Mexico v England. Scheduled for a 1am kick-off in Britain on a Sunday night, or, more accurately, a Monday morning. It was never going to be a traditional viewing experience, was it? But for me, that was precisely what made it special.
When England beat DR Congo in the Round of 32, the reality suddenly dawned on millions of supporters: we'd be facing co-hosts Mexico in the middle of the night on a school night. And not just anywhere. This was the Azteca, one of football's great fortresses. Mexico had lost only twice there in competitive matches since the stadium opened, had never lost a World Cup game at the ground, and had yet to concede a goal at the 2026 World Cup.
The planning began immediately. The government announced that pubs could remain open until 5am. For some, that was the perfect solution. For others – those with jobs to get to, children to organise, or both – it was a tougher sell. You could stay up all night and attempt to power through on caffeine alone. You could record it and watch later, although in the age of smartphones and social media that’s always going to be a dangerous game. Or you could grab a few hours' sleep beforehand and hope to catch some more after the final whistle.
I opted for the latter. The plan for an early night was disrupted by Norway absolutely taking it to Brazil. Couldn’t miss the end of that, and Erling Haaland justified my decision. And so with less than two hours until kick off, I hit the sack.
But fate – and the weather – had other ideas. The almost inevitable storms delayed kick-off by an hour. Alarm reset and back to sleep it was. That became part of the story though, part of an occasion already dripping with tension. Countless alarm clocks had been set and sleep schedules carefully orchestrated, only for the wait to become even longer. Yet somehow that only added to the experience. The delay became part of the ritual, part of the build-up. We were all separate, but completely in it together.
And then it began.
Through bleary eyes, I watched England and Mexico go toe-to-toe. Jude Bellingham leading the charge, and Mexico never knowing when they were beat. I questioned almost every decision Thomas Tuchel made, only to watch him prove me wrong time and again (thankfully!).
It was a game that had everything – goals, penalties, red cards, controversy, drama, unrelenting tension, and, most of all for England fans, triumph in the face of adversity.
It felt immediately destined to sit alongside the great nights in England's football history.
And there I was, experiencing it from my bed of all places. My wife asleep beside me. My children tucked up in theirs. But that’s where the beauty of football and being a supporter lay for me (quite literally in this instance) – in that shared experience. Even when you're physically alone, you're sharing the moment with hundreds of thousands – perhaps millions – of others. Somewhere across the country, people were silently celebrating, punching the air, stifling screams of joy and trying not to wake sleeping households as the Three Lions roared in defiance.
The plan to get some more sleep after the final whistle was almost derailed due to the sheer excitement and adrenaline coursing through my veins. And as I lay there in the darkness, the only one awake in the house, hoping that sleep would welcome me once more into her warm embrace, I was struck by a strange feeling. I've always loved watching football with friends and family. Those are the moments that create lasting memories.
But this, too, will stay with me forever.
A memory of watching the match entirely on my own, while somehow feeling part of something much bigger. A nation connected not by stadium seats or pub tables, but by glowing screens, whispered celebrations and a shared determination to stay awake just a little longer.
For one unforgettable night, bedlam in my boudoir felt like the centre of the footballing world, and I absolutely loved it.
