It was 55 years ago today and Euro 2020

 It was 55 years ago today. 

You must remember what happened 55 years ago today. Or to be more technically precise it was actually tomorrow but let's not be fussy here. You might have been celebrating with a beer while watching another dramatic episode of Dixon of Dock Green on the BBC or you could have been listening to the Light programme before popping down to the local boozer for a light ale. Such alcoholic refreshments would have been well deserved, right and proper as well as being appropriate.

 The England football team were revelling in their finest hour and half and then yet another half an hour for extra time. England had won the World Cup, the ultimate prize after years of wearisome endeavours, toil and struggle and mundane progress in innumerable international tournaments. These had been the barren years when it never really looked as though England would ever win anything in a sporting context. We knew we hadn't produced a Wimbledon winner in tennis for over 70 years and the cricket team gave us sporadic opportunities to drape the Union Jack flag across our roads and streets. But it wasn't the same. Still, we are world champions at cricket and we did win the Rugby Union World Cup at the beginning of the 21st century.

Of course we were good at elitist sports or pursuits such as croquet, badminton, yachting, squash from time to time and we were very watchable in both rugby league and union but football was an entirely different project. For one day though, on the penultimate day of July in 1966 England were crowned football World Cup winners at the old Wembley Stadium. In hindsight, it probably sounds quite impressive although as an isolated achievement it now seems quite embarrassing. Historically it's a great sentence to utter but nothing has ever crossed England's radar since then.

Back in this June and the beginning of July it looked as though we'd finally cracked it. The code had been deciphered and England would finally win something of substantial note. They had only Italy to beat in the Euro 2020 Final at the new Wembley Stadium and then it all collapsed in front of us like the proverbial deck of cards- again. We knew the Italians would be tough as old nails, efficient, defensively disciplined and all that palaver. We knew the Italians would shove a bolt and lock at the back and just look impenetrable.

But after Luke Shaw had hammered home a low half volley, rushing in at the far post to drive home England's opening goal, it all went to pieces. For the rest of that first half England gave a stark indication of what would follow in the second half. It was almost as if England knew that the Italians were still wide awake up and about, dangerous and resilient. Italy had completely out passed Gareth Southgate's battle hardened troops and the game was up for England on the hour. Italy used all of those familiar psychological tools to carefully wedge open the England defence with a display of delightful passing, brilliant running on and off the ball and instinctive movement which shifted the English players all over the pitch. 

When the Italians equalised and then won the game on penalties suddenly the balloon dropped to the ground. England had lost again at tournament football which, in the eyes of some cynics, was wholly unsurprising because this is the way it had always been and nothing had changed. They had though, come so far in Euro 2020 and it must have been a genuine body blow. So England have now reached the total of several semi final misses and now a major Final for the first time since 1966 and they couldn't quite negotiate that formidable looking hurdle. 

Now though, all we have as some kind of historic consolation is that 1966 World Cup winning team which is where you came in and those who watched the game with you. England had gone all radical and revolutionary, fashionable and flamboyant, the Kinks and the Beatles were battling it out for number ones in the singles and album charts and Simon Dee looked like a college student in his very own TV chat show. 

For the first time in their history, England had been awarded the football World Cup in England and manager Sir Alf Ramsey had declared a couple of years before that England would win the World Cup quite convincingly. Some thought he was delusional and just totally misguided. There was no harm in dreaming but hey, what chance had the England football team of ever winning the World Cup. It was in England, in their own back yard and this was the opportune moment to capture the mood of the nation.

So Her Majesty the Queen proudly opened the World Cup of 1966 and the fanfares could be heard in nearby Neasden. First up were the unknown quantity of Uruguay who spent 90 minutes just blocking or pushing back Sir Alf's men deep into their own half. Because they were South American we knew the Uruguayans had something deceitful up their sleeve. They were never though remotely as good or flashy as Brazil and Argentina but they were still capable of giving England a game. The game finished goal-less and flat as a pancake. 

Then England faced both Mexico and France during which Bobby Charlton literally shot England to victory with two sticks of dynamite from long range. On a momentous semi final night against Portugal the whole country stood on the Wembley terraces biting fingernails or glued magnetically to a black and white TV screen. Charlton hit two thunderbolts from outside the Portuguese penalty area. The ball flew into the corner of the net like the proverbial missile, blowing the netting like a sheet on a washing line. 

On the morning of the 1966 World Cup Final, Nobby Stiles headed straight for the local church for a private conversation with a priest. Bobby Moore, the adorable pin up poster boy as captain for the day, may well have laid out all his clothes and kit in some impeccable and punctilious order. Jimmy Greaves may well have been cursing the injury that kept him out of the World Cup Final although, as we later discovered, Greaves was perfectly fit enough to start the game but Sir Alf had second thoughts. 

Then all of our iconic heroes traipsed down to Golders Green in North London, literally a kick away from the old Hendon hotel, for a spot of window shopping. The wives and girlfriends had to be considered even though the players minds must have been completely pre-occupied with more important considerations. There had to be an escape valve and moment of distraction. It would be the perfect release for the England players hours before the World Cup Final. The country was set fair, sitting on the edge of their settees and chairs, racked with nerves and waiting for a coronation. 

And then the referee blew the whistle for the start of the 1966 World Cup Final. Sir Alf Ramsey, England's sadly emotionless and taciturn manager, sat on a bench rather like a worried husband waiting for his wife to give birth. Wearing a red, white and blue track suit top, Sir Alf 's  head was ramrod straight and immobile, face creased with terror, fear and constant anxiety. Deep within his mind, Sir Alf was wrestling with a thousand emotions, tormented with doubt, probably longing to watch Dixon of Dock Green and wishing he could be on some imaginary desert island where nobody could disturb him. 

Then all of the central characters and major protagonists were called onto the main stage. The tigerish, tireless, wonderfully competitive and grittily tenacious Alan Ball was a fireball, a powerhouse, full of non stop running, hard graft, industry and energetic endeavour. Ball wore his factory boiler suit, clocking on at 3pm and always conscientious. In the opinion of some Ball was a man of the match, at the time a Blackpool player then Everton followed by Arsenal. He was here, there and everywhere, a jack in the box, responsible for the diagonal cross that led to that controversial third goal from Sir Geoff Hurst. 

But the spine of the side including that tower block of a defender Jack Charlton, seemed to blend seamlessly with Martin Peters Ray Wilson, George Cohen, Alan Ball, Sir Geoff Hurst, Roger Hunt and Bobby Charlton. All of the class of 66 sounded like a biblical chapter from long ago,  names with an almost household familiarity about them all, players to conjure with, legendary characters with the hearts of lions. 

That Saturday afternoon at the end of July was rather like the arrival of a new era, the turning point of their lives and quite possibly yours. Where before dullness and grey austerity existed, now the coupons and rationing of the early 1950s would be discarded forever into some distant time warp. That day England experienced a most startling renaissance, a country now fixed on the future, garish, if spellbinding fashions, high class art, art deco architecture and a palette of crazy colours. 

When Bobby Moore patted his hand on the ball for a free kick straight to Geoff Hurst's head for England's equaliser just before half time, the balance of the game had swung inexorably in England's favour. Shortly into the second half, after a moment of almost surreal, slow motion action in the West German penalty area, Martin Peters, a mere slip of a lad, latched onto the ball in front of the West German goal and slammed the ball low and emphatically into the net for England's second goal. 

Then melodrama collided into yet more drama. Yet another West German free kick came flying into the England penalty area and once again time was suspended. The ball seemed to stop and pause, hitting the backsides of German defenders and then crawling along Gordon Banks goal line before another equaliser this time from West Germany seemed to crawl its way almost reluctantly over the line. 

Now for extra time. Alan Ball had run himself into the ground, Jack Charlton was patrolling his defence rather like Jack Warner from Dixon of Dock Green, Nobby Stiles was simply thrusting his body in front of every West German attack, Ray Wilson and George Cohen were sweating from every pore, Bobby Charlton was simply ambitious enough to think that every time he hit the ball it would just explode in the West German net and Geoff Hurst was convinced that the ball had crossed the line for the third goal.

In a sense, and after repeated showings and well documented recordings, it did look as if the ball had marginally come down over the line. Hurst flung out his arms adamant that the goal should have been allowed almost immediately. The goal, after almost shameful deliberation, was given by a benevolent Russian linesman who obviously thought his reward for giving the goal would be a plate of caviar and a huge glass of vodka after the game. 

Then the rousing finale gave us another impressive display of sheer attacking bravado. Out on their feet and running low on petrol, the ball fell to captain Bobby Moore on the edge of his own penalty area. Then there followed a thoroughly amusing piece of theatre. Next to Moore, the pleading, despairing voice of Jack Charlton simply deafened his colleague with what seemed a stream of understandable four lettered expletives. It was the kind of offensive language and vituperation that could only have been excusable with the last kick of a World Cup Final. 

Moore gently lobbed the ball over a non existent West German defence to his West Ham brother in arms Hurst. In what would probably have now been penalised as a country mile offside, Hurst just kept running and running, shepherding the ball next to him as if he was about to keep the ball until his parents told him to come in for dinner. Hurst then let go of the shot, cheeks puffing, and then clobbered a grenade of a shot that could have ended up in Piccadilly Circus but just billowed the net. The tension had been broken and England were world football champions for the first and sadly only time. 

That now historic July night at the Royal Garden Hotel celebrations every single England player stepped out on to their hotel balcony and acknowledged the adoring acclaim of every England fan gathered below. Sir Alf Ramsey, you suspect, probably had a quiet night in with his wife and maybe a modest tot of rum. Ramsey was the man who, on the final whistle, just sat impassively next to Harold Shepherdson, the obedient England trainer while Shepherdson was ordered to sit down. 

While Shepherdson threw his towels into the air at the final whistle, Ramsey was just motionless, disbelieving, phlegmatic, underwhelmed by the wild commotion around him, the raucous mayhem and joyous pandemonium. England had just won the World Cup but the always self conscious and self critical Ramsey couldn't get his head around this one. It was almost as if Ipswich, the club he guided to an old First Division winning League trophy a couple of years before had never won anything and of course they had. Perhaps he thought it was a figment of his imagination.

Still, here we are 55 years later and 1966 is still vividly imprinted on our minds rather like some anniversary of a bloody war from the Middle Ages. By now of course the jokes and cheap jibes are wearing thin, the mockery almost knockabout fun and irreverent satire. Maybe 1966 will morph into another victory for England at an as yet provisional date in the future. Meanwhile Sir Geoff Hurst will continue to light a cigar and relax in his armchair, bitterly disappointed at the trials and tribulations of the latest class of 2020 or 2021 but grateful for just being there on that day in 1966. Oh who cares Sir Geoff  we will never forget where we were and why we there on July 30 1966. It was England and it was truly unforgettable. Three cheers for Blighty.       

Gold medals are slowly accumulating.

 Gold medals are slowly accumulating. 

The gold medals are slowly accumulating but then we always knew they would eventually. Nine years ago the golds mounted up at London's Olympic Games as if there were no tomorrow. Mo Farrah sprinted towards glory in his middle distance pomp and emerged with gold. Sir Bradley Wiggins performed acts of genuine greatness on the cycling track, Nicola Adams polished off her opponents in the boxing ring and the Olympics has rarely been in safer hands with its very own Olympians, its heroes of valour and honour. 

A couple of days ago in the Olympic swimming pool in Tokyo, the names of Tom Dean and Duncan Scott engraved themselves onto the roll call of Olympic gold medallists. Britain was beside itself with happiness, overjoyed and in its element. Britain had picked up its first clutch of gold and there could surely have been no better feeling for them since the delayed Games in Tokyo must have been an agonising wait at times. Covid 19 had put on hold the fierce ambitions of both Dean and Scott. 

But the family and friends who had gathered together in Maidenhead, Surrey, this would be a night to set the pulses racing, the excitement to flow and in the end, gold medal validation. Tom Dean, that bloke with the distinctive orange cap, punched the water in barely suppressed joy. Dean had won a gold medal for Team GB and how good that must have felt. He stared over to the electronic scoreboard just to make absolutely sure and this was all the confirmation he needed. It was time to jump up and down, dig out the booze, spraying champagne to all four corners of the world and just revel in the moment. 

In an enthralling and pulsating finish to the 200 metres freestyle, Dean and Scott went arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder to finish with both gold and silver medals respectively. It felt for a minute that London 2012 had briefly revisited Tokyo for a few words of encouragement not that they were ever needed. Great Britain are beginning to rack up the medals as if it was something they'd now been conditioned to achieve as part of their DNA. The Games are up and running and Britain are at the head of the queue. 

In years gone by the powerful likes of Duncan Goodhew and David Wilkie, Adrian Moorhouse and Sharon Davies have all delivered the goods for Team GB. They've all been aerodynamically streamlined and athletically well proportioned, bodies honed and toned, rippling, muscular frames, confident, easy on the eye and, above all, winners. Tom Dean and Duncan Scott were always likely to be their successors to the throne because both had been up early ready and waiting for their mothers to take them to the local swimming pool for intensive training sessions. Their reward was gold and silver for Great Britain at the Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games. 

There's something about swimming and the British love of water that has so inspired its participants. Maybe it's their proud naval history, the ferocious competitive spirit or Britain's once innumerable lidos that have so energised this country. During its halcyon days of the 1970s those now sadly rusting outdoor swimming venues would echo to the sound of millions of children and families who just couldn't wait to dive into and plough through icy water.

Your personal memory takes you back to that golden year of the 1976 heatwave when Valentines Park in Ilford, Essex, every child, or so it seemed, would fill out the lido with its light blue lockers and whistling lifeguards sitting comfortably on the railings. Then a full throated voice would reprimand any child who felt tempted to dive bomb or try the patience of those devoted lifeguards. 

But yesterday in Tokyo there was an altogether higher level of expertise. Of course the amateur ethos that has positively characterised any Olympic Games was also in evidence. Swimming was the ultimate expression of patriotism for both Dean and Scott. They had done their laps just before breakfast, put in the hard miles, clocked up their phenomenal times, hundreds of lengths, backwards and forwards, relentless in their quest for something truly remarkable. And now this was their time to shine. 

Stepping onto the starting blocks, they gazed thoughtfully towards their respective lanes. Bodies arched symmetrically, finger tips clutching the side of their lanes, Dean and Scott were studies in concentration and intensity. Then those same fingers were excitedly wiggled, shaken and then poised. Heads now firmly tucked into their chest, the two Brits exchanged admiring glances and then threw themselves into the water for the 200 metres freestyle.

For what seemed like an age both men powered their way down their lanes, front crawl now a well choreographed routine that must have been replicated so many times in their head that maybe they thought the race would be over in no time. Arms and shoulders moving together in unison, both Dean and Scott were smooth stylists, gliding at speed, heads bobbing in and out of the water, the classical stroke motion, sheer poetry. 

Then heading for the final straight, the two men began to kick furiously for the finishing line. Firstly the rest of Dean and Scott's opponents made a race of it. The respective nations thrashed their way through the pool, backs pushing and aching, hands plunging and measuring every second or minute. It was a display of almost synchronised magnificence although this was not synchronised swimming. Then the pressure was on and a renewed momentum was on its way. Dean and Scott were locked together and knew that both would win either a gold or silver. 

With seconds to go Dean took the initiative, Scott rose to the challenge but couldn't quite manage to keep up with his British friend. Dean pulled away ever so slightly and then groped for the wall just seconds in front of Scott. What a gripping finish to the race. The style and technique had been executed perfectly. It almost felt like a desperate shame that one or the other had to win the gold and the other had to be content with silver. But appreciation was mutual and none seemed to mind although the disappointment must have been privately felt. 

Meanwhile back in Maidenhead, mum, sister and what looked like the entire set of a West End musical were celebrating, whooping it all up, bursting out of their chairs, soaring into the air like well trained astronauts. Their boy Tom Dean had done it. He'd made another triumphant statement for British Olympic sport. A gold medal was his for keeps, permanently preserved on the Dean mantelpiece. The Games in Tokyo have now been launched for Team GB and Tom Dean had witnessed the start of it all.   

Our wonderful son marries.

 Our wonderful son marries. 

It isn't every day that your son or daughter gets married but the last couple of days have truly been the most memorable yours truly, his wife and lovingly supportive family have known since their parents got married and their families were married. The whole concept of being a father in law may take a considerable amount of time to sink in. But the fact of the matter is that our wonderful son Sam married the lovely Lucy last Thursday and as parents my wife Bev and I can hardly hold back our pride, love and sheer delight for the happy married couple. 

It hardly seems like yesterday when you found yourself splashing water over a baby's face in the bath as your son winced with horror, clearly dissatisfied with the sight of his dad trying desperately to wash his son in the bath. The image of soapy water and suds dripping from a sodden baby's body still endures to the present day. Parents can never know when the day will arrive but we privately knew that one day Sam would have to achieve independence, setting out his own in the big, wide world but marriage seemed many decades into the future. 

The mother and father do their utmost to spend as much time nurturing your first child with the tenderness and care that seemed to come naturally. You sterilise your baby's bottles late night because that's your overwhelming duty, a responsibility that can never be relinquished until that child is ready to strike out on their own as a fully functioning adolescent, a grown up adult. You do your best, your utmost to lavish as much attention as possible on him but you always feel contented with your whole hearted endeavours because everything feels so right and always will. 

Then you wake up one day and discover that the baby you'd so protectively fed and watered, is now 20 something, a strong, powerful man with very fixed ideas, standards and values, opinions about everything from Covid 19 to Brexit, the carbon human footprint, matters of environment and the political shenanigans in every part of the world where controversy will always exist. So you have nothing but unqualified admiration for your son's superior knowledge to yours and you smile when he smiles into his wife's adoring face and declares his undying love.

But you can't help but look back to those first formative years of your son's life and reflect fondly since this is your prerogative and you have every right to remember how it all started for your wonderful son. You remember that first session of changing nappies, taking him for long walks in his pushchair, the local park expeditions, and then the first, tentative shuffle and crawl as he attempted to make sense of those daunting challenges ahead. You watch him levering himself up to his tiny feet and wondering what on earth evolution was all about. He drags his arms forward, stares at you with utter bemusement and then heads for the kitchen or the chest of drawers, somewhere or anywhere that resembles an adventure. 

You think back to those glorious moments when he makes for the fridge and becomes besotted with the contents of that fridge. When he's found his way to his feet gingerly he'll then have a go at opening up that fridge repeatedly. He may think he's found something entirely new and intriguing but then you realise that he just wants to find out much more about the world around him. He wants to reach for the family photos on the mantelpiece, the ornaments perched delicately on the shelves, the dangerous glass and those forbidden objects he thinks are toys.

So you gather him towards you and guide him, coax him, persuade him, cajole him into making the right choices at the right times. It was never easy because how could it be anything else? Your precious child wants to develop very quickly, he's naturally inquisitive and he just wants to quite literally run before he can walk. He'll giggle at you when you do something wrong or just hold you in awe when the teasing begins, chuckling at  the peek a boo sessions, the time for bed routines and then the reading of stories. It is now that the lifelong parental relationship and bond establishes itself and takes root.

Now the building blocks are laid down, the foundations are set. Before you know it he's up on his feet, trotting around, moving at some speed, racing around your living rooms and then flopping back down on his backside in one comical but loveable heap. You laugh and he laughs. Your wife laughs and you join in again. This is our son, the next generation, a bundle of love and sweet joy. You've bonded immediately forever more, he's an essential part of you, your flesh and blood and nothing will stop you from loving him, encouraging and inspiring him for as long as he lives. The kinship and affinity is always there and held together permanently. You're ours Sam and always will be. 

After a richly rewarding, joyously uplifting weekend which began on Thursday evening, families and friends, babies, children and teenagers galore, we all abandoned ourselves to wild bacchanalia, a sparkling spectacle of rejoicing, happiness and laughter. Our Sam, our son looked handsome, dashing, a model of sartorial elegance, grey suited, smartness personified, hair brushed with meticulous attention to detail. For the best part of four days he found himself the centre of attention, constantly rushing around, scurrying and scampering in all manner of directions, intent on making sure that everything went just right. Which it did. 

Our hotel, although an architectural wonder, left a lot to desire. In fact internally it looked as if the last 18 months had taken its toll on the whole infrastructure of the building. There were problems wherever you looked. For the purposes of confidentiality the name of the hotel will remain nameless. But the undeniable faults and technical gremlins were self evident from day one. Maybe Covid 19 had ensured that access to the hotel may have been more problematic than we might have thought. 

So here were the list of blunders and clangers or things that wouldn't work when the issues should have been addressed throughout the global pandemic. The bathroom sink taps seemed to be rebelling, a slow trickle of water that needn't have bothered to go any further than it did. The beds, although luxurious, looked unsightly. There were one or two pieces of furniture missing in the bedrooms and on the final night of our stay the wretched fire alarm went. The bedrooms had the most unseemly stains on the sheets but apart from those minor considerations, it was all ship shape.

But then the first day of the celebrations commenced. In front of a traditionally robust and Victorian town hall, guests, family and friends all gathered. We walked down corridors, past a gallery of local mayors portraits on the wall and then moved into the registrar's office for the ceremony. Our son Sam and our lovely daughter in law Lucy were side by side, glowing and radiant. A gentleman read a short homage about Lucy and Sam, extolling their virtues as a now married couple and amusing the audience in moderate doses but then it became hilarious. 

The following day was the ultimate party of all time. After another brief affirmation in front of beautifully knotted white curtains and an eye catching marquee we all headed for the dance floor. On the first day of our stay there was an elaborate looking end of term school prom. Hundreds of teenagers were milling around like proud peacocks unfurling their plumage and gratifying disco music thumped out across the land. The men looked like junior bank clerks on their first day while the women were all white taffeta and roses, silky outfits that shimmered exotically. 

Then for the wedding party in all its splendour, a magnificent fusion of disco dance music, tables and chairs scattered around a large, glamorous room, doughnuts at the entrance and a whole variety of cakes and sweets to tickle the taste buds. We were relaxed, at perfect ease and ready to trip the light fantastic. The dancing seemed to go on until well into the early hours of Monday morning and the rest of the guests were trooping off to bed for a pleasant night sleep. The new Mr and Mrs Morris left the hotel at amid a flurry of congratulatory handshakes and well wishing goodwill. Mum and Dad were delighted and deeply proud of their Sam and Lucy. Family and friends had also had a ball. Oh what a weekend. Mazzeltov Sam and Lucy.  

 

Tokyo Olympics begin on Friday.

 Tokyo Olympics begin on Friday.

For those who still believe that the Olympic Games will always be burdened with the ever present threats of doping scandals, despicable drug taking, endless cheating and a complete flouting of the Olympic spirit then you may have the opportunity to pass judgment on this new edition of the Olympic Games which begins on Friday in Tokyo. 

Now owing to the medical intervention that was Covid 19 which completely put paid to any hopes of the Games ever starting last year, Tokyo 2020 had to sit and wait for permission to start and a year later Baron Pierre De Coubertin's famous statement about the taking part in sport that counts will be re-enacted once again. It's been a tough and emotionally excruciating year for British athletes and the rest of the globe but finally the Olympic torch will be lit again and the spirit of De Coubertin's wise words will be hovering around Tokyo. 

The last time Tokyo held the Olympic Games a Welshman by the name of Lyn Davies almost jumped out of a sand pit in his now celebrated long jump. It doesn't seem like 57 years ago but Davies epitomised all of the Olympian ideals that have straddled the decades since then. Davies was modest, honest and sincere, a brilliant technician, a natural athlete, fit, powerful and strapping, an Olympian whose excellence and expertise in his chosen sport could never be questioned. Davies won gold and went back to Wales as the hometown boy made good, a lifetime hero and one of the finest of all Olympians.

On Friday though it'll be business as usual in Tokyo. An athlete in a track suit will run into the main stadium with a torch in one hand and sporting history right beside them at all times. You can still remember the heartbreaking sight of Muhammad Ali, the world's greatest heavyweight boxer of all time, jogging into a stadium in Atlanta for the 1996 Olympic Games. Body shaking and hands trembling, Ali approached the steps leading up to the Olympic cauldron before reaching the top and slowly lighting the Olympic flame, almost a symbolic moment in Olympic history. It was one of the most poignant sights ever seen in sport. 

But then your mind wandered back to the sheer pomp and ceremony of the Olympic Games, the colour and pageantry of it all, the feeling of solidarity and togetherness that only an Olympics can generate. On Friday whole processions of teams from around the world will congregate on an athletics track. Led by their upstanding flag bearer the athletes will march honourably around the stadium, national jackets, shirts, ties and, quite possibly, socks all washed and dry cleaned, faces glistening with pride.

They will come from Australia, Belize, the Cayman Islands, the Solomon Islands, Burundi, Fiji, Ghana, South Africa, Hong Kong, the Maldives and the Seychelles. They will know that in most cases none of their representatives have got any kind of chance of even seeing an Olympic medal let alone winning one. But they will all be there because they love sport, the participation in sport, being there, sampling the Olympics and having the best time of their lives since that's what it's all about. 

You remember the ghastly and unforgivable abominations committed by the terrorists who killed 11 Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics of 1972. It was the darkest moment in Olympic history. You remember the graceful and gracious Olga Korbut at the same Olympics on the gymnastics mat, the darling of a million observers who enchanted everybody. They were the ones who witnessed her supple flexibility, the acrobatic dexterity, those astonishing somersaults, back flips and all manner of improvisation. 

Four years later in Montreal, a Romanian girl called Nadia Komaneci, performed the same miracles of athletic prowess, a tiny, slender frame capable of the fabulous and the miraculous. Komaneci swung on parallel bars with breathtaking conviction, then tumbled, somersaulted, twisted hands on the pommel horse with bewildering speed and then bowed to her audience as if it had just come as second nature. 

Back in the Munich Olympics of 1972 an American swimmer called Mark Spitz had swum like a fish to win a record breaking seven gold medals. With that distinctive moustache bristling, Spitz powered through the water with front crawl, breaststroke, back stroke and butterfly that barely seemed possible at the time. But Spitz was the finest of all exponents in the pool and Olympic historians will always be grateful to him if only because he was the personification of everything that was clean and legal about the Olympics. 

Meanwhile in both 1980 and 1984 Russia and the United States took it in turns to boycott their respective Games and this may well have been the only time when the Olympics had to be thoroughly ashamed of itself. Nobody had seen such ugly and spiteful scenes at any of the Games and for a while the political machinery that had so threatened to bring the Games to a halt, kept lurking in the background, a sneering and sinister presence. 

In the 1980 Moscow Games two British gentlemen went head to head in one of the most dramatic collisions on an athletics track ever seen. Steve Ovett was a long legged, long striding middle distance runner who had run at both 800 and 1500 metres. Ovett was tall, imposing, impressive and a giant in his field. Then there was Seb Coe, middle class and respectable, well organised and, in later years as an International Olympic Committee member, articulate, forthright and straight to the point. 

The history books will tell us quite categorically that both Coe and Ovett stole a gold medal from each other in both 800 and 1500 metres. In the disciplines they should have won gold both won gold the wrong way around. But those thrilling sprints to the finishing line will forever be etched indelibly in the mind's eye because they were pretty special. 

Then there was Mary Peters, the Irish shot putter who heaved her shot putt right into a Bavarian beer keller in the Munich Olympics, the smile as wide as the River Liffey, blonde hair flowing and charm in her heart. There was Daley Thompson, that most extraordinary decathlete who so dominated track and field in both the Moscow Olympics of 1980 and Los Angeles Olympics of 1984 that many thought he was the most versatile sportsman of all time. 

And so we move finally to Sir Steve Redgrave and Matthew Pinsett, two of the most stupendously talented rowers ever to get into a boat. Both won a handsome collection of Olympic gold medals between them and both were models of utter dedication and sacrifice. When Redgrave declared that if anybody saw him in a boat they could shoot him. it almost seemed as if no rower could ever emulate their achievements ever again. 

On Friday then the Tokyo Olympics will be cranked into life yet again. We can only hope that nobody will upset the apple cart, nobody will try to poison the Games with large cocktails of marijuna and ephedrine. There will hopefully be no underhand or clandestine activity, none of those athletes who just want to cheat or ruin the Games because their egos tell them to do so. The crowds of course will, sadly be missing but if Baron Pierre De Coubertin can still be fondly remembered, this Olympic Games will be in capable hands.    

Beside the seaside, beside the sea.

 Beside the seaside, beside the sea.

It should feel like the greatest day of our lives. But then again every day is great, memorable and eventful. Today though is the day of ultimate liberation, that precious moment of the year we've all been longing for, yearning for from the bottom of our hearts. And yet for those who would rather not acknowledge it as such it may be the most disappointing of days and they needn't have bothered to call it Freedom Day. 

Yes folks today is July 19 and that represents something rather special. We should be meeting up again, achieving some kind of reconciliation with each other. It is a world that may have forgotten what it was like to be friendly, welcoming and just thrilled to see a face we once knew. It had been such a long time ago that some of us might have been forgiven for just shutting our doors, cocooning ourselves in a ball of cotton wool, protecting ourselves from what has now become  a deadly virus and never emerging into the big, wide world again. 

Yesterday my wonderful family and yours truly took ourselves to the seaside just to find out whether humanity was ready to pick up the baton and just enjoy the glorious summer sunshine. When all is said and done yesterday was undoubtedly a scorcher, a corker, a magnificent heatwave of a day that was never likely to be interrupted by a drop of rain or a dark cloud in the sky. Summer had returned and she'll be here for quite a while yet. The locals could hardly believe what they were seeing since the preceding months had not lived up to any expectation. It had rained heavily and it was turning into one of the wettest summers for ages. 

But on the day before  Covid 19 restrictions were comprehensively lifted, the Essex Riviera had done itself proud, a sizzlingly hot and salubrious seaside resort that almost seemed to know that the following day would be one to remember and never forgotten. True, Westcliff, Southend's most relaxed of neighbours, couldn't have looked better had it tried. The atmosphere was something to treasure and all of those old fashioned seaside attractions were ready to be appreciated and revelled in. We all know about the end of pier seaside conventions such as walking along the promenade and licking the proverbial ice-cream. 

And yet we awoke this morning just relieved to think that we wouldn't have to worry about queuing up outside supermarkets any more or just enjoying a hot chocolate with a friend in a Costa coffee cafe. We wouldn't have to fret about the lack of any leisure facilities because the gyms were shut. We wouldn't have to look aghast at the closed restaurants, the cinemas that were all locked up for the duration, the hairdressers or barbers that just looked like lost souls and empty streets that looked very sick. 

We were all under the impression that nothing would ever be the same again and we'd have to resign ourselves to the fact that our lives had been turned upside down quite traumatically. For 16 months we were living in suspended animation, frozen solid, not knowing which way to look and who to turn to. But yesterday in Westcliff, next to Southend on Sea, was jammed solid with bare chested men wearing vivid tattoos, women holding onto their children with cheerful abandon and families bathing in the warm luxuriance of high summer. 

My wife, father  in law and yours truly walked gently past a whole succession of traditional cafes bristling with activity, people tucking into fish and chips and that now customary variety of sea food as well as the full English plate of sausages, eggs, bacon and every conceivable amount of cholesterol they could pile onto that plate. It almost felt like a return to the old days, the days when the sun never set on the British Empire, when kids played on the beach and built formidable sandcastles. 

After briefly bumping into neighbours you once grew up with and then engaged in amusing conversation, we strolled contentedly towards any destination which took our fancy. We weren't quite ready for the fairground rides or that machine where you have to thump a hammer firmly down and see how high the arrow goes, a remarkable test of strength but not a task you were willing to undertake. 

The souvenir shops were doing a roaring business which must have felt like seventh heaven to the owners and managers of the shops. There they were on full display; the spinning, fluttering and colourful windmills that looked as though they'd been there since 1958. There were the beach balls, the buckets and spades that have served so many generations that for a moment you were almost transported back to that Post War age when everything had an air of reliability and dependability about it. They were though still here and that's all that mattered. 

Seasides were the places where parents and grandparents would sit back in their deckchairs, knot their handkerchiefs, roll up their trousers and then bend down to help their younger kith and kin scoop up sodden sand, carving out some of the most impressive sand structures ever seen. Dad would simply slump back down in his chair, opening up the News of the World newspaper intrigued by the turbulent events going on around him and perhaps a few moments of salacious gossip. But then life was always and always would be light hearted fun and utterly pleasurable so we knew they were having a good time as well. 

But roll forward to the present day and you wondered how the fish and chip eateries were doing after the most difficult and challenging year and a half of their existence. How on earth had they come out of the other side still smiling, still laughing in the face of adversity?  Where did they find the resilience to battle through the dark days when not a penny had passed through their premises? Was there a sense of resignation, a bowed, forlorn head, a depressing realisation that their business was on the verge of extinction, bankruptcy never to serve their public again?  Yesterday though felt like salvation.

The sun was shining beautifully, Britain looked much healthier than it had for some time and we all looked at each other as if in sheer wonderment. This would be the dramatic turning point for most of England since the virus had been conquered and, to a large extent, eliminated. We would all travel home from this sun kissed isle  and into a Sunday evening that was synonymous with our childhood. The only difference this time would be that none of us would have to get up for school the next day.

And then it suddenly occurred to you that your children had also grown up and were fully mature adolescents more than capable of being independent and making their own decisions. It is still a strange world out there and Freedom Day still feels like Confusion Day. A vast majority of Britain can genuinely believe that the light does indeed feel like those Blackpool illuminations at the beginning of autumn. But the masks are still very much part of our facial furniture, the number of new infected Covid cases is soaring to colossal heights and July looks as if it could be tugged back helplessly to last winter. Oh please not.

Still, Lewis Hamilton has just won an almost regulation F1 Grand Prix motor race in his dynamic, streamlined car and  Collin Morikawa had won the British Open, holding aloft the famous golf trophy as if it had been a cherished prize he'd always dreamt of winning which indeed he had. It was his first time and how he just lapped it all up. The Covid delayed Tokyo Olympics will have its opening ceremony on Friday and you hope that, despite the lack of any spectators at any of the events, the latter day Olympians with Olympian ideals and aspirations will quietly be going about their business in the name of authentic sport. May the Olympic spirit flourish forever more. It is indeed the taking part that counts.    

Days to go before lockdown is lifted fully. Or is it?

 Days to go before lockdown is lifted fully. Or is it?

We may have been waiting for this moment for longer than we care to remember. But suddenly things are not quite the way they should be. Here we are under the impression that Covid 19 will finally come to some era- defining conclusion. There are of course the doubters and those of a nervous disposition are now telling us that we still need a mask. Oh no! There are times in our lives when we've had to call on all our mental resources just to get over a major setback, moments when the lines were blurred, the double speak became triple speak and propaganda just got in the way.

For the last month we have been informed that owing to circumstances beyond anybody's control, the end of lockdown in Britain may have some cumbersome baggage to deal with and nothing will be set in stone come Monday morning. Essentially the nightclubs, theatres, cinemas and sports stadiums will be open to the public once again, fully functioning, back to full capacity and working like a dream. So we were told. Then there were cold feet, days of back tracking, hesitation in the air, an understandable unwillingness to go too quickly and perhaps we should re-schedule the dates yet again. 

But the announcement has now been made, assurances have been given and from July 19 all systems will go. You'd better believe it. This is when the public begin to ask some serious questions. Now, the noises are conflicting and contradictory so much so that by the end of this month, quite possibly, we could be back to square one. We have now been told to slow down repeatedly since March 2020. In fact we're so slow that that tortoise is welcome to join in with the rest of the world. The truth is we really don't know how to react to anything governments and scientific experts say. We sit on the side lines and obey the laws. 

We've now received both vaccines and innumerable Covid 19 tests since the beginning of what can only be described as a shambles dressed up as a fiasco. Still, we are persistently encouraged to hook up to a stifling mask over our mouth because that's the precautionary measure. You never know when the virus might strike again with a vengeance. But that's the command from the powers to be and you risk ignoring such strictures at your peril. Masks rule OK. Masks will ensure the continued survival of the human race. Masks will almost certainly precipitate the end of Covid 19 or maybe they won't and the whole of human civilisation is doomed. Who knows?

Our leader and prime minister Boris Johnson must have changed his mind at least 50 times in the last month. In one breath we are implored not to wear masks again after July 19 because as long as we're all safe and sensible the coronavirus may decide to just disappear into thin air and never visit our shores again. And yet Prime Minister Johnson's mind is so scrambled over matters relating to Europe and Brexit that prioritisation becomes almost physically impossible.

 Do you worry about the health of your nation or do you just keep waffling on about trade deals with Japan when quite clearly there are far more pressing issues to address. Of course trade deals with the likes of Japan and China are deeply important but if somebody starts coughing and sneezing over you, then surely this is the time for more critical debates. It almost feels as we've lost all perspective and focus on the kind of discussions that matter so vitally. So we shove on a mask and hope for the best. 

The problem here of course is that clarity has got mixed up with confusing ambiguity. Every day pronouncements from 10 Downing Street are beginning to sound like football transfer market rumours. We know that every Premier League club have expressed an interest in every French, Italian, Spanish, Brazilian and Argentinian player in the world. From next season our teams will be bolstered by a whole complement of South American stars and every player from every continent around the globe. Or maybe not. In fact this is just a whole load of baloney, silly talk and you've made all of this up. 

The fact is that Freedom Day on July 19 could just be regarded as Optical Illusion Day. There is a sense here that we're just going around in ever increasing circles chasing our tail and getting trapped in the revolving doors. Freedom Day could well be an excuse for just pretending that we've been released from the virus, an ongoing psychological trapdoor we keep dropping through, a ruse, a five card trick that's meant to catch us out. But surely you can't be the only one who maintains that enough is enough. 

Now on July 19 the coronavirus restrictions will be completely lifted and we can renew acquaintance with the world we used to know. If you haven't heard it once you've probably heard it million times. Yes minister we heard you the first time. Or perhaps you've now conveniently changed your mind or you're still worried about the dramatic rise in infection cases across Britain. Now this is where the party line goes off the radar and the same ministers are just petrified that by the beginning of August we'll be back where we were in January. 

There are of course worst case scenarios and then there's paranoia. Boris Johnson and his Old Etonian pals are still  convinced that July 19 has to be the right time and place. The children are packing up for their six or seven summer holiday within a week or so and that has to be the right time to open up for business as usual. Give the vaccines a chance to work and you never know. But Mr Johnson what happens if we stub our toes or break our finger nail tonight? Does that mean we'll have to self isolate?

Of course this is bordering on farce and comedy although perhaps a tragi comedy. Here we are at what potentially could be the end of a pandemic in Britain and still we are bombarded by sneering cynics and the kind of people who believe that this will never get any better. So come July 19 how will things finally pan out? Do we all prepare to do a giant conga in the West End, play Kool and the Gang's 'Celebration' ad infinitum or just get completely intoxicated? That's it. We'll all get drunk and legless. 

Now though is not the time to dwell on the dark side although you'd be forgiven for thinking that nobody will ever find that redemptive candle again. The truth is of course that masks will still be worn for the foreseeable future until such time as it's advisable not to. By then we may be heartily sick of the sight of masks and just gather together for a lively protest and demonstration in the West End of London. 

By Monday morning though it'll be hard to gauge the prevailing mood of the nation. Will  there be a collective sigh of relief or will it simply be a platform for airing more scepticism? Covid has been a rude awakening to humanity, a morality tale in many ways designed to remind us of our inherent vulnerabilities, our ever present susceptibility to disease, illness and, above all a virus that simply got out of hand. 

We'll be counting our small mercies, full of gratitude for just getting through the last year and a half and patting ourselves on the back for survival, our reliable strength of character and not giving into the most depressing aspects of the coronavirus. Here we are roughly 17 months after the first death from the virus was recorded and still the blame culture exists at every level of society, the terrifying statistics, the woeful ineptitude shown by the government at times and the slow reactions during those first months of lockdown. 

We can only hope that all of the right decisions have been made and that nobody is left to regret what might have been. This is now alien territory for Britain. If you're optimist you'll just want to get rid of every mask in your home, do whatever you used to do without any semblance of inhibition and just get on with it. You'll just want to get into your car, jump onto a bus or train to some loud classical or pop concert or maybe just chill out at Kenwood, one of London's most spectacular outdoor classical music concert venues. Here those who like to listen to famous movie themes under the summer stars, can just spread out their blankets and their picnic baskets on stunning parkland. 

So it's just a couple of days now. July 19 could either be historically memorable or one of those days when nothing seems in any way different since the end of last March. The shops, restaurants, cafes, greengrocers, dental and doctor surgeries, bakers and butchers will be delighted to serve the great British public once again. We will once again smile at the world and the neighbours  who used to chat over the garden fence to you will exchange simple jokes and joviality with you. Normal life should be effectively restored or something approximating to what we used to take for granted. Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome back to the old world that will now become the new world. We've missed you all.       

Italy are European Champions.

 Italy are European Champions.

And so the wait goes on. England dared to tread into the unknown and found that the light had been switched off, the electric cables had gone down and then they slumped into a corner, tearful, heartbroken, frustrated, devastated and once again denied the pleasure of their day in the sun or maybe that should read as a balmy night in the capital city of London. Oh to come so near and yet so far. It could be considered one of the more familiar narratives in the history of the England football team. Just when you thought you were almost there, it's simply snatched away from you and you're just desolate, inconsolable and dreadfully crestfallen. 

For the last 55 years the well documented tale has become almost tiresomely tedious and just wretchedly repetitive. It's rather like listening to your favourite record album over and over again just because it sounds good even if you know in your heart of hearts there are a million other things you could be doing. Last night for England the needle once again seemed to get stuck and there was a warped quality to the sound. It wasn't for the want of trying but England once again finished as gallant runners up.

True, for the last couple of weeks or so, England's exemplary manager Gareth Southgate has led his England team in quite the most dignified and utterly professional manner. When all is said and done, England did reach a Final of a major international tournament and that in itself is a highly laudable achievement. But then we face Monday morning and the reality hits us like a rabbit punch to the kidneys. England had lost the Euro 2020 final and that could only be construed as the ultimate failure. 

So what happened last night? The whole country had rallied around their country hoping against hope that it could be the turn of the England national football team to actually win a trophy. At first it felt like fond, wishful thinking, a quaint notion, a fantasy that would remain as such. We knew we had the players, the tactics, the framework and the structure. We knew we had the right manager because Gareth Southgate was one of us, feeling the pain, feeling the success, an instantly likeable, engaging and eminently charming, gentlemanly and honourable man. So why and how did it go wrong for Southgate? Good question. 

Your mind couldn't help but recall the look on Terry Venables face as Southgate prepared to take the now fatal penalty that ruined the morale of the whole of England. Venables looked on anxiously, bit a thoughtful lip and then turned his back in horror as Southgate just hit his penalty straight at the German keeper. Euro 96 came and went for both men and a golden possibility just became shattered glass for England. 

And yet last night it all felt so different and much more of a probability. Germany of course were, and always will be, formidable opponents for England. In Euro 2020 England finally beat the Germans after 20 years of gnashing of teeth, anguished moments on the edge of the sofa and that felt good, even fair. But there comes a time in a nation's life when the urgent necessity to win something in a one against one match or contest becomes all consuming. It could even be regarded as bordering on the obsessive. 

Germany were not, quite clearly, Italy of that there could be no doubt. The rivalries have different histories, dimensions and dynamics. Germany had become like those nasty, wicked villains of the piece who could never really be forgiven for the Second World War and were just awkward opposition. The Germans were just the proverbial pain in the neck, arrogant, insensitive and lacking in any sense of humour. They were just the Germans, obstinately unbeatable and too boastful for our liking. 

Italy, on the other hand, also had a murderous dictator with tyrannical intentions. For Il Duce, read Mussolini and rampant fascism. Italy though were not nearly as problematic or challenging as the Germans because they simply saw England as a private joke, school children in the playground who kept hacking the ball into the road and simply refused to play the game properly. According to the Italians, England were that one dimensional, functional and boring side who kept aimlessly thumping the ball into the air or deep into the opposition territory without any thought or consideration. What losers!

Last night though Italy were in a far more benevolent mood, far more compassionate and deeply respectful of the modern day England. After all, we've never objected to their spaghetti or pizza in the past so there was no need for resentment on a personal level. The Italians love their operatic traditions, they have an intrinsic flair for the melodramatic and of course they had won World Cups and Euros from way back when so the pedigree was there and so of course a certain stature in the world game.

Throughout Euro 2020 Italy were the surprise packages of the tournament, an unknown quantity, but boosted by the knowledge that they hadn't been beaten for well over 30 matches. This though was an astonishingly and uncharacteristically, positive, attacking Italy. In fact this was an extraordinary Italy, firing on all cylinders, sharp, snappy passers of the ball, keeping hold of the ball for lengthy periods, combining and conspiring as a team, moving the ball around instinctively and then striking lethally when it mattered most. 

In the opening game of Euro 2020 Italy had flattened Turkey, then eventually they came to their Mediterranean neighbours Spain and got rid of them most impressively. They also had the measure of  a wonderful Belgium side who, although individually brilliant, just couldn't match the Italians for their sense of adventure, their daring and their impudence. It was almost as if the Italians knew something that the Belgians hadn't really expected. But Italy have defied convention, changed perceptions and given the tournament a hot blast of fresh air. 

And then Italy reached the Euro 2020 final and it felt as though something had been released in them that almost came as a shock to our system. Admittedly, for the best part of the first half hour of last night's final the blue shirts were rattled, disturbed by something in the air, jolted out of their stride and not quite sure how to unravel themselves from the complexities of their own making. England were ransacking the Italians down the flanks and pushing them right back into their own half. It didn't help when England took the lead after only two minutes.

Luke Shaw, one of England's best players of the tournament, once again stole the headlines. Picking up the ball at his own full back position, Shaw galloped forward into attack almost immediately. Then captain Harry Kane became deeply involved. Kieran Trippier sped by on the overlap before sending over a pinpoint cross to Shaw who finished what he'd so brilliantly started with a low  and delicious half volley with a perfect follow through of his foot that flashed past the giant Italian keeper Gianluigi Donnaruma and into the net. 

From that point onwards Italy found themselves struggling to find their groove, the ease in possession that they'd demonstrated in the earlier rounds of Euro 2020 no longer there. There was a distinct jitteriness and nervous tension about the Italians that used to be so alien to their nature. They would continue to pass the ball around themselves in the most captivating fashion. But there was a clumsiness about them, a delicate fallibility about them that must have lulled England into a false sense of insecurity. 

But Kyle Walker, John Stones and Harry Maguire were strengthening the lock as a back three of England's defence. Walker was athletic, heroic, faultless, a powerful presence when he met up with his own attack and just impassable at all times. Stones and Harry Maguire would lope dangerously into the opposition half like intruders, confident and assured at all times. Then Kieran Trippier would bound forward, yanking open the Italians whenever the mood took him, stripping the Italians of their defensive belongings then side tracking Italy, pestering, probing, ready to take on all responsibilities.

Then we thought of the stabilising figure of Kalvin Phillips, the male intuition of Mason Mount who always seemed to be thinking and then analysing the pitch as if it were some ordinance survey map. Mount was constantly the driving force of England's midfield, scampering into space, collecting the ball and then building a much bigger picture of the game. Mount was beginning to derive an enormous amount of enjoyment out of Italian misfortune. 

Then there was Raheem Sterling, surely the man of the tournament for England. Sterling suddenly came to life when he privately sensed that the Germans had lost the plot and then the match. Against the Ukraine, Sterling was almost unstoppable, swerving, swaying, jinking and shimmying past defenders as if they were just feathers to be blown away. For Sterling this was just the right currency. Occasionally he would deliberately play for the foul and free kick just to keep England fresh and original. Then there was captain Harry Kane who once again looked as though he hadn't seen any daylight for ages. 

But Giovanni Di Lorenzo, Leornardo Bonucci and the wondrous captain Giorgio Chiellini who you really wouldn't want to disagree with. Emerson threw a disciplined blanket across the Italian defence. Once again Nicolo Barella had called on his considerable powers of invention and reinvention, curious, inquisitive, scheming, dictating the pace of the game while Chelsea's Jorginho just positioned himself in the right time and place. Up front Frederico Chiesa was in phenomenal form, dribbling his way forcefully at a rapidly dwindling and faltering English defence. 

Italy are at their most effective when the mood takes them. On Sunday evening, Italy were just out of this world, an inspiration to their country's children who may just want to follow in their footsteps one day. It was in the second half when the Italians opened up their deepest feelings, a heartfelt plea that really did resonate with the neutrals. It was almost as if the first half had just been some very bad dream where the evil bogeyman had threatened their peace. Italy were back in the thick of it all, full of mischievously creative football that left you wondering why they'd taken so long to impress us all. 

And so it was that the second half would exclusively belong to the Italians. It seemed that England had vanished into some far away land, their first half control now no more than a rumour. Italy were passing and passing again at speed then with a moderate tempo, slowly and quickly unfolding the English, toying and playing with the white shirts, poking fun and taunting England with an air of ridicule and derision. 

When an Italian corner was swung into the English penalty box, you knew that Gareth Southgate's men had lost their bearings. The Italians were in now in charge of proceedings. A ball was floated perilously towards the England's far post and blue Italian shirts pounced on English defensive hesitancy, Jason Pickford, the England goalkeeper did make an excellent save from Italian contact but Pickford couldn't stop Leonardo Bonucci from jabbing the ball into the net from close range. 

Extra time loomed and naturally followed. Nothing could separate these two old, seasoned troopers. Italy did enough to suggest that the English would never come anywhere near them again. The game fizzled out into the farcical penalty shoot out and we all knew that it just couldn't be England's night. Their body language had betrayed them appallingly in the second half, shoulders drooping and slouching, muscles aching for rest and relaxation. 

After a round of penalties with contrasting fortunes we reached the dreaded stage of sudden death. England briefly went crazy when Chelsea's Jorginho brought a glorious save out of Pickford and then it all went horrifically wrong for England. Marcus Rashford, who had won the hearts of the nation with his charitable acts at the beginning of the Premier League season, tried to wrong foot the Italian goalkeeper Gianluigi Donnaruma with a strange jiggle of his feet and hit the post.

Then the lively 18 year old Arsenal striker Bukayo Saka, who had just come on as a sub, did exactly the same as Rashford and seemed to place the ball very carefully at Donnaruma's hands. Italy had won Euro 2020. England had re-connected with its football team and there were definite signs of a rapport but if only they could win a trophy some day and some time. Oh England if only we could one day.     

 

England meet Italy in Euro 2020 Final.

 England meet Italy in Euro 2020 Final.

We had a hunch but we could never be entirely sure. But it came to pass. It did happen. Let the bells ring out from the highest steeple. Let us sing it from the rooftops. We can hardly contain our excitement anymore. England will meet Italy in the Euro 2020 Final. We must be dreaming this. Please wake us up. We'd almost given up all hope. We were beginning to think the day would never arrive but it has. All of those false dawns, the quarter final calamities, the semi final blunders can now be dumped in a dusty attic along with those lovely 1966 World Cup Final rattles, flags and banners. The past has gone and it's not coming back any time soon. 

Last night the dulcet tones of Neil Diamond's now celebrated 'Sweet Caroline' could once again be relived by a heaving, seething, feverish Wembley crowd of 66,000 whose very emotional presence sufficiently galvanised an England team who have finally re-discovered their identity. It may have been a long time in coming but all good things come to those who wait. This was the iconic moment when the vast multitudes of England supporters could finally let go of their frustrations, anxieties, their ever present sense of desperation and lingering disappointment. Sunday evening can't come quickly enough. 

Finally, after all of those penalty shoot out horrors and bloopers, the extra time angst and anguish and those teeth clenching moments when you simply wanted to go to bed early, this was the night of nights. How England have waited for retribution, justice being seen to be done and now could be that time. Italy lie in wait as Gareth Southgate's England prepare to face an Italian side who must be champing at the bit. Bring on the gladiators. 

This might be considered to be 55 years of emptiness and hollowness, that numbing feeling you get when you just can't win a football match that may have been harder than you'd first thought. In 1966, Bobby Charlton's explosive shooting from distance, Martin Peters radar vision and foresight, Nobby Stiles grit, Jack Charlton's height and Geoff Hurst's livewire opportunism were responsible for one of England's  happiest and triumphant afternoons when the World Cup finally arrived on English shores. 

Roll forward another 30 years and an England side guided by the chirpy, chipper and cheeky Terry Venables, took Germany to a place that they'd rather not have been. When the lunging leg of Paul Gascoigne couldn't quite convert a low, cut back cross into the German net, all of the good work that had been completed by the sensational 4-1 thrashing of Holland meant nothing at all. The sheer poetry of their victory over Scotland had now been nullified by a German side who fell behind to an Alan Shearer goal for England in the opening minutes only for the Germans to equalise shortly after half time. England were beaten by Germany in a horrible penalty shoot out. 

Then, as if the ghosts of World Cup 1990 in Italy that had haunted Sir Bobby Robson's England six years earlier had never gone away, they were still hovering around the darkest corners of English football. But now the 55 year gap could be obliterated by the passage of time. England, under Gareth Southgate after the nearest miss of a semi final against Croatia in the Russian World Cup of 2018, now  got it absolutely right. Some things are destined to take place because they just do and there can be no room for argument. 

England reached their first tournament Final since 1966 and that fact alone seems to just niggle and rankle with the disillusioned England pessimists who just can't bring themselves to admit that perhaps the national side just can't break free of the hoodoo which renders any success to be impossible. When the final whistle went last night some of us checked our blood pressure, the racing pulse and then let out the most relieved roar of ecstasy.

On Sunday they meet Italy in the Euro 2020 Final and for those who have followed the woes and troubles of the England football team throughout the decades and years, this felt like a radical change of fortune. The experts tell us that this is the best prepared and most thoroughly equipped to deal with any kind of setback. The astonishing advances made in the field of sports science, diet and high technology have smoothed England's route to a successful place where everything goes according to plan. 

After all those years of tears and toils, laborious football that always did look socially awkward and  wounding hurt, England's  self consciousness became painfully apparent. Now they could stop contemplating their navel, sit up straight and just play the game to their personal specifications. This is a new England, a harmonious England, a melodious England and an England where the collective takes precedence to the individual. 

The generations have come and gone. For much of the first half of this tense but gripping Euro 2020 semi final, England struggled, spluttered, flickered in patches and then seemed to get lost in a complex maze of their own making. This is not merely a case of stage fright because they must have rehearsed their lines and besides Denmark were clearly not Germany. This is not to suggest that Denmark were in any way technically inferior to the Germany of 1996 since last night was very much a level playing field. 

When John Jensen struck that fabulous drive which was instrumental in Denmark winning Euro 1992, it seemed highly unlikely that the Danes would ever repeat the feat. But here they were again 32 years later with a team swept along on a tidal wave of emotion and poignancy. In their first group match against Finland their leader of the pack Christian Erikssen had collapsed with a heart attack. There were occasions when Denmark missed Erikssen's guiding spirt, calming influence and playmaking virtuosity. 

England enjoyed the briefest control during the opening stages of last night's game. But then Danish enterprise, the ability to take the initiative and then run with the baton, seemed to work in their favour. Their football had clearer lines, neatly drawn angles and passing that had Gareth Southgate's men reaching for any kind of  effective medicine and a protractor of their own. Denmark were sharper with their ball and far more enlightened, a team whose accurate passes to feet and willingness to keep their opponents at arms length, made England's task initially more demanding than some people had been expecting. 

There was a wit and sensitivity about Denmark's football with Joakim Maehle prowling hungrily for goals and opening up England's jittery defence, Andreas Christiensen joining up with his attack and making some devastating overlaps on the English wings and Kasper Dolberg sensing opportunities to make the most of Denmark's growing confidence. Denmark were nobody's pushovers and this was a side to be reckoned with, a side who had got to the semi final because no obstacle was insurmountable. 

When the highly rated Mikkel Damsgaard swung his free kick viciously over a jumping England wall and high into the net for Denmark's opening goal, England looked like startled rabbits in the headlights. England had not conceded a goal thus far in Euro 2020 but here was a nervous Jason Pickford flailing at thin air and wondering if it was going to be that kind of night for his national team.

Somehow though Denmark just faded into the woodwork, their spirits floating over the Wembley arch and disappearing rather unfortunately into the distance.  England slowly regained their attacking momentum as if the importance of the occasion had woken them up. There were the incessant round of short, sharp passes in compact, little squares and rectangles. The patterns were forever shifting and evolving, changing direction and then running into a red cul-de-sac of Danish barriers. It was football of a bewildering quality and beguiling switches from one flank to the other. What a welcome sight.

Once again the eminently reliable Harry Maguire and John Stones were a classic double act, reading the game in front of them almost by memory and then blocking the Danes on sporadic attacking onslaughts. Mason Mount was forever wriggling, wiggling, darting and dashing, a model of stability and enthusiasm, seeking cracks in the Danes now fragile defence. Both Declan Rice and Kalvin Philips were shining defensive shields in front of their back four. Rice fetched and collected before launching easy passes for Raheem Sterling to run into, Philips never looked flustered and almost glided past the Danes with the ease of an ice skater executing the most complicated of manoeuvres.

There can be little doubt that Manchester United's Luke Shaw could ever have believed that he'd be given the licence and freedom to burst forward into the heart of his opponents. During Euro 2020 Shaw has been consistently excellent while those around him could only drool with admiration. But goals were the making of England and their equaliser was quite the most heartwarming sight. 

Once again the goal originated deep inside their own half, the ball shuffling smartly between English feet with a wonderful polish about it. Then the bright Arsenal youngster Bukayo Saka, anticipating the slide through pass to him, flew down the line at the rate of  knots before reaching the by-line and cutting the ball back to the onrushing Raheem Sterling sliding in to bundle the ball into the net. The goal though was an own goal by Danish defender Simon Kjaer. 

The second half though more or less flashed by into anonymity with neither side able to claim any advantage. England threatened briefly then lost their way when the vital ball should perhaps have been more clinical and ruthless. Denmark didn't really look as if they had any of the right attacking solutions, their first half domination just evaporating into the ether. 

In extra time England picked up from where they left off after an hour of the game, penning the Danes back into their own half and calling on their more attractive repertoire to win the game. The ball began to stick adhesively to Raheem Sterling's feet and the Manchester City winger, who was born within cheering distance of Wembley, went straight at the Danes as if he had something to prove which of course was never the case. Philips, Saka and Shaw were now shredding the Danish defence and laying waste to the Danes Viking heritage. 

Then Sterling took off on another of those pacey, frightening runs that send shivers down opposing defences. Once again he burrowed his way to the by-line, leaning into his defender and drawing the inevitable challenge. Sterling seemed to go down in instalments but then seemed to flop deliberately to the ground, a legitimate tackle perhaps but open to doubt. After a couple of minutes of delay and VAR deliberation, the referee, convinced that his original penalty decision was the right one, pointed to the penalty spot. 

A penalty was given. Harry Kane, with the apprehensive eyes of the whole of England watching, eyed Kasper Schmeichel in the Danish goal with all the intense concentration of a man who knew what the consequences of his actions would be. Kane stepped forward and knew exactly where he wanted the ball to go. A slight hesitation sent the ball thudding into Schmeichel's hand and the keeper kept out Kane's penalty. Oh no, they cried not again. Surely not. History was repeating itself again. In a split second the ball fortunately rebounded straight at Kane who slotted home the winning goal for England. 

With minutes to go of the second half of extra time, England simply ran down the clock with a dazzling exhibition of one touch passing that seemed to go on for ages. It was keep ball at its most protective and then the whistle blew. Wembley went wild, crazy and bonkers. It was utter mayhem and delirious delight. After almost a year and a half of global disaster, 60,000 England fans exploded into the most ear splitting cheering ever heard at Wembley. There were songs and chants, passionate support from every corner of the ground and an almost spiritual expression of joy. 

So it's England against Italy in the Euro 2020 Final at Wembley on Sunday evening. The church parishioners may be excused their weekly session of prayer and worship. England will be planning for the following week's lifting of all Covid 19 resrrictions with street parties perhaps. England will also be bracing itself in the hope that after everything that has gone before there will be no unnecessary distractions from the task at hand. England could be European champions by late Sunday evening but even that simple image is too good to be true. For 1966 read England 2020. It's long overdue and we won't care a jot how it's done. England would like but now maybe is not the time to expect. 

 

Italy reach Euro 2020 on penalties.

 Italy reach Euro 2020.

We did think it would end in a penalty shoot out but you can never tell. In one of the most pulsating, nerve jangling, compelling and unforgettable European Championship semi finals since the beginning of time, Italy finally broke Spain's heart, resolve and resistance and booked their place in Sunday's Final against either England or Denmark. It's time to catch our breath because last night's battle of wits will almost certainly go down in the history books and deep into the archives of international football history.

Both Spain and Italy have met so often at tournament football level that you'd think they'd be familiar with each other's leg measurements and blood group. They've always been tightly contested matches and never boring so hopes were high and even the referee looked vaguely excited at times. The fact is though that this was a momentous epic, so thrilling and compulsively fascinating that it was rather like watching two sets of psychologists deep in thought. 

When Spain beat Croatia in the quarter final in a monumental eight goal classic, the neutrals must have thought they would be keeping their powder dry for a semi final against Italy. But then Italy also showed a clean pair of heels in their seemingly unstoppable progress to the latter stages. In the quarter final against always highly fancied Belgium, Italy made a very dangerous Belgium side look decidedly average and mundane. For the first time in a long time Italy looked like the landed gentry had taken over their estate, a team of aristocrats, a team of soaring grandeur and a team with a sense of arrogant entitlement about them.

Now though Euro 2020 is at that crucial stage of the tournament when nothing would be left to chance and meticulous preparations had to be made. The truth is if we were worried that the game would splutter into a disappointing anti climax, we would be pleasantly surprised. The Italians were in a good mood and for the best part of the game so were Spain. It would be Spain who would feel the more aggrieved side, having kept the ball so much more skilfully and efficiently than Italy. The Azzurri looked as though they were just happy to be in a semi final.

Ever since failing to qualify for the 2018 World Cup Italy have been the proverbial bear with a sore head and a grizzly one at that. And yet under the former Manchester City boss Roberto Mancini, Italy have been a nation transformed, almost completely revived. No longer are they the melancholy misery guts who felt sorry for themselves for three years and cried bitterly in a corner away from the limelight. This Italy are not the secretive, mysterious, inhibited team with a hidden agenda. Nor are they the cynical, ferocious tackling, negative and defensive team who just wanted to put up the shutters in vital games.

What we saw last night was a much more convincing, engaged, positive, free thinking, free spirited, liberated national team, a team of buccaneers and warriors, demonstrative and expressive. The Italians have always worn their hearts on their sleeve because they feel  the game passionately. They never like losing and would rather withdraw into themselves than lose, a down to earth philosophy that has served them so well throughout the years. But this felt like a new dawn had arrived for the Italians, an era of ground breaking developments and bright new frontiers. 

Italy are back in business, a pleasure to watch, quick thinking, quick witted, encouragingly imaginative in possession, stylish in the extreme and enormously entertaining. It was if the weight of the world had been removed from the shoulders. Finally they could make their own decisions, become the men in charge of their destiny rather than relying on luck, gamesmanship or cheap, cunning expediency to get their own way.

For much the tireless and evergreen Giorgio Chiellini, who may be around in the game to pick up a potential World Cup winning medal in the Qatar World Cup at the end of next year, was the quiet and yet hugely influential one. If Chiellini does emulate his fellow countryman Dino Zoff by lifting the World Cup then nobody will have deserved it more. Zoff was 40 when Italy won the World Cup and Chiellini, all chisel chinned and composed, ready to fight the good battle and looking as if he would love to play well past his pensionable age. 

Both Chiellini, Giovanna Di Lorenzo, Giorgio Bonucci and Emerson cleaned up at the back, erecting an impenetrable wall of blue shirts across the Italian defence, rotating, pressing, switching the angle of the attack swiftly, an Italian side that had now become admirably adaptable, models of flexibility and filling in for each other when Italy found themselves in a defensive crisis. This was a proactive Italy, nimble footed, inventive, full of foresight and premonition, knowing exactly when to defend and then attack on the front foot.   

In their midfield, Italy had students of football engineering, roving and roaming, creating and imprinting, a side of Italian architects who just wanted to build something special and enduring. Chelsea's Jorginho and Nicolo Barella, fresh faced and lively, spritely and full of enthusiastic running on  and off the ball were security personified. Marco Verratti, equally as exuberant and restless, clocked up the miles with wholehearted industry. Ciro Immobile and the effervescent Lorenzo Inisigne were always hovering with intent, supporting their colleagues when necessary and almost driven in their desire to win. 

And yet the game itself belonged exclusively to Spain for much of the game. Their patient, methodical and disciplined approach did considerable justice to them. Once again it was the Spaniards pass and move game that heightened the senses, almost identifiably Spanish. The Spanish passing game is more or less legendary now, a side who insisted on recycling the ball with precise continuity and never satisfied with anything less than perfection. 

Once again Eric Garcia, Cesar Azpilicueta, the outstanding Aymeric Laporte and Jordi Alba kept up that almost incessant tap routine in a way that became addictive watching. And then there was Sergio Busquets and what can be said about Busquets that hasn't already been said. Busquets is a formidable presence, still magisterial on the ball, wise and knowledgeable, prompting, graceful, a man who treats the ball as if it were a much loved ornament. 

Jordi Alba, who scored a stunning goal earlier on in the tournament, flourished again with acres to space to run into and always looking for the right moment to shine and flower. Koke  and Pedri were darting and dashing, nippy and utterly creative, while Mikel Oyarzbal and Feran Torres continued to hunt in packs, all action and dynamic, shielding the ball intelligently and dragging their defenders persistently and threateningly all over Wembley. 

Then though Spain ran out of collective steam and their evening just fell around them. In a typical Italian counter attacking breakaway, a goal emerged. From a quick Gianluigi Donnaruma throw out from the keeper's hands, the ball travelled through a blur of Italian legs and eventually Marco Verratti tucked the ball through to the remarkable Federico Chiesa. Chiesa, always a livewire, wriggled and twisted before curling a delightful shot around Donnaruuma for an Italy lead. 

It looked as if the second half would completely run away from Spain. They'd exerted a technical stranglehold on the game with their trademark short passing game but the minutes were ticking away. Then from nowhere, the Spanish armada promised untold riches. A sparkling cats cradle of passes between Aymeric Laporte and the supremely effective Dani Olmo carried out their buddy buddy act before Olmo slipped the ball through ever so delicately to Alvaro Morata who positioned his feet and then almost passed the ball under the Italian goalkeeper for a goal of  refinement and quality. 

By extra time these two European powerhouses were still exchanging gestures of mutual appreciation. This had become, quite literally, a battle of wits, two giant sized footballing intellects meeting head on without any fear and shame. Italy and Spain were locked together in an intriguing confrontation that seemed to get better with every passing minute. Blue Italian shirt was facing white Spanish shirt on equal terms, relentlessly chipping away at each other in a game burnished with gold. 

And then there were penalties and in hindsight that always seemed to be the most obvious outcome. We should have known they were coming although there must have been a part of us that somehow wished this hadn't been the case. The first round of penalties were so dreadful that some of us thought neither had practised them beforehand. 

Ultimately Alvaro Morata, who had been the Spanish hero of the hour, suddenly became the villain of the piece. Morata blasted the ball at the Italian keeper Giovanni Donnaruma and his hand pawed the ball away from the net. Spain had lost out at the Euro 2020 semi final and the team who were once World Cup winning all stars and Euro victors to boot. were now grief stricken and mortified. 

Meanwhile Roberto Mancini who is becoming quite accustomed to success in recent years at club level, wrapped his arms around his  coaching staff, formed a celebratory circle but didn't do the Hokey Cokey and turn around. Italy love to be the centre of attention, never less than a major topic of discussion for all kinds of reasons, publicity seekers at time and controversial occasionally. But on a late Tuesday evening at Wembley there were plenty of blues but little evidence of sadness. Viva Italia for a while although England will be hoping to see a much lighter and more victorious horizon on Sunday evening.  

England are almost there.

 England are almost there. 

After 55 years of huffing and panting, blowing hot and cold and failing at the final hurdle, England reached their second consecutive big tournament semi final. Now, in the grander scheme of things that should be a major cause of rejoicing, ballooms and streamers, rattles and whistles and bells from every corner of England. England should rightly pinch itself today because they're almost there but not quite. Therein lies the most familiar dilemma England are ever likely to encounter since deja vu may just have the capacity to stop us in our tracks even though the French are out and the boulangeries are shut. 

But just for a day or maybe until the semi final against Denmark at Wembley perhaps we should afford ourselves the luxury of patriotic self congratulation. For years and years, decade and decade England have laboured, sweated, toiled, sacrificed and then blown it when all the omens were good. When Sir Alf Ramsey shamefacedly walked off the old Wembley pitch when Poland caught us napping it was his fault. Don Revie was equally as culpable if  only he had the cheek to go off to the desert and avuncular Ron Greenwood was possibly too nice to be an international football manager. This is not though the World Cup.

This is the England of today. It is still the England of whispering streams, rolling rivers, sleepy villages, vicars on bicycles, ravishing meadows, billiard table green fields, warm beer, devout churches on a Sunday morning, Jewish synagogues on a Saturday, jam and marrows at country fetes; secretive nooks and crannies, mysterious forests, sunlit uplands, comfortable post offices next to friendly butchers and, quite possibly, the candlestick makers still plying their trade. England is still that proud nation of tradesmen and women, artisans, thatchers, blacksmiths, long, lingering country lanes and permanently illuminated woodland. 

But football is still regarded with the reverence that the nation thinks fit. Now the England football team finds itself back in the place it would much rather be, poised to achieve what has always seemed the impossible and elusive and yet hoping against hope that it could be their turn. In 1966 it happened because the country was gripped by a cultural frisson and the quiet, repressed manager Sir Alf Ramsey ultimately had at his disposal a happy-go lucky and responsive group of players who genuinely believed they could obey Sir Alf's wishes and win the World Cup for the first time in their history. 

In 1996 another East Ender and Dagenham born Terry Venables bit through his fingernails and guided England through a wild, roller coaster journey that took his England to a European Championship semi final against Germany. Gareth Southgate, now the England coach and manager, missed the crucial penalty that would have ensured their first Euro Final against the Czech Republic. This time though England are on the verge of  another exciting date in our diary.

Last night in the Roman amphitheatre of the Stadio Olympico, where once Glen Hoddle's England bravely held the Italians to a goal-less draw and rubber stamped their place in the 1998 World Cup, today's England inched closer to its first major achievement since Sir Alf's boys stopped the world in 1966, Bobby Moore wiped his hands on a purple cloth to receive the World Cup trophy and all was hunky dory, an afternoon to remember on an iconic day.

Gareth Southgate, now bearded and vastly respected by both his players, fans and everybody who cares so deeply about the game's semantics and grammar. looked on wisely. Throughout this tournament Southgate has conducted himself with a dignity, grace and self deprecating modesty that has endeared to him to every single footballing student. Shortly after England had confirmed their semi final place against Denmark, Southgate was all smooth diplomacy and admirable humility. 

For Southgate England's 4-0 demolition of an admittedly exhausted Ukraine, couldn't have gone any better than it did. The moon was in the right position, the Trevi Fountain seemed to be gleaming in the summer sunshine and the Colosseum looked just appropriately historic. Southgate now looks like the smartest man ever to be invited to a royal banquet; suited, booted, tie in place and just very humble. 

Thus far England have crept stealthily into Euro 2020 like a very discreet Santa Claus on his way down the chimney. At times the voyage has been ever slightly choppy, turbulent and fraught with potential problems. Following the England team has never been an easy watch particularly when all the bushes get tangled and important players hobble off with long term injury. They confidently marched past Croatia, got stuck in heavy traffic against Scotland and narrowly edged their way past a Czech Republic that became increasingly impressive as the match progressed. 

Then England bumped into their nemesis from years gone by. The black shirts of Germany had muddled out of their group and somehow knew England would be waiting for them. But when Jack Grealish, Luke Shaw and Raheem Sterling threw down the attacking gauntlet the Germans adopted a bunker mentality and withdrew into their shell. The white shirts of England pulled and stretched the Germans from pillar to post and Sterling's gleeful close range tap in was followed by Harry Kane's crowning glory, the stooping header that flew past a helpless German keeper. 

Yesterday evening England just swamped and overwhelmed Ukraine with four goals of typical English quality. There are times when you know that England have only to turn up to matches such as these and underline their supremacy. From the first whistle, England opened up Ukraine like the traditional birthday present, playing with their opponents, taunting their opposition and then leading them up the garden path. At times Ukraine must have thought they'd just stepped into the Chamber of Horrors. 

This was an England side masquerading as the Brazilians of 1970 World Cup vintage, the Germany and France of recent World Cups and just a seasoning of Argentina in the 1978 World Cup. Their passing was mesmeric and breath taking, eye poppingly enchanting, a model of correctness and propriety, one touch, two touch, spinning and whirling around the pitch like a child's toy. This was kaleidoscopic, three dimensional football, a tap dancer's delight, a team totally at ease with itself. 

Forty years ago some of us were convinced that England would just disappear into a primitive land of long ball frumpiness, pointless passes into no man's land and just lost in a crumpled heap of ugliness. But then Ron Greenwood, the former West Ham manager knocked some common sense and innovative thinking into his England teams and although the national side still came up short, the football had the taste of champagne about it. 

With the arrival of Gareth Southgate, the purity of his team's football, all of its decorative simplicity and  highly valued principles are now the foundation that underpins England's success. Southgate has re-introduced his players to the simple pleasures of passing, the collective team ethic, and a heightened awareness of where they may be going. This is an England of youthful dash and flair, keeping the ball and then speeding up the game with decisive movement and clinical finishing. 

Not for the first time the likes of Harry Maguire was seen carrying the ball out of his defence with the knowledge that his colleagues would be there to accept the responsibility immediately. John Stones seemed to be accompanying Maguire on his travels, stepping forward carefully and calculatingly, nudging passes into space and then judging which way to go. Luke Shaw was simply outstanding at full back, clear in his thinking while Kyle Walker just scurries down the flank like a man who may never be passed. 

With Declan Rice maturing handsomely as the defensive shield who just fed his midfielders with a diet of short passes, England were an exotic revelation, doing the kind of things that would never have been imagined under managers with more realistic ambitions. Kalvin Phillips, the Leeds hod carrier, had class and the most exquisite touches, while man of the tournament Raheem Sterling left most of his defenders in a complete state of stunned astonishment and apoplectic with fear every time he ran at them. 

And so for England's four winning goals. With only minutes gone Sterling danced and darted, rolling his hips, wrong footing his defender before slipping the ball through to Harry Kane who had pulled away from his opponent. Kane latched onto Sterling's through ball and gently toe poked his shot past the Ukranian goal keeper. 

Surprisingly it took England an eternity to add to their lead. Minutes into the second half after another co-ordinated series of snappy, quickfire passing, England were awarded a free kick way out on the touchline. The ball was impeccably flighted into the heart of the Ukranian penalty area and Maguire, finding a lovely pocket of space, soared above everybody else and powerfully headed home the second. 

By now Ukraine were traumatised, demoralised, drained and completely clueless. The stunning combination of  Shaw, Kane and Sterling conspired to produce England's third goal, a European masterpiece at this most Euro themed of all football tournaments. Shaw, linking up perceptively with the rest of his team, nipped behind a yellow Ukranian back line and chipped a measured ball to Harry Kane who headed home fiercely downwards into the net for the third. 

And then just to rub salt into a painful Ukranian wound, England wrapped up proceedings and Ukrainian heads began to drop to their feet. A corner swung over at pace landed on the head of Jordan Henderson who had just come on as a substitute and the suave Liverpool playmaker nodded the ball across the goal and into the opposite corner of the net. 

For the next 10 to 15 minutes and quite certainly last five minutes of an almost outrageously one sided game, Ukrania were quite content to sit on the half way line, frozen with immobility. There was a comical moment when a yellow circle of Ukranian players stood like statues gasping with admiration at their technical superiors. 

This was not the way we had thought things would pan out for England. We thought Ukraine would be organised, stubborn, uncompromising, a right pain in the neck. But in the end this was a logical walk in the park, uncomplicated, over in a matter of minutes and beyond any practical recovery for the Ukraine. You were reminded for a moment of England's 6-0 destruction of Panama three years ago in the World Cup of Russia. This though felt different but nonetheless satisfying.

So England march onto their first Euro semi final for 25 years and suddenly it's all beginning to fall into place for the national side. Denmark await England and you sense that the Danes are lost in some emotional time warp after their leader Christian Erikssen collapsed on the pitch in their first group game against Finland.

If England can negotiate their Danish opponents challenge then the nation may find themselves at a summit meeting they may be looking forward to but privately fear. Spain and Italy have got some extensive history for England. Spain will be desperate for revenge after their Euro 96 exit in one of those now typical penalty shoot outs.

 Stuart Pearce's contorted face told its own story. Take that D'Artagnan! Italy of course are of course just hilariously temperamental at times. You suspect that if England do meet Italy in the Final we could be at Wembley for some time. Italy have been a joy to behold in Euro 2020 but you suspect that they'll soon be dragging a huge set of keys if only to lock up their defence. Wembley must be licking its lips in anticipation. It could be the best of footballing times.