German will be pilloried for his semi-final decisions but that is to ignore the fact English football culture is not set up to win major tournaments

“I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.”

As England’s World Cup hopes recede into another spell of heartache, let down in Atlanta by the latest handsome, cadaverous Mr Right, a little sadder, not much wiser, sunburnt, broke, eating Jägerbomb ice cream out of the tub with a spoon, this is a good moment to seek some classic New York romcom solace. Meg Ryan was right. Don’t be sad that it’s over. Be incredibly angry and frustrated on the radio that it happened at all.

The Messi arc reaches a decisive point in Atlanta – passage to a third final or an exit to test the limits of Argentina’s love for their unassuming athlete-genius

Wednesday night, Atlanta Stadium, 101 games down, three left to play, and finally it makes sense. Bring on The Countdown, that moment just before kick-off in every one of those quietly fascinating World Cup matches where suddenly the world’s most excited man is bellowing over the PA system in a state of outraged, crowing transport, like the last voice you’ll ever hear before the American century explodes in a ball of inanity, fried chicken and porn.

“NAYYYN!! EEEIGHYYT!! SEEEVEERRN!! …” the world’s most excited man shouts, prelude to some cautious rolling possession, maybe an early back-pass, and an agreeable reminder that the game itself will not be stage managed. You want quiet bathos? This World Cup will deliver the greatest goddam quiet bathos the galaxy has ever seen.