Furrowed brows at half-time. Old friends raised knowing eyebrows and exhaled. The concourse of the Ahmad Bin Ali Stadium was the kind of place you bumped into friends from school you hadn’t seen for years, but everyone skipped pleasantries to go straight to the important stuff: “Why wasn’t Kieffer playing? Don’t we miss Joe Allen in midfield? Oh, you’ve left the DVLA to start your own business and you’ve just had twins? Nice one.”
Wales were 1-0 down and had been dreadful, an uncharacteristically poor performance after a strange day. Maybe this is what World Cups are always like. I had nothing to go on.
