And so it starts again,
another England world cup campaign, the fourteenth I have invested emotional
capital in, and which, from the 1966 success, have steadily declined from expectation,
confidence, pride and hopefulness to hopelessness and couldn’t care less; with
Big Sam Allardyce now in charge there was little sign of change with Rooney
still sitting deep and doing nothing useful, Kane still isolated up front, Hart
still miskicking, and Sterling still running into blind alleys, so that it was
only when Dele Alli came on (and Slovak captain Skirtl was sent off) that
things looked better and a last gasp goal won the day.
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