It's penalties for England but this time they win.

It's penalties for England but this time they win.

Once again it came down to penalties for the England football team. It always does. Just when you might have thought they'd been afflicted by that same old problem, the long 22 year wait has now been officially declared over and not before time. For well over two decades the England football team have stared down that menacing looking gun barrel and found those familiar explosives ready to do their nasty work.

But this was different. Completely different. This was that moment in footballing history when after years of agony, suffering and pain England finally mastered the art of taking penalties and converting them in the right order and the right time. At times you almost feel as if England have been deliberately tormenting us for reasons that none of us will ever know. Finally though that irritating ordeal is now a thing of the past and England are in the World Cup quarter finals. How good does that sound?

Last night England met a Colombian side whose only objective it seemed was to not only stop England from playing but using any means be they illegal or possibly legal at times. It was hard to believe some of the appalling methods Colombia were deploying because football it quite clearly wasn't. To the impartial observer some of their antics bore no relation whatsoever to football and so deplorable and disgusting was their on field behaviour that you wondered what was said to them before the game.

This was quite the ugliest display of theatrical skulduggery and dreadful gamesmanship seen by any international side in recent times. It was football of the lowest common denominator, football that descended into the darkest pit of them all and a World Cup match that must have brought the game, albeit briefly, into shameful disrepute.

By the end of this scrappy, fragmented, mishmash of a World Cup last 16 game between Colombia and England, you could almost sense that the weight of the world had been released from Gareth Southgate's shoulders. His England were through to the quarter finals of the World Cup and nothing else mattered but even he must have been baffled by the ridiculous antics and Shakespearean histrionics of the yellow shirted Colombians.

For a large part of this game Colombia seemed to be auditioning for some Chekhov play such was the crazy play acting on show and the frequency with which it seemed to take place. There was the almost incessant face pulling, the clutching of heads, legs and any part of the anatomy they could find in an England player that was there to be potentially injured. This was not the England match we were hoping for and, much to the annoyance of all who were watching, it didn't really stop.

Still, Gareth Southgate must have been immensely pleased with his players self restraint and complete detachment from the bedlam that threatened to ruin his players morale. It seemed at times as if Colombia had come for the most disruptive of boxing matches rather than the compelling spectacle they were hoping for. The stoppages in play, the foul, underhand tactics, the cynical tackling from behind and the sheer stupidity of the South Americans confrontational approach must have been an enormous shock to England's system.

But England prospered under the most intense pressure and provocation. For most of the first half and most of the second half England controlled without ever looking a genuine goal threat. There was a pleasing flow and fluidity to their football that might have surprised the Colombians. Occasionally though, England may have been too slow and cumbersome when in possession and there were periods when the likes of Kieran Trippier, John Stones and Kyle Walker treated the ball like a hot potato. And yet there was never indecision or any sign at all of alarming discomfort, but all three were terribly reluctant to move forward into dangerous areas of the opposition half.

The first half itself was stuttering, unfathomable and almost flat footed with both sides testing each other's emotional reflexes and finding that neither were willing or able to commit themselves at any point. England were quicker and easier on the eye for the first half an hour or so but then dropped back into some muddled and befuddled defensive shell. The passes were neat, cute and well intentioned but lacking any real bite or seriousness.

England's midfield, including the ever cultured and cultivated Jordan Henderson, all balletic poise and technical brilliance, Dele Alli, the superbly roving and roaming Raheem Sterling and Jesse Lingard, forever prowling with considerable know how and enterprise, were now determined to take the Colombians on at their own game. There was much huffing and puffing, plotting and conniving but little in the way of  power and penetration. England for a while, couldn't quite find that significant hole in the Colombian defence.

And just when you thought the game had more or less vanished into some obscure wasteland the Colombians found themselves confronted with an England corner. But this was no ordinary corner. This was a corner fraught with farce and mayhem. As England prepared to take their corner two lines of Colombian and English players seemed to be squaring up to each other. It reminded you of a queue of shoppers waiting for the doors of a supermarket to open. What followed was sheer nonsense and insanity.

Suddenly, an ordinary corner in a football match turned into some unsavoury clash of bodies where the inevitable outcome had to be a penalty. We had shoving, pushing, jostling and then ludicrous manhandling the result of which left poor Harry Kane hauled to the ground. After repeated warnings from the referee Colombia had quite literally fallen foul of officialdom. This was to become a common theme running through the game like a stick of seaside rock. Suddenly the game had turned into the most aggressive arm wrestling contest most of us had ever seen.

Colombia quite inexplicably, resorted to some of the grossest rough house tactics ever seen in any World Cup for quite a while.  For almost the entire second half Colombia surrounded the referee, chased the referee, hassled the referee and pestered the referee like a group of angry, militant trade union officials on a picket line. It was all very irrational, inexcusable and unnecessary and it was easy to imagine that eventually the referee may have considered taking all of the irate South Americans off  the pitch and telling them to go to bed immediately.

What we now had was a watered down version of the 'Battle of Santiago' when both Italy and Chile chased each other around the pitch and then threatened murder of the most bloodthirsty kind. It was the 1962 World Cup in Chile and for whatever reason things seemed to get out of hand. It was largely thanks to that wonderful referee Ken Aston that order was restored to proceedings. Aston promptly marched the Italian and Chilean players off the pitch as fists flew and eventually anger subsided.

Sadly, last night's furious fiasco between Colombia and England hadn't quite matched the passion and petty petulance displayed in the Italy and Chile punch up. But throughout the second half  Colombia certainly had the most festering grudge on their minds. Why, they seemed to make it clear, were England the evil villains of the piece is beyond anybody's understanding but slowly and surely England began to run out of both steam and energy. You can only take so much.

When Harry Kane tucked home England's penalty for England's opening goal after the maddening melee in the Colombian penalty area the general opinion was that England, although comfortably in the driving seat, hadn't quite discovered a fifth gear. Now England began lurching, grasping desperately for some semblance of attacking cohesion where none existed. Harry Kane carefully shepherded the ball in a now deeper midfield role but didn't quite know what he was supposed to be doing.

Above all the sound and fury though, England were still holding their own although with a man down after the sending off, Colombia now ironically woke up and made a game of it. They inched their way back with some geometrically perfect attacking movements. For the last 20 minutes England were back pedalling, out of sorts, regularly giving the ball away wastefully and then recognising that the match was now drifting away from them.

And then in the 93rd minute Colombian drew level. They had now thrown the kitchen sink, the cooker, the bread and biscuit tin and any other domestic utensil they could find to hand to throw at England. From their last corner and perhaps their only real attack of any substance the ball was floated into the England penalty area and one Yerry Mina, a name always to be recalled by some, jumped the highest and nodded the ball firmly past England keeper Jordan Pickford for the most wretched of equalisers - from an English viewpoint anyway..

During injury time Colombia looked a side reformed, fired up, revitalised and almost unstoppable. They strung their passes across the pitch like washing on a line, picking gaps in the England defence at will. A transformation had looked as if it had been achieved with England now on the back foot. But for the second half of extra time, England called on heroic reserves of stamina and sprung back into the Colombian half with well engineered attacks that must have caught the South Americans out.

It was though now penalty shoot out time with both sides locked together by a vice like grip. Now we all know of course that England and penalties don't get on at times. There is something of a mutual misunderstanding between the two parties that has never really been resolved. There was the 1990 World Cup where Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle decided to do a very convincing impersonation of a rugby drop goal where the ball seemed to land in a Florence back garden rather than the net.

For current England manager Gareth Southgate it was an evening that might have come back to haunt him. At the end of a tense and intense Euro 96 semi final, England were faced with penalties against their celebrated rivals Germany. Southgate, entrusted with the final and vital penalty kick, ran up to the ball, briefly and unintentionally took his eye off the ball and blasted the ball at a German goalkeeper who leapt high into the air when the ball bounced off his knees. England were not to attend their own European Championship winning parade. Southgate looked on grimly.

So there we were waiting for something to happen and it did. It did work this time and how grateful we were. After Jordan Henderson missed what looked to be that crucial penalty for England, we looked to the skies and prayed for a miracle. It couldn't happen again. Surely not. After all those years of teeth gnashing and penalty taking ineptitude it all boiled down to Eric Dier of Tottenham.

 With the whole of England on their edge of their collective seats, Dier calmly strode up to the ball and fired the ball powerfully and low past Colombia keeper David Ospina. Cue the wild celebrations, the hokey cokey, the twist again like we did last summer, beer glasses flying into orbit, fans jumping joyously, sheer pandemonium. Oh to be in England now that summer is here.

And so we left our three lion shirted England shirts to their merry making, dancing in imaginary fountains, leaving all their inhibitions on the pub counter as the bar staff joined in with the fun as well. These are precious days and nights in the world of the England football team. Of course we've all been here before a hundred times, a thousand times and it almost feels as if it'll always be this way. England fans are almost hardened and conditioned to this four yearly footballing torture.

It's Sweden in the quarter finals of the World Cup on Saturday and quite possibly the hosts Russia in the semi final but now we're just ahead of ourselves and believing in the impossible. That can never be the case with England because rash predictions were never part of England's mindset.

Even so we still have Gareth Southgate, England's very modest and humble manager who will not repeat the Sir Alf Ramsey' statement of half a century ago. Ramsey, of course was convinced that England would definitely win the 1966 World Cup and he was right. But Southgate was never one for  brash and rash predictions and even if he privately thinks that his England can bring home the World Cup for only the second time he'll never tell the rest of the nation. It's time to prepare for Sweden on Saturday. This could be the right time.

France beat Argentina in seven goal World Cup thriller.

France beat Argentina in seven goal World Cup thriller.

Vive La France! Allez La France! Surely French revolutions were never supposed to be like that. Besides, we never quite saw one this coming. Admittedly, we are now at the business end of this enthralling World Cup in Russia and nothing will surprise us anymore. But now the World Cup has lost two of its finest exhibitionists and performers, two of its heavenly stars and what on earth are we going to do without them?

We are approaching the half way point of the World Cup and something quite momentous has happened. Lionel Messi of Argentina and Cristiano Ronaldo of Portugal have left the building without so much as whimper. How are we to replace the irreplaceable if indeed that's possible? But onwards and upwards and we must get on with the matter in hand. History has told us that generations must come and go and family dynasties must continue regardless. There is something very telling about the departure of both Messi and Ronaldo.

Both men may never grace another World Cup and this may yet prove one of the great frustrations of the modern age. Yesterday, Lionel Messi looked dumb struck as his Argentina took their leave of the World Cup in Russia and later on that evening Ronaldo, with that excessive tan and the hitched up shorts before the delivery of free kicks, also left centre stage only to find there was nobody in the wings to greet either of them.

But yesterday France knocked Argentina out of the World Cup in one of the most fabulous, frantic and formidable of knockout matches you could have wished for. France eventually overwhelmed Argentina in one of the most bewildering, bemusing, end to end, helter skelter matches in recent times. In the end France seemed to run the South American side ragged with their blistering running at pace, their quick witted invention and their remarkable ability to switch the play with expansive football that spread right across the pitch.

By the end of this match Messi and co. seem to be gasping at air such was France's frightening speed on the break, the breakneck intensity of their passing and the telepathic communication with each other. France were magnifique, the piece de resistance, a unique phenomena, a side of vivacity, vitality, variation, dizzying skill and dashing flamboyance, a side of Parisian troubadours, bright eyed boulevardiers and a side privately confident that this could be their World Cup year.

Nothing we saw yesterday evening did anything to stop the growing rumour of the French conquest of this Russian World Cup. There could have been nothing to dispel the impression that France are so good that they may yet end up in the World Cup Final for the first time in exactly 20 years. That year Lauren Blanc, Thierry Henry and Emmanuel Petit were the up and coming World Cup stars of the future and France beat Brazil in the World Cup Final with one of those typically swashbuckling displays that flattened most of their opponents in their own backyard.

Now though France are doing it again. They're beginning to win over another legion of fans and admirers and they don't mind telling others, gloating and boasting, convincing the sceptics that Les Bleus have indeed re- discovered that trademark subtlety, that cunning stealthiness, that lovely sense of the unexpected and finally a unity and solidarity that has so often been lacking in recent World Cups.

On the touchline manager Didier Deschamps seemed to be deep in discussion with his assistants for most of the game perhaps analysing the latest developments of Le Monde. Of course the newspapers have been passing comment on both his suitability and managerial prowess but Deschamps could only watch from the dug out, ever thoughtful and ever thinking of the bigger picture. Sometimes World Cup managers must wish people would leave them alone and just let them get on with it.

Once again and not for the first time Paul Pogba and N'Golo Kante gave the French a sharp injection of dynamism and creativity, excellent ball players with a technique and tenderness of touch on the ball that blows you away. Pogba was tall, leggy, constantly aware of his colleagues around him, loping forward into attack with those surging runs and menacing intentions that have now become so familiar to Manchester United fans.

Then there was the eternally effective and inspirational N'Golo Kante, now consistently impressive and always joining up the Chelsea attack, a deep thinking and analytical figure. prompting, probing, hovering around his opponents to pick up loose passes and then using the ball with huge imagination. Samuel Umtiti, Lucas Hernandez , Raphael Varane, the dangerous Antoine Griezmann and Blaise Matuidi also contributed vastly to a French side who were now on the campaigning trail, positive role models, proud ambassadors of their nation.

And so it was that we hit the goal trail. After 12 minutes Kylian Mbappe, the young whipper snapper and the new kid on the block for French football, took off on one of the most spectacular runs of his life on his own. Striding and stretching his way over the half way line Mbappe kicked into fifth gear, sprinting and accelerating at the speed of light before being tumbled over in the Argentina penalty area. Antoine Griezmann comfortably tucked home the penalty as if he'd been fated to do so.

Then Argentina as if propelled by Lionel Messi rallied their way back into the game with a series of well planned and studious attacks that were neatly fashioned with those now customary carousel of passes that were sculpted and chipped with fastidious attention to detail. Half way through the first half Angel Di Maria accepted an opportunity from outside the penalty area and Di Maria launched a fearsome missile towards the French net, the shot rippling the net before Hugo Lloris had had time to move. 1-1 and we had a game on our hands.

Argentina were now back in cruise control and as if a current of electricity had run through the whole Argentina side and there was everything to play for. Now it was that the likes of Lionel Messi, forever lurking with that sumptuously close ball control  we've come to expect of Messi, began to look like that South American side whose name we all mentioned in the same breath as that of neighbours Brazil.

After another giddy soft shoe shuffle of passes that imprinted itself onto the game like the tattoos most of the players had on their arms. Argentina scored again. Firstly, there was another glorious ball from Messi floating in the gentle breeze. Ths was followed by the faintest of touches from another light blue and white Argentina foot before Gabriel Mercado finished off another scintillating move with another needle sharp Argentina goal.

We were now into the most exceptional of footballing feasts, a genuine festival of football with end to end football that whirled and hurtled from one goalmouth to the other. Suddenly France had achieved a second wind when it looked for all the world as if the boulangeries near the Champs Elysees would shut up shop, switch on their radios and TVs and refuse to sell their bread to their customers because France were onto something here.

From almost nowhere France equalised for the second time. Another swiftly incisive French break caught Argentina on the hop. Benjamin Pavard, a full back now suffering from high altitude problems in an attacking position, leant back and sent a thunderous, destructive and ferocious shot that soared past Franco Armani into the Argentina goal. We now had a very special match on our hands when perhaps we thought we'd never get anything even remotely as wide open as this match.

Now France finally found their je ne sais quoi, that indefinable quality that can bring joy to so many when the mood takes them. Suddenly the middle of the pitch was flooded by a torrent of blue French shirts, sweeping forward and stampeding towards the Argentinian net like an army marching defiantly over the greenest of pitches.

In a matter of minutes a French flourish became a French domination. In what was a continuous stream of passes, flicks, tricks and ornate passing movements, France scored yet again. Another rat a tat sequence of quick, quick, slow, slow passes resulted in that man Kylian Mbappe finding space to drive home the fourth French goal with a convincing swing of his foot. Mbappe thrashed the ball home and must have glanced over to Messi with the most sympathetic of glances. Perhaps he knew that here was Messi's potential successor and it wasn't pleasant at all. 

And then as if to pour oil on troubled Argentinian waters, France, by now raiding, plundering and looting their opponents with ruthless ferocity, scored the classic sucker punch fourth. A flowing end to end move which started with a Hugo Lloris free kick was swiftly threaded through a succession of French feet and Kylian Nbappe, that sprightliest of livewires, was in the right place and right time to fire home the goal that sucked the air out of the Argentine advance.

By the time Sergio Aguero, on as a last throw of the dice substitute, had whipped the ball home for Argentinia's third goal the game was up for the South Americans. It was too little too late and Argentina had suffered for their arrogance and insouciance. The tango had been replaced by much stamping of feet and Argentina were on their way back to Buenos Aires.

The French of course can now be spurred on by the men who have graced the blue shirts in years gone by. There was the France of the unsurpassable Raymond Kopa and Just Fontaine, goal scorers par excellence. There was the France of Michel Platini, Alain Giresse and Didier Six, players of enormous intelligence and craftsmanship, players of light and shade, showmanship and finesse.

There may be a long way to go for France but whisper it quietly the France are on a roll and may well continue rolling as long as there are no signs of revolt and mutiny within the French camp. We know what happens when France get all tangled up in internal squabbling and dissent. For the moment though, France are silently plotting their careful way through a World Cup. As long as nobody mentions Pompidou or D'Estaing on their travels then this may be the year for yet more rejoicing in the streets of Paris. Allez Les Bleus!

England beaten by Belgium - now for Colombia.

England beaten by Belgium - now for Colombia.

It was always likely to happen and indeed it did. England reserves were beaten by Belgium's reserves or that's how it seemed to some of us. These were the last, flickering embers of England's final group match of World Cup 2018 and some of the natives were restless. The beads of sweat are trickling down our faces and finger nails are being bitten to the quick once again. We've all been here with England so what's new?

 Out there in the pubs, clubs, restaurants and wine bars of England, there were one or two stifled moans, a number of weary yawns and the first signs of scepticism from England's hitherto loyal fanbase. The flags of St George were still flying from the highest steeples, rooftops and, for that matter, firmly plastered on every shop  window and living room window. England's international football team are still on our minds.

But last night some of the hinges seemed to be creaking, a fair quantity of oil was needed and from time to time England were wobbling, tottering, slipping and sliding without ever really collapsing. Until now things have been tickety boo, good as gold and most of us have been singing a song. Everything has been going swimmingly well for Gareth Southgate's young, freshly scrubbed, and angelic team. This has all been very new for this current crop of England players and you suspect that Belgium was one game too far for England.

After the demolition of Panama and the more workmanlike victory against Tunisia, England came into their final group match against Belgium rather like poker players who insist on keeping their cards close to their chest. In the end Belgium's winning goal was rather like a sharp prod in the back of the England team because up until this point England have been like tourists in Hyde Park casually minding their business.

For a team who had already scored eight goals in their first two matches, England looked as though they were ready to lay out their rug on the grass and indulge themselves in a hearty picnic. Sadly though, this was never the case and nor did we expect it to be. At times it almost looked as if both Belgium and England had signed a contract whereby none would break any clause in that contract at any time. It was all very honourable and respectable with both sides agreeing to abide to the small print.

And so the game proceeded in quite the most casual and leisurely fashion, both sides tip tapping hundreds of small, sweet, short clusters of passes to each other and then circling around each other in some conspiratorial huddle. Then there were more rotations, military two steps, several cha cha chas before eventually the game found a rather blurry, indistinct shape and pattern. England began slowly and didn't really get out of second or third gear. England were well intentioned, serious and vaguely threatening but never really on the same wavelength.

This was an England reserve side who knew what the requirements were if they were to meet opposition who wouldn't unduly trouble them in the next round of the competition. It was either Colombia or Japan and never the twain should meet. It was hard to understand what exactly the England players next plans consisted of. Should they throw the dice in the hope that the calculated gamble would pay off or would they endeavour to go for broke?

And yet for the first time in this World Cup, England looked leggy, laboured and careworn, a pale shadow of their former selves, slightly out of kilter and maybe subconsciously thinking of more pressing tasks ahead of them. It is annoying when England football teams take their eyes off the ball for a second and it all loses everything in the translation. Still, at least nobody was hurt and England will live to fight another day. It's Colombia next Tuesday or it may have Japan on another day. Methinks there's a song in there. 

The fact was that England were not nearly the same side as the one who'd flattened Panama and marginally if impressively beat Tunisia. At the moment Gareth Southgate's young pups are still wet behind the ears and have yet to encounter opposition of genuine quality. Against Belgium they were struggling to find the right co-ordinates and when the ball did fall at their feet they invariably fumbled around with it like a hot potato, losing possession wantonly and then recognising an admittedly technically superior Belgium had a far greater worldliness about them.

At the back Spurs Danny Rose reminded you of a young foal stumbling awkwardly in the field and then falling to the ground helplessly when the stable looked by far the safer option. For the first half an hour Rose looked as if his positional play would save him but then a tide of red Belgian shirts surrounded him and Rose became a thorn in England's side.

For Phil Jones this was not one of his better evenings. Confident in possession quite regularly Jones began to look heavy footed and slightly cumbersome. When Jones pulls on a Manchester United shirt he looks both secure and responsible but in an England shirt Jones didn't quite hit the ground running. He carried the ball forward out of defence positively at times but Belgium then put the frighteners on him and everything looked uncertain.

Gary Cahill and John Stones dealt capably and efficiently with most of Belgium's smoothly purring attacking movements but Cahill is now reaching the twilight of his international career and Stones is just starting out. Stones does indeed look very powerful in the air and shrewd in his distribution. The goal he scored- England's first in the Panama rout- was highly encouraging- but there was to be no repetition against Belgium. There is something of the Terry Butcher about him, a tall, brave and no nonsense centre half who will very rarely allow anything to get past him.

Then there was England's patchwork midfield, a rag and tag and dysfunctional collection of players who just seemed to filling in as substitutes for the evening. Eric Dier, Tottenham's centre half, was moved further into an advanced midfield holding role and looked like a fish out of water. Dier seemed lost, bewildered and disoriented, a man searching for something he couldn't find.

Fabian Delph, who can look authoritative when the mood takes him, wasn't quite the player he can be at club level. Delph is more than capable of using the ball sensibly and productively but when it came to Belgium, Delph was more or less swallowed up by Belgium's perpetually dangerous attackers in full flight.

Liverpool's Trent Alexander Arnold, literally a novice at international level, does look as though he needs time to become fully acquainted with the pressures and demands that playing for England may impose. Still, generally speaking, there was nothing inherently wrong with Arnold at full back, cool, unfussy and competent at the back without ever grabbing the limelight.

Reuben Loftus Cheek, in some quarters at least could develop into one of England's most original and composed of midfield players. With the right kind of encouragement and guidance, Loftus Cheek may well one of the few players who can run at players at speed and still pick out splendidly measured passes to colleagues in space with both short and the long ball diagonal variety.

Alas though the likes of Marcus Rashford- who really does look a permanent fixture for England in years to come- can score goals whenever he likes in some profusion, horribly miscued what looked a certain goal for England. Put through once again, Rashford ran into the penalty area and with only the goalkeeper Thibald Courtois to beat, Rashford scuffed his shot and pulled the ball wide.

Jamie Vardy, the Leicester striker who, a couple of seasons ago, blasted open Premier League defences as Leicester cruised towards the Premier League title, now looked willing but not able. Vardy is a born goal scorer but for lengthy spells against Belgium, he seemed to be huffing and puffing laboriously, doing his utmost but without ever really threatening to score.

And so it was that Belgium, attractively supported by the ever progressive likes of Mousa Dembele, always a livewire in the Premier League, Thorgan Hazard replacing his older brother Eden, the unmistakable Marouane Fellaini and Michy Batshuayi up front, still managed to produce the cleverer and more judicious football.

However this was more or less Belgium's second eleven and with the superb Eden Hazard, the quite astonishingly gifted Kevin De Bruyne taking a breather on the bench and the brawny, bustling Romelu Lukaku desperate for a full run out in the team, Belgium look well equipped to go as far as they possibly can in this World Cup.

The winning goal for Belgium was a goal that deserved to win any match. After a quicksilver attacking burst just outside the England penalty area, Belgium found their decisive breakthrough. It was the former Manchester United youngster Adnan Januzaj who found the English net. Shuffling his feet, he dragged the ball across from one foot to another before bending a sumptuous shot high into the net, leaving Everton goalkeeper Jordan Pickford grasping at the thin air.

Now of course both Belgium and England are now required to have another go at constructing a case for winning the World Cup. Belgium will meet Japan, while England meet Colombia again in a World Cup. Football is full of weird and wonderful ironies and you have to wonder whether England can still find the necessary techniques and formulas for going all the way to the World Cup Final.

It was 20 years ago that David Beckham's fantastic free kick provided one of the goals for England to beat Colombia in France. Now they face the same opponents again in similar circumstances and for those snarling critics the sense of deja vu has once again crept back into this England team. Still, we're all right behind England and maybe the gloom and doom mongers should make themselves conspicuous by their absence.

At the end of the Panama game England boss Gareth Southgate, both stylish and fashionable, went over to the England fans gathered at one end of the ground. He clapped his hands appreciatively, carried out the most celebratory of fist pumps and then acknowledged the England fans very visible role in his team's ultimate success so far.

Meanwhile, out on the terraces the England fans were doing what seems to come naturally. For reasons best known to themselves they now seem to have adopted the most improbable of songs. 'Earth, Wind and Fire's' wonderful 'September' was music to some ears but singularly inexplicable. Maybe they're bored with 'The Great Escape' and think that it may become a self fulfilling prophecy when they come to the Colombia game. Still, 'From Russia with Love' still has a lovely ring to it.  It is time for some good, old fashioned English optimism.

Argentina reach the last 16 of the World Cup

Argentina reach the last 16 of the World Cup.

We always knew that somebody would cry for Argentina had they left the World Cup in Russia. Argentina have always been an acquired taste for some while strongly dividing opinion with others. You either like what you get with Argentina or you simply wish they'd just get out of the room and never come back again. Then there are times when you just can't take your eyes off them so lovely and entrancing is their football.

Last night though the current Argentinian incarnation reached the last 16 of the World Cup with a performance which, while never entirely convincing, still stuck very closely to their well prepared script. Watching Argentina is rather like a tragic opera where all the leading protagonists invariably end up either killing each other or just leaving a trail of broken hearts behind them. Argentina love to leave you on tenterhooks, sitting on the edge of your seats with both well rehearsed excitement and drama.

With their last group match against Nigeria balanced ominously on the edge, the light blue and white flags and banners of Argentina were on their feet, screaming, singing, bawling, imploring, biting fingernails, waving for the cameras and then pleading for their country's winning goal. For a country who haven't won the World Cup since 1986 Argentina are almost bending over backwards to win it again knowing full well that their supporters somehow feel they have a divine right to hold on to that World Cup for eternity.

Then we looked up at the hospitality boxes and the VIP box and we saw a horrible caricature of a world class footballer. Diego Maradona, now very disturbingly and somewhat horrifically overweight, adopted some of the most peculiar poses and reactions football has ever seen. But for those who fondly remember his 1986 pomp when a much younger Maradona was an almost masterful influence on his team, his appearance at last night's game against Nigeria was a sobering reminder of what can happen when drugs and drink combine in a toxic cocktail of utter self destruction.

It was hard to believe that such a wondrous footballer could so recklessly allow both his face and  body to become some grotesque figure of fun. Frequently, Maradona would react in much the way you'd expect of a proud patriot. When Lionel Messi, his successor to the throne of genius, scored quite the most breathtaking of goals for Argentina, Maradona clenched his fists together, eyes closed in a state of silent ecstasy and then seemed to go off into a world of his own. It was both sad and pathetic, a graphic illustration of a once world class footballer whose sharp decline has now turned into what seems like a wasted talent.

Still, at least Maradona had something to cheer in this year's World Cup. When Lionel Messi quickly and smartly latched onto a gorgeously weighted through ball over the top of the Nigeria defence Argentina seemed to come alive. For their first two opening games Argentina were sleepwalking through games, sloppy, slovenly, bleary eyed, full of Latin soul and impulse but not quite up to the unreasonably high standards they've always set themselves. The bar has indeed been set so high that even Argentina have had to reach up on their toes to try to touch it.

But it was now that the gifted likes of Nicolas Otamendi, the evergreen Javier Mascherano, bleeding profusely from one eye after the match, Gabriel Mercado, Eduardo Salvio, Angel De Maria, formerly of Manchester United, Marcus Rojo and company finally came of age. Until this moment they've been hiding away in some dusty cupboard, afraid to show their true selves and almost overcome with self consciousness.

The Messi goal though, was perhaps that iconic moment in world football when one of the globe's greatest of all modern players executes the most perfect of movements. From a memorable lofted ball into his path, Messi, in one swift manoeuvre, swept the ball away from his defender. Anticipating the ball dropping invitingly over his shoulder, Messi moved his body gracefully away from his defender, chesting the ball down and then with almost delicate deliberation, following through with a shot that seemed to be deliberately steered away from the Nigeria keeper and into the net. It was a goal to treasure for many generations.

Then although Argentina continued to flick their passes between themselves almost self indulgently rather like counters on an old board game, something was missing, something indefinable. Their infatuation with their natural passing game was still in evidence but from time to time, the links were missing and the chain effect that has led to such a bumper crop of important goals and victories over the years had been loosened. The tango rhythms had gone and the sparkling momentum of their attacking movements didn't seem to be where it should have been.

During the second half with Chelsea's Victor Moses and  Wilfred Ndidi much more of a potent force for Nigeria, the game seemed to hover in a state of intriguing uncertainty. Nigeria looked as though they'd forced their way back into the game both constructively and powerfully but this proved to be a disappointing illusion. If they'd looked carefully enough they'd have realised that the light blue and white Argentina shirts were still in their wide rear view mirror.

After Victor Moses had gently stroked home the Nigerian's penalty for a richly deserved equaliser, Argentina were stung into action. It was as if somebody had hit them with a red hot poker. Suddenly their football began to re-assert itself, the sweet sensuality of that close passing game, the almost intimate ball control and the remarkable comfort on the ball seemed to return in a matter of minutes.

 Lionel Messi once again smuggled his way into the Nigerian penalty area, protecting the ball, nursing the ball, weaving, slipping and swaying before knitting together a whole succession of wall passes. It was out of this world and Messi knew it. Sometimes gifted sportsmen know exactly what they're doing even when others are still working out for themselves. Lionel Messi is that unique sportsman, an exhibitionist at times but a man whose abundant gifts elevate his sport to a different plateau.

With minutes to go and Argentina displaying all of the heroism and daring determination of men who looked as though they'd never get to the summit, they broke away once again. The passes were still precise, pristine and almost crystalline. But as the match approached its final stages you almost felt that the team who can still light up a match with their diamond encrusted touches and enlightening techniques, would in all likelihood hit the magic jackpot.

After a whirlwind production line of passes that stretched the length and breadth, Gabriel Mercado, galloping and willing to sacrifice everything, sped forward into space on the flank. Now was Argentina's moment to shine, to transform the mood of a nation with one run. Mercado, easing his way onto the ball, scampered up the touchline before driving in one final low cross. Then, improbably and inexplicably, Marcos Rojo, who'd enjoyed a successful season with Manchester United, raced into position and then volleyed home the most spectacular goal you're ever likely to see from a traditional centre half. Where on earth did that come from? But how welcome and timely was it.

Argentina, still haunted by the painful memories of Eva Peron, tyrannical dictators and the military junta, found themselves released from pain, suffering and history. For now is the time for Argentina to remember their footballing heritage, recall where they were and hold on dearly to the present. The past, for now at least, is indeed another country and even the greatness of another era can still be felt even now. But then we looked at Diego Maradona and wondered if perhaps a broken figure could be properly repaired.

It seems highly unlikely that the impish Lionel Messi will ever follow in Maradona's footsteps but as a nation celebrates a place in the knockout rounds of the Russia World Cup it may be a time for reflection and sensible judgments. It is hard though not to laugh at the new VAR system, regularly employed for the tournament. The sight of a referee trotting over to a small TV screen to determine either a legitimate penalty or not as be it the case, is  both hugely amusing and surreal at times.

Still we're all having loads of fun watching our excessively healthy diet of football from a deeply respectful distance. It's an undoubted privilege to watch the game as it should be played rather than the way others would perceive it. The Russians are having a ball, presumably Vladimir Putin is just having the time of his life and presumably the Kremlin has never been so popular a tourist attraction. For Argentina this could be the beginning of a journey to remember. Hopefully. The world awaits.   

England reach the last 16 in World Cup hammering of Panama.

England reach the last 16 in World Cup hammering of Panama.

And so it was that in the final week of June 2018 that England finally slumped over the line. Slowly but surely the England football team are beginning to look as though they mean business. At long last they've made it  through to the last 16 of the World Cup for the first time in what seems like ages. In fact the last time England qualified for the latter stages of a World Cup cave dwellers were carving their initials into the wall and mankind had yet to discover the joys of the Internet.

But ladies and gentlemen it can officially be told to the rest of England and its shire counties across the country that its football team have cracked the code, deciphered its meaning and found their worthy niche in world footballing folklore. For a long time now most of us had just given up, accepting reluctantly that we somehow don't belong in the honourable company of football's great and good.

It's true. England, that fair minded, independent and objective isle in the middle of Europe has conquered part of the world and completely demolished a nation whose current status in FIFA's world rankings may be no more than a passing thought. Panama were not only beaten 6-1 by England they were humiliated, demeaned, overwhelmed, overcome, totally sliced, diced and made to look both foolish, foolhardy and reduced to a laughing stock by those with an acerbic sense of humour.

England, that noble country of spinning wind turbines besides busy motorways, rolling hills, trickling streams, murmuring meadows, commanding pine trees in secretive forests, stern and unyielding bridges, cosy tea- shops, organic cafes, motorway service stations, cottages nestling next to quiet churches, old fashioned sweet shops with jars of sweets behind the counter, vicars of purity and red post boxes that are fundamentally English.

Yes everybody, England are through to the next round of the World Cup and how relieved are we? It's been a slog, war of attrition, a battle through the complicated mazes of world football and then finally Gareth Southgate's England, my England, our England, stood proudly at the groaning top table of the World Cup glitterati and found that they were no longer in need of oxygen because the air is so much fresher than ever before. Well, since 1966 perhaps.

But hold on. England have only qualified for the last 16, the mid way point of the competition, the half way stage and it's time to rest our fevered brows because we know what happens when you get all excited, hot and bothered. We find ourselves lulled into a false sense of security and drawn into a bubble of complacency where dreams become assumptions and then it all seems to unravel and go terribly wrong. It all becomes rather knotted, twisted and anti- climactic before descending into disaster.

We are not though about to be carried away by it all because we know what England, we know about their frailties and fragilities, their deficiencies and glaring shortcomings. We know that once we've negotiated those first, tricky stages of any major football tournament, everything seems to lose something in the translation. We know that somewhere along the line that big match temperament suddenly goes missing and nobody knows why and it all ends up in a penalty shoot out mess.

And yet for just 90 minutes this up and coming team of blossoming, wet behind the ears youngsters passed the first part of their driving test. These are the learners and novices at World Cup 2018, the ones whose initiation ceremony at a big football tournament seems to be turning into a roaring success. So far anyway. So far so good. Could do better but there are no complaints so far.

For the first half of this monumentally one sided mismatch England did what perhaps they may have been threatening to do for ages at World Cup. They took out all their pent up frustration, exploded into action and proceeded to cut open Panama rather like a surgeon in an operation theatre. It was cruel, merciless, hurtful but nonetheless incisive and devastating. England dissected Panama, swarmed forward like locusts and ultimately buried their opposition with six of the very best goals you will ever see scored in an England shirt. It did seem a horrid shame but there must have come a point yesterday when England became past caring.

It is now time to declare our unqualified admiration for England captain Harry Kane. Kane is quite definitely one of the nicest blokes in international football. Kane is cool, calm, well balanced, well adjusted, vastly intelligent, agreeable, personable and very good at the art of diplomacy. Not for Kane those outrageous promises and claims that England will undoubtedly win the World Cup, Not for Kane those grandiose statements about being the best international team in the world.

There is something very grounded and sensible about Kane that has to be respected and demands respect. Kane has a realistic perspective as captain of England. He knows for a fact that arrogance and presumption can do no good at any time, that if the country believes that we've already got one foot in the World Cup Final, then such outlandish delusions have to be dismissed completely. Because where on earth did that get England World Cup teams from yesteryear? Nowhere. So be prepared for some honest re-appraisals and quietly confident mutterings.

Still, even Kane must have thought he was in Disneyland after roughly half an hour of this 6-1 goalfest for England. The goals were pouring into the Panama net with all the majesty of a stunning waterfall and Kane not only achieved the hat-trick he could only have fantasised about but he also delivered the most vehement statement to the rest of the teams in this World Cup. Come and get us because we're ready for you.

Once again John Stones and Harry Maguire were the towers of strength and complete authority that must have lifted the heart of Gareth Southgate. Stones in particular was impeccably dominant, safe in possession, unruffled by the magnitude of the occasion and responsible in his distribution of the ball. Not for one moment were England ever concerned and tested by a team, who, in all fairness, must have thought they were about to face a bulldozer. Which was indeed the case.

Now it was that the ever immaculate and almost aristocratic figure of Jordan Henderson once again reminded us that he has to be regarded as a permanent fixture in the England team. Henderson floated around the pitch with all the ease and elegance of a butler serving drinks at a high class garden party. His passes were simple, understated, modest and almost unassuming. Henderson was neat, precise, charming, neat and meticulous, a man with a mission and a player with a sense of destiny.

Further up the pitch Ashley Young, although now perhaps approaching the twilight of his career, was still full of street knowledge and utterly capable of  slowing the game down, choosing the easy option while always aware of his equally as perceptive colleagues. But by a strange irony it was his Manchester United colleague Jessie Lingard who would provide the game with its most outstanding moment.

Quietly and unfussily Lingard has blended into England's now very cohesive attacking unit without panicking when the ball was lost. Lingard oozes the classiest of touches, drifting around the fringes of the England attack like a loitering stranger determined to ingratiate himself at a party where nobody wants to talk to you. But Lingard is the real article, finished and refined, ready to rock and roll and he was the one who scored the best goal of the afternoon and quite possibly the best goal of the tournament.

Raheem Sterling, for his part, did suggest that when the mood takes him and the temperature is right there can be no holding him back. Sterling was quick, electrifyingly fast, perhaps too clever and cunning for his own good but still an essential part of Gareth Southgate's grand master plan for the future. Sterling can certainly take on his man, dancing past defenders with an almost graceful impudence and then driving powerful crosses for the inrushing Harry Kane. But all too often Sterling reminds you of the school playground kid whose only objective in life is to beat all of his opponents with one mazy run.

So now for the unusual conveyor belt of goals. England opened the scoring in no time after an outswinging corner found John Stones charging into the penalty area. Stones, sensing that this was his time to grab the limelight, leapt into the air and sent the most powerful header soaring into the back of the Panama net. It was an incredible start but one that had to be tempered by the calibre of the opposition. Panama were punch bags, rag dolls, sadly lightweights but brave heroes nonetheless.

Then in a mad and seemingly interminably crazy spell of farcical Panamanian defending- or lack of defending The Central American gallants crumbled into the ground rather like one of those ancient housing tower blocks in England where a wrecking ball or a controlled explosion, brings down the entire building. Panama came tumbling down to the ground, knocked over like a set of dominoes in a pub.

Lingard, so lively and happily enthusiastic throughout the game, went surging into the penalty area, hurtling towards the Panama keeper before being foolishly and unnecessarily bundled over for an England penalty and not for the first time. It may have seemed like naivety of the most humiliating kind but that wasn't about to worry Harry Kane. Kane stepped forward, instantly decided which direction the ball was heading and blasted the ball high into the net. Two up with four to go.

Minutes later England were three up and hardly able to believe just how straightforward this exercise would be. This was indeed the most aesthetically pleasing goal England had ever produced for quite a while. In fact if this had been an exhibit at the Tate Modern Britain Museum in London then most of us would have elevated this one to the highest plinth. It was indeed a work of art, a beautifully constructed, elegantly carved and joyously executed goal that was straight out of a Brazilian, German or Spanish brochure.

A flurry of passes from just inside the Panama half resulted in Jessie Lingard latching easily onto yet another pass, cutting in from the flank and then curling the most beautiful shot past a keeper who by now must have felt extremely victimised. It was one of those moments in football when you just want the game to stop for a minute, collect your thoughts and believe that even the impossible is possible. It was time to catch your breath and smell the coffee, a vintage moment of quality, a goal suitable in any art gallery.

By now a distraught Panama team were just praying for the final whistle let alone the half time version. England destroyed their opponents, breaking their hearts with every single attack,  converging on the Central Americans, stampeding forward like ferocious bulls on the prairie and just blasting open the Panamanian defence like a bank safe in an audacious heist.

It was now time for England's fourth goal. A deep, towering Harry Kane free kick was launched into the penalty area like a missile, Henderson deftly flicked on towards the far post and after a brief scramble, John Stones was ideally placed to clip home a goal that had floored Panama into submission. It was now that you could begin to see the smouldering debris of a defence that must have been privately giggling at their misfortune.

It may have been an opportune moment for damage limitation but England were in no mood for either charity or leniency. From yet another set piece, England profited from complete defensive silliness. Harry Kane, who by now must have been lost for words, was manhandled, shoved, pulled back and unceremoniously bundled to the ground. After repeated warnings from a baffled referee, the man in charge pointed to the penalty spot again. Qute what was going through the collective minds of the Panama defence is anybody's guess. Still, Kane stepped up to the plate and smashed the ball high into the net for number five.

The second half of course now simply fizzled out into a training ground five- a- side match where the team with a substantial half time lead just pass the ball around with nothing at all in the way of positive attacking intent. Shortly into the second half England enjoyed the icing on the cake with a sixth goal. Kyle Walker, also unflappable at the back, came forward to join an England attack who were now feasting themselves on goals, laying the ball back to Reuben Loftus Cheek. Loftus Cheek, a player of considerable potential, thumped a shot fiercely towards goal only for the back of Harry Kane's foot to deflect the ball fortunately if gladdeningly into the net for the sixth goal of the day.

With the whole of England now celebrating like never before, Panama looked as though they'd now been given the freedom to do whatever they liked. England had offered some brief respite from an incessant wave after wave of attacking from England.  Step forward one Felipe Baloy who met a nicely driven ball towards him and Baloy swept home Panama's consolation goal on the day.

Oh what a night indeed. Late June 2018. England, for all their past World Cup troubles and anxieties, have advanced into the next round of the World Cup. Now the probabilities are thrown into a giant vat of possibilities and now England may find that they'll have to keep their cards close to their chest because this is all about bluff and counter bluff. It's time to fly the St George flags, display the Union Jack and hope against hope that this year could be our year. What a game, what a team. We can hardly bare to look at times. You can stop hiding behind the sofa. England are still in Russia. Yippee!

Germany squeeze home in World Cup victory against Sweden.

Germany squeeze home in World Cup victory against Sweden.

It was always the way in World Cups. Throughout the ages Germany have always had a special relationship with the World Cup. At first, they carefully mark out their territory, cautiously feel their way into the tournament and invariably come up trumps when it looks as if those vulnerable weak spots will be exposed for everybody to see. But not this time because Germany know how to pace themselves and know what may be required of them when the odds are, quite possibly, stacked against them.

For the whole of their second group match in this World Cup against Sweden, the Germans chipped away at stubborn Swedish resistance without ever really seeming to find the killer blow in them. The Germans threw every piece of IKEA flat pack furniture at Sweden and still found themselves battering away at a blue and yellow Swedish wall. But it all came right on the end for Germany and when the referee blew the final whistle you'd have thought the Germans had actually retained the World Cup rather than a won a game at the group stages of this competition.

And yet there was once again that well rounded air of professionalism and organisation which we've always associated with the Germans. How do they keep doing this? Where are all those psychological tools that the Germans can always call upon when things aren't going their way? There have to be plentiful reserves of stamina, sheer single mindedness and bloody mindedness, sheer nerves of steel that sustain Germany when the chips are down for them.

After a frantic start to the game both sides seemed to go head to head with each other like gladiators with shining shields, furious, intense, determined to win at all costs, crashing and clashing with each other remorselessly, thrusting and parrying, attacking and counter attacking at every opportunity. Sweden should have scored when one blue and yellow shirt found himself clean through one on one with only German goalkeeper Manuel Neuer to beat and still had an attack of stage fright. The chance went begging and was missed.

Then Sweden saw the whites of the Germans eyes and thought they'd try their luck again. A ball chipped sweetly over a lumbering German defence caught them napping and Ola Toivonen, a Swedish battle hardened warrior, bustled his way past a white German defensive unit and lifted the ball exultantly over Neuer for Sweden's amazingly unexpected opening goal.

From that point onwards the blue and yellow of Sweden played that classic game of Russian Roulette which may have been appropriate in this year's World Cup. They streamed forward, closing down the German assaults whenever the white shirts had  possession and then shuttling the ball around quickly  as if petrified that the Germans would rumble their cautious strategy.

During the first half though the Germans seemed to shift the ball between them as if planning a major military campaign, strolling and rolling the ball from one white shirt to the next. They were, as usual, rigid, disciplined, straight laced, straight faced, measured, considered, cool and calculating. There was that menacing, subtle, crafty and stealthy air about the Germans which has almost become hard wired into them.

On the touchline German boss Joachim Low was a vision in black, casual black shirt accompanied by black trousers, stern, impassive, businesslike and face totally concentrated on the task in hand. You felt that Low had lost all his worldly belongings, a face that was blank and devoid of emotion. There was a solemnity about Low which suggested that his whole world had fallen apart for him.

Then there followed over an hour and half of Germany thoroughness and absolute efficiency, something of a hallmark within German culture. There was a rigidity, structure and seamless smoothness about this German team that most of us have grown accustomed to over the years. When it comes to World Cups the Germans do like to make the game seem effortless and easy going. There was almost a formality and inevitability about some of  Germany's attacking football that couldn't be faulted.

The highly rated Julian Draxler, stylish, arrogant and very much in complete control of his footballing faculties, gave his German side, flair and continuity, roving about the pitch like a man determined to stamp his authority on the game. Draxler had an almost balanced detachment about him which might have implied that he wasn't really interested in the final score. But Draxler had the loveliest touch on the ball, real sensitivity, a guiding influence on proceedings which made the Germans feel so much better about themselves.

Then Jerome Boateng began to move forward into attack, cleverly linking with his colleagues with an intelligence and wisdom that could only be marvelled at. Once again Antonio Rudiger was a shining light in a Germany attack that wheeled forward and whirled around with the minimum fuss. Tony Roos of course is the German poster boy and provided Germany with much of their poise and grace in attacking positions.

With Joshua Kimmich, Sebastian Rudy, Thomas Muller and particularly Timo Wenner all exchanging passes at breakneck speed and devastating one touch football, Germany, without ever really threatening anything of significance. Then Draxler, who by now was beginning more and more like an Uli Hoeness from another era, cottoned onto a pass in another free flowing German attack, cut in on the edge of the penalty area, pulled the ball back sharply across the Swedish penalty area and Marco Reus, wrapping his foot around the ball before swinging his shot into the back of the Swedish net.  It was 1-1 and none of us knew quite to expect next.

Suddenly. the game adopted its very own mood, changeable and wildly dramatic for the remaining half an hour. The boxing analogy was just wonderfully apposite. The game now had piercing jabs, tentative rabbit punches to the stomach and then sparring of the most savage kind without ever descending into a warlike battle. Germany flung out several very brutal hooks to the jaw but then found that Sweden too had their artillery, a side of courage, directness but little in the way of subtlety.

Then in the game's final stages Germany upped the tempo, picked up the pace considerably but then fell disastrously into a hole of their own making. Jerome Boateng, who'd enjoyed one of his better and more committed games for Germany, lunged over zealously into a bad tackle and was sent off. You might have been forgiven for thinking that Germany had seen red such was the ferocity of their response.

The white shirts flooded into the Swedish half like condemned men who'd just been told that their punishment would be a severe one. At this point most of us must have been convinced that Sweden would take up the baton and conduct their very own orchestra. Not so. Sweden instead were, if anything, deeply intimidated by the German surge and dropped right back into their introverted shell.

The match was now well into injury time and the Swedes rightly felt that an injustice had to be righted. How dare they allow their opponents to be lulled into a false sense of security without German permission. The Swedes had been given no authorisation to play for the draw and besides the Germans were still world champions.

Right at the very end, a respectful hush fell over the stadium. The Swedes had given away a terribly rash free kick from way out on the touchline.  A Tony Kroos free kick was just what the doctor had ordered. Kroos had been his usual skilful self and now the spotlight fell on him. The ball was lofted into the Swedish area and after a desperate scramble, Marcos Reus bundled the ball home for Germany's deserved if slightly fortunate winner.

Once again German attention to detail, brilliant planning and relentless perseverance had worked in Germany's favour. The Germans had done it again. Oh, how often have we heard of that one before? Just when you think that that almost Teutonic self righteousness had made sure that Sweden could never stop Germany. English supporters would perhaps believe that familiarity can only breed contempt when the opposition are Germany. But for Sweden this must have felt like the knockout blow to the head where the only reaction can be one of genuine loathing.

And so the world champions were let off the hook when it did look as though they'd made a rod for their own backs. How cliched this contest had now become? Germany had won their first match of this World Cup after Mexico had left them gasping and shocked with a 1-0 defeat last week. Germany are back in World Cup contention and the chances are, will make gentle progress into the knockout round with just a slight gulp of anxiety at the beginning of the tournament.

Back in England some of us were privately hoping that the misfortune that had paid a brief visit to the Germans against Mexico would flare up again. So far this World Cup has given us a very poor and limited Argentina team who really look doomed at the moment, a Brazil who will hopefully give us that traditional mixture of sweet honey and delicious ambrosia, football with a genuine samba beat and a Poland team who had to be the worst ever seen in any World Cup.

For both Spain and France this World Cup could produce any number of plots and sub plots. France are all artistic flourishes and sometimes pretentious posturings while Spain give us Latin lessons, a side of quick witted impulses, wonderfully attractive passing football but every so often given to annoying carelessness and sloppy amateurishness.

The general opinion at the end of this first week of the World Cup is that the standard of football has been excellent at times but fraught with fear at the others. Comparisons with previous World Cups are always odious and the salad days of Beckenbauer, Pele, Cruyff, Tardelli, Rossi, Kempes, Moore, Hurst and Peters are now no more than historic names of the World Cup's gold embossed pomp and pageantry.

The Germans though have proved something we always knew about them. Their renowned powers of stamina, longevity and resilience can never be questioned. We're all aware of their uncanny powers of recovery, that mechanical grinding down of their opponents which they seem to specialise in and then the finishing power up front which almost seems to go without saying. We must hope that within the next couple of weeks nobody mentions penalties and England in the same breath. How the Germans must be rubbing their hands again! Still, there's a long way to go yet and much that can and probably will happen. We can't wait.

Spain and Argentina - the World Cup at its most sublime and shocking.

Spain and Argentina - the World Cup at its most sublime and shocking.

A couple of nights ago the World Cup in Russia presented us with football at its most sublime while last night the World Cup left us feeling distinctly deflated. It is hard to know where this World Cup may be taking us. It could be some Garden of Eden paradise where the roses and begonias always bloom or it may struggle over the half way line before flopping horribly into some very thorny bush full of weeds and thick scrubland.

Yesterday evening Argentina fell desperately short of those sentimental years where everything seemed to go right, the football was beautifully designed and furnished with the finest material and the players came from the best traditions of the tango and the bossa nova. Argentina, it has to be said, were simply dreadful and after promising briefly in the first half, collapsed like a folding deckchair washed out to sea.

Argentina's opponents Croatia tucked into the South Americans ravenously, gorging themselves on the blue and white striped shirts as if attending some bountiful banquet. But perhaps the most desolate figure was once again Lionel Messi, certainly one of the greatest players in the world. Messi didn't quite know where to put his head after Argentina's limp and soulless 1-1 draw in their opening World Cup group match against Iceland.

 Even the likes of Javier Mascherano and Manchester City's viperish striker Sergio Aguero had nothing in their box of tricks to baffle a Croatia side driven forward by the inspirational Luka Modric, formerly of Tottenham and now ensconced comfortably as a Champions League winner with Real Madrid.

In the second half though Argentina looked like one of those long distance lorries whose engine may have blown at the wrong time and place. Manchester City's other Premier League victor Nicolas Otamendi seemed off the pace and leggy, perhaps emotionally exhausted by another gruelling if remarkable season for City. Then there was Marcos Acuna from whom perhaps too much was expected of. Acuna was quick and purposeful but, although oozing composure on the ball, never quite got out of first gear on the night. Enzo Perez was another bright spark for Argentina but by the time Perez clicked Argentina had already switched off completely.

So there we were dearly looking forward to seeing an Argentinian side who genuinely appeared hell bent on re- creating the ticker tape World Cup winning heroics of 1978. This time there were no players like Daniel Passarella, Rene Houseman. Osvaldo Ardiles, Ricky Villa, Mario Kempes and Leopoldo Luque to enthrall a fiercely nationalistic Argentina crowd whose World Cup Final victory against Holland may never be forgotten in Buenos Aires.

Earlier on in the week Spain and Iran fought out one of those very low scoring games that, to the outsider, might have been regarded as disappointing. But there was never any point during the game when Spain seemed remotely troubled by Iran. Here was a short passing masterclass from Spain that was not only a pleasure to watch but a salutary lesson in the arts and crafts of the Beautiful Game.

At times it was rather like watching Brazil 1970 when Pele, Jairzinho and Rivelino seemed to baffle their opposition with beautifully embroidered attacking tapestries. There did seem to be a blizzard of passes, a torrent of passes sweeping and flooding over an Iranian defence who didn't quite know which way to look or go.

 The circles were ever increasing as the educated feet of Isco, Andres Iniesta, Sergio Busquets, the evergreen Manchester City midfield string puller David Silva, the adventurous Sergio Ramos wove together their patterns and imposed those profound thought processes on the game.  This was the Spain that still gave tantalising glimpses of what could be as the tournament progresses and may yet develop into something much bigger and more important.

Finally, this afternoon Brazil finally delivered on the first part of their ever colourful project. A World Cup without Brazil of course is rather like fish without the chips, bread without butter and all of the ingredients that make them one of the most riveting sides in the history of international football. Brazil are like a permanent art exhibition, more Monet and Matisse than some scribbled drawing on a pavement.

For the first time Philippe Coutinho, the world class Neymar, Firminho of Liverpool, Gabriel Jesus of Manchester City, Miranda, Willian of Chelsea, Marcelo and the hugely entertaining Thiago Silva all gelled, blended, forged together effectively and often quite thoughtfully as indeed they should given our expectations of Brazil at any World Cup.

Once again Brazil looked like a renaissance team, utterly humiliated in their own backyard four years ago by a rampant German side who quite literally cut them in half, bombarded them, dismantling and dismembering Brazil with the kind of 7-1 semi final thrashing that must have left them extremely traumatised for months and years afterwards. But now it's different and four years of course is quite naturally a long time to dwell on the aches, sores and torments that went with the territory at the time.

Brazil beat Costa Rica 2-0 in a not entirely convincing last minute victory but this is still a Brazil side in evolution and transition rather than the finished article. When we think of Brazil we normally think of that romantic age when lovers meet at the top of the Eiffel Tower, a side of fantasy and freedom, of fizzing exuberance and glorious attacking extravagance. You can never tire of watching Brazil because Brazil are Brazil and play the kind of football we all wish we could play, a side of the quickest wits and the simplest of passes.

We are now entering the second week of this World Cup of 2018. So far the good citizens of Volgograd, St Petersburg, Sochi and all have dispelled all those deep seated notions and stereotypes of a Russia that refuses to smile. Russia, to all outward appearances, looks as if it's having a ball, enjoying itself hugely. So far the wonderful party is in full swing, the caviar is always available and Russian high society may well be pinching itself.

Of course there was that very dark episode in Salisbury where a perfectly innocent father and daughter were attacked with what could have been a potentially lethal poison. Then there was the messy aftermath followed by political hostility between Russia and Britain that thankfully blew over. But we're all friends now. Relationships have been repaired and Gareth Southgate's England are going where few dare to tread. This is time for shaking diplomatic hands and trying to put the worst behind us.

So here we are on the verge of week two and the World Cup is about to pause for breath. The usual suspects are flexing their muscles while others whose footballing traditions may stretch back much further in time are being severely examined and tested to the limit. Brazil could still provide us with their usual element of surprise and the unexpected while their South American neighbours Argentina still look edgy, nervous, temperamental and underwhelmed.

As for Spain and France the World Cup is very much part of an artistic movement where style and sophistication meet up once again for a neighbourly argument over the garden fence. Art was never a case of the classic baroque or rococo period and if either the Spanish or French believe this to be the case then they may be seriously deluded.

Oh well! Every England and their fans will now be turning their thoughts to Sunday and Panama neither of whom would ever ordinarily crop up in discussion over the Sunday roast or any dinner party for that matter. But it is England against Panama, a game that probably sounds like the greatest mismatch of all time. Still, there was Morocco in the 1986 World Cup, Algeria in the 2010 World Cup, the USA in the 1950 World Cup and of course there was Iceland in Euro 2016. So who are we to assume anything? The World Cup in Russia is slowly warming up and may yet come to the boil.  It is time to keep the faith in England and Gareth Southgate. Time for those three lions to roar again.