Things are thrown. A toddler’s shoe. You silly…. Thank goodness he has gone to mattress and can’t see his footwear being launched at a wall or hear the expletives.
Additional time, largely uneventful. We all know what’s coming. The commentators can’t resist, all they wish to discuss is penalties. England’s curse, England Achilles Heel, England’s demise. They’re coming. Penalties are coming.
We all know what occurs. Portugal in 2004, watching on a small transportable telly in the midst of a area at Glastonbury, England lose. Two years later, within the stadium in Gelsenkirchen, stood up, arms across the waist of my fellow journalists behind the Press Field. England lose.
In 2012, one other quarter-final and false hope towards Italy, pretend optimism. We have now been out-played, now we have performed for penalties. We’ll win this time. No, in fact not. As soon as extra, it’s the opposition who rejoice. We’re going residence.
All the recollections are vivid, all of them dangerous, all of them unhappy. I can’t watch this once more. I won’t put myself by this one other time. I say my goodbyes to these watching the sport with me.
My coronary heart already hurts. England’s World Cup is over. I’ll go for walk. I’ll smoke a cigarette regardless that I haven’t smoked for years. So what if it takes a couple of minutes off my life? It’s not like I’ll ever see England win a penalty shootout anyway.