Thanks to Tuchel, I must now endure Adani ranting about God, country and Messi

Please allow me to remain in the alcohol-induced coma I entered on Wednesday evening, from which I have no intention of recovering. The experience was a nightmare – no, worse than that, it was all real. Argentina advanced to the final after delivering blows to the head and kicks from behind – all of which went unpunished by the referee whom Infantino is so fond of – but England, having fallen headlong into the South Americans’ boorish provocation, sought and found their own downfall with embarrassing tenacity. The only technical and tactical analysis of the match that can be made is this: Thomas Tuchel is a fool. I also hope he returns to Germany, as I would prefer never to see this “junior Massimiliano Allegri” set foot on English soil again – the man who had the brilliant idea of shutting the team up in defence after taking the lead. Argentina’s defence is as soft as marzipan, but if you let them have the ball, sooner or later Messi’ll have your arse, to stick to technical and tactical terms. That’s exactly what happened, and the most regrettable aspect is hearing those pampered grills harping on about the Falklands nonsense, and those Infantini-style journalists lecturing Bellingham for giving an Argentine substitute a light pat on the head at the end of the match, when the only thing he should have done was hit him harder with his fist, exactly as Enzo Fernández did during the match (in that case, the journalists all kept quiet, of course; in fact, they were all praising the ‘garra’ and ‘tough play’ – you sexists, that’s what you are).

To those who believe that, with so many stars on the pitch, the manager is almost superfluous, I recommend watching the semi-final from the other night again, when the defensive substitutes, with the score at 1–0, were shouting “bus”, and despite the lanky lads fielded for their heading ability, it was the smaller players from Buenos Aires and the surrounding area who kept getting the better of them. Now we’re in for more days of rhetorical nonsense about Messi ‘painting’ football, Lautaro’s football boots gifted by his dad, a few anecdotes about sipping mate with his grandmother from the Pampas who used to tell her grandson, ‘one day you’ll play in the World Cup’ and – but that’s your problem – a whole load of rubbish from Lele Adani about God, the homeland, myth, legend and the Albiceleste’s destiny, along with AI-generated images showing Maradona and Pope Francis celebrating together in Heaven (as if…).

The real anxiety now will be playing the ‘third-place play-off’ against France. Saturday’s match will be a meaningless affair between two dejected sides, with us English now weighed down by the burden of missed opportunities and Mbappé increasingly aware that he has squandered his big chance: at the next World Cup, the Frenchman will be 31, and given that he doesn’t play from a standing start like Messi, it’s not certain he’ll still have the explosive power he has now to lead a national team – which is certainly very strong, but which, at the end of the day, has won just one trophy in the last 27 years – to further success. And who knows where 37-year-old Harry Kane will be in 2030, meanwhile, as he has still been missing in action since Wednesday evening.

Now I’ve got to get rid of the brandy and stock up on sangria. Come on, Spain.