And so, as the bars of Kingston, Tolworth, Surbiton, et al, rang out with the shouts of “Ingerland, Ingerland” on Tuesday evening I could only think of one thing. Why do I put myself through the misery of watching the England football team?

I don’t enjoy it. It’s really not a nice experience watching a team technically inferior to the opposition that can’t pass or control a ball – 1-0 win or no 1-0 win.

I think in the future I might watch a DVD of a bunch of headless chickens running around. Headless chickens running around like, er, the England squad.

Maybe the fact that some of us still believe we can win a major tournament is because we actually won a major trophy once? In the 1960s. In black and white. With jumpers for goalposts, half-time oranges and a magic sponge.

The thing is, as the 1970s came and went, the 1960s were a recent memory and we still had that world champion hangover – despite failing to qualify for the 1974 and 1978 World Cup.

We should have jacked it in then really. But no, we soldiered on – Keegan’s fluffed header, Maradona’s hand of God, etc etc. But maybe it’s all the heartache that makes the few good times so special?

Beating the Dutch 4-1, Owen’s goal against Argentina, Beckham’s penalty against them four years later.

Some journalists talk about England’s workmanlike performance and team spirit. But God they’re boring to watch aren’t they? When are we going to see some skill?

So, anyway, I’d like to see us win a trophy in colour. It looks doubtful with this shower though.

I’m willing to be proved wrong of course.

If we miraculously make the final on July 1, I’ll get hold of an enormous humble pie in the shape of a hat and scoff the lot. It’s not going to happen though. Is it?