David Jones in the chair. And 4 of them, 2 either side, which they do not do. Sky do not sit 4 pundits down at 8 in the morning for the day after a semi-final, and I knew the size of it before a word was said, the same way I had known it the last time.
Carragher on the left, already forward on his elbows, and he did not have the grin this time. Neville next to him, sat back, arms folded. Keane on the right, looking like a man who has been kept from his breakfast. And on the end, in a dark polo, Henry.
"We have to start," Jones said, "with the manager."
"Which one?" said Keane.
And that was the whole morning, right there in 2 words, and even Jones almost smiled.
They ran a bit of it. Not the goals.
They ran a clip of me on the touchline, not singing, jaw set, hands behind my back while 38,000 England fans sang the anthem at me, and then they cut to me on the white line at the final whistle not moving while my bench emptied round me, and then they let it sit.
