Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. What on earth was that all about? I make no secret of the fact that I'm Scottish, but I have lived in England for well over half my lifetime so far, and think I have finally reached a point where I can watch an England game without fervently wanting them to lose, but I found this game hugely entertaining.
Not because of the result, because I find it sad, even chilling, that football in these islands has fallen behind the rest of the world to such an extent that not one of the five countries attempting to do so has qualified. But because of (a) the high quality of much of the Croatia team's ball skills and (b) the belated recognition south of Hadrian's wall, and east of Offa's Dyke, that the England international team is not remotely as good as the endless hype would have it.
One fellow Scottish fan posted in another place a comment asking: Can you remember when English journalists used to make fun of Scottish goalkeepers? And you have to admit, that's a fair point. Any defence asked to choose between Paul Robinson, Scott Carson and Mark James as their last line of defence, would surely react like the proverbial Irishman offered the choice of three shovels, and invited to take his pick.
I grew up with tales of England 9, Scotland 3, lambasting the unfortunate Frank Haffey. I sat and watched the telly in horror as England put five past Scotland at Wembley in the mid-70s, when, I think, it was Stewart Kennedy on the receiving end. But I have NEVER seen such howlers as that committed by Carson for the opening goal against Croatia; it beat even Robinson's moment of madness that gave Croatia the points in the first match between the two.
The quality of the football, though, that Croatia displayed for the second, was sublime, chust sublime, as Para Handy would have said. They fully deserved their lead, and at one point I began to wonder if Steve McLaren might make history by being the first England manager to be sacked DURING a game. I could easily visualise a situation in which he was pushed to one side at half-time, told to sit down and shut up, while Terry Venables tried to salvage something from the wreckage. I wonder if he did, and if so, will we ever know? The code of omerta that supposedly operates to keep tales of what went on inside the dressing room stay inside the dressing room, is easily broken, if the incentives are right.
Whatever happened, it did almost work, although the penalty awarded for England's opening goal has to be one of the softest ever. It was so soft that you could almost hear a senior UEFA official bellowing into the referee's earpiece: ENGLAND MUST QUALIFY IN THE INTEREST OF TV VIEWING FIGURES AND MONEY NEXT SUMMER; FIND A WAY TO KICK-START A RECOVERY!
Hats off to David Beckham, though. He might be finished, but he conjured up one last pinpoint accurate cross. And hats off to Peter Crouch, maligned elsewhere on this site. Could this finally be the game in which he came of age, in international footballing terms? His goal was magnificent; there is no other word for it.
But the effort involved in clawing themselves back into contention seemed to leave the England players exhausted, and unsure what to do next. It was still a surprise when Croatia scored a winner, but surely no great shock. When England can field a team of first choice players, they can arguably give most countries a run for their money. But I have been saying for several years there is no strength in depth, and this game hammered that point home. There were players in that team and on the bench whose names and faces meant nothing to me, and I don't think that has ever happened before.
Even the so-called big names still on display let themselves down. Sol Campbell's legs have gone. Frank Lampard looks increasingly like Frank Spencer in a football strip. And if I were a Liverpool fan, I'd be worried about the way in which Steven Gerrard's game is not developing and maturing. As he approaches what should be the peak of his career, he is doing what he has done since he first burst onto the scene, running around a lot in the middle of the park, but to less and less effect (incidentally, the sight of his diving to try and con the referee, the way he does so often in English league football, was risible, if not embarrassing).
By now he should be dominating games week in, week out, the way he would surely be doing had he, whisper it gently, maybe joined Manchester United, and linked up with a coach who believed in him.
Shaun Wright-Phillips is simply too small for top-level football, and is repeatedly shrugged off the ball. And he can't cross. Joe Cole is a player who contributes little or nothing to the team. Beckham is finished; his engine has blown up at 100mph in the outside lane of the M25 but he refuses to accept the fact. Then again, he has been playing for England when less than half-fit since the World Cup in 2002. Micah Richards' potential seems to diminish with every outing. The lad Lescot looks as if he should be in Star Trek: The Next Generation, as a stunt double for Lieutenant Worf, rather than at the heart of the England team's back four. Wayne Bridge is just not an international footballer.
Where now for England? Lord knows. Every failure down the decades has been met with the stubborn insistence that England's players are the best in the world. Maybe if the footballing community finally acknowledges that that is not the case, and that the pool of talent from which England can recruit is becoming narrower and shallower each season, something might happen.
In the meantime, I'll carry on watching. Never mind the football, it's the sheer entertainment value. I don't think I have laughed so much since I first saw Charlie Chaplin, the Keystone Cops, and Buster Keaton.
