Watching England play is always agony. Tonight was no exception. The Three Lions have this uncanny knack of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. This tournament has been strange. None of the inflated sense of unrealistic expectation. We’ll be fortunate to reach the quarter finals. Then we’ll be toast. In previous tournaments almost every car has been bedecked with the flag of St. George. But not this year.
Tonight the skies have been silvery and black. A scudding wind. At half time I dived in my car to the local store. There are no cars around and the streets are empty. A ghost town. The road seems to absorb the drama going on in the sky. You can sense people in the bars drinking yellow beer and holding their breaths. A collective will-power despite the poor odds. A collective energy willing victory. We take football very seriously in this country.
I parked my car and stood in the street. Felt the town holding its breath. The union jacks still left hanging in the streets from the jubilee. They flap in the breeze and slap like cryptic wings. A frozen moment. Eerie and strange and it feels like time has stood still.