Why can’t I get into the Euros?

Football’s coming home. Again. Apparently.

But so far it’s not come to our home. As yet, the Euros have failed to capture imaginations in the Gore household. Even my football-obsessed six-year-old seems relatively non-plussed by the whole affair. He wants to know the scores, but prefers a play in the paddling pool to watching England play.

For my part at least, it’s not through a lack of desire. As a child I loved major football tournaments. I still remember the solventy smell of Panini’s Mexico ’86 stickers as if it were yesterday, and Gazza’s tears four years later were shared by me just as they were by many an England fan.

The last time football ‘came home’, in 1996, was probably the last time I felt truly invested in an international competition. The wonder of that Gascoigne goal against Scotland; England’s rarest of things – a penalty shoot-out win against Spain; and then the despair of the semi-final defeat against Germany. It was awful, but I loved it.

Ever since, I’ve wanted to have that feeling again, of being so into a tournament that I really care about it’s outcome. The closest I’ve come was the last World Cup, when in a pre-Covid era the country seemed to find its mojo and enjoy a collective embrace – till Croatia showed us how far we still had to go if we wanted to win something. (Or even reach a final.)

I hoped that my renewed interest from three years ago would carry through to these delayed Euros. Alas, it has not been so. I’ve yet to watch a match; I don’t have a clue who’s likely to win; and I still don’t know who Bukayo Saka or Kalvin Phillips play for when they’re not on international duty.

Of course, the prospect of a second round battle with our old German chums is moderately enticing. If we win, perhaps that’ll be the spark I need to be sucked in for the long haul; if we lose I’ll roll my eyes as if no other outcome was ever likely, while at the same time assuming – in a Captain Mainwaringish way – that defeat can only be explained by some sort of dastardly behaviour on the part of the Germans.

As it happens, while Germany were scraping a draw with Hungary to secure their meeting with Harry Kane et al, I was haring up the M1 for a couple of days’ walking in the Yorkshire Dales. On Thursday we trekked across glorious uplands between Aysgarth and Litton, watching curlews rise in characteristic circles from their nesting grounds. At one point I heard a cacophonous squeaking from a mound of spongy grass and realised that beneath my feet a clutch of rabbit kittens were hollering. Above us, lapwings and oystercatchers flitted noisily.

Having only been out of the southeast of England once in the last two years, my brief jaunt northwards was a revelation; and a reminder not only of the importance of friendships maintained in person, but also of England’s thrillingness away from it’s more populated corners. I felt a hundred times more excited at the prospect of seeing more curlews than I had done about the thought of watching any football.

At the Queens Arms in Litton – which may be the most beautiful pub in the world – we found gentle conversation, astoundingly good suet puddings and too much beer to be helpful for people hoping to carry on hiking the next day. It’s the kind of place Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon should visit, if they haven’t already. But they’ll have to kick me out first.

In recent days this is what has been capturing my imagination. So, yes, football please come home; but don’t be offended if I’m not there to greet you.