The morning after the night before. The adrenaline that carried England fans through 90 torturous minutes has been replaced by that knot in the gut and a foggy feeling, that sensation of wondering exactly what happened last night, like shame creeping through a hangover.
We have been to this place before, of course. We recognise the walls of this particular well. England exiting the World Cup in painful, heartbreaking fashion is a near-quadrennial ritual, a cultural tradition like Sunday roasts or those big hats beefeaters wear. Love those. There is little choice but to accept the misery, embrace the sorrow, let it wash over you.
