“Stop the boats, Nigel Farage,” sing a group of England fans as they step out of Dortmund station. No, that’s not it. Too mean-spirited, too fringe. Maybe it’s The Killers, screening the last few minutes of the semi-final at their London concert, and then launching straight into Mr Brightside after the final whistle. No, too contrived. Maybe it’s Alfie Moon and Martin Fowler discussing Ollie Watkins’ winning goal against the Netherlands in a frankly discomforting level of detail on Thursday’s hastily-rewritten episode of EastEnders. No, too try-hard. Maybe it’s a £7 pint spinning through the air at a branded leisure park, showering rows of clammy young people with droplets of tepid Madri. Too cliched?
But then perhaps this is the defining quality of English football mania: there isn’t one. No one motif can ever hope to express this chaotic, snowballing tale of bemused delight, uncaged euphoria, wry smirks and cocaine-flecked gums. No one image can capture the unique blend of ferment and foreboding, exclamation mark and question mark, tub-thumping and navel-gazing, that accompanies England on their passage to any major tournament final. Is this brilliant? This is brilliant! Is this fun? This is fun! Nobody really knows how we got here. Nobody knows what happens next. Nobody – and I mean nobody – has the faintest idea what any of this means. Welcome to Spain v England, the final of Euro 2024.
