Roger Federer- the tennis great who defies superlatives.

Roger Federer- the tennis great who defies superlatives.

Roger Federer did what he would normally does when he wins a tennis match. He calmly moved towards the Wimbledon net to shake the hands of Rafa Nadal and extended the hand of courteous friendship. There was none of the boastful bombast that might have come to characterise other lesser mortals, just a modest smile and nothing more than an appreciative wave to not only the crowd but his family who are clearly the most important people in his life.

Federer, now 37, seems to have been around for ever but yesterday the man from the land of cuckoo clocks and cheese, produced another one of those superlative and stupendous displays, reaching yet again a Wimbledon's men's final. Many of us could hardly believe that a man who continues to defy age and explanation, is still playing with all the exuberance and athleticism of a 17 year old about to make his debut at Wimbledon.

But this match between these two heavyweights of the tennis world took the game to such heavenly heights that at times you felt utterly privileged to be an outsider looking on. This was unbelievable tennis, tennis of the finest and richest vintage, tennis of ambrosial quality, supped from the most expensive bottle of wine, tennis at its most intoxicating, truly a feast for the eyes and senses.

In the end Federer beat Nadal 7-6(7-3) 1-6 6-3-6-4 but by the end of this eye- popping, breathless and spellbinding men's single final we can only have imagined what would have happened if the match had actually gone the distance in a five set thriller. Nothing though could have prepared us for this colossal and most intriguing game of tennis, a match that kept delivering and reminded you of those gold embossed confrontations between Borg and Connors as well as Borg and Mcenroe.

Sport loves to revel in its moments of gripping drama and suspense, its natural inclination to exaggeration and hyperbole when the simplest word or phrase would be more than enough. And yet Roger Federer, at an age when most of his contemporaries would be more than happy to hang up their rackets, is still pursuing greater goals, reaching out for even more distant horizons and then somehow conquering those heights.

Although Federer dropped a set to Nadal, by the second Federer was re-charging his batteries, limbering up gently on the baseline and compiling a whole new vocabulary for the game. Now Federer had become the master of re-invention, powering and pounding away violent forehand returns and then viciously swinging his racket with brute force. Federer punched his shots ferociously past Nadal, volleying and half volleying the ball away from the Spaniard with the most velvety, silky and smoothest of winners.

Once again though it was the tireless vitality and inexhaustible stamina of Federer that left the Wimbledon loyalists gasping for breath. Federer seemed to be taunting and tormenting his younger opponent, stretching Nadal between the tramlines like a man who loves to use an elastic band. Federer ran and chased, scampered and scurried, swiping his racket at shots he had no divine right to get.

After Federer had simply overwhelmed Nadal in the next two sets with those poetic drop shots and another expressive range of delightful chip and charges at the net, the game looked to be up for Nadal. The delicious weight of the Federer half volley and volley, the ability to pick up Nadal's shot from the ankles, almost beggared belief. There were booming, running forehand winners, impossibly angled shots that seemed to float over the top of the net and mesmeric aces that flew past Nadal rather like a hare at a greyhound track.

The Swiss genius was now unstoppable, crashing shots from the very depths of the baseline, following through with his arms with fluid and flowing strokes. Here was a Roger Federer playing with a technical refinement, liquid fluency and painterly artistry. Having now plunged to his lowest level by conceding two sets, Nadal had now been ruthlessly pinned back and finally waved the white flag of surrender in the third set, as Federer finished off his friend and rival 6-4.

So it is that for what seems the umpteenth time Federer is back in another Wimbledon men singles final. It seems at times that the Swiss has quite literally set up a permanent camp on Centre Court. When Bjorn Borg was winning Wimbledon titles for fun, it must have appeared as if nobody would ever knock him off his lofty perch. For Roger Federer the impression is that he may be around for much longer than we might have imagined.   

England reach the cricket World Cup Final.

England reach the cricket World Cup Final.

If only John Arlott or the jolly, cake eating radio, Test Match Special commentator Brian Johnson could see the English cricket team now. For years we must have thought that reaching a World Cup Final for the England cricket team was somehow wishful thinking. Admittedly, England did reach a World Cup Final 25 years ago but were sadly crushed by Pakistan. This time it was entirely different and how they must be gloating in the glory of the moment.

 Now, how shall we put, England have done it again and this time England have only gone and beaten our famous antagonists Australia. Yes the English have stopped the Aussie juggernaut as if it were something that came naturally to England. The Aussies have been beaten and crushed into the dust, knocked out of a semi final when they may have almost presumptuously taken for granted that a World Cup Final was their rightful place, having won the World Cup on so many occasions.

But now the Eion Morgan, Joe Root, Jonny Bairstow, Ben Stokes, Chris Woakes, Jofra Archer and company have quite literally turned the tables on an Australian side who, bursting with lavish one day grandstanders, were convinced that all they had to do was just turn up at Edgbaston, plant their feet firmly on the ground and steamroller remorselessly all over the yellow baggy caps of Australia. Maybe though this could be England's year to finally stop the rot and treat semi finals with contempt.

At the beginning of August England will once again square up for that frequent dust up with Australia in yet another Ashes battle royale. You can be sure that the boisterous drinkers of Earls Court will be swigging back excessive bottles of Fosters lager because Australia certainly know how to make a noise when the Ashes come calling. It would be foolish to underestimate England's Antipodean snarling rivals but how we look forward to that unique first ball of the First Test.

And yet some of us fondly cast our minds back to that celebrated and unforgettable 1981 when the studious professor who was Mike Brearley, the handsome and outrageously uninhibited Ian Botham and the ridiculously tireless Bob Willis slanted in at Headingley and looked as though he'd just completed a hundred London Marathons. It was the year the bristlingly buccaneering Botham slogged, hooked and drove a whole procession of fours, sixes, cuts and pulls to all parts of every English Test ground in the country. It was a year we'll never forget. Maybe this time it'll happen all over again, this time against the Aussies neighbours New Zealand. Now there's an irony.

Yesterday- the film.

Yesterday - the film.

From a chronological point of view yesterday is the day before today but we all know that. Yesterday the song is, indisputably, one of the most famous songs ever written. It was composed by the most famous pop band and will always be instantly hummable and recognisable because for those of a certain generation it was just there, designed to be appreciated, revered and much loved. It was the kind of song that none of us will ever forget because whether we're in the shower, bath, kitchen, or any place in the world, we'll know that a masterpiece had been completed just for us.

But Yesterday the film, currently appearing at a movie screen near you, is a fabulous, moving, deeply emotional movie that taps in so perfectly into the narratives and themes of our lives, that when we wake up tomorrow morning we'll probably understand the much bigger picture of life when the sun streams through the blinds or curtains of our lives and we then set about tucking into our breakfasts.

 Yesterday is mushy, soppy, funny, accurate and extremely clever. It explores the subjects that we take for granted; relationships, love, fierce ambitions, passionate desires and then a whirlpool of fraud, deception and, most tragically towards the end of the film, delusions of grandeur. It peels back all of the complex layers of a life spent in a tangled web of lies and betrayals. Yesterday is honest, revealing, insightful, intelligently constructed and full of the joys of misty eyed nostalgia.

Our story begins with Jack Mallik aka Himesh Patel, setting out on the road to fame with nothing but a weeping guitar around his neck. Now how corny is that a reference to the Beatles and George Harrison? After cruising the clubs and bars of Suffolk, Jack bumps into Ellie, played with superb gusto by Lily James. Jack and Ellie pretend they're in love but then do their utmost to repress their affection for each other when Ellie insists that she's only Jack's manager or words to that effect.

After travelling back from a local gig, Jack straps himself onto a motor bike, thundering off into the blue beyond before tragedy strikes - well, not quite but a mini disaster all the same. Jack crashes into another vehicle, spins through the air in slow motion and then lands on a severely wounded face. While in hospital, Ellie visits Jack who by now looks like something out of a horror movie. Jack is minus two front teeth and has most the swollen, black and blue mouth you're ever likely to see.

And then Jack. perhaps burdened with too much pain and discomfort, finds comfort in epic Beatles songs. He strums his trusty guitar, believing quite confidently that everybody will have heard Hey Jude and Yesterday. How foolish an assumption. Frantically tapping away at his computer, Jack looks desperately for any information that would confirm his assertion that the Beatles were the most memorable boy band of the 1960s and, quite possibly, all time.

Frustratingly this is where Jack comes unstuck. Now he finds only the beetle of the insect variety and, hilariously, John and Paul are historical popes. No matter how hard Jack tries and scrambles around for any hint or confirmation of the Beatles existence there's nothing. It's rather like a world that time forget in as much that everybody Jack meets thinks he's nuts.

Walking into his family living room the glorious Meera Syal, after much deliberation and some lively banter with her real life husband Sanjeev Bhaskar, Jack loses patience with his joking parents before finally storming out of the room and never seemingly coming back again. We are now confronted with joyous one liners, rib tickling comedy and thick dollops of humour.

Yesterday is splendidly summed up by the scene where all of Jack's faithful band crew who, on listening to Hey Jude and Yesterday can only drool at something they believe that Jack has so beautifully committed to paper. When Jack re-assures his friends that he had nothing to do with such honeyed lyricism, there is a hollow and stunned silence. Who on earth are the Beatles?

Then Jack is confronted with the American TV chat show circuit where one of Britain's most treasured comedians James Corden takes Jack to task, questioning directly the aspirational wannabe pop star on his dubious claims to have written some of the most original and evocative pop songs ever written. Corden insists that Jack is just some cheap plagiarist determined to pull the wool over everybody. The dark shadow of guilt hovers over Jack rather like some sinister light in a 1950s gangster film.

It is at this point that Deborah aka Kate Mckinnon, a straight talking, fast living American agent, becomes deeply and emotionally involved in the rise and fall of her by now very gullible client. She sweeps across America' record studios, driving hard bargains while Jack doesn't quite know who to believe or where to go. 

Eventually it all seems to blow up in Jack's face. Ellie, with whom Jack is now rapidly falling in love with, begins to suspect that something isn't quite right.There are rows and bust ups, disagreements here and there before Jack makes the final decision to hit the big time. In a scene reminiscent of Brief Encounter where Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard meet for that iconic cup of tea at a railway station. Jack, mistakenly believing that he must have missed the train on which Ellie was travelling, looks back joyfully at the cafe behind him where Ellie is patiently waiting for Jack to change his mind.

Now our story takes its final twist. Jack, at the peak of his powers, has been booked to appear before his fanatical followers at Wembley Stadium. Guitar screeching, his fans at their most feverish and adoring, Jack stomps across the stage, posing and posturing all the while, confidently stating his case with his truly rock and roll interpretation of those unmistakable Beatles classics. Suddenly, in a heart sinking pang of conscience Jack can no longer live with the knowledge that he was not the man who recorded the Fab Four's remarkable song book. It was time to say sorry for pulling a fast one.

In one of the film's most moving moments Jack, shamefacedly gazing at his audience. confesses his sins. After an astonished pause and gulp of breath, the Wembley Stadium goes wild, cheering endlessly at this most painful admission. Of course it ends up happily ever after because weepies normally do.

Jack and Ellie get married, his entourage get all happy, clappy supportive and everybody ends up singing yet another version of Hey Jude, Yesterday, Get Back and one, full blast rendition of Sergeant Peppers. Something tells me that you'll love Yesterday because it just makes you feel so good about yourself. There is nothing rude or controversial about it and it's all very clean. What more could you possibly wish for in a film? Not a great deal.

Roger Federer- a Wimbledon great.

Roger Federer- a Wimbledon great.

He smiled engagingly, apologised sheepishly when his opponent slipped on the Wimbledon grass and then just got on with the business of just thrashing the man from Italy as if it were just another day at the office. For a while we were just flabbergasted by the brilliance of the man from Switzerland, the classical beauty of his tennis, the almost instinctive genius of the one tennis player whose global renown and lofty stature may never be surpassed. 

Roger Federer, for whom Wimbledon may well have become his spiritual home, blew away Matteo Berretini of Italy in a phenomenal, record breaking time of one hour and !4 minutes and by the end of it all even some of Federer's most avid fans must have wondered at the sheer futility of the exercise because some of us might have been inclined to believe that poor Berretini shouldn't have been anywhere near a tennis court. Still, as they say in footballing parlance, you can only beat what's put in front of you and the Italian looked completely out of his depth. 

The truth of course is that this was a terrible mismatch and we all know of course what happens to sub standard, inferior tennis players when they meet one of the greatest the sport has ever produced. They look to the skies, look totally bemused and then look for a hole in the ground. At times Federer seemed to simply float and glide through the match, barely breaking sweat for most of it and then treading all over Berretini with Swiss panache, a graceful and gracious sportsman whose nerve and composure on Centre Court will now always bear comparison to that cool Swedish master blaster Bjorn Borg. 

With bandana securely plastered on his forehand, towel in hand and an air of almost effortless assurance about him, Federer, tanned and still as a fit as a flea, smoothly strolled out to Centre Court with that understated modesty and a genuine air of humility that has never really left him after all these years. That rather dashing waistcoated track suit may have gone but the flair, the ruthlessness of those all powerful ground strokes and the sheer likeability of the man can never be denied.

Not for the first time there was something very commanding, poised and utterly controlled about the Federer, the most complete Wimbledon champion of champions. There was a quiet charisma about the Swiss legend, a man totally unflustered by world events around him, confident in the belief all the while that nobody should ever have the audacity to beat him at any time in his illustrious career. In fact he may be deeply offended if anybody should ever snatch a point off him at any stage in any match. There is a steeliness about him, a complete detachment from the turmoil around the rest of the courts at Wimbledon.

After a whirlwind first set which lasted 17 minutes, Federer blasted his Italian opponent into outer space with another extraordinary display of power hitting, dynamic cross court winners and the kind of tennis that the likes of Bjorn Borg, John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors would probably have envied. Then Federer indulged in those glorious party pieces that have now defined him. There was the nervous racket twiddling, the brief bout of shirt tugging, eyes completely focussed, shoulders crouched forward excitedly and then there was the reluctant acknowledgement that there was indeed another man on the other side of the net just waiting to receive a first serve he would never return.

Then there were the punishing forehands, another sequence of whipped shots that arrowed across and beyond Berretini as if Centre Court were some kind of firing range. Federer went through the whole repertoire that almost comes to him as second nature. There were the sliced backhands, the beautifully faded and perfectly executed chip and charges to the net, the bewildering speed off the mark and those ferocious, thumping aces that flew past the Italian with lightning fast rapidity.

But for a man now in his 30s there was the movement and energy of a player who perhaps may be privately contemplating retirement. What is it about Federer that keeps going, keeps embracing the big occasion, keeps coming back for more of the same? Surely it can't be the money, the financial incentive to maintain the standard of living to which his family are now accustomed. But then you glanced across at his immaculately dressed wife and children and knew that the Swiss tennis giant just wants to make them even happier than he already is.

Yet more embarrassment was heaped on Berretini when Federer smashed and demolished the Italian as if he was simply invisible.  There was the perfect volleying from preposterous angles, the miraculous returns of serves from the back of the court and the stupendously timed drop shots that almost seemed to creep surreptitiously over the net when least expected. Federer chased everything persistently but then realised that there was no need to because the game was all but over for Berretini. Several Federer backhand volleys almost left the Italian in another postcode.

Finally, there was the declaration of peace and defeat from the Italian. The third set for Berretini almost passed him by, as if  he'd just imagined it. There were of course the comical gestures fuelled by the certainty that this was no way of spending a summer's afternoon in South West London. Admittedly he had shamefacedly snatched three points from the match but this was merely a training session for Federer. Perhaps he was saving himself for more taxing assignments or merely looking forward to an early tea.

Once again Wimbledon had offered its paying customers another afternoon of tennis that reached new levels of excellence, tennis of the very highest quality and tennis of sustained attractiveness. When the Pimms, the champagne, the strawberries and cream set had packed away their picnic hampers, the bottles of wine and the traditional fripperies that have always been associated with Wimbledon. we saluted a man who just treated the day as if it was some trivial chore that had to be done.  Switzerland have every reason to believe that Federer may just have another trophy on his mind.   

Johanna Konta moves through to the last 16 of the Wimbledon ladies semi final.

Johanna Konta moves through to the last 16 of the Wimbledon ladies semi final.

The mind kept drifting back to that day in 1977 when the lady in the mauve cardigan curtseyed before the Queen and Britain basked in its first ladies Wimbledon's single winner. She had thick black hair, an ever so demure manner and her name was Virginia Wade. On one of those beautifully triumphant afternoons for British sport, Wade beat her Dutch opponent Betty Stove and a nation celebrated not only the Queen's Silver Jubilee but a British sporting heroine who could hardly believe the remarkable magnitude of her achievement.

Yesterday, Johanna Konta began her journey to the summit of another ladies victory at Wimbledon with a temporarily awkward win over American Sloane Stephens 0-3, 6-4, 6-1. For those who were spellbound by the emergence of a female British tennis player who could actually win this most highly prized of tournaments then this may have come as little surprise. But then surely it's about time that Britain produced a woman with the guts, the red blooded tenacity and the sheer will to win that overcomes all the odds particularly when the girl has a famous grand father in her family.

Konta, as has been widely reported, is related to the great Hungarian football maestro Ferenc Puskas, one of that magically resplendent team who routed England at the old Wembley in 1953. But Johanna Konta slowly but surely ground down Stephens after struggling briefly in both the first and second sets. It was the kind of uplifting performance that British sport could do with on a more frequent basis because they don't seem to come around that often.

But she is the very epitome of the up and coming tennis player. There is something very driven, fiercely competitive and determined to get her own way about her.  In one or two incidents we were given a fascinating glimpse into the Konta character. She is tall, gangling, impressively athletic and startlingly spring heeled. All of the mannerisms were there; the almost perpetual fist pumping, the intermittent knee bending, the private quest for greater effort, the self criticism, the self reproach, the irritation at the first sign of imperfection and that grouchy, grumpy, irascible cry for help aimed at her coach.

And yet Konta has exactly the right temperament to become the poster girl for British tennis. She has everything that we may look for in a potential Wimbledon champion. There is that natural intelligence about her, a suppleness and litheness in those fleet of feet that only the best can conjure up.  There is something of the Virginia Wade about her in as much that she can move around Centre Court so quickly that by the time her opponent has returned her first serve, Konta has shuffled across the baseline with lightning speed. Konta does seem to be the genuine article but none of us can be sure when her day will come.

The Konta first service is rather like watching a wind up doll, heels lifting up from the ground with superb agility. Then there is the wide stance, ball almost deliberately bounced with careful calculation. We are now treated to that very angular serve, shoulders easing herself into position and finally that explosive swing of the racket as she throws the whole of her body into that vital first serve.

After a first and second set of gripping unpredictability, both women engaged in a superb battle of wills and wits, whipped forehands soaring deep into the baseline, the ball flying over the net like a missile that doesn't quite know where it might land. Firstly, Stephens executed drop shots of the most enchanting delicacy and drilled forehand returns that went whistling down both tramlines at the rate of knots.

Stephens though seemed to run away with the first set 6-3 and the Wimbledon crowd were deeply restless. Konta was beginning to get rather flustered with not only herself but annoyed with a machine that seemed to be making far too much noise for her liking. Something wasn't working for her, the booming serves never landing in the strategic places she was hoping for. So she persevered and grew into the match, punching out double fisted forehands and backhands with all the sinewy strength she could muster. At some point the match ball seemed to have a mind of its own.

Then the match quite perfectly seemed to gravitate in Konta's favour. The British girl suddenly began to see the flight of the ball much more clearly and it wasn't long before the third set became too much for  Konta's American opponent. Konta was now hitting the ball with almost medieval savagery. Before long it was Konta who was slicing and fading her shots with all the cunning of the stage conjuror.

Finally Konta stormed her way through the third set, rattling off six points with the minimum fuss. Your heart goes out to the defeated in sport because you can never tell what might be going through their mind. Sloane Stephens will inevitably have her day in the sun and so will Johanna Konta. We must hope that Britain will one day provide us with another Virginia Wade moment because at the moment there is nothing to show for brave and wholesome  talent. A mauve cardigan is perhaps all that's needed. 

England clinch World Cup cricket semi final at the expense of New Zealand.

England clinch World Cup cricket semi final at the expense of New Zealand.

Once again an England team is on the threshold of something very special. After the heartbreak and tears of the England World Cup ladies semi final defeat to the USA, the England cricket team have now reached their first World Cup semi since the early 1990s. It would by easy to become cynical about the fortunes of the national sporting collectives since we've become very hardened to setbacks, the inevitable sense of anti climax, the gloomy foreboding and then the crushing disappointment when it all goes haywire.

But the fact is that a wonderfully motivated England played some of the most mesmerising and ultimately destructive, attacking cricket the good people of Durham are ever likely to see. Sometimes you know it's going to be your day when even the rock guitarist between overs keeps blasting out a classic rock anthem with such whole hearted zest. For here's the thing. This was one day cricket at its  most scintillating, dazzling, colourful and full of the showbiz spectacle that we've come to expect of the game in recent decades.

For those who still remembered the game being played in plain white shirts, trousers and thick pullovers if the rains fell, then this was a rude reminder of the fact the gentle sedateness of the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s is rather like some misty historical and yellowing piece of parchment from another era. Now, cricket is all about gentlemen wearing the kind of coloured clothing that to those who cherish the game's purest traditions must have seemed like a withering insult.

Still, the English cricket team find themselves on the verge of greatness, perhaps dare we say it, World Champions and ready to pick up one of the most important trophies in world cricket. Who cares about the ludicrous sponsors vividly emblazoned all over gully and mid wicket, a rich combination of globally famous logos, blues, reds, yellows, purples and greens splashed gaudily across every piece of Durham grass?

England, for their part, wore all light blue from head to toe, reminding you instantly of a group of men summoned to appear at one of those very bizarre fashion shows where the bold, crazy and outrageous stroll down the catwalk in an effort to strike a memorable pose. Then there were the wickets, stumps and the bails which, to an impartial observer, had to be seen to be believed. There they were, three black stumps with what can only be described as three tiny bulbs of light which only blinked and flashed when they were required to do so.

Opinion continues to be divided about the modern day references to a kind of rampant commercialism which has now completely engulfed sport on every level and in every environment. The sight of Coca Cola and Mcdonalds battling it out for corporate supremacy doesn't seem right to those who believe that cricket should be completely free of any kind of writing on their shirts.

The fact is that England are now in a World Cup semi final and while the likes of Joe Root, Jason Roy, Ben Stokes and Jos Buttler continue to take this World Cup by storm with yet more mature and  accomplished performances, maybe this could be the year when at long last the ghosts of English sport's past will just drift away into obscurity never to be found again.

Finally we saluted the emergence of one Jonny Bairstow, another of those showboating, all conquering, wonderfully swashbuckling cricketers who throw the bat at everything, humiliate the quickest of bowlers and then destroy opponents as if they were born to score a barrowload of centuries. We must have felt that Ian Botham was the last of the breed but Bairstow was indeed the star of the show, a magnificent tour de force, a big hitting, run machine, reckless and rash at times but this was Bairstow at his most stylish and carefree, a joyous batsman designed for the big occasion.

Throughout what became a fairly easy victory over New Zealand, Bairstow flung the bat at everything short with an almost casual impudence. There were the towering lofted drives that must have ended up in a Durham car park, the dismissive sweeps off the back foot that hurried to the boundary for four in no time at all. There were the arrogant pulls which flew through mid off and presumably crashed into the club bar, knocking over a whole row of amber coloured pints of lager into the bargain. Then the thunderous sixes which kept flying and flying into another county.

By the time Bairstow had reached a century New Zealand were already waving the black and white flag of surrender. Defeat was imminent and damagingly comprehensive for our Kiwi friends, England moving forward to a richly deserved World Cup semi final. The next couple of days for England have an amusing familiarity about them, a sense of deja vu of course but then an overwhelming dread that this is not going to happen because it hasn't so far and probably never will.

 And yet there has to be some semblance of optimism, a very real recognition and premonition that things will indeed go wrong. Because here we are at the beginning of July and we all know what happened at the end of |July 53 years ago. Maybe this time. You never know.

England women lose out to USA in the World Cup semi final.

England women lose out to USA in the World Cup semi final.

It had to happen. Of course it did. We always knew it would because it always does - eventually. The default position for all England football teams regardless of gender, came back to haunt them and in the end we were all crying into our evening tea pondering ruefully on the woeful misfortunes of an England team somehow destined to falter at the final hurdle.

 But why do we always get so tantalisingly close and yet so far? Is there something in the water perhaps? Has it got something to do with simple stage fright or possibly some psychological barrier that gets in England's way just when looks as if we've finally got it right? The truth is that semi final syndrome has once again caught us off guard. Just when we thought we'd cracked the code.

Last night the ladies of the England football World Cup played their heart out and gave us those cliched blood, sweat and tears. They could have hardly tried any harder since England football teams have always done gallantry and heroism with a gentle swagger. But last night the England women of the international footballing community were beaten by USA, which would have sounded hugely embarrassing had the men been involved in a similar scenario. Besides, one World Cup defeat for the men in 1950 against the Americans is quite enough to bear although time is, inevitably, the greatest healer.

Sadly, this was the English ladies third successive World Cup semi final defeat and just to rub salt into the wound the girls seemed to have caught the men's debilitating bug. When captain Steph Houghton missed that vital penalty which would have ensured parity for England against the USA, a hollow feeling of defeat and resignation seemed to hang over the England team like the darkest cloud. There was no way back from that critical point and the Americans were convinced that this would be their night of nights.

For the best part of an hour or so the England girls had looked reasonably convincing without ever hurting their opponents when it really mattered. Their passes were neat, firm, forthright, full of pin point accuracy with decorative cameos that slid across the pitch fluently and tidily. Their attacking movements were both graceful and tender, softly humming from one white shirt to the next as if they'd planned it this way for ages. Slowly but surely their approach play from the back reminded you of their male counterparts who did so much to copy the passing template that the Germans, French and Spanish had so originally pioneered. World Cups are different though.

Unfortunately though the English girls lively passing patterns began to lose their thread and players who had once believed that this could be their year to actually reach a World Cup Final found themselves in some delusional forest where everywhere was thick bushes, dangerous wasteland and tangled knots. England became slovenly, sloppy, dishevelled, horribly naive at times and quite obviously lacking the big match temperament, finesse and physical power of the present World Champions.

The immensely skilful Nikita Parris, who had dribbled her way so attractively past flailing American feet had now been cancelled out by an American side who had so successfully nullified the Parris drop of the shoulder, the nimble footwork as well as her thrilling acceleration. Both Jill Scott and Beth Mead were beginning to slice through the American defence with all the ease of  ice skaters gliding effortlessly on the rink. Millie Bright was a continuous threat, pushing and probing forward with admirable frequency, a forceful and a genuine nuisance. Then there was the ever willing and whole hearted Lucy Bronze, powerful and persistent at all times. It was not to be though.

And yet it all seemed to count for nothing. The women's answer to Harry Kane was Ellen White who had beautifully glanced home England's equaliser after another excellent cross. For a while it felt at times as if White was determined to help herself to as many as goals. After White had had  a goal disallowed by VAR after the prettiest of build ups from England, England had perhaps felt all of their meticulous planning and attention to detail had been undone by a technically superior American side.

From a superbly weighted diagonal ball across the back of the English penalty area, a high, hanging cross was headed powerfully home by Christen Press for the American's opening goal. Once again the USA hunted in packs, stitching and embroidering their football with some of the most imaginative passing ever seen on an international women's football pitch. The Americans were sharper to the ball, even hungrier to win the ball back when not in possession and generally more streetwise than the English.

No sooner than England had equalised than the Americans had broken forward once again at speed and with some vigour. There was a much greater clarity and polish to the World Champions game and although there was an element of raw directness and aggression to their play we knew that England would have to look back on the occasion as another missed opportunity. Following a marvellously perceptive crossfield ball, another nicely delivered cross saw Alex Morgan nip beyond the last English defender and head the ball decisively past England keeper Carly Telford.

As Morgan ran away to celebrate her goal, she was seen to be mocking the very English tea drinking gesture. It almost seemed like the ultimate insult but this had not been a night for English manners or English propriety. Manager Phil Neville, once of Manchester United and Everton had instilled all the right habits and mannerisms into the England women's team and tea seemed a poor consolation.

One day, one year either the men or women will discover that this whole business of actually winning a World Cup or a European Championship is, quite simply, a piece of cake. For now we can only comfort ourselves with the knowledge that even the Germans and French had missed out this time. Never mind, maybe next time.