DRINK it in… England have reached the Euro 2020 final!

Gone are the ghosts of Italia 90, Euro 96, the lost Golden Generation, Russia 2018 and the ITV curse. Gareth Southgate’s side are 90 minutes away from lifting another major trophy.

We rediscovered a familiar old friend in tension, distress and nervousness following England. This was, after all, the semi-final.

Neil Diamond, Three Lions, tears and pumping fists – this is what football is all about. And for the first time in my life there is a genuine chance that this could end well.

Usually in major tournaments we are left complaining at a tweaked rule which leaves referees baffled, or an official match-ball that plays like a fly-away on Southport beach. This time, officials have been excellent and I haven’t heard a single complaint about the ball, which fits neatly on the roof of that tiny Volkswagen. Sadly, another ITV ad break meant we didn’t get to see it in action.

The peculiarity in Euro 2020 has been own goals, 11 in total. To put that into context, there were only nine scored at the previous nine tournaments, and yet every time a cross comes into the box, defenders in the last few weeks have been literally falling over themselves to put it into their own net.

Thank goodness Simon Kjaer did the business in the first half. I had been halfway through a particularly acidic tweet criticising Raheem Sterling’s finish a few moments earlier, when he managed to find Kasper Schmiechel’s sternum when anywhere else in the goal would have done.

England were already behind. Mikkel Damsgaard’s free kick was well hit but it looked as if Jordan Pickford struggled to get across or was somehow caught by surprise as the shot dipped under the bar.

The goal was coming. England’s holding midfielders Declan Rice and Kalvin Phillips had been chasing shadows for the previous 10 minutes and Pickford had one of his trademark wobbly spells, which have mercifully been a rarity this summer.

A note to those considering a career in journalism, or even IT. Slamming your fist down in anger on a keyboard is not a good idea. My laptop went into a self-imposed coma thanks to my childish tantrum and a good 300 words (good ones, probably better than the ones you are reading right now) were lost forever.

Into the second half, my stomach jumped through my throat when the referee pulled Harry Maguire up for his challenge on Kjaer. Referee Danny Makkelie momentarily caught hold of his red card as he dished out a booking to the Manchester United man.

Schmeichel’s save from Maguire a few minutes later prompted another anguished scream, at which point my laptop was looking for a safe place to hide.

As bodies started to tire, the midfield of both sides appeared. England sent on Jack Grealish to get kicked and not long after that Schmiechel was clawing a skewed cross-shot from Mason Mount from under his own crossbar.

England had a good shout for a penalty turned down as Kane tumbled under pressure from Norgaard. The Spurs man was penalised for a foul instead – but it must have been a close call because Peter Walton was brought out of his referee bunker to say something which nearly approximated an opinion, other than an instant agreement with the on-pitch official.

Grealish’s arrival actually slowed things down a little as he played off the left and Sterling moved to the opposite flank and though England were the only ones really looking to press the issue, Denmark always looked like they would hold out to extra time.

But how refreshing was it to see the Three Lions pushing forward after the restart? We have all criticised Southgate for being too conservative but the addition of Phil Foden seemed to come at exactly the right time, whereas Denmark took off Dolberg and Damsgaard and it interrupted their flow.

Let’s be frank, the contact on Sterling for the penalty was light, to say the very least. To quote Lee Dixon: “I don’t really care”.

I don’t even care that Harry Kane’s penalty was saved before he buried the rebound. Those details will fade with time, don’t worry about that.

My nerves were soothed somewhat in the second half of extra time when the power cable of said laptop began to spark, filling my front room with a noxious smell of burned plastic. Not the easy night I’d hoped for, but a distraction nonetheless as England took it to the corner and wasted every second possible.

I’ll bother about that in the morning. For now, it’s time to celebrate.