Days to go before the World Cup.

 Days to go before the World Cup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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