Allan Buluku, in Dallas, Texas

As the 2026 Fifa World Cup opens in Mexico City tonight, a familiar fever climbs across the British Isles.

The English press, never a friend of moderation, has slipped into its quadrennial trance, printing back-page coronations for the Three Lions before a single whistle has blown.

Television pundits vibrate with premature certainty. Millions of delusional fans, from London to Nairobi, have resumed the national pastime of bragging as if destiny were a family heirloom.

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The noise does not stay contained. It spills into timelines, floods WhatsApp groups and rolls through pubs where pristine white jerseys gleam like declarations of faith. And always, like a hymn sung off key but with full chest, comes the chant: “It’s coming home.” A phrase born as satire, now recited with the solemnity of scripture. The tabloids speak of tactics as though every English midfielder were a misunderstood genius the rest of us have failed to appreciate.

From Manchester to Nanyuki, the flags rise and the bravado spreads. Drinks are poured, names are praised, and the collective swagger swells until it threatens to lift the country off its hinges.

Yet history, that cold and unblinking ghost, lingers just behind, waiting for its cue. The believers march on regardless, because forgetting is the first rule of supporting England.

To understand the English fan, you must first understand the remarkable short memory. Every tournament ends the same way, and every tournament begins with the same wide-eyed innocence, as if the past were a rumour whispered in another language. The media spins its irresistible tale.

The squad is perfectly balanced, the manager is a visionary, and the rest of the world is merely the supporting cast in an English epic. The story is so intoxicating that even skeptics find themselves humming along before kickoff.

But the banter, for all its volume, frightens no one. It only sets up the punchline the world has memorised. The press demands heroism; history delivers slapstick.

England will misplace a pass in midfield, panic will spread like spilled ink, and the whole structure, built on headlines and hope, will wobble and fall. Fans will stare at their screens, stunned, as though the ending were not the same ending they have watched since the arrival of color television. The cycle repeats with the reliability of the tides.

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Consider, then, what awaits in 2026. The group stage will offer its usual cocktail of anxiety and accidental brilliance. A nervy draw here, a flattering win there, a late goal that sends the tabloids into poetic overdrive. The round of 16 will bring a scrappy victory that pundits christen “the grit of future champions.”

The nation will swell with pride, convinced that this time the script has changed. Yet, the quarterfinal waits patiently, the place where English dreams traditionally go to be embalmed.

The air will thicken as the opponent arrives, whether a South American powerhouse or a disciplined European machine. They will step onto the pitch with the calm of a team that has seen this movie before.

The match will be agony for the faithful gathered in pubs, fan zones and living rooms. Ninety minutes of frantic running, where every English touch trembles under the weight of expectation, and every misplaced pass feels like a prophecy fulfilled.

Extra time will offer no salvation, only cramp and rising dread. And when the whistle finally blows after 120 minutes, a shiver will pass through the nation. They know what comes next.

The walk. The silence. The penalty

Under the stadium lights, the players will begin that lonely pilgrimage toward the spot. Back home, fans will lean in, breath held, hearts thudding. The goalkeeper will look enormous. The net will look impossibly small. England will step up, a blink through sweat, a heartbeat of hope, and then the ball goes high, heroic and hopeless. The laughter from the rest of the world will be soft, knowing and inevitable.

Penalties. The single word that turns English optimism into national dread. The opposition will tuck their shots neatly into corners. England will offer a sampler platter of heartbreak, a tame effort at the keeper, a heroic save, a wild blast into orbit.

Players will collapse onto the grass, grief pooling around them like rainwater. The stadium will fall into a hush that feels centuries old.

Morning will bring the ritual cleansing. The same newspapers that crowned the squad will sharpen their knives. The loudest voices on social media will vanish into digital silence. White jerseys will be folded and buried deep in drawers.

The manager will be blamed for caution, the players for cowardice, the ball for treachery. And the nation will nurse its hangover, muttering that perhaps, just perhaps, it will come home in four more years.

So, to England’s faithful, a gentle plea. Breathe. Lower the volume. Accept the truth that decades of heartbreak have been whispering all along. The World Cup is not coming home. Prepare your tissues, brace for the quarterfinals, and remember that losing on penalties is not a misfortune. It is simply an English tradition.

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