn was all heart, earnest endeavour, quietly effective and often quite imaginative in his choice of passing. Grant Hanley was a giant piece of granite at the back for Scotland, clearing the ball under pressure easily while Scott McTominay and Billy Gilmour were technically correct on the ball, thoughtful and analytical on the ball, reading the game and then translating the complicated bits in between with sure footed excellence. 

The England goalkeeper Jason Pickford had to make some important saves when the Scots did attack and when Scotland perhaps should have scored. But the longer the game went on without a goal, the less a goal looked likely. A frenzied goal mouth scramble in the Scottish six yard box almost won the game for England but this would not have been the right result. Instead it was probably back to square one for both England and Scotland. 

Going into the last matches of both England and Scotland's group, England need only a point to qualify for the next round of 16. Scotland must win their last group match against Croatia to follow England. So those are the harsh facts. It is at times like this when both English and Scottish football would welcome a stiff scotch to stiffen the sinews and perk up flagging spirits. There is a nagging feeling though that reality will come crashing in with a vengeance and both will have other commitments on July 11. Sadly, a Final for either of these two old foes can only be regarded as pie in the sky. But who knows? Stranger things have been known to happen.    

It's all about the Low Countries.

 It's all about the Low Countries

The contrasting fortunes of Belgium and Holland have always been an intriguing topic of debate. In footballing terms they may share the same attacking philosophies but yesterday they were almost reading from the same page. In recent years Holland have suffered something of a shocking decline into the wilderness but yesterday in the Parken Stadium, Denmark, the technical ingenuity and flair that had many of us in raptures during the 1970s has now been translated into the modern language of football.

This was not the Total Football so frequently on display back then but it was the sum of its parts. There were glimpses, reminders and similarities but then it wouldn't be Holland without resorting to concepts and ideals. But yesterday was very much about the Low Countries taking significant steps towards sunlit uplands and, who knows, sweltering heatwaves on the day of the Euro 2020 Final on July 11th. 

Yesterday afternoon Belgium were first out of the blocks and for much of their first second half against Denmark it looked as if somebody needed to call a search party for the real Belgium. Perhaps they were in Brussels searching for those familiar, hypnotic rhythms or maybe they were just lost in Bruges. The fact of the matter was that Belgium were completely anonymous, enthralling at first but then overcome with stage fright when a red Danish tidal wave came surging towards their goal. Their football had been submerged into semi obscurity perhaps stranded out at sea where none could see them. 

But suddenly, and as if by a wave of a magic wand, Roberto Martinez, certainly one of the most engaging managers at this tournament, discovered that Kevin De Bruyne was still sitting on the subs bench and ready to be launched into action as and when required. The truth is of course that De Bruyne should have started yesterday's game for without him, Belgium were just limp, lack lustre, unsure of their bearings and completely off the pace. De Bruyne was, quite clearly, the missing link. 

Then after Denmark had taken an early lead, their supporters briefly had flashbacks to Denmark's victorious European Championship Final win against Germany in the 1992 Final. Oh for that fierce shot by John Jensen that beat the Germans.  That was the game when the Danish team were summarily whisked away from their holiday beach to take part in the 1992 Euros Finals. Poor old Yugoslavia were caught up in the most horrendous war which saw the whole of the country torn apart and Croatia formed as a new country seemingly overnight. 

And yet in the second half Belgium, Denmark's opponents yesterday, re-discovered the form we knew they were capable of delivering and just merrily passed their way around the back of the Danish defence, carving open their opponents at will,  humiliatingly outplayed and out thought before just collapsing in a dizzy spell of intense Belgium pressure. 

Before we knew it Thomas Meunier had fully woken up after a first half slumber, Youri Tielemans remembered the cracking goal that had won the FA Cup for Leicester last month, Leander Dendocker had found his range and vision with a very poised display, Thorgen  Hazard reminded you at times of his brother Eden and Romelu Lukaku was very much on the same wavelength as his country. In fact Lukaku gave an umforgettable demonstration in the arts of a classic forward. 

But it was the appearance of Kevin De Bruyne, certainly one of the classiest midfielders in recent Belgian history, who sent a current of electricity through Belgium. Before then Belgium had just been sparking and then blowing a fuse although not quite literally. Bruyne was a force of nature, irrepressible , a breath of fresh air, an almost revolutionary game changer, moving gingerly between the lines, dribbling with the ball  skilfully and astonishingly, then creating room and space for Lukaku to pounce on up front.  

Both of Belgium's winning goals against Denmark were simply breathtaking in their execution. The combination play between Thorgan Hazard, Romelu Lukaku and finally De Bruyne was a spectacular piece of joined up thinking, three players in complete harmony with each other. When Thorgan Hazard slipped the ball past Kaspar Schmeichel for  Belgian's opening goal you knew you'd witnessed a team who were determined to bury the past and finally found the right attacking formula.

Then Belgium scored their second, the culmination of some quick witted, very pretty and well designed passing in and around the Danish penalty area. Firstly Tielemans swiftly moved the ball across the penalty area and after another Belgian foot had touched the ball on De Bruyne answered a nation's call, curving the ball softly and low past Danish keeper Schmeichel. Job done and Belgium through to the last 16.

Meanwhile in Denmark, the Dutch were replicating some of the old routines that had left most neutral football fans utterly enchanted during the 1970s. Sadly, the Total Football that had so strikingly defined Hollland with two successive World Cup Finals against West Germany and Argentina had somehow got lost in a recent breakdown in communication, but had now been revived for Euro 2020 as if somebody had flicked a switch, clicked their fingers and given the Dutch permission to re-capture former glories.

Last night Holland just kept hold of the ball for as long as they could, weaving together their intricate webs of passing, their football spellbinding, consistently attractive and from time to time simply dazzling. You recalled Johan Cruyff, the greatest flying Dutchman of all time, the wily, cunning Robbie Rensenbrink, Rudi Krol, of the thunderous shot, a dashing, inventive and scheming midfield player always on the look out for that clinical through pass and never less than fully involved at the heart of everything the Dutch could offer, Johan Neeskens, equally as gifted as Cruyff but another talismanic influence, orchestrating, prompting and dictating the pace of the Dutch attack. 

The fact is that Holland have only won the European Championship and that was 33 years ago when the staggering talent of Ruud Gullit, dreadlocked and deadly, linked up lethally with Marco Van Basten to guide Holland to their only major international trophy. Van Basten's remarkable volleyed goal will live long in the memory if only because it was so perfectly struck. 

The current generation of Dutch football is in a much healthier state than it might have been had it not for manager Frank De Boer. Holland are quite obviously enjoying their neat, one touch football, not quite as potent as they were back in Cruyff's days but their comfort and ease in possession is still a delight to behold. The ground based passing mentality still brings a smile and glow to those who might have thought the Dutch had lost the plot and would never re-connect with their spiritual roots. 

Throughout Denzel Dumfries, the ageless Daley Blind, Maarten De Vrij and Matthias De Ligt, carefully guarded the Dutch defence with the most impenetrable screen while Donyell Malen sprang forward like a gambolling lamb in springtime, running hard at the Austrian defence and timing his overlaps to the right moment.

But the one man the Dutch fans had come to see fully lived up to expectations. Memphis Depay, one of the most dangerous strikers in the whole of the world game, is tattooed, brimming with confidence and there is a hint of arrogance about him that the Dutch can't get enough of. Holland's 2-0 victory against Austria owed much to their timeless technique and insistence on re-cycling the ball when one of their attacks broke down. This was not the Dutch of the 1970s but it did give a pretty convincing impersonation of what their ancestors had made their trademark. 

When the effervescent Denzel Dumfries had won the ball back from the Austrians there was only one way to go for the full back. Dumfries turned towards the penalty area, tussling with an Austria defender, intelligently checking back before being bundled unceremoniously to the ground. The referee, after consulting briefly with VAR, pointed to the penalty spot. Memphis Depay, the man of the moment, stepped forward, sweat pouring off his forehead and drove home Holland's opening goal. 

Holland had quite literally seized the early evening so to speak. Their football had simple, clean lines, polished surfaces, elegant movements and intuitive touches that were straight off the cuff. Their second goal seemed somehow pre-destined since Austria were never likely to find anything like the incomparable form that Hugo Meisl once gave world football during the 1930s, a Wunderteam in every sense of the word. 

So it was that Holland wrapped up the three points that enabled them to reach the last 16. A typically cultured Dutch build up resulted in Depay slotting the most precise of through passes to Donyell Mahlen who bounded into the area, laying the ball across to the onrushing Dumfries who simply stroked the ball into the net with consummate ease like a kid tucking into a gobstopper or lemon sherbet on the way home from school. 

This could turn into the most gripping European Championships in recent history. Italy, who have already looked full of goals, could do with a Baresi or Pirlo to keep them going but they do look in very buoyant mood, galvanised by their lively start to the tournament. Spain still look very decorative, a case of the baroque and the rococo merging as one, a team who can still draw pretty pictures, apply sensitive brushstrokes, full of flamenco finery and exploding into a kaleidoscope of colours, flaring and fizzing like the traditional sparkler at a fireworks party. But we will see. 

France and Germany can never be discounted and France remain the tournament favourites and the longer Kylian M'Bappe looks as though he may emerge as the star man of the Euros the more likely it is that France may win another major trophy. Germany were beaten by the odd, own goal to France and you would have to reserve judgment on their prospects of advancing to the latter stages of the Euro 2020. But England are up and running with a narrow if eye catching victory over Croatia so this may not be the time for taking out betting slips. We are now fully conversant with England's history and we all know what might happen if the nation even consider themselves to be superior to everybody. Don't even think about it. Let the show go on.             

Spain and France lay down a marker for Euro 2020

 Spain and France lay down a marker for Euro 2020

In recent years both Spain and France have laid down the most prominent marker for the way in which football should be played. Both have shared an impressive collection of World Cup Final victories and European Championship triumphs. The quality of their football and the mannerisms that have characterised those victories are like golden hallmarks etched onto both trophies. They are now shining lights in football's often turbulent world of pressure at the highest level. 

Earlier on in the week Spain, who have been magnificent and princely ambassadors of the Beautiful Game, were quite astoundingly held to a goal-less draw by a very poor and limited Sweden who were simply determined to keep Spain at arm's length and just cling on for dear life. And yet for all Spain's delicious ball skills, natural possession game and flawless pedigree, they failed to break down a Swedish defence that looked as though it had nailed a thousand pieces of wood across their back four and just battened down the hatches in the hope that Spain would just get fed up.

The truth is that you could hardly forgive the Spanish for throwing in the towel. For 90 minutes they had passed and passed the ball almost indefinitely among themselves. From kick off the baggage carousel of passes kept whirring around 11 stubborn Swedish shirts. Their passing had an almost idyllic quality, circular, triangular, rectangular, geometric, beautifully executed, feet to feet, the ball never leaving the ground for a single minute. 

With every passing minute Spain kept the ball spinning like plates in a circus, tapping, controlling, thinking, timing, co-ordinating, concentrating and then moving the ball like something on a conveyor belt in a factory. The pundits think that although Spain are almost too good to be true, paradoxically they may not have enough to win the tournament. 

But led brilliantly by captain Jordi Alba and marshalled exceptionally by the commanding Aymeric Laporte, and Pau Torres this Spain could make imperious progress to at least the quarter final stage. But that may be pushing it slightly. Spain could even win Euro 2020 most surprisingly but realistically both France and a rejuvenated Italy could be standing in their way. Belgium may also take a defiant stand and from a neutral's point of view the sight of Belgium finally lifting a major international trophy would not be before time and quite deservedly so. 

For Spain, the wondrous generation of Xavi, Iniesta, Isco, the masterful Cesc Fabregas and Fernando Torres have now disappeared into the ether. The craftsmanship and collective brilliance that they brought to their World Cup and Euro exploits are now museum pieces. But it was the legacy and template that they have now left behind that means Spain will have something to chew on in this latest team of many rainbows. For the time being Spain's patent failure to beat Sweden may be a shape of things to come. 

Last night though France met Germany which has always had the air of a grudge match at the best of times. Both are Europe's poster boys, pin ups, teams with a wealth of  skilful and gorgeous playmakers, players capable of winning matches with moments of heavenly magic. France of course have ruled the roost in both World Cups and European Championships in.recent times with Emmanuel Petit, Zinedine Zidane, Didier Deschamps,Thierry Henry, Robert Pires all providing moments of genius, multi layered and three dimensional art work. In 1998 France won their first World Cup winning team and have never really looked back since. 

Meanwhile 37 years ago France owed an enormous debt of gratitude to master magician Michel Platini, a player so vastly talented and full of poetry in motion that Spain their opponents in the 1984 European Championship Final must have thought they were imagining things. But both Platini, Jean Tigana, Dominic Rocheteau, the elegant Alan Giresse and Didier Six were the epitome of the French Renaissance era, a team of the French bohemian age, a stylish cabaret act, swaggerers, purists and moralists. France inevitably became the romantic sweethearts, flirtatious on the ball and driving back the boundaries. 

Last night the current French team, World Champions again going into Euro 2020, broke into a German backyard and stole old German treasures. Germany of course have had innumerable purple periods winning countless World Cups and European Championships but this time Germany were stunned into submission. France have continued where they left off in Russia three years ago and their football still has the air of a Degas or Matisse, football with depth, versatility, profundity and stunning expression. 

The current crop of French playmakers and artistes gathered around football's European top table and devoured a la carte. Both Benjamin Pavard, Raphael Varane, Lucas Hernandez and the enormously creative N'Golo Kante give the French substance, breeding and character, players of effortlessness and purity and world class gifts at their feet. Adrien Rabiot could be the future of French football while Paul Pogba, although infuriating at times, can pass the ball with almost laser precision.

When all of France come together and read from the same script, French football can often remind you of its literature: fluent, articulate, dramatic, melodramatic at times but at times wretchedly wishy washy. Last night the 11 musketeers of French football gave us splendour, refinement and yet more oil paintings. Pogba, the still menacing Karim Benzema, Antoine Griezmann and the world class of Kylian Mbappe all threaded the ball together in a maze that simply bemused the Germans. 

France beat Germany with an own goal from helpless defender Matts Hummels who could only steer the ball into the net after another spell of French wizardry outside the German penalty area. The partisan German crowd could only look in stunned bewilderment as the French went through the motions. There may be a long way to go yet in Euro 2020, but after a year's absence and postponement, football misses its European pass masters.  

     

England off and running with first victory in opening game of Euro 2020

 England off and running with first victory in opening game of Euro 2020.

By the law of averages it had to happen sooner or later. If you'd had a bet on the result of England's opening game of Euro 2020 it's hard to know what kind of odds you'd have got on an England victory. But credit where it's due England's duly presented the nation with that longed for win in its first game of Euro 2020.

Now the chances are that this may be a false dawn for England since we're all acquainted with that story. Or are we not? We know what happened 25 years ago when Terry Venables fired up Three Lions troops were sufficiently inspired to win a penalty shoot out against Spain at Wembley and then eventually they reached the semi final of the competition only to confront a formidable German brick wall that never really looked like crumbling. To all intents and purposes it was the perfect time and the most exhilarating of all summers although there were no English open top bus parades at the end. 

Roll forward 25 years and Gareth Southgate who so agonisingly missed the crucial penalty which terminated England's participation during Euro 96, was once again at the centre of our universe. This time Southgate was manager and coach of his country and for the first time in well over 18 months, the fans and supporters were back on the terraces albeit in somewhat limited numbers. It was an emotional reunion that was so heavy with poignancy that some of us could hardly believe what we were watching. 

This time Southgate was suitably suited and booted, shirt crisply laundered and tie neat, a manager who had endeared himself completely to the national cause when he made a moving announcement about England's continued commitment to keeping racism out of football, rousing his men with an inspirational message about a country's sense of togetherness when things go awry. 

Sometimes you have to believe that anything may be possible for this England side. They may not quite win Euro 2020 but the strength of their patriotic spirit can't be denied. Around Wembley there was the familiar sight of bare chested England fans swigging their plastic bottles of water and generally grateful for small mercies. Suddenly, the mains had been switched on and the voices, although slightly muted, were still powerful enough to generate a stereo amplification that could probably be heard at Wembley Park Tube station. 

The early afternoon kick offs meant that a huge shadow seemed to be covering one half of the Wembley pitch. But the other half consisted of a warm sunshine that must have lifted the nation. Summertime in the city of London had arrived and England were bright, breezy and buoyant, a team whose now towering confidence seemed to sustain them for the entire game. England are now a side reformed and transformed under Southgate, a  man whose crisp, short passing philosophy has given the team a much more refreshing perspective. The days of the industrial, grim, saturnine long ball have now been replaced by deeply uplifting and pleasurable football, a team with a collective ethos and a real identity.

After being appointed as captain of his country Harry Kane, in the wake of Jordan Henderson of Liverpool admittedly struggled to assert himself as the central focus of England's attack. This could be an important close season for Kane since his future at his boyhood team has now been shrouded in doubt. It was noticeable yesterday that the Spurs forward may well have been unsettled by all the attention on the destination of his next club if indeed this is the case.

For England as a team, this was precisely the result they may have been hoping. While Kyle Walker once again looked a powerhouse at the back with his significant interventions and clever policing of the Croatian forwards, both John Stones and Tyron Mings were also giant rocks guarding the heart of their defence. Walker though was caught out alarmingly at times when England's defensive hinges needed to be oiled. 

Then the national side have entrusted the responsibility of their blossoming future to the extraordinary talents of Mason Mount, a smooth, cultured player equipped with ball playing artistry who holds the ball, slows it down to his pace and surveys the options in front of him with an experienced air way beyond his years. Mount is hugely intelligent, a role model visionary and his impeccable distribution to his colleagues is a work of art. 

Once again Declan Rice gave a quiet, understated but authoritative performance, coolly laying off short, sharp passes that then gave the likes of Raheem Sterling, Kieran Trippier, Kalvin Philips and Phil Foden the impetus and propulsive power to stream forward into open channels down the flanks. Philips, now an established Leeds playmaker, certainly gave evidence of a special talent. Philips is quick- witted, energetic, restless, hard tackling and committed to the cause, qualities that may be regarded as essential within the next couple of weeks.

Then there was Phil Foden, another splendid Manchester City discovery, a player of vast intelligence, heart and soul and a wonderful capacity for producing the unexpected and pacey into the bargain. Foden, now blond, exploded into action quite frequently, running, cutting in from the touchlines, challenging and creating space wherever he went on his travels. 

When England's goal though eventually came it did so at a time when Luca Modric was beginning to exert his evergreen and magical influence on any game of football. Modric of course is an inveterate game changer and match winner, still capable of  electrifying a game with a drop of the shoulder, driving run and then a vital goal. Then Ivan Perisic, equally as influential combined with Marcel Brozovic, the consistently probing Andrej Kramaric and Mateo Kovacic to frighten the life out of Gareth Southgate's well organised defence. 

But when Philips bore through the middle of the pitch to lay on a delightful through ball for Raheem Sterling to run onto, England knew they were in a good place. Sterling finally scored his first goal, slipping the ball easily into the back of the Croatia net. The local lad had done his best and finest. In a small corner of Manchester Sterling's boss Pep Guardiola must have allowed himself just a whoop of joy. 

So the first part of England's Euro expedition had been conquered and 21,000 England fans were still hoping that miracles can happen. There is the small matter of Scotland to come this Friday followed by the Czech Republic next week. It is never wise to make logical predictions about England in international tournament mode but if you still fancy a roller coaster of a ride then this may be the right time and right place. Hold on everybody.      

Italian job completed as Italy beat Turkey in Euro 2020 opener.

 Italian job completed as Italy beat Turkey in Euro 2020 opener. 

Italian football has always been a fascinating case study in human behaviour. Give the ball to an Italian player and they'll either develop a very close working relationship with it or they'll put up the shutters, retreat into a shell and only come out to play when the mood suits them. Now serial winners of World Cups, Italy's football has attracted a deep seated notoriety that never advances their cause in any way, shape or form. 

When the highly revered Enzo Bearzot was their manager way back when, Italy were unpredictable, temperamental, sensational at times, a delight to watch or just annoyingly defensive. In other words they were a mass of contradictions. There was a time when they had players who could actually turn on the style such as Paolo Rossi, goal scorer supreme, who once almost single-handedly won the World Cup for Italy with two superb goals in the Final itself. 

Further back in time there was Gianni Rivera and Luigi Riva, undoubtedly two of the greatest footballing practitioners ever to pull on a blue shirt. Both were the Azzuri's generalissimos, models of elegance, poise, balance and perfect close control ever seen in Serie A. It may be some time before the Italians produce their like again. Italian football has been through several periods of evolution and re-construction, moments of disgraceful ugliness, naivety at times and catenaccio. Which probably leads us onto the subject of their cynical defensive tactics. 

There were of course exceptions to that rule. Marco Tardelli will always be regarded as the Italian's most accomplished centre half of all time. Tardelli of course excelled during the 1982 World Cup when he scored and gave a defensive masterclass that bordered on perfection. Tardelli had a remarkable positional sense, reading the game with a studied erudition and then breaking up opponents attack with relentless satisfaction. Tardelli was passionately attached to his national team and still one of its finest defenders. 

Even further back there was Roberto Bettega who once bulleted a header past Ray Clemence that more or less dashed England's hopes of reaching the 1978 World Cup Finals in Argentina. Bettega was a quiet assassin, a pain in the neck for defenders, lethal up front, full of nuisance value and mobility, terrorising his adversaries and then preventing England from taking any active part in Argentina. 

But catenaccio and its implications has almost defined Italian football wherever they've been on their travels. When the defensive bolt was locked tightly, Italy were immovable, impregnable and ultimately impassable. Their football was highly disciplined, structured, regimented, never really appealing to the eye as such because everything about their game was based on organisation and uniformity. This could have been seen to their decided advantage at times but how often can you remain in a straight jacket? 

Admittedly the Italians will always have their 1990 World Cup and Salvatore Schillaci or Dino Zoff who became the oldest goalkeeper ever to lift a World Cup. But juries are always out about the consistency and quality of the Italians since none can really tell which team will turn up on the day. They can either be suavely spontaneous, lovably entertaining or simply dreadful. This is not suggest that there is an element of the chameleon about them nor are they tormented souls who just can't come to terms with who they really are. But the impartial observers would really like to see a much more positive side to their football. 

And yet here they were once again back on the big international footballing stage. Gone missing from the 2018 World Cup, Italy now simply outplayed and eventually thrashed a dispirited Turkey side in their opening match of Euro 2020(or to be numerically accurate) Euro 2021 since the global pandemic put everything onto the back burner. It was a good to see an Italian side fully prepared to attack from the first whistle and not be afraid to show the more redeeming aspects of their football. There was a glorious fluency about them last night, a sense of freedom and adventure much missed from Russia three years ago.  

It almost felt at times that the Italians had been released from a police cell with a single light bulb hanging ominously from the ceiling after a severe interrogation. Their football had the air of the noblesse oblige about it, a genuine nobility, a sense of royal distinction about it. It was dignified, beautifully delivered, carefully conceived and executed, richly constructive and patience was the ultimate virtue. 

From the start Italy built their football methodically and masterfully from the back, an endless river of passes flowing from the surprisingly dressed white shirts of Italy. They moved the ball around simply and accurately in all areas of their home pitch, taking their time when they had to and then breaking forward  with a decisive authority and menacing power. This was the Italians at their best, unfettered, uninhibited, free flowing, ambitious and never repressed at any time.

With Alessandro Florenzi, Leonardo Bonucci, Giorgio Chiellini and Leonardo Spinazzola at the back mopping up efficiently and attentively at the back for Italy, you always felt that this current class of Azzurri were always in complete command of everything. Then Jorginho, Chelsea's Champions League winner, loped forward into attack, a player of stylish sophistication, prompting constantly, firing up Chelsea, giving and taking in generous measures and smoothly rolling the ball into the path of hungry Italian attackers./ 

Throughout, the nerveless composure of Nicolo Barella, Manuel Locatelli and the always attack minded Jorginho surrounded Turkey with a solid fence of white players, one and two touch passes drilling refined passes into the heart of the Turkish defence. It would not have been a shock when Italy eventually took the lead. After an incessant spell of non stop attacking and startling passing, they broke ruthlessly from midfield. 

Following a fluid formation of passes deep into their own, Dominic Baradi went full pelt towards the by line before cutting back the ball low, hard and successfully into the six yard box. The Turkish defence, now rushing back in numbers, couldn't deal with Baradi's mercurial pace and the Italian forward's driven ball bounced off Turkey's Merieh Demeral's legs and into the net for an own goal. 

From that point onwards Italy never really looked back. It was as if they were in full possession of their sense, recalling their halcyon World Cup days and just  happy to be back in the place where they'd always felt a real sense of belonging. Once again the Italians were conducting tuneful orchestras rather than tuneless one man bands who never really felt interested. Their football wore a smart dinner jacket and bow tie, rather than the tatty, dishevelled clothes that always looked out of place on the big international stage. 

In the second half the Italians began to boss and govern the game, dragging and humiliating their opponents one way and then the other. Soon they were drawing circles around a now tiring Turkish side, a thrillingly choreographed Italy, a professional Italy, a side to be reckoned with, running Turkey ragged, always thinking, devising, plotting and synchronising with each other. A second goal was always likely to happen and it did. 

After another mesmerising sequence of passes across the centre of the pitch, Italy flooded forward and and then played Pass the Parcel across to Ciro Immobile who caught the ball excellently under his foot and then smashed the ball low again into the roof of the net. Italy were now uncatchable, a force of nature, playful, impulse and intuition in all of their thought patterns.

Then the Italians took out another palette of colours to spray over their home turf. Spinnazola, always on the look out for something to feed on and hunt down, picked up a loose ball, thumping his shot forcefully at the Turkish keeper and the rebound fell very conveniently to Lorenzo Insigne who curled around the ball around the net minder and into the far bottom corner of the net. 

And so for the first time in what seems a very long time, Italian football was in everybody's good books. This time they mean business although it's still hard to rate them as potential winners of Euro 2020. They still have something of the roguish twinkle in their eyes, a sense that these leopards are never going to change their spots. There is an incorrigible mischief  about them that always looks as if it might just backfire on them again. But the bad old days or good old days of catenaccio, depending upon your point of view, still hover over the Italians. For just a night though the bars and cafes of Milan, Rome and Naples will be overflowing with good cheer or in the current climate, perhaps not. Viva Italia!           

Cinders will go to the ball or will she?

 Cinders will go to the ball or will she?

So there we were minding our business when suddenly there was a bolt out of the blue. One man has chosen to take on the Establishment with pistols at dawn, clubs, cudgels, swords at five paces, blunderbusses and flintlocks ready to be blasted mercilessly at his opponents and then ready to take on the rest of the world. It is the kind of scenario we should have been expecting to come to pass. And a week on Sunday it will take place because our man with power and influence will be breathing fire. 

On Sunday week, the well documented, famous theatrical producer, impresario and general musician of impeccable pedigree Andrew Lloyd Webber, has promised to allow all of those hyper keen members of the public into one of his many theatres to see his new production and adaptation of Cinderella. 

Now in the normal scheme of things this story would not have attracted anything like the degree of controversy than it has now. Besides why would there be any objections to putting onto the West End stage one of the most beloved and celebrated pantomime productions of all time, a childish fairy tale where all the kids show their approval of the good guys and their utter loathing of those evil no good for nothing reprobates, the actors and actresses their parents keep telling their kids to boo and hiss. 

But on June 21st Britain will find themselves emotionally torn over the one decision they may be either dreading or simply relieved that it's finally all over. The global pandemic has almost driven most of us completely nuts or just convinced us that Covid 19 is here to stay for an interminable length of time. But Andrew Lloyd Webber has had enough. In fact he's up to here with all of the delaying, reviewing, questioning, the pros and cons, the fear factor, perhaps paranoia and, more pertinently, the viability and success of Cinderella, his new musical, set to start on this day but none of us are sure whether this is the right time. It's enough to drive you crazy if you let it. 

And so the shilly-shallying goes on. This is the story of a gifted musician, cum- theatrical knight of the realm, exercising his democratic right to complain, criticise and lecture those in authority. After reaching the lofty heights of Phantom of the Opera, Cats, Sunset Boulevard, Evita and innumerable others, Lloyd Webber is renowned for his stirring musical scores, catchy lyrics and sentimental homages to the great and good of the world.

He's been packing them into the West End theatres for so long now that it's hard to remember a time when he wasn't the maestro who clicked his fingers and had the British public transfixed. But yesterday he challenged the status quo, asked the British government whether they were up for the fight because he was on the public's side. How much longer could they tolerate month upon month of no mental stimulation, no music to anybody's ears and no rousing nights out painting the town red? This was shameful behaviour and he wouldn't be taking any more nonsense from the powers that be. 

Quite categorically he went on record that come Sunday week, the great British public would finally be allowed into the historic aisles of theatreland once again. For well over a year now the West End has resembled a mausoleum, a monument that had decayed almost beyond recognition. Every so often an occasional pigeon would explore this troubled, desolate land and wonder what exactly had happened to humanity. 

In Shaftesbury Avenue, the flashing bulbs around the hit musical Everybody's Talking About Jamie look totally out of character with the rest of its immediate environment, an incongruous looking sight that had to be seen to be believed. While the rest of its musical rivals were locked away in some anonymous hinterland, Everybody's Talking About Jamie looked like a now fallen rock star down on their luck. The lights were on but nobody had seen them on stage since David Essex was a lad. 

Lloyd Webber has also declared that if tickets aren't being sold in their millions sooner or later he may to have to resort to the heavy mob. You can see it now, can't you? Hundreds upon hundreds of theatre goers will descend on the West End, stampeding towards the box office to pick up their much coveted ticket and then June 21st is postponed again. Oh no! This can't be happening but it is you know. 

Suddenly, from nowhere whole armies of police vans come screeching to a halt outside Lloyd Webber's brand new musical and that's it- curtains! He's broken every law in the land, the most unforgivable transgression and the hand cuffs are out for this well intentioned celebrity who just wants to put a smile back on British faces again. And of course the public will be up for a High Court appearance and probably sentenced to at least a year behind bars. Not true of course but you couldn't make this one up.

Now of course we are reaching the realms of absolute absurdity. Lloyd Webber said yesterday that he's had to re-mortgage his home because his wealthy residence couldn't cope without the necessary payments to keep his home without fear of eviction from the bailiffs. We do feel an enormous sympathy for this multi millionaire who, we gather, is an ardent Leyton Orient supporter and loved a good, old fashioned sing song and karaoke session whenever lockdown seemed to be getting too much for him. 

And so there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. Andrew Lloyd Webber, the judgmental one who loves a good verbal argument when the occasion merits it, is on the warpath. He'll break down the doors next Sunday, run like lightning when he sees the constabulary and block every police officer who wants to nick him for a major disturbance of the peace. 

This is England, London heading towards the longest day of the year and June looks anxiously over its shoulders in case somebody mentions another lockdown. There is an air of mutiny and aggression, hostility and utter rebellion. Come  Sunday week it could still be our Freedom Day or it could be the end of liberation for the most famous theatrical figure of them all. Still, one man is striking out assertively for the right to write finger tapping, humming lyrics that never lose their way in the public's affections. This could be one of the most dramatic weeks of our lives particularly if you love the West End and just want things to be back the way they used to be. Here's hoping. Let the West End musical find a song in its heart.