The Red Army are on proper full-scale excited manoeuvres week, via massed visits to Blackburn, St Etienne, and Wembley, with the scent of silverware in spring nostrils.

Gasp! I’m writing this ten minutes after the final whistle and I can barely type. Not, for once, because I’ve been overdoing the sauce, but because my entire being seems to be buzzing uncontrollably.