The statue of John Betjeman in St Pancras station... The poet could have described our defeat so well. Photograph: Michael Walter/Troika
As my old manager used to say: "If it wasn't for disappointments, I'd have no appointments at all."
Last night's football was one of the most exquisitely bleak entertainment experiences it has ever been my privilege to witness. Far from being disappointed, I found it profound, poetic and elating. Before some pedant points out that football has no place on an arts and entertainment site, I would like to offer the opinion that it wasn't football, it was art. If Gillian Wearing showed it in a gallery it would win the Turner prize hands down.
In a week where English incompetence - have you checked your bank account yet? - and naffness - the Spice Girls at Tesco, I'm a Celebrity ... Get me Out of Here!, the bloody weather, the smoking ban...etc, seemed unsurpassable, our boys have done it again. Picture those simple uncomprehending faces ... you need to draw ... you need to kick the round thing ... no dear, not his head ... goalie, you need to catch the ball, not help it past you. Steve 'bald Rick Astley impersonator' McClaren trying to look purposeful swilling bottled water and wondering if he could just slip away into the rain and catch a bus to Brent Cross ... forever and never come back, and start a new life. The commentary should be released as a CD, with backing from Arvo Part.
"Where is Terry Venables. He's not on the bench when his country needs him." At the start of the second half, we are told that El Tel was up in the royal box - brilliant. For the second half, he sat in-camera looking just like Harold Shand, about to be murdered by the IRA in the closing scene of The Long Good Friday.
The gloom was total, yet delicious. Wet, Wednesday, Wembley, hopes washed away. Did Sir John Betjeman ever write a football poem? I loved the shot of Brian Barwick, ovoid, toothbrush-moustached, sitting with - but not too close to - Prince William. The royal box seems to have been modelled on the seating booth from a 1970's Berni Inn - perhaps Terry Vebables was enjoying steak and chips followed by Irish coffee for the first 45 minutes.
Anyway, it's all very disappointing if you like football, but from events like this beauty emerges. We haven't had a good soul-destroying, spirit-crushing Joy Division of a night like this for ages. Savour it. Remember the rain, the pitch, the Croatians dancing round us like we were Skegness donkeys (job opportunity for Mr McC). Imagine if you'd actually been to the stadium- the north circular, the jams, the soaking, the prices, the abject, dismal, wretched, abysmal confirmation. This is England. Yep - coming off the anti-depressants has turned me into a new man.
