The jolly ride for England comes to a sorry end in Georgia

For a nation that once convinced the world that football was invented solely for English enjoyment, the Three Lions have become the game’s greatest custodians of glorious disappointment.

Every four years, hope is carefully polished, expectation is inflated to dangerous levels, and before anyone can finish singing It’s Coming Home, England finds another imaginative way of proving that perhaps football merely borrowed the passport before catching the next flight elsewhere.

It has now been sixty years since England last lifted the FIFA World Cup. Or should that be sixty years since they were awarded it?

The debate over Geoff Hurst’s famous goal against West Germany in the 1966 final remains football’s version of the Loch Ness Monster. Some swear the ball crossed the line.

Others insist it merely went sightseeing before bouncing back into play. Goal-line technology did not exist then, only enthusiastic officials and patriotic celebrations.

Had that goal been ruled out, who knows? England’s only World Cup triumph might still be wandering around looking for a convincing replay.

Since then, however, the football gods have developed a wicked sense of humour.

Every tournament begins with England carrying enough optimism to power the National Grid. Every tournament ends with pubs running out of tissues instead of beer.

Penalty shoot-outs, golden generations, tactical revolutions, teenage sensations and expensive superstars have all auditioned for the role of England’s long-awaited saviour. None have lasted beyond the closing credits.

This World Cup looked different. England marched confidently into the semifinals, dispatching opponents with purpose and dreaming once again of ending six decades of yearning.

British newspapers dusted off the familiar headlines. Fans dared to whisper those three dangerous words: “It’s coming home.”

Unfortunately, the football gods overheard.

We are allowed to predict the outcome of every match, aren’t we? Well, its been a jolly good ride but unfortunately it ends in the State of Georgia in the city of Atlanta on Wednesday evening, a city that incidentally played a significant part in the 1960’s Civil Rights Movement.

Legend has it they (football gods) sardonically glanced at one another, struggled to suppress a laugh and politely announced, “They’ve had a lovely journey, but this is where the ride ends.”

Go ahead, call me a spoil sport or a “good for nothing old fart,” I await some hate mail but its okay, everyone is allowed to vent but I maintain that tears will flow freely from Atlanta right back to London at the end of the match.