It's Not Coming Home

I watched all the England World Cup matches. And suffered through all of them.

Like I’ve been doing since the early Seventies.

Mary doesn’t get it.

—Why worry about it? It’s a game.

—It’s more than that.

—How?

—It’s England.

—Okay, but it’s still a game.

—I know, but it’s more than that—

—It’s 22 young millionaires in bright socks kicking a ball around.

—I know. But for England.

I get an eye roll. And a head shake. Then a look reserved by all women. The one they give to young children asking for more sweets. And for men being daft.

I thought about trying to explain it. But I can’t. It’s a feeling. A burning desire. National pride. A sense of belonging. Something like that.

But anyway. Another World Cup. More disappointment. More “if only” and “there’s always next time”.

I remember when England won the rugby World Cup. What a feeling. The feeling lingered for days afterwards. Weeks. Bloody marvellous.

—What are you grinning at?

—Ah, thinking, love.

—about?

—We won the World Cup!

—That was a month ago.

—I know, but still…

Another Mary eye roll. I think she perfected the technique back then. In 2003.

Me? I still haven’t learned how to get over the disappointment of a lost game. A feeling that started in 1973.

Fast forward to now, 2026. Another year football is not making its way home.

Only 693 days to the next Euros.