The disorder at Wembley before the final kicked off felt like an extension, rather than a mutation, of the mood of the day
Look at the night, and it don’t seem so lonely. The last Bakerloo Line train heading south from Wembley terminates at Charing Cross, and so we all traipse up the steps and into the wilds of Trafalgar Square, where all is quiet apart from the shuffle of feet and the occasional crunch of litter underfoot. London has been subsumed by a great flood, one that deposited all the cans and bottles onto the streets and then receded whence it came.
A sad, gloopy rain has set in. The odd chorus of Sweet Caroline breaks out, but meekly and without conviction. The booze has run out and the cocaine has worn off. It is 1am, the Euros are over and England is not hateful or vengeful or resentful. England is tired.
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