'Tis the morning after the night before, as we bask in the pool of defeat with dreams of floating in a red, white and blue sea of victory now but a vivid pipe dream.

Councils and community groups are frantically calling up the big screen hire companies as they desperately try to cancel their Sunday afternoon booking and sweet talk back the deposit.

True to form, despite glorious failure, England are out of the World Cup. This morning however it feels different to the past. Despite premonitions of impending doom brought about by those who seek notoriety through violence, we have seen little sign of trouble throughout the six games. The worst it got was last night where, in the hostelry I frequented, a drunken buffoon who misread the situation threw half his pint over the big screen after the technically superior Croatians had scored the decisive goal. He was roundly booed and sat sullen with his remaining Fosters until the final whistle.

There was no trouble either during or after the game, nor in Russia either by all accounts. Yes, the media jumped on a few overexcited fans who chose, bizarrely, to celebrate on top of a London Ambulance vehicle, but, although unsavoury, this can be put down to the over exuberance of youth with perms and not violent inner city firms.

As the final whistle tolled, putting our dreams to bed for another prolonged sleep, we all applauded the team, shrugged our shoulders, ordered a Jack Daniels for the road and made our way home with fractured, not shattered, dreams.

This was different to 1990 or 1996. Those teams had star players such as Gazza, Shearer and the ilk. These were players who could have strolled, at their peak, into any club side in the world. The current incarnation had no such star quality and that includes Kane. The jury has been out since he burst onto the scene a couple of years ago and, despite impressive goal returns, he was found wanting this time out at the very highest level. A very good player, undoubtedly, but he will not be classed as one of the greats, despite no doubt scooping the Golden Boot. This is more down to three penalties and a lucky deflection off his heel bumping his true tally of two up to six.

In bygone days the expectation was to win or reach the final. 2018 has seen a largely unloved manager pre-tournament, who has now catapulted himself into the hearts of every Englishperson through his style, grace, humility and calmness under pressure. He has exuded class at every turn and given the waistcoat industry a shot in the arm. If only we had had more of the same during the dark days of McLaren and Capello, managers who had the playing talent at their disposal, but fell short at every turn.

This team battled. They showed spirit, respect for their opposition and the shirt, as well as copious lashings of desire. They seemed, at last, to appreciate how lucky they were, fulfilling every young child’s dream of having a shot, while being handsomely recompensed. They applauded the travelling support after every game and went into the stands to speak to those spending their cash to follow them around the darkest reaches of Putin’s Russia. They played above their station and, although disappointed at missing a glorious opportunity to reach our second ever final, there is no shame in the manner of their defeat. This was not a crushing beating. There was no Eddie the Eagle style mockery or getting-hammered-by-the-Germans zeitgeist. This was close, competitive and the Croatians proved themselves to be the one per centers, but, on another day, it could just as easily have been us. We should be proud compatriots today until normal service resumes next month, when United fans will start shouting abuse at the Spurs players they supported a few weeks previously.

As for pride: It’s back. I will proudly wear my England shirt socially in weeks to come until, inevitably, my wife admonishes me for attiring myself in Chav chic.

For now though, we should bask in the setting sun of valiant defeat and encourage more of the same. Expectation levels will, no doubt, be so much higher for the 2020 Euros. All we require for is one big day out in our lifetime. It’s not much to ask for: a gathering of friends and family as we watch England contest a final. Alas, the 52 years of hurt continues. I am hoping it happens in my lifetime but if not, I will always have memories of the year we finally felt proud of our country as we invested in our first ever waistcoats.