Hear a soft hissing in the air yesterday afternoon? It was just the sound of the shires and small towns of England gently deflating. That, and a collective sigh of relief from the massive Anglophobic army in this country.
It is difficult to know whether it is more fun to be here or across the water when England secure a date such as that against Brazil in Shizouka, an occasion described by the Daily Mail as 'Destiny Day'. The Mail ran cute boyhood family snapshots of the 11 English Lions as young dreamers. It was a perfect example of that toxic cocktail of soft-focus nostalgia and heavy symbolism that can actually make people on this island cower with apprehension. But it was worth it, if only to see Emile Heskey the toddler with the coolest Afro since Michael starred with the Jackson five and as proof that David Seaman has been working on that 'tache and ponytail combo since the age of nine.
It also informed us that Seaman, likeable if a bit bananaboats, was, in his childhood, a basketball star in Rotherham. That piece of information in some way explained something vital and important about Seaman, invited us to view him kindly. (Although you have to conclude after Ronaldinho's goal that he can't have been much of a leaper).
Together, the boyhood Lions look more or less like the cast from Grange Hill, circa 1982. (Except for Martin Keown, who looked, bizarrely, like Bob Dylan in his Blonde on Blonde days). Anyway, the point was that these everyday cherubs had emerged as the born successors, the heirs to the legacy of 1966.
And the thing was, it was beginning to terrify us in this country. After England's demolition of the Danes last Saturday, people began to fear the worst. Some vowed to head for Canada if England went on to win the most winnable World Cup of all time.
Others stated their intention to watch only TG4. There was unanimous agreement that the fallout on Irish life would be general, bringing unimaginable misery. They would win the World Cup just to spite us. Their main mode of celebration would involve the setting up of loudspeakers along the Irish Sea through which they might blast Rule Brittania and God Save the Queen across the water at us, day and night. Forever. Margaret Thatcher, wearing Union Jack shorts and a Nobby Stiles shirt would deliver free copies of the Daily Mail to every door in the land. The Beckham family would actually move into Buckingham Palace, where they would bestow Knighthoods upon their family members and minor hair stylists. England, World Champions 2002.
It would have buckled us.
And so we all watched on, fearful and fascinated and maybe also shamefully excited. If ever the impossible was going to happen, it was in Japan and so bravely we rose early and donned our dressing gowns and forced ourselves to watch.
It is a strange thing. Rio Ferdinand, David Beckham, possibly even Danny Mills, will entertain much of our Anglophobic army throughout the dark winter. Some of us pay top dollar to go see them play, others will watch them regularly down the local and discuss their form and injuries and latest flash motor on the golf course, in the gym, going to work.
The secret language of the Premiership has taken a firm hold in this country. Friendships are formed and sustained around the finer details of Trevor Sinclair's in/ability to get the cross in. It is not exactly the Ireland that Pearse imagined but still, it gets people through the day.
But once Rio and his pals don the lion-crested jersey, they translate into something else entirely. An ogre, a threat, an affront to everything we are supposed to stand for.
And all of the omens favoured the latest England Lions and their quest to discover the Holy Grail that has been lost since 1966. The freaky correlation in results, from England's 1-0 exorcism of Argentina to South Korea's spirited infliction of shame on the Italians. Ferdinand had emerged as the long lost champion of the spirit and grace of the late Bobby Moore. And something incredible had happened with the English fans. They weren't angry anymore. The faces of hate had disappeared, replaced by groups who made old-fashioned, Richmal Compton-style merriment. They whistled the tune from Escape to Victory, even when they were losing. They mixed with the locals and had a good time. They showed some class. They made the most striking comparison to the era of 1966 because Jackie Charlton didn't take a personal hairstylist with him and Geoff Hurst didn't own 10 cars.
SO, THIS morning, the feeling will be that we owe the Brazilians some thanks, again. The English Lions move on towards 2006 having passed up the best chance of glory in several generations. Taming the Lions is what makes us happy.
So Ireland is saved. We can watch Sassenach TV without fear or recrimination. When the great oriental pageant ends, we can tune in to satisfactorily observe El Tel and Bobby Robson and Paul Gascoigne, all those former Lions, pay homage to the gallant Irish.
As they should of course, because everybody loves the Irish, especially we Irish ourselves. In this World Cup, the English adopted the Irish team as they would a scruffy, loveable cousin with a bit of humour and bottle.
They wanted us to do as well as they did themselves and took an obvious pride in our achievements. Kids are wearing green tops across the water at the moment; Robbie Keane is box-office in Hull and Norfolk and Dagenham.
We expect this while at the same time reserving the old complex fears, that natural repulsion at the mere thought or prospect of English success. We can relax now, see out South Korea's magical mystery tour, advise one another that the USA is soccer's superpower in waiting and note that the Germans haven't lost their efficiency.
We can relax and enjoy the soccer. Loudly we laughed yesterday after the Samba boys had slain the Lions. Ireland might be out but that's okay, because so are England.
The fear is gone, for another four years. So it's funny the way the remainder of the World Cup suddenly looks a bit . . . empty.
