It’s a beautiful thing to watch a football team, particularly such a young, fresh, united one, from your very own nation, winning a match. I like it when they hug, I like it when they run about all pleased – if someone established a branch of mime or contemporary dance based on football players and their physical expression of joy, I would instantly prefer that to all existing mime.
At the same time, if you don’t care especially about the football yet the people around you do, and very deeply – let’s call them your sons or daughters, your spouses, friends, those you like the look of on social media platforms – getting to this point in an international tournament is a bloody nightmare. You can get in all the Doritos you want, and nothing will change the outcome. You spent all that time hoping they would reach the quarter-finals up against someone rubbish, and it was wasted. It was illogical. Rubbish teams get knocked out!
