England beaten in another World Cup semi final heartbreak against Argentina.

 England beaten in another World Cup semi final heartbreak against Argentina.

You'd have thought England had completely forgotten about that dramatic World Cup quarter final in 1986. Then a stocky, barrel chested genius who went by the name of Diego Maradona committed the ultimate sin, cheating and bending the rules quite flagrantly before brazenly admitting to punching the ball into the net above Peter Shilton who immediately mistook Maradona for a criminal. Then Maradona just scored one of the most stunning goals of all time to take the game away from Sir Bobby Robson's England with a mazy solo individual run that took both Peter Reid, Terry Butcher and Terry Fenwick on a mesmerising bossa nova dance. 

The sad reality is of course that England were just not good enough on the night and not for the first time. One day England will get their angles and geometry absolutely right and perhaps some easy lessons in geography. For last night England lost their set square, their compass, their sense of direction and purpose while seemingly losing their orienteering equipment such as the good, old fashioned map. It all looked wine and roses for Thomas Tuchel's England until somebody told them to go left rather than right. 

For much of their ultimately humiliating exit from World Cup exit against their rivals and nemesis Argentina, England were just replicating their admittedly heroic and valiant World Cup semi final defeat to Croatia in the World Cup of 2018. That night it could be said that Gareth Southgate must have drunk one or too many bottles of Russian vodka because England were rather less than sober, a state of inebriation that even now leaves far too many disturbing memories behind it.

England, as was the case last night, were leading for a vast majority of the game only to fall by the wayside to Luka Modric's orchestral promptings. But with 20 minutes to go, England's hitherto attacking and positive approach to the match fell apart at the seams like an old sofa that had once graced a 1950s dining room. After hovering around the navy shirts of the South Americans for ages England failed miserably to stop the game from degenerating into its 1966 incarnation of violent thuggery and Antonio Rattin throwing his toys out of the pram.

It was all very painful and purgatorial, an England now reduced to a panting, puffing, exhausted rabble of Premier League players masquerading as supposedly world class players. Before we knew it, England were flagging on the ropes and gasping for oxygen in the gorgeous heat of Atlanta. You knew this would happen and somehow it was a self fulfilling prophecy. England wilted like typical English summer sun flowers and there was nobody there to revive them with the standard watering can. 

Once again England found themselves on the morning after the night before, clinging onto feeble consolations, bombarded with vicious, vitriolic accusations, raging recriminations, incessant inquests, agonised analysis and savaged with yet more cutting criticisms. England are once again punch drunk, architects of their downfall, authors of a destiny that had a familiar narrative and baffled as to where exactly things might have gone wrong. 

Four years ago, the navy waistcoated Gareth Southgate brought respectability and a genuine identity to an England side who were still searching for theirs. Southgate had pioneered something different and original about an England who must have thought they'd never be able to find any sense of belonging and acceptance on the world stage. But then came France in World Cup quarter final in 2022 and perhaps we should have given England the benefit of the doubt. Besides, the French had a technical virtuosity about them that England could never really hope to match although they did give it a try.

When Southgate left his post as England boss they started doing dramatic stage and TV adaptations about him and it all felt rather moving and poignant. Then the former Chelsea boss Thomas Tuchel was appointed as Southgate's successor, Tuchel loved getting all animated, waving hands and fingers about him like some irate English farmer whose cows and sheep were refusing to co-operate. Last night Tuchel was gesticulating with the best of them, incandescent with anger and boiling over with righteous indignation. 

For a while Tuchel seemed to be getting one part of the equation right but then got all his sums, percentages, logistics, tactics and plans in a massive tangle. The first half of last night's game was rather like a Hollywood gangster movie from the 1920s, all shooting guns, screaming police cars and heinous villains who bore a remarkable resemblance to James Cagney or Edward G,. Robinson. There were petty fouls, nasty kicks, shoving matches and poor Elliott Anderson must have felt like some boxing cruiserweight, permanently bullied and toppled to the ground before glaring back at his adversary like a child looking for some semblance of justice. 

Then the whole of England team were drawn into a scuffling melee of shirts, surrounding their opponents, pushing and then squaring up to each other. You were reminded of the provocation that Nobby Stiles had endured against Argentina in 1966 before Stiles took the law into his own hands. Nobody messed with Nobby and Argentina knew it. Then things quietened down considerably before the West Ham dynamic duo of Sir Martin Peters and Sir Geoff Hurst collaborated perfectly for England's winning goal against Argentina in the 1966 World Cup quarter final. Hurst's glancing header from Peters beautifully weighted cross gave the game its most dramatic perspective. 

For much of last night John Stones, Marc Guehi, the superb Djed Spence always hunting with intent, Declan Rice slightly hampered with injury and Reece James were shutting out Argentina with a lock and key that was made with tempered steel. Suddenly, the sumptuous beauty of Lionel Messi was now disfigured by a no nonsense English defence. At 39, Messi should be drawing his football pension but with minutes to go, Messi got all stylish and magisterial. His playmaking days are still not done.

With Elliott Anderson scurrying around in space and carving out gaping holes in Argentina's still measured and treasured passing game, England began to find their feet. The introduction of Morgan Rogers once again recharged, revitalised and rejuvenated Thomas Tuchel's steady attacking formation. Jude Bellingham shouldered arms and drove forward, running powerfully at the South Americans and always unsettling Argentina with menace and majesty. And then, finally England, after an impressive burst of sustained pressure, moved together in unison. Another breakout from defence settled in the middle of the pitch where the white shirts went headlong. 

Rogers went headlong into attack from a long diagonal overload, a raking, immaculate ball which eventually ended up with a gloriously floated cross. The ball landed up at Barcelona's new acquisition Anthony Gordon who slid in at the far post to steer the ball accurately past Emiliano Martinez in the Argentina goal. It was a goal that stung the palms of every Argentinian player on the pitch. From that point onwards, the current world champions played as if their supremacy had been rudely undermined.

The hydration break did nothing for England apart from ruining their own concentration. For the final 20 minutes or so, England just disappeared from the game in a puff of smoke. With increasing frequency their football now looked withdrawn, ragged, haggard, gaunt, a side now hiding behind a bunker of their own making. England were sitting so deep in their own defensive rut that had they retreated any further back they'd have probably ended up in Detroit with nothing to comfort them but a radio station playing Motown. 

So it was that Enzo Fernandez, Cristian Romero, Nicolas Tagliafaco, the extraordinary talent of Alex MacAlister, and the always consistently outstanding Julian Alvarez began to get into English faces. Their football re-discovered its old tempo and rhythm. Argentina were spraying the ball around the pitch like a team who had studied all of those sweet passing aesthetics from long ago. They rolled the ball around between themselves delicately and utterly effortlessly as if born to the role. The equaliser was inevitable. 

After a corner on the right, the South Americans shuttled the ball swiftly across the face of England's now besieged penalty area. The ball was laid square to the exemplary Enzo Fernandez. Fernandez found himself in splendid isolation before clubbing a fizzing thunderbolt that exploded past Jordan Pickford in the England goal. England were reduced to clutching at the proverbial straws, losing their way rapidly, back pedalling and just handing the ball back to their opponents like a game of Pass the Parcel. This time England just kept unwrapping one piece of paper after another only to find yet more frustration.

Then England bought on Newcastle's Dan Burn and you wondered at the crazy illogicality of adding another 30 plus defender who looked as if  he'd just been invited to an old primary school reunion. Then just to rub salt into the wound former Brentford striker Ivan Toney came on as a sub and he may just as well have been like some ghost in a haunted castle. Toney has been plying his trade in Saudi Arabia and Toney looked more like Peter O' Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. 

With the game seemingly heading for extra time, Argentina must have known that England were down, wounded and beleaguered. They were now under the cosh from swarthy faced Latin film star looks. Messi, still the most profound influence at 39, took the ball under his wing, picked up a head of steam gracefully on the right before lifting a delicious cross towards Lisandro Martinez charging in at the far post to head home joyfully to secure another Argentina place in their second consecutive World Cup Final. 

And then there was the horrific sight at the end of this tempestuous often ill tempered match. A line of boastful Argentina players unfolded political reminders of Los Malvinas and the Falklands War. Their banner was both tactless and a diplomatic disaster. But England have now been relegated to the role of has beens and a ludicrous bronze runners up match with France on Saturday.

 Sir Alf Ramsey would certainly have had something to say about these Argentinian mavericks and rebels but England are back in the land of emptiness and rejection once again. That 60 year plus hiatus will now just feel like some ancient triumph on the muddiest of battlefields. Still, at least they have their memories, admittedly blurred by time, but still just about recognisable. At the moment, they will just have to be enough.