England beat Norway in the World Cup quarter final

 England beat Norway in the World Cup quarter final.

It was always likely to be one of those historic nights. We felt it, sensed it and privately dreaded it. England had done it again. They'd conquered the odds, shaken off the shackles of an often cumbersome history, adopted their latest siege mentality, struggled almost incessantly and then recovered sufficiently to reach only their second World Cup semi final against Argentina next Wednesday in the last 10 years. 

But firstly there was the small matter of sweet revenge, the loveliest retribution of all time and that now ancient footage of that hysterical rant of a misguided Norwegian TV commentator. It was a World Cup qualifier in 1981 and the now former West Ham manager Ron Greenwood had just got his feet under the table as England boss. It had been both a transitional period and a time for sober reflection after Don Revie had upped sticks to the deserts of Saudi Arabia, finding himself both alienated and demonised by both the FA and England's hitherto loyal fans. But then Greenwood arrived and all was well. 

Kevin Keegan, Trevor Brooking, Trevor Francis, Tony Woodcock, a very young Bryan Robson, the late and much missed Paul Mariner were primed and ready for success. Then there was a coltish, beautifully polished midfielder named Ray Wilkins who would be at the height of an illustrious career with both Chelsea and then Manchester United and the rest of the England team suddenly hit their straps. Phil Thompson was a leggy, but imposing central defender who had already won the European Cup twice for Liverpool a couple of years before. 

But on a forgettable night in deepest Oslo, England were humiliated by a team of an unheralded, almost amateurish international footballers, footballing novices wet behind the ears. Norway, unlike today's far more technically endowed generation, were expected to crumble and capitulate to an England side who had been playing the game since the days of the Wanderers, Royal Engineers, Old Carthusians and even Oxford University. These were footballing giants well before the age of twentieth century modernity and the turbo charged dynamism of today. 

That night, one Norwegian commentator took the law into his own hands. Before you knew it, the man behind the microphone was boasting, blustering, grandstanding and bubbling over with joy. This was followed by another bombardment of gloating, shameless self aggrandisement, convincing himself no doubt that he was the greatest thing since sliced bread before reeling off a whole list of English icons. Before you could refer to your own history books and a sizable encyclopaedia, here they came. 

There was Lord Nelson, Britain's greatest Admiral of the Fleet, a mighty presence on land and at sea, doughty, defiant and battle hardened. Now our social Norwegian commentator would wax lyrical and eulogise about that political titan and former English Prime Minister Anthony Eden, a distinguished almost aristocratic man who got into hot water over a number of important foreign policy issues. The names kept rolling off our Norwegian TV comments like torrents of molten lava from an erupting volcano. 

Lord Beaverbrook had a powerful stranglehold over both politics and the newspaper industry. Beaverbrook was highly respected but often despised for being too outspoken, an often aloof, crusty reactionary who thought he knew everything. Once again our Norwegian commentator launched into a mocking tirade about Beaverbrook, his voice now so high pitched that he could probably have broken the sound barrier.

Margaret Thatcher, who had been in office as Prime Minister for only two years, reduced this Nordic voice of authority to a figure of fun. The name of Thatcher had now been screamed so loudly and furiously that even Mrs Thatcher would probably have seen the funny side of it. And then there was the late and much loved Princess Diana who had done nothing wrong at all apart from being English royalty. And sadly, tragically that story would have the worst of all endings. But Norway had shot down in flames every conceivable English public figure of fame and renown. 

And yet last night England's always lively and unpredictable team were up to their usual tricks, often stretching the patience of anything that moved in an English shirt. This was not a comfortable watch but then, that may have always been the case anyway. We are indeed talking about England and that is a huge documentary of the good, bad and ugly over recent decades. But when the final whistle went at one'o clock in the morning to signify another last gasp winning goal, most of us were gibbering wrecks.

England could not have been closer to leaving this year World Cup when suddenly there was a rumbling thunderclap, a momentous shift in fortune, when, as had been the case so often in the past, there had been nothing but misfortune, a red faced exit from another major World Cup at the wrong stage. Last night it eventually turned out right on the night but not before our emotions had been suspended for a while. 

For much of this epic encounter against Norway, England were trying to manoeuvre the bishop behind a row of pawns, before sweeping them aside. Then the castle and knight were desperately trying to get out of each other's way before the king and queen were just toppled over quite unceremoniously. This chess match was boiling over with the most complex strategy and a real sense of mystical intrigue. True, England looked as they were controlling large parts of the game but there were other parts of the game where sloppiness and ineptitude might have got the better of them.

There were lengthy periods throughout the game when the electric cables had been cruelly removed from England's barely mobile team. Sometimes it looked as if the white shirts had called together their trade union to form en masse before ordering their side to go on strike, a show of militancy that Brian Clough might have found attractive had he been given the England job. 

Here was an English team in their most garish beach shirts, fashionable shorts and flip flops. Occasionally there was some kind of life and animation but that could have been a figment of the imagination. And so it was the Miami heat began to take its toll on both England and Norway. England were literally sweating and toiling, lolling around and loping forward painfully, recycling the ball in the revolving door of England's often wooden attack. It was though often lifeless, lethargic and 

By now England were seeing much more of the ball but rarely able to translate their first half superiority into the hard currency of goals. Both Noni Madueke and Anthony Gordon were trapping the ball onto their chests with admirable ball control but their wings were now abruptly clipped. Gordon kept turning the ball back sharply back towards a colleague in the middle of the pitch when perhaps he should have taken full responsibility and run at his defender more powerfully. There was a notable lack of ambition when the remarkable Jude Bellingham embarked on muscular, ferocious and powerful runs but even Bellingham found himself in no man's land at times. 

Meanwhile Marc Guehi seemed to drift off into a hypnotic trance, the result of frequent stepping on the ball on the half way line, dwelling for a minute or two and completely forgetting about his job description. Guehi though was a model of dependability, mopping up at the back with an impeccable timing, his positional sense perfect, his mobility on the ball so gratifying to watch.  

England were now though moving at the average speed of a tortoise, trotting and jogging uncertainly and tentatively with no intention of taking the lead at any point. Declan Rice looked as though he just wanted a lengthy consultation with a medic or somebody in the injury treatment room. His corners were finding the idyllic palm trees of Miami rather than the heart of the penalty area. Yesterday, for all his heroic stoicism and gritty defiance, this was not his day in the sun. 

Rice was patently unfit and as such, should have been left out of yesterday's game against Norway. We know how much more confident England are when Rice is in the side, rather like an impenetrable shield, striding out of the back like a long distance Olympic athlete, always in charge and never flustered. There are times when we may well take Rice for granted but he's invariably here, there and everywhere, never disappointing, his self assurance his modus operandi.

Elliot Anderson carved out a reliable and conscientious figure in England's now flagging attack, easing the ball away away from England's defence with a cleverness and feel for the ball that often goes unnoticed.  At the back Ezri Konsa and then a clumsy John Stones were almost caught red handed at the back, dribbling the ball accidentally across their own penalty area and giving the ball to a red Norwegian shirt when surely the easier, more practical option would have been a rapid counter attack. 

A couple of minutes later England, now struggling for any semblance of rhythm or direction, were fatally undone by a Norway side who had barely broken into sweat. The ball was switched into acres of space near the England penalty area. Andres Schjeldrup, a baby faced winger full of guile and get up and go, received the ball on the far side of England's wide open defence, turned his opponent inside out before what looked to be a lobbed cross that swung over Jordan Pickford and into the net. 

And then just before half time England found salvation and redemption. When the game seemed to be passing away before them,.  Anthony Gordon, so quick witted, eager and perceptive, started racing forward into attack. Then Gordon sent a peach of a ball inside to the irrepressible Jude Bellingham. Bellingham, now reading Gordon like a good book, intelligently anticipated Gordon's pass. The Real Madrid playmaker ran onto the ball and drove the ball handsomely wide of the Norwegian goalkeeper. 

The equaliser was just the tonic and medicine England required. Then, during the second half with both teams locked in a tug of war attrition, the game had now become rendered pointless. Penalties were rejected, Norway hit the bar and almost discovered the winning goal while England just spent an eternity, huffing, puffing, almost drained of colour, then demoralised because the ball just wouldn't find the net. 

And finally England explored yet more territory inside the Norwegian half. Extra time had loomed and then commenced with the inevitable scramble for that golden nugget of a World Cup winning goal. Once again England surged forward gallantly into attack for that last chance saloon of a winner. When the Aston Villa attacking midfielder Morgan Rogers came on for England in a flurry of other substitutes, England grew stronger and stronger. The fresh set of legs had completely switched the tempo of the game and there was instant momentum.

Minutes into the second half, Rogers, bounding forward like a gazelle on the prairie, found himself just outside the penalty area for England. Rogers, spotting his shooting opportunity where others had failed to do so, lifted his leg back and fired the most pulverising shot like a bullet from a gun. The Norway keeper Orjan Nyland fumbled the ball and Bellingham swooped like an eagle from high, caressing the ball into the Norway net.

And so for all the sweaty exertions of the always imaginative Martin Odegaard and Sande Berge, Norway could never quite get a hold on the game properly. They too had chosen the patient passing approach, carefully opening England up like a tin of garden peas. But the ball had travelled so mechanically that at times you might have thought that their wires had got tangled up and the game had gone way beyond their reach. 

So England reach only their second World Cup semi final in over eight years. Russia 2018, now seems like a glowing amber sunset when Croatia seemed to steal everything from Gareth Southgate's England. It was daylight robbery of the most heinous kind. But for 2026 read 1966 when Antonio Rattin had that celebrated rush of the blood to the head and Argentina were knocked out by Sir Alf Ramsey's hugely charismatic warriors in the World Cup quarter final. Maybe just maybe there are omens and miracles that might just prove to be the undoing of Lionel Messi and Argentina in this World Cup's semi final on Wednesday evening. We'll see.