The Warm-Up: Allez les Bleus! (Part Deux)

So, after 32 days of own goals, set pieces, lovely kits, Ally McCoist but, first, Jon Champion, extremely overhead camera angles, Peter Drury, Harry Maguire’s massive head, Neymar rolling around, beer being chucked around in converted warehouses, Roy Keane being unimpressed, some healthy dollops of s***housery, Americans feeling left out, Russia giving Saudi Arabia an opening-day pasting for our entertainment, waistcoat mania, Gianni Infantino sympathetically shrugging “that’s football!” to whichever head of state’s country has just conceded a goal, Panama’s…enthusiastic man-marking, the lovely Telstar match ball (even the knockout-stage version), that Jordan Pickford save against Colombia, Japan going 2-0 up against Belgium, Ally McCoist, Germany going out in desperate fashion in the group stages, Spain 3 Portugal 3, that Ever Banega pass, that Lionel Messi first touch, and second touch, Costa Rica having a player called “Ian Smith”, Mexico becoming everyone’s second favourite team for a bit, Marcos Rojo against Nigeria, Philippe Coutinho’s goal against Switzerland, Peru’s counter-attacks, Diego Godin, Eden Hazard completing 804 more dribbles than everyone else combined, Ally McCoist, constant reminder of Iceland’s population, that bit when Ronaldo was waiting to see if he was about to be booked against Iran, Big Artem Dzyuba having 32 goals in the Championship written all over him, Andreas Grangvist’s penalties, FIFA fining anyone who didn’t breathe their oxygen from the Official World Cup Oxygen Supplier™, that incredible BBC montage the other day, Patrice Evra clapping at Eni Aluko like a bit of an idiot, people getting very hasty tattoos, Danny Makkelie, Jonathan bloody Pearce, ITV’s giant windows, Google Translate, Ally McCoist, overanalysing the lyrics of “Three Lions”, Gabriel Clarke and the mood in the England camp, Roberto Martinez coming within a whisker of a World Cup final, extra time “beckoning”, penalties “looming”, rest days (urgh), Edinson Cavani scoring with his chin, 45-year-old Essam El-Hadary, England scoring six, Japan’s offside trap, Ally McCoist, exposed teamsheets, Jorge Sampaoli looking lost, that bloke who just casually lit a cigarette by setting his wallet on fire during Iran vs Spain, Gareth Southgate needing just one day to recover from a dislocated shoulder, John Terry watching without volume, Mel from Mel and Sue, TRENT SAINSBURY, Ally McCoist, Peru’s entire population flying over to Moscow for a week, Ryan Giggs being the least excited about a World Cup it is humanly possible to be, Fortnite celebrations, wallcharts, sweepstakes and Nestor Pitana’s combover…France have won the World Cup.

Since it was a Frenchman, Jules Rimet, who inaugurated the idea of a “World Cup”, perhaps football is coming home after all.

They weren’t the best team in the tournament – on paper or grass – but they were the most gutsy by a mile. After sailing through the group stage, they then came from behind three times in the knockouts, went to extra time three times, penalties twice and ended England’s increasingly delirious World Cup fever dream.

Luka Modric – the player of the tournament – managed to squeeze out of every tiny space he found himself in, Mario Mandzukic proved once again that he’s a striker’s striker (let’s ignore the fact that he scored the first-ever World Cup final own goal), Šime Vrsaljko was a revelation on the right flank and Ivan Perisic a relentless surger on the left.

Talk of tiredness before they outran and outfought England was clearly exaggerated, but the same concerns were raised again before the final in Moscow. Adrenaline is a wonderful thing, but so was the running power of N’Golo Kante, Paul Pogba and Kylian Mbappe. That French freshness – thanks to a largely conservative approach to the rest of the tournament, meant they peaked just at the right time.

4-2 is a very acceptable scoreline for any final and, despite the Croatian spirit, France’s young squad of impressive, interesting characters are a worthy bunch of world champions.

Pundits, eh? Thousands of ‘em.

And now they all finally make some sense, thanks to Cassetteboy:

Just before kick-off in Moscow yesterday, the England squad touched down at Birmingham Airport for the lowest of low-key homecomings. Raheem Sterling indulged in a bit of keepy-uppy on the tarmac, Harry Kane shared his pride at securing the Golden Boot (pending any Mbappe heroics) before John Stones took this mature, football-literate New English earnestness a step too far.

“I will watch all the games back in my own time, what we did at both ends of the pitch, because if you don’t score goals you don’t win games and if you don’t keep clean sheets you don’t either,” the masochist said. “That’s the harsh reality of it when you play against the very highest level.”

Watch all those games again? Even the 6-1 against Panama? Don’t do it to yourself, John.

My personal favourite piece of World Cup writing, by George Caulkin of The Times, from all the way back in those innocent days of mid-June. It’s not even about football. It’s about trains.

On this very day, 24 years ago, the sun-drenched football festival that was USA ‘94 was drawing to a close, and Sweden went out with a bang. They secured fourth place by giving the equally popular Bulgarian’s a hammering. Keep an eye out for a brutal Henrik Larsson dummy…

Sod all. World Cup? That’s history. Some domestic skirmishes – Denmark, Sweden, Iceland, y’know…BELARUS – and a handful of very pre-season friendlies (Tavistock AFC vs Cardiff, anyone?) are all you’ve got.