The parellels are uncanny.
A little more than four years ago, England prepared for their first major tournament after the gargantuan embarrassment of Euro 2016. An abject humiliation to Iceland in the first knockout round marked a low point in the nation’s footballing fortunes, and by coming just a few days after a wave of arrogant, myopic hysteria delivered the UK’s exit from the European Union, England absorbed an inevitable torrent of schadenfreude from all corners of the continent. Hodgson gave way to Allardyce, who was himself replaced – after a comically short tenure – by some new young fella for whom not much was expected. Heading into Russia 2018, England’s form had been unspectacular. Optimism was in very short supply.
Fast forward to the present day, and not much has changed. England are heading into their first major tournament since the heartbreak and stupidity of Euro 2020. Whilst the team itself excelled, this time the embarrassment came from the stands, as hundreds of violent idiots spoiled the final by smashing their way into Wembley. The racist abuse slung at those that missed penalties in the shootout loss to Italy overshadowed the meaningful improvement on the pitch, and once again made England a laughing stock. The chaos engulfing the nation has yet to subside: at No. 10 Johnson gave way to Truss, who is herself being replaced – after a comically short tenure – by some new young fella for whom not much is expected. Heading into Qatar 2022, England’s form has been worse than unspectacular. They never did restock that optimism.
You know where I’m going with this, though, right? You surely remember 2018, how langour gave way to exhilaration with England’s dizzy, euphoric run to the semi-finals. You remember the (temporary) lifting of the penalty shoot out curse, Gareth’s redemption, Harry Kane’s golden touch, that unusual feeling of national unity, an uneasy but intoxicating hope, the heartbreak followed by pride, all occuring during a decent f**king English summer for once. In a sporting context, I consider those four weeks to be among the most energising and celebratory of my young life. I didn’t want it to end.
Could it happen again? Well, for one thing, thanks to some money-hungry FIFA d*ckheads we won’t get another go at watching the tournament sat in fan parks basking in glorious summer sunshine. Instead we’ll have to do this indoors, or in scarves and mittens. But weather aside, could history repeat itself? Could England spring another beautiful surprise and make a decent fist of this World Cup campaign?
Umm… smart money’s on no.
Despite enjoying our quadrennial dose of jammy good fortune in the group draw, England don’t currently have all that much to shout about. We appear to possess only a meagre handful of standout, in-form assets; Harry Kane is still without a partner – or even an understudy – that’s tried and tested at the required level; Phil Foden and Jude Bellingham are both in good nick, but neither are drowning in international experience; our core of Rice, Sterling, Mount, and Saka have been inconsistent at best this season; and Kieran Trippier aside we lack any serious quality of any kind in defence. It’s not desperate, but it’s also not exactly inspiring.
This is perhaps a harsh assessment. With the frenzied deluge of football that came with the one-two punch of clearing last season’s Covid-inspired fixture backlog, and churning through gameweeks ahead of a six-week World Cup break, England’s players haven’t had many opportunities to gel in 2022. The Nations League had to make do as their proving ground, and four of the six matches came in the space of just ten June days, at the tail end of an exhausting campaign. Four English clubs played in European semi-finals only weeks prior, and Trent Alexander-Arnold and Jordan Henderson had appeared in the Champions League final only seven days earlier. It was hard to begrudge their fatigue.
Even so, England had come up short not only against international royalty such as Italy and Germany, but against comparative lightweight Hungary twice, including a 0-4 demolition in Wolverhampton. By the end the tournament three draws and three defeats felt about right. It would be enough for last place, and relegation to League B next time out. Outlook: bleak.
These performances, combined with the unnatural and dispiriting combination of World Cup football and crap weather, has – one month out from what for me is the most significant sporting occasion in my life – left me feeling oddly apathetic, like a jaded adult remembering childhood Christmases. It just doesn’t feel the way it used to.
Then again, I remember feeling this way on the eve of Russia 2018. Weeks later I would find myself sat in a sun-drenched park in Bristol, having paid a fortune for a last-minute flight home from Germany, gnawing off my fingers in agonised anticipation of England’s semi-final appearance against Croatia that evening. As I writhed there, consumed by nerves and pathetically incapable of making even basic non-sports small-talk, I lacked the capacity to reflect on how preposterously unprepared I had been for such a turn of events. This just didn’t seem on the cards.
And so it doesn’t today. But 2018 may have spoiled me. That year, for the first time in my life as a supporter of the England football team my expectations were exceeded. I worry a seed has been planted.
We do have an easy group….
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Twenty-eight days to go…
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… bloody hell.
This is Mad Max’s World Cup Hullabaloo.
Lush Gutters 