How vociferously are you allowed to celebrate a goal as a 30-year-old? This was the only thing that tempered my jubilation on 30 June 2024, a moral quandary amid the elation, the beer sweat, the tears.
As I dragged my heavy legs away from the Greenwich beer garden which that day became a golden English garden, having inadvertently collided with my friend’s chin while celebrating Jude Bellingham’s brilliant bicycle kick, I was hit with a pang of shame.
