A part of us was afraid of what we would find, hundreds of miles down a road that snaked through the World Cup like a main circuit cable. But we went all the same, down walkways and stairwells, past the light and the noise (and the stadium dog), through rooms into other rooms, and finally into a place of revelation, the heart of England’s World Cup darkness.
Inside that final room there is a table. And on the table is a board covered in adverts. And sat in front of that board of adverts is Carl Hopkinson. The horror ... the horror. Also: the fielding coach.
