The half-time whistle feels like an act of mercy. As Norway’s traumatised players sprint down the tunnel towards the four solid walls of the dressing room, England saunter off the turf with broad smiles, trying and failing to pretend this is still a meaningful contest.
On the sidelines, the St John’s Ambulance staff are chuckling behind their masks. In the stands, mouths are dropping agape and there is simply not enough air in the stadium to fill them. Up in the gantry, holding a BBC microphone, Jonas Eidevall looks utterly stunned, like he’s just seen a sheep doing geometry. The mood is giddy, bordering on surreal, bordering on delirious.
