Yesterday was supposed to be the day that football finally came home. We’d waltzed to the final and the stage was set perfectly for England to win their first trophy in over fifty years.

Some will argue that putting a flaming rocket up my chuff before the game even began was hubris on my part. But (and it’s a big but) I can’t tell you how right it felt, especially when Luke Shaw scored after just two minutes.

I could still feel my ring burning from the flare and it was burning with pride as England dominated the first thirty-five minutes of the game.

Then things began to change.

The burning became the sting of shame as Italy fought and clawed their way back into the game. When their goal finally came, it seemed inevitable – as did what was to come.

After such a bright start to the day, Italy won on penalties and all of my hopes and dreams were crushed like a broken pint glass underfoot.

How could England do this to me after I served them so well? I didn’t put a flare up my arse for us to lose on penalties.

I keep asking myself, what more could I have done? Would two flares up my arse have done the trick? Or would I have needed three flares to match the three lions on my shirt?

We’ll be back though and we’ll be better prepared and more experience – me and my arse.