So here we are again. Watching through our fingers. Praying that something, anything – other than Harry Kane's shiny new hairdo and the addition of Conor Gallagher – has changed out here in Cologne.

And daring to dream that our talented and well-paid players can finally find their fire, start enjoying themselves and, as Gareth Southgate has promised, show us 'a different England'.

They've certainly had a tricky few days, what with Gary Lineker declaring their performance against Denmark 's***', and everyone else wading in to say how rubbish and sluggish and sloppy and floppy they are.

Even nice Southgate gave them a cardy-clad rollocking or, as he put it, 'some very candid' words, whatever that means.

Perhaps he shared some inspirational thoughts and gave them a disappointed hug. Or maybe, just maybe, he finally lost his temper, had a big fat yell-a-thon at his lacklustre team and threatened them with electric shock therapy.

Whatever, it doesn't seem to have made any difference, because they don't start with much bounce.

Yes, yes, there's endless possession, and a quick surge of hope with an offside goal and a lot of racing about by Phil Foden, who also had a lucky haircut last night – the joys of travelling with your barber.

But that's about it. Hardly inspiring stuff. And, presumably, not quite what Declan Rice had in mind when he promised the team would produce an 'in your face' display.

Who knows. Maybe Tuesdays aren't their lucky day. Or the pancakes ran out at breakfast. Or perhaps the sticky heat doesn't suit them.

Though, to be fair, the fans seem to have adapted beautifully, belting out 'Hey Jude' for Bellingham, 'Dancing In the Dark' for Foden and God Save the King in the 30-degree heat.

And, as usual, the Wags are on fire. Jostling for camera space in the stands. Complaining to newspaper sports desks that they've used an unflattering picture and could they please swap them. And, in Charlotte Trippier's case, posting cryptic Instagram messages and unfollowing her husband, Kieran.

Gosh and don't forget the excitement of both Kyle Walker's wife, Annie, and occasional 'brief fling', Lauryn Goodman, turning up with a selection of his children in matching football shirts.

But sorry, back to the football where, after half time it's, well, just an awful lot more of the same.

An optimistic spectator might say there are green shoots. A bit more attacking. A small shift in energy. That it feels like the players are slowly emerging from a gentle fog – as if someone's finally edging their power supply up from their Economy Seven setting.

But, I'm sorry to say, that's about it. On and on it goes. It feels like four or five hours. No wonder they look so tired. Finally – and with no goals, no joy, no 'different England' or 'in your face' football – it's over. And somehow, England are through to the knockout stage.

And here is where the real madness starts. Because as soon as we know that, Lord knows how, we are through to the next stage, top of our group, something shifts and bubbles and burbles inside us until, against all sense, we begin to hope, to pray, to preorder cold beer and pizzas and dare to dream. Come on England!