WHEN Jordan Henderson played an audacious backheel in his own penalty box to help England clear their lines in the second half against Ukraine, I knew something was up.

Tournament football isn’t supposed to be like this. Gareth Southgate cannot nonchalantly make substitutions for the fun of it, where is the note of tragedy, the sense of impending doom?

When Harry Kane poked England ahead in the fourth minute it was like novocaine for the tortured souls of those like me who have watched the Three Lions’ glorious failures play out every second summer for as long as I care to remember.

I simply cannot remember an international game where I have felt less stress. And though I know a lot of that was down to the unadventurous Ukrainians, who for all their boxing heritage possessed the right hook of a particularly sluggish hamster, it was hard not to get caught up in the sheer one-sidedness of it all.

Jadon Sancho had been held back from the tournament against the will of many angry middle-aged men on social media but seemed determined to make an impression, going through a glorious array of step-overs, dummies and drag-backs as if it were a warm-up exercise on the FIFA loading screen.

Luke Shaw appears to have turned from a middling Premier League left-back into the second coming of Roberto Carlos and Kane – fresh from being written off by anyone with a fully-functioning pair of eyes in the group stages – has now blessedly rediscovered his mojo.

The second half was like a footballing version of Christopher Nolan’s Inception. And England’s players actually seemed to ‘enjoy’ it. What was that all about?

Occasionally, Jordan Pickford and Kyle Walker would snap us out of our idyllic state with a daft clearance or a moment of penalty box silliness. Thank goodness they did, or I would have been down the tattoo shop by 75 minutes having the words “It’s Coming Home” emblazoned on my forearm.

I cannot lie, I did not see this coming. England looked tidy enough in the group stages but the moment they came up against opposition with some gumption, I thought it would be sayonara, thank Baddiel and Skinner for their services, see you again in Qatar.

Standing in the pouring rain at Leigh Miners RLFC on Sunday morning, still trying to figure out if the 4-0 win had been some sort of cheese dream, the seriousness of the situation hit me. Not only do I now have to purchase an England shirt for my son, whose school has helpfully declared Wednesday ‘Football Day,’ but I also need to get my head around what will happen if England DO win a major tournament?

The reason Three Lions works so perfectly is that it mainlines the melancholy which fuels a football fan. Thirty years of hurt (now 55), never stopped us dreaming.

What will I feel like if there is no more hurt? What do I dream about then?

Little tip: Having an existential crisis whilst also trying to keep score in a kids’ rugby league game is no good for a hangover. It remains the case, however, that by Sunday, July 11, all the England songs, everything I know about being an England fan, could be out of the window.

Is this what it felt like to be a fan of Germany, France or Spain when they were riding the crest of a wave and seemingly invincible? Or is my bubble about to be burst in the semi-final by a Denmark team that the rest of the world wants to lift the trophy?

I worry that this whole tournament has been a timeshare presentation of free sangria and canapes and now they are about to bring out the price list.