AN interesting thing about years of hurt and all those oh-so-nears. When the lyrics to the great and apparently inexhaustible Three Lions were written, England had played only seven proper tournaments since they’d actually won the World Cup. Just one of those had been anything close to a near-miss.
That history of glorious, thwarted potency has always been a bit contrived. It is football’s version of another delicious English vice, the reverence for beautiful failure, decayed glory, lost Albions.
At times it feels as though more creative energy has been poured into deconstructions of why England aren’t the very best, than into making sure they’re good enough. We were always nearly complete, always nearly so sweet. And nothing has ever been whiter than the Queen’s white gloves.
Except it seems that other stories are also possible now. The best part of England’s brilliantly focused 4-0 defeat of Ukraine – or
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