Tryin’ to get to heaven before they close the door

AFTER England v Portugal in Gelsenkirchen on Saturday, our delayed late-night rail connection via Essen back to base camp in Heidelberg was doing a passable impression of the Marie Celeste until we pulled into Frankfurt station at about 3.20am.

The city on the Main had been the venue for the evening game between Brazil and France, and all of sudden it was like morning rush hour in middle of the night, as the library-like stillness and silence of Wagon 24 was uproariously disrupted by the entrance of a veritable football league of nations: delirious French, devastated Brazilians, boisterous Germans along for the ride, and even a handful of red-shirted England fans who, rather like their team in this tournament, seemed to have comprehensively lost their way.

This World Cup, like the train itself, had reached another major turning point — and the faces full of joy or despair told their own tale.