Cod Almighty | Diary

Rubbish England, no ambishun!!!1

16 July 2026

Everyone seems to know the score. They’ve seen it all before, they just know, they’re so sure; that England are gonna throw it away, gonna blow it away, but I know they can play.

And play we did! Right up until we grabbed a goal. What happened after that, well, everyone saw. Negative substitutions for a negative nation. Sit in and hold on against a team we’d exposed as being nothing more than ordinary with one extraordinary player. We managed the match beautifully until we got hold of the moment we desired. And then Thomas inexplicably tanked. He subbed James and Gordon, we lost our engine, and the team simply ran out of steam.

If (or when) they make a documentary about that match to stir the emotions ahead of future tournaments, a bit of Starr quality for the narration would be appropriate.

There’s nothing more your West Yorkshire Diary can add to the conversation that hasn’t already been said, really. Teams usually get what they deserve in the end, and England absolutely got what they deserved — just as Town did in the play-offs. This is sport. It’s harsh, it’s unforgiving, it’s painful. It’s also amazing, sometimes.

My earliest World Cup memory is England beating Egypt in 1990. My dad had a portable radio pinned to his ear as we walked round the grounds of Normanby Hall. I remember David Platt hooking the ball home late in the evening against Belgium, and I enjoyed the novelty of us being given two penalties in our quarter final tie against Cameroon. I was allowed to stay up late to watch our semi-final against West Germany.

The nature of the defeat felt brutal. We’d been in this amazing competition that had got even my grandma excited for weeks, and then it was done. It was over. One moment we were on the cusp of winning, and the next we were out.

I waited for a second chance, a reprieve, something, anything! But I got nothing. It’s a bit like reading a good book and it suddenly ending — with no suggestion that the final dozen pages will be completely blank.

My son is the same age I was when I watched Italia ’90. Like me back then, he hadn’t been hurt before. His hope and enthusiasm went unchecked; he had no fear and truly believed we’d go on and win the game (and probably the tournament). That the knockout blow came so late in the game was particularly cruel and it hit him hard.

Not that he accepted my reasoning last night (not that I expected him to) but sport is nothing without disappointment. We need it. It’s fuel for the future. UTM!