We Brits are always the best at messing things up

It’s the weekend of the finals, although tonight’s fixture is a bit of a joke – not a proper football match. The pointless clash between the two ‘suicidal’ national teams from the World Cup semi-finals will take place at Hard Rock Stadium in Miami, but I think I’ll opt instead for a replay of Excelsior v De Graafschap, a Dutch women’s football friendly taking place at lunchtime. The disappointment of England being knocked out by a team of shorter players, thanks to a German manager famous for losing important matches in the 90th minute, will linger for a long time: just like politicians who promise change and then do exactly the same as those who came before them,

Tuchel had led us to believe that, at last, the Three Lions would no longer crumble at the decisive moment (or ‘the climax’, as Ranucci would put it). Instead, against Argentina we witnessed the same pattern as against you at the Euros and against Croatia in 2022: we take the lead, we lose our composure, we sit back in defence hoping the opposition will forget that the rule of the tournament is to win to avoid elimination.

This meant that the veteran South American number 10, who had been strolling about for 80 minutes, found the time and the means to provide two assists whilst everything around him seemed to be in slow motion and the defenders in white shirts were less mobile than the dummies used for practising free-kicks in training. There is character and team spirit, but conviction is lacking. In short, I will not be watching the third-place play-off, but I will make myself sit in front of the screen for Spain v Argentina, hoping that the Invencible Armada will scupper the plans of the FIFA executives, who, as Mick Hume wrote in Spiked, are just waiting to hand the trophy to Messi as if it were a gold watch to mark his retirement. I will watch it because, when the final whistle blows, I will finally be able to start the countdown to the start of the Premier League, even if there is still a month to go: I will celebrate by diving back into the beer, avoiding any comment on what Messi may or may not have done, and hoping that Chelsea sell Enzo Fernández to some Saudi Arabian club.

And of course I’ll be watching the final, raising a glass to the choice of referee, the Slovenian Slavko Vincic: certainly not the best around, but as my friend Quarantino Fox tells me, “he’s tall and well-built, and that makes all the difference these days”; and he’s European, so better than 90 per cent of the other referees seen at the World Cup. Above all, six years ago he was arrested in Bosnia during an orgy at a ranch where drugs and weapons were also found. At last, an appointment worthy of Messi and his team-mates.