What now?

Is there a plan in place for it coming home?

So, here we are.

Again.

Feels like only yesterday we all woke up on the morning of the Euro 20201 final, in a rather unusual circumstance. Come 8pm, the final would kick off, with one key difference to every final that came before it.

England were in it.

As we rise this morning, England are, inexplicably, in a European final again.

Curious, to say the least, but these are truly the days of our lives. You don't realise you're in the good old days until they're gone, but I'm pretty sure we're in the good old days.

The key mission? To simply enjoy it. All those years of hurt? You know what, I can take a little bit more for a silver medal. Of the 211 men’s national teams out there, how many of them are lucky enough to make a final, never mind a tournament?

That’s what it is, too; luck. Sheer, unbridled, jammy, slippery luck. If we fell in the Spree, we’d come out with a juicy Bavarian salmon in our mouth.

But who cares? A 96th minute overhead kick? A penalty shootout win? A penalty that was definitely a penalty? Royal flush. Blackjack. Finding a fiver in a suit jacket you haven’t worn for a year. The circumstances of our luck are irrelevant, and if the dice tumble in our favour one more time, nothing else will matter.

That first conscious memory of supporting England; for me the first solid memory was the 2002 World Cup. Becks slotting in a penalty against Argentina. I didn’t fully understand the redemption angle, nor less did I understand why we hated Argentina. I also had no idea why the Irish friend I’d made on holiday wouldn’t support England with me. Ah, childhood innocence.

Then there was the heartbreak. Oh God, that first heartbreak. When you’re 9 years old, of course England can beat Brazil. Then some no-mark called Ronaldinho loops a ball over the head of your hero, David Seaman, and the world turns black. What? WHAT? NO! THIS CAN’T BE!

You’re wearing an England t-shirt under the promise that if England won, you could wear your England stuff all day. You didn’t have your uniform. You’re a sensitive boy so you start crying, unsure whether it’s about the uniform or the match, or a secret third thing you’re yet to work out.

Heartbreak then becomes routine; the biennial arsekicking. It becomes part of your summer; you listen to Three Lions on repeat before the first game, then after 10 minutes you realise you’d rather be doing anything else than watching England play, but at least the pints are flowing.

2010 was a disgrace, 2012 was disappointing, 2014 was depressing, 2016 was dystopian. By the time 2018 came around, I don’t think I gave a shit. I was in a major depressive episode, and England weren’t going to help that. But we made the last 16 again, so that’s something. Least you get one more England game before the inevitable disappointment.

Then, it all changed. The team changed. We won on penalties, we won a quarter final, and the streets of Wolverhampton were shut down as we celebrated getting to a semi final, for the first time in forever.

The heartbreak remained the same, but the hits kept on coming. A semi final here; a final there. We lost on penalties to Italy again, sure, but this time it was through the prism of a European final rather than thumbing in a last 16 performance. It’s a different kind of heartbreak.

Sure, you found your wife in bed with her personal trainer, but you did incredibly well to get her in your bed in the first place, so… it’s not all bad?

It might be the same across Europe, if not the world, but there feels like there’s a certain uniqueness to being an England fan; every tournament, team and manager viewed through the prism of 1966 and a sort of pessimistic optimism embodied in the soul of every England fan.

We’re shit, so unbelievably shit. We’re basically San Marino with worse weather. But we’re so good, so, so good. The boys look together, and if they’re firing, we’re going to walk to the final. But the thing is they’re all a bunch of egotistical crybabies who I assume can’t put the fact they work for different limited companies aside for four weeks. But oh man, this year is our year, unlike the other years we said were our year.

We’re so greatly shit that we might just take the trophy home from the group stages. I’m worried about the team of Sunday league heroes and plumbers, but incredibly bullish about facing the 2002 Brazil team. Simply stick Stonesy on 2012 Messi and he’s out the game, but Garry Goals with his gammy knee and pre-diabetes is going to run rings around Trippier.

So what’s going to happen tonight? Somewhere between an easy 3-0 (Saka, Guehi and errrrrrrrrrrm, Palmer?), and going 5-0 (Olmo x3, Yamal x2) down in the first half. Potentially both. It’s done within 90 and it’s going to penalties.

We’re going to absolutely steamroller these siesta loving bastards, but we’re going to be absolutely steamrollered by these handsome Iberian bastards.

The true England experience is the radical optimism that this is our year, but also knowing we've been hurt before.

For me though? It's time to enjoy it. There's very little we can do to affect the result, and what will be will be.

However, I'm old enough to remember 2002, 2004, 2006… 2008, 2010, 2012, 2014, 2016, so it's just time to smile and reflect on the fact that very few teams make a Euros final, never mind two back to back.

But, that's not to say I don't want us to win. I want us to win more than anything, and the sheer fact of the matter is we've got a 50% chance of doing so.

I don't know what would happen if we do win. Making the semis of the world cup in 2018 was bad enough, but a whole trophy win? It'll be pandemonium.