HOLA amigos – como estás? Today, my friends, all is right with the world.
Don’t believe me? Take a look outside. The sun is high in the sky - entirely covered by hazy grey clouds carrying the threat of rain, granted - but hear me out.
The temperature is pushing hard at a balmy (if you’re inside) 16 degrees, leaving new Republic of Ireland boss Heimir Hallgrimsson unconvinced he has left behind the Icelandic summer at all.
So get the sun lounger - and a blanket, possibly an umbrella - out, crack open another bottle of cerveza, uncork a nice rioja. Even go for a wee sleep in the middle of the day if you want. Because following the Three Lions’ fortunes can be tiring. Over time, it takes a toll. I understand.
Ah now, don’t worry. This isn’t going to be another of those mean-spirited, anti-England columns where decades worth of bitterness pours out onto a page that might as well be wearing a balaclava.
We’re bigger than that here. So, please, leave your prejudices at the door.
Instead, let those long-suffering supporters bask in the glory of the Olé Watkins winner that put such a dramatic dampener on Oranjefest and sent Gareth Southgate’s brave boys into a second straight European Championship final.
What a goal! What a VAR decision! What a Sam Matterface!
Let fans enjoy sweet vengeance over Netherlands boss Ronald Koeman for his unforgettable, to some unforgivable, “do I not like that?”-inducing last man foul/net-rippling-free-kick-minutes-later double 31 years ago.
Let Stephen Nolan enjoy posting inexplicably close selfies in support of England, despite little suggestion previously that he has too great an interest in the beautiful game.
Because it hasn’t been easy.
Don’t forget the not-too-distant days of frothing mouths as England limped from one sorry showing to another against a cast of Nations League B-class opponents, during which Harry Kane performed a pitch-perfect Benidorm karaoke version of Alvaro Morata. The right to savour this moment of triumphalism and euphoria has been well earned.
Hopefully Kane’s foot - so recklessly assaulted by the flailing studs of Denzil Dumfries - will recover in time for him to lead the line against Spain on Sunday.
For those who threw cups at Southgate after the uninspiring 0-0 draw with Slovenia, let it be known that those cups are now half full. Some verge on overflowing.
Sure there are nerves but, honestly, this couldn’t have played out any better. Remind yourself of the tournament arc if you don’t believe me – rabid expectation, mild disappointment, concern, disgust, rage, eat my cup, relief, delight, IT’S COMING HOME!
Watching it unfold from the outside should be considered a sport in itself because this, people, is exactly how we want it to be.
Maybe you enjoyed texting friends about how bad England were against Denmark. And Slovenia. And Slovakia.
You were probably disappointed when Saint Jude’s overhead kick saved their skin against Slovakia, even moreso as Trent’s spot kick saw them roll over the Swiss and into the semi-finals.
Fear starts to creep in. Beating the Netherlands has amped things up. I get it. What if they actually do it? What if football does come home? Those thoughts are only natural. But that’s all they are – thoughts.
The hard times, these dark moments, they will all be worth it in the end. Trust the process. In tournament football, timing is everything; from the greatest risk comes the greatest reward.
Because Spain are going to beat England on Sunday and, when they do, that is your moment; our moment.
We’ve been here before, after all – three years ago, to be exact. There were the same fears; fears exacerbated by the final taking place at Wembley, pitting an England team playing well against an Italian side that was workmanlike rather than world beating.
Never will England have a better chance to land major silverware than they did that night. And what happened? They under-performed. They panicked. They got it wrong. Dress it up how you like - they choked, and they did so long before Gianluigi Donnarumma dived to save Bukayo Saka’s penalty kick.
This Spanish side is not workmanlike. In a competition so shockingly devoid of imagination, they have been a joy to behold. Rodri and Fabian Ruiz will be the matadors to the twin bulls of Bellingham and Declan Rice.
Spain control games while England survive them.
Kieran Tripper is old enough to be Lamine Yamal’s dad, and could have his international retirement cemented by the Barcelona teenager. Nico Williams is one of the few wingers with the pace, and trickery, to outfox an out-of-form Kyle Walker.
These are fretful times; uncertain times. The next few days won’t be pleasant. It feels like we are living in a Talksport version of the Truman show. It would have been easier had it ended a fortnight ago – but the easiest way isn’t always the best way.
Keep the faith folks because, on Sunday night, it won’t be coming home.
