World Cup 2006: England progress with the gainliness of a tugboat ploughing through a regatta of elegant yachts.

While sails billow on carrying winds and bows cut through the soughing sea of competition, England bludgeon on, ugly but reliable.

A World Cup memory you won't want to pack away. England on a hot day in Stuttgart. England toiling and striving in their own earnest way. Lots of old sweat and gumption but - and how did we get it so wrong? - no flair, no inspiration, no ideas.

No spark. The World Cup is a party and England have brought nothing to it.

Yesterday, of course, it was a party taking place in 35 degrees of dead heat.

England, faced with the might of plucky Ecuador, ignored the mood of the tournament so far.

On Saturday Germany had assailed Sweden with every trick they knew. Later Argentina and Mexico had brought the tournament to a new height. England delivered 90 minutes of extempore dullness to bring us all back down again.

Their progress to the quarter-finals has been a triumph of ordinariness. Workaday players getting by on the overhyped virtues of Premiership football and steered by a manager who appears to be making it up as he goes along.

For the fourth game in a row at these finals the English made inglorious progress, chiselling out just enough to stay alive but doing nothing to justify their pre -tournament billing as one of the most talented sides England has ever sent to a World Cup.

It took some time for them to get the job done, but after an hour Ecuador helpfully sent Mr Beckham a gilt-edged invitation to do what he does best. A free kick, Sir? Maybe a free kick 25 metres out and a little to the left? A bit like the one you scored against Paraguay, Sir? Yes! Splendid! Tee her up there, Sir! Enjoy!

Poor Cristian Mora, the Ecuadorian goalkeeper. He plays his club football in Quito and is the great hero of his home town of San Miguel because he is the first player from there ever to have played for Ecuador. During games he wears the national flag painted on his cheeks, and even in yesterday's heat he opted for tracksuit bottoms.

He planted himself in the wrong spot for Beckham's free and the ball just sneaked inside the post as he leapt toward it like a cat missing its prey. Too late. Too bad.

The margin of a goal was always going to be enough. Mora's face said as much as he lay upon the ground, beaten. The Ecuadorians may live at altitude but they don't climb mountains like this one.

Assured of their status as homecoming heroes, they brought limited ambition to Stuttgart yesterday.

England are conservative and when they have a goal lead that philosophy serves them just fine.

Having brought just four forwards to Germany, two of them fit but one of the fit ones wearing a nappy, England found themselves playing yesterday with just one up front.

Poor Wayne Rooney. He brings to mind that comment years ago by John Aldridge about having to make runs until his legs were just bloody stumps.

Behind him Sven discovered Michael Carrick can pass a ball and Frank Lampard, the way he is playing at the moment, can't.

England's back four, recovering from the indignities suffered at the hands of modest little Sweden, did enough yesterday to secure retention next week.

The best chance of a shock had arrived after just 12 minutes when Carlos Tenorio fathered the thought that novelty and romance might live on in the competition.

John Terry offered up some comedy defending and Tenorio, strong and skilful, killed the ball and helped himself to a shot at Paul Robinson's goal. Fortunately for England, Ashley Cole materialised and his out-thrust shin deflected the ball onto the bar and out for a corner. Ooooh!

No chance so clear would present itself to Ecuador again, and in truth they never had the enterprise to go and eke one out. They thumped the odd free and corner faithfully towards the England goal, and occasionally somebody pretended to be Steven Gerrard and whopped one from afar, but generally Ecuador were happy with damage limitation.

England's efforts were best summed up not by a moment of passing beauty but by the sight of David Beckham being sick on the pitch close to the end. Never have so many players drained themselves so thoroughly in the cause of so little inspiration.

"We beat a difficult team and we are very happy tonight," said Beckham afterwards, conceding the limitations within his side's performance.

His boss was as usual more chipper. The sort of man you'd nearly buy a used car from.

"Yes. My formation worked," said Sven of his new 4-5-1 wheeze. "I think it works. I think we should have won by more goals. I am pleased."

And the performance, Sven? People will say it wasn't a great performance.

For once the sing-song salesman's voice betrayed a little petulance.

"Oh, that's good then. We are in a quarter-final and we still haven't performed. We can play better perhaps?

"It will come later. I think we are playing better and better through the four games. We have to start scoring goals. We have six days now."

On a weekend of hundreds of arrests in Stuttgart it was to be hoped England might produce something with a little zest and fizz to lighten the mood. No such luck. The seas get choppier from here. A new tack may be needed.