Waking up on Saturday, I knew plenty of questions would be answered. Would I get any runs? Would Histon beat March? How would Day 2 in Barbados pan out? Would Derby secure a place in the play-offs? Would Chelsea seal the title? Would Floyd Mayweather or Manny Pacquiao win the Fight of the Century? Could I stay awake long enough to find out?

(Answers: 17, yes, dramatically, no, yes, Floyd Mayweather, yes)

I did stay awake, and there were further questions along the way. Would Stuart Bingham or Judd Trump prevail in the deciding frame of the second snooker semi-final? And, most unforeseen, would the LA Clippers or the San Antonio Spurs win the deciding first-round play-off game? Along with England’s dramatic collapse to 39-5, these two contests, in their contrasting ways, were glorious examples of how sport can rival any other part of life for pure drama. It’s a kind of timeless drama, cutting away all the contemporary commercial ball-baggery to the very essence of competition.

By contrast, the boxing, bar the fourth round, was never competitive or dramatic, was never timeless. In fact, it was very much an event for our times. Perhaps boxing, more than any other sport, often is. It certainly held up a mirror to elite level football. Paying over the top for an overhyped event at an inconvenient time should sound familiar to Arsenal fans who, at the time of writing, are at the KC Stadium in Hull.

The nature of Mayweather’s comprehensive win also reflected the tedious debate over whether Chelsea are boring. Chelsea aren’t boring. The league is boring. The competition is boring. Likewise, Mayweather isn’t boring. He’s pragmatic and defensive, but there is skill and art in that, just as in any team containing Cesc Fabregas and Edin Hazard. It’s not Jose Mourinho’s fault that his rivals would probably benefit from any of his back six – Thibaut Courtois, Branislav Ivanovic, Cesar Azpilicueta, John Terry, Gary Cahill and Nemanja Matic. Likewise, it’s not Mayweather’s fault if he has an advantage in height and reach – not to mention breathtaking skill in the art of evasion. Sure, Chelsea, like all Mourinho teams, can clinch and cover-up when needed, but that’s the point – sport is about winning, and winning sometimes requires it. Why not win without getting hit in the face too often? Attack isn’t always the best form of defence.

Pragmatism and defence in the ring, and on the pitch, is all part of the game, but Mayweather’s defence went up years before this fight. Mayweather might not have won five years ago. Pacquiao in his prime – a locust storm of attacking punches, as fast as he was relentless – would have given Mayweather a game. Pacquiao wanted it, the fans wanted it. Mayweather didn’t. Unlike Chelsea, who could only beat what was in front of them, Mayweather, while still making shed-loads of money and maintaining his unbeaten record, could choose when to put Pacquiao in front of him. It’s like England waiting to play Australia until Shane Warne had retired. It’s just not cricket. But it is boxing.

For all that I had a great night on Saturday, and the fight was quite intriguing, I can’t help feeling cheated. Five years ago, it might have had a chance of living up to the hype. Mayweather is undoubtedly an excellent boxer – an unbeaten record attests to that – but he’ll never be loved. Of course, much of that is down to wife-beating and money-loving, is down to a defensive style, but it’s hard to love a man who claims of being TBE (The Best Ever) when he has never been involved in any great fights. This so-called Fight of the Century certainly wasn’t a great fight – incomparable to Ali-Foreman or even Benn-Eubank – but it could have been. It should have been. Instead, Pacquiao, looking old and a weight division light, couldn’t get near Mayweather. Out of the ring, it was ever thus. Inside, we have been deprived of ever knowing how Mayweather’s undoubted skill would have dealt with prime Pacquiao. Boxing, like much of elite level sport, is obscenely rich, but as a competition it has never been poorer.

The automatic door at Londis, where I buy a paper every day, is broken – has been for two or three weeks. There’s a hand-written sign: SLIDE DOOR TO OPEN. And yet, almost every day and much to the amusement of Julia, behind the till, I find myself standing there waiting for the door to open automatically.

Cue Alan Partridge: “What a funny story…”

I know, but it got me thinking – and not just how dull and repetitive life can be, or the extent to which technology is making automatons of us all. What really struck me was that it was such a waste of being on autopilot, of being in the zone. Sadly, facing a bowler is not the same as facing a door.

A batsman can talk about muscle memory, a technique grooved through years of practice. He can have a routine, a way of switching off between deliveries, of switching back on. But entry into the zone is not guaranteed. Nor is staying there.

“Don’t think. Feel,” said Bruce Lee in Enter The Dragon, but it’s easier said than done. There’s so much to think about, for a start, and it’s not as if there is no time to think. And what if a batsman is feeling nervous? Or over-confident?

A  batsman can tell himself to relax and trust his instincts – to forget about the last ball, to watch this ball –  but that balance between relaxation and concentration – of living entirely in the moment, in rhythm – is so hard to get right. That’s assuming it can be “got” at all. More often than not, it gets the batsman – just like Londis’ door gets me.

The games within games are what makes cricket so fascinating, and there is none more fascinating than the game played by the batsman with himself. Batting is as much a mastery of one’s self as much as a mastery of technique. When it is said that a batsman knows his game it should not be forgotten that he knows himself. Knows himself well enough to forget about himself. To be in the zone.

So, England are out of the 2015 Cricket World Cup. The shock is that there is no shock.

Most shocking is to recall that England were seeded number one when the draw was made. That forgotten England ODI team – the team that rose to the top of the rankings, the team that (albeit in favourable home conditions) should have won the Champions Trophy just two short years ago – might, even accounting for the vagaries of form and fitness, have been expected to still be largely intact. The decision to move the Ashes was supposed to aid that expectation.

We all know how well that turned out.

Instead of a settled and experienced team having an unprecedented short-format focus leading up to the World Cup, England lost a coach or two, a captain, a reliable number three, a world class spinner, and, of course, a KP. Form, confidence and a lot of matches were also lost; most alarmingly, England lost the plot. Why did it take so long to jettison Alastair Cook? Why was Alex Hales never given a proper run in the side? Why, after seemingly nailing down the number three spot in the warm-up games, was James Taylor shifted down to number six? Why was he replaced by Gary Ballance? Why was Ravi Bopara dropped? Where is James Tredwell? Why was Stuart Broad picked without proof of form or fitness? Why wasn’t Jos Buttler pushed up the order?

So many questions, yet they miss the fundamental truth that, since 1992, England have invariably stunk out World Cups. This latest (and greatest) stench, produced by an incredibly inexperienced team, should come as no great surprise. Equally, it shouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine that even if Cook had maintained form and Jonathan Trott his mental health, even if Graeme Swann’s elbow hadn’t buckled under the strain, Steven Finn hadn’t become “unselectable” and KP unmanageable, England would still have struggled. Sure, they might have made it out of a group that required no more than beating Scotland, Bangladesh and Afghanistan. But any further? I doubt it.

ODI cricket has changed beyond recognition since the Champions Trophy. Aided by two new balls and further fielding restrictions, the true impact of T20 cricket is being felt. England are playing a different game.

It was ever thus. England have always been playing catch-up in ODI cricket – when they have been playing at all. As much as the prioritisation of Test cricket in this country is in many ways admirable, it doesn’t have to be at the total expense of ODI cricket – and it doesn’t fully explain why England, with all the money and resources and history, have produced such a paucity of world class ODI cricketers. Think about it: how many England players at any time during the last twenty-five years would have made it into a World ODI XI? Very few, if any. Trying to select a composite England ODI XI from that time is equally instructive. Marcus Trescothick, Trott, KP, Eoin Morgan, Paul Collingwood, Andrew Flintoff, Darren Gough, Swann … err, anyone else? Nick Knight, maybe. Jos Buttler.

It’s worth noting two of that list are South African, and another is Irish. Worth noting, too, the kind of characters we are talking about here. Not exactly the kind of deeply conservative, risk-averse, private schoolboys who are usually associated with English cricket. I suspect none of them would have disagreed with Shane Warne’s famous observation that coaches are good for getting to and from the ground. Unorthodox characters, then, but, with the obvious exceptions of KP and Morgan, are they unorthodox players?

The reasons for England’s failure to produce unorthodox ODI cricketers are manifold. Firstly, the aforementioned prioritisation of Test cricket, and the resulting lack of exposure to the IPL and the Big Bash. Secondly, there is the perception that mavericks are treated with suspicion. In cricket, as elsewhere in this country, anything other than a straight bat and a stiff upper-lip is frowned upon. Thirdly, there is an insularity that stems from playing in English conditions. Traditional English pitches aren’t necessarily conducive to fearless, innovative batting. Nor do bowlers necessarily need express pace, reverse swing, mystery spin, or even much in the way of variation. Jimmy Anderson can thrive at home – near unplayable at times in the Champions Trophy – but struggle overseas. Perhaps it should come as no surprise that England’s World Cup bowling attack has a sameness about it. Why would a county side risk playing a wayward quick or leg-spinner?

But talent knows no borders. The talent must be out there. Identifying it, encouraging it, realising it – all doable, surely. It doesn’t have to be AB de Villiers freakishly rare, just good enough to maintain the highs of 2005 and 2010 – hell, even the ODI team of 2012. The talent must be out there. And in the current players. Mark Nicholas rightly observed that Glenn Maxwell’s sweep shots during his whirlwind century against Sri Lanka were reminiscent of a young Kevin Pietersen, and it informed the way I watched the rest of the highlights. Brad Haddin made me question why Matt Prior – just as clean a striker of the ball – never cut it in ODIs. Aaron Finch didn’t look any more talented than Alex Hales could be, given the licence to give it a whack at the start of the innings. Broadening it out, does Daniel Vettori spin it any more than Tredwell? Is Rengana Herath any fitter than Samit Patel?

One player who could never be accused of lacking talent is Ian Bell. He has all the shots and all the time to play them. An obvious comparison is Mahele Jayawardene, but their ODI records are incomparable. Maybe Bell lacks the innate confidence to dominate, to score the kind of inevitable match-winning innings that Jayawardene regularly churns out. Clearly, he hasn’t been helped by being in and out of the side – an ODI version of Mark Ramprakash – but someone of such obvious class shouldn’t really have any excuses.

Nor should England have any excuses. We must be capable of producing a competitive ODI team. If Ireland can …

It’s not been a good time for World Cups. The folly (not to mention immorality) of Qatar 2022 has at last been exposed – the decision to move it to November and December doing what corruption and the deaths of thousands of slaves could not. Meanwhile, the decision to cut the 2019 Cricket World Cup to ten teams is being made to look ridiculous by the very teams that will no longer be dining at the top table.

But I don’t really want to write about that. There’s only so many ways of expressing disgust at the way money is trampling all over sport. Instead, I want to go to bed listening to Test Match Special.

I can think of better bedfellows, but, in the absence of Rachel Stevens, the familiar tones of Jonathan Agnew, Geoffrey Boycott and Vic Marks, of Jim Maxwell and Bryan Waddle, make for fine company. This being a World Cup, the cast of TMS is broadened to include some new voices. In my half-sleep state, I was sure Murray from Flight of the Conchords was commentating the other night.

It’s amazing how much of a cricket match can be followed while asleep. I can go to work and hold intelligent conversation with my boss, Nick, about games I have, essentially, slept through. A morning glance at a scorecard is as much confirmation as discovery. Wickets and landmarks often seep in, the accompanying rise in volume cutting through the fog of sleep.

Occasionally, the rise in volume is either so extreme or so prolonged that I wake up. It is a sign of the quality of this World Cup that this has happened fairly regularly. Whether it’s Aggers cackling at the absurdity of the scale of England’s defeat to New Zealand as Brendon McCullum hits six after six, the drama of Afghanistan’s run-chase against Scotland, or Neil Manthorp’s sense of awe as AB de Villiers destroys the West Indies, I have often found myself glad to be awake – hell, glad to be alive – at some very unexpected times.

For that I can only thank the oft-maligned BBC. It is ironic, in an age when profit is the prevailing logic, that one of the things I value the most costs nothing. I would readily pay a radio licence, but there is no such thing. Having said that, there is something to be said for a free point of entry to a sport that, in this country at least, is becoming ever more exclusive, based as it is on whether you have enough money to afford to go to the right school or have the right TV package. Damn, I wasn’t going to write about money. Time to head to bed. It’s England versus Sri Lanka, tonight.

Danny Baker on Twitter: “Relax Premier League. Have a snootful of champagne and remember you’ll all be safe back in your hype bubble again soon…”

The Abbey Stadium, home of Cambridge United, is ten minutes walk from my flat. It’s not your average walk to a professional football club. I once witnessed, at the height of the BSE scare, Cardiff City fans singing “You’re Mad And You Know You Are” at the herd of cows grazing on Coldham’s Common. Plenty of cows, then, but no hype bubble. At least, not until the draw for the fourth round of the FA Cup pitted Cambridge at home to the mighty Manchester United.

Reward for getting this far in the FA Cup. Reward for still existing. Reward for those who have put money and time and heart and soul into ensuring that existence. Reward for the fans.

Am I a Cambridge fan? Fair-weather, maybe, but I suppose I am. I’ve certainly attended enough games over the years. I came to Cambridge United at a good time. My first football-watching experiences had been across town at Cambridge City. Ian Ladley, a colleague of my old man, played in goal. He left, and dad and I started going to the Abbey – York City in 1989 my first game. Chris Turner was still manager then, and little did we know the adventure that John Beck was about to take us on.

I was too young to appreciate that the football wasn’t great, that some of the gamesmanship went a bit too far.  As far as I was concerned, Cambridge were winning. Even at Wembley, where I waved my inflatable banana with the best of them at the Play Off Final. Back-to-back promotions, fairytale FA Cup runs, and on to the brink of promotion to the inaugural Premier League.

That 1992 Play Off semi-final against Leicester was the high-water mark. Roy McFarland arrested the decline with an attractive side in the late 1990s, but my dad – a regular at the Baseball Ground in the 70s – stopped going when Roy Mac got the sack. I swapped the Habbin for the Newmarket Road End, and watched Cambridge slip out of the league in 2005. It has not been an easy road back to the league, and after the second Conference Play Off Final defeat, I found myself going more infrequently – to the point where Boxing Day (and the lure of my pal Colin’s turkey sandwiches) has become my annual visit to the Abbey. There was a point in the build up to the Man U game – when getting a ticket appeared to be contingent on buying a rest-of-season ticket – when I was resigned to not going.

But I did go. And I’m so glad I did. Grateful to RBS, too, for sending my pal James to work in India, meaning I could buy his ticket. Back in the Habbin, too. In the event, bang in line with the edge of the penalty area at the South Stand End. The end where Cambridge attacked valiantly in the first half, and defended heroically in the second. Before that, back to the Habbin. Back to 1990. Back to wearing an itchy retro Cambridge United shirt, playing for the all-conquering Morley Memorial Primary School. Back to Cambridge Crusaders, training on Saturday mornings, playing on Sundays. Back to epic next-goal-wins games at the rec. Back to full houses under lights at the Abbey. Back to Dion Dublin living round the corner. Back to football being life, and life being so alive.

Back to Friday.

It was like Christmas Eve. I woke up at three in the morning. Fortunately, I could turn to Test Match Special to lull me back to sleep. I may have been dreaming, but I think Moeen Ali hit three consecutive sixes. Posters in the windows, “UNITED” scraped in the frost on a car windscreen – I walked to work in high spirits. Whatever happened, it was going to be a I Was There moment. I went and bought a beanie hat from the club shop.

There’s nothing like the buzz of a crowd before a big sporting occasion. The thought that tonight could be our night, that we could burst that hype bubble.

Could we?

The first half does nothing to dispel the notion. Man U are ponderous in possession, and it’s all being played in front of a packed Cambridge defence all too happy to let Phil Jones keep giving it away. Not that the U’s are content to just park the bus. Ryan Donaldson carries the fight (and the ball), Tom Elliott puts himself about, and corners are causing havoc. Josh Coulson comes agonisingly close to heading home after one such goalmouth scramble.

Could we?

The pattern of the second half is quickly established, and there’s no doubting that the Cambridge bus is now well and truly parked. Man U up the pace a little, but still no cutting edge. Why is Phil Jones taking corners? Keep concentrating. Keep the shape. Keep your nerve. Keep making saves like that, Chris Dunn. Falcao looked bound to score. How long to go? I don’t want to know. The crowd’s a 12th man. The weather is fast becoming a 13th. Van Persie’s on, and Van Persie must … no, he’s blazed over.

Could we?

If Man U had the ball in front of Cambridge in the first half, they have it on the outsides in the second. But the only telling cross that comes in flashes across a strangely vacant six yard box. Luke Chadwick comes on for a fitting appearance, and Cambridge seem to gain strength, daring to pass rather than clear. Donaldson whips in a wicked cross that Jones does well to divert for a corner.

Could we?

No. But neither can they. Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio. Three minutes of injury time. Dunn, in the Cambridge goal, punches forcefully away. And saves the following volley. It’s hacked away. Anywhere’ll do.

Can’t be much longer. Just keep it in the corner. Woah, Nelson! Where’s that header going? It’s ok. Final whistle’s gone. Nil-nil. Against Manchester f***ing United. Fancy a trip to Old Trafford…?

Nobody can blame Alan Pardew for leaving Newcastle. It is a miracle that he lasted so long and has walked away on his own terms. Nor can anyone blame him for going to Crystal Palace, although there is a general feeling that he is taking a step down – that Newcastle are a bigger club than Palace. They should be, if history and a sold-out St James’ Park mean anything, but do the ambitions of the two clubs really differ?

Sure, the Premier League is competitive. Just look at the results: Burnley can come from two down to draw at Manchester City, money hasn’t distorted the competition at all. Or has it? How many teams can realistically start a season as title-contenders? For that matter, how many can aim for a Champions League spot with any credibility? Chelsea and the Manchester clubs have divvied out the title for the last decade. Arsenal have always contrived to finish in the top four. Who’s to say the status quo won’t prevail again this year?

The tragedy, last year, of Steven Gerrard’s slip against Chelsea, followed by Liverpool’s collective slip at Palace, was the sense that it was his last chance to win the Premier League. Every time I see Stevie G’s furrowed brow, I’m reminded of it, and perhaps it was Liverpool’s last chance, too. The comparison with post-Bale Spurs is an obvious one, but no less true, and Liverpool without Suarez are back with Spurs as outsiders for Champions League qualification.

What of the rest? What of Newcastle? Sure, they can beat Chelsea a few weeks ago – Pardew even took them to a fifth-placed finish a couple of years ago – but where are they going? What are their ambitions? Mid-table, and trouser the cash. Hard to get excited about that. And forget about the romance of the cup. We’re playing the reserves, not wanting to jeopardise our chances of finishing 10th again. Likewise, we don’t want the hassle that Europa League qualification would bring. Not only is there no chance of winning anything, there’s no chance of keeping the likes of Yohan Cabaye, of building a team, when the asset-strippers hover like vultures. It’s amazing that St James’ Park sells out every game.

Newcastle have come to personify all that is wrong with the Premier League. Perhaps it’s because Newcastle make no pretences – helped by Mike Ashley’s image – that football as a game has been supplanted by football as a business. It makes economic sense to accept that without mega-rich owners, a global sponsorship reach, a cash-cow of a stadium, it is impossible to become a consistent Champions League club. So why not settle for the very lucrative life of a consistent Premier League club? But where’s the romance in that? And when do we start getting bored?  Newcastle are not alone in this position of managed stasis. Southampton, for all the excellent work being done in youth development and the fact they currently sit fourth, are just as much of a selling club. As are Swansea, for all that they play decent football, and Everton, for all that they always find a way of punching above their weight.

What about Palace? Where are they going? What are their ambitions? The same as Newcastle: treading water. That ambition might have been more easily achieved at Newcastle, but it will be less of a ball-ache at Palace. Pardew will be treading water at his local pool, fans won’t be trying to drown him, and the owner won’t be selling armbands at Sports Direct.

Who would want the Newcastle job is less clear. Who is desperate enough to want to work with his hands tied, and who is cheap enough for Ashley?

So, Alastair Cook has been relieved of the captaincy of the England ODI team. Relieved is the word. I don’t know about you, but I’m relieved. Cook must be too. He can go away and concentrate on getting back to being an all-time great Test opener. The ODI team can prepare for the World Cup.

The annoying thing is that the same logic applied a year ago. Cook was a broken man by the end of the ODI series in Australia. He sounded ready to quit. It has been an angst-filled year, with Cook invariably at the centre of it. I can’t help feeling that much of the anguish could have been avoided.

Imagine if Cook had been allowed to regain his red-ball rhythm – to again trust his Test match game. Imagine if he had led from the front with a daddy hundred – as he had in India.  It would have hushed the doubts over his captaincy, bought him the time to develop into a decent captain.

Imagine if the ODI team could have spent a year gearing up for the World Cup. Moving the Ashes was supposed to mean England would have the best ever preparation for a World Cup. Not saying much, given post-1992 history, but any progress made this year – Joe Root, Moeen Ali, James Taylor, Jos Buttler, Chrises Jordan and Woakes – has been overshadowed by the slow death of Alastair Cook. There is no way in the world that Cook is good enough to get in the best England ODI XI. That he was captain shouldn’t have mattered.

Back in the Ashes fall-out, it might have made political sense, too. There would still have been a whole world of stink surrounding the sacking of Kevin Pietersen, but maybe, by removing the ODI captaincy from Cook, it would have made less of a scapegoat of KP. It might have meant that Cook’s form wouldn’t have been somehow representative of the ECB and the decision to ditch KP – wouldn’t have been the political football that it became. It’s not too much of a stretch to believe that Cook would have benefitted from all that. England, too.

What to make of England’s chances in the World Cup? Free from the Cook conundrum, England may just be liberated to play a more fearless brand of cricket. Eoin Morgan has a record to suggest that the captaincy enhances his game. The batting might fire. The bowling? I’m less convinced.

For what it’s worth, here’s my World Cup XI:

1. Ian Bell

2. Alex Hales

3. Moeen Ali

4. Joe Root

5. James Taylor

6. Eoin Morgan

7. Ravi Bopara

8. Jos Buttler

9. Stuart Broad

10. Chris Woakes/Chris Jordan

11. Steven Finn/James Tredwell

It’s time for Ian Bell to stand up. He could be England’s Jayawardene, Tendulkar, Amla. If Jonathan Trott averaged 50-odd in ODIs then Bell must be capable. He and Root would be the rocks around which scores of 300+ could be made. There is no shortage of explosive potential in that batting order, but potential is all it is – and that goes for Bell as an opener, as well.

No Jimmy Anderson? No, and here’s why: the same reasons I wouldn’t pick Cook. Is he in the best XI? Probably – certainly more so than Cook – but if it doesn’t swing … Would his Test career be enhanced and prolonged by not playing the short forms of the game? Yes. There is no shame in being a Test specialist. It is, after all, what England are. As frustrating as following England in the World Cup has been – and no doubt will continue to be – I’m kind of proud that Test cricket is as alive here as it is anywhere.

There is something incredibly poignant about the raft of #putoutyourbats pictures on Twitter. As well as being a show of solidarity – proof of a cricket community – something about the single bats, in particular, are a reminder of the loneliness and fragility of batting. It was a  tweet from Sachin Tendulkar that really got me: “My bat when I was 25. RIP Phil. #putoutyourbats”. The battered bat in the picture bore testament to the hardness of a cricket ball, and to think that Tendulkar played for a further 15 years… It is just so unutterably tragic. And it’s said that cricket is a batsman’s game…

It is. It should continue to be thought of as such. This was a freakishly rare accident. Cricket has never been safer. It is safe enough. Dangerous enough, too, because cricket without fast bowling – without aggression, bouncers, and the element of fear – would not be cricket. It’s all part of the game, just as death is part of life. If that sounds harsh, it is because it ignores the most important aspect of cricket: the cricketers.

Cricket shouldn’t change, but cricketers: how can we stay the same? The hurdles to overcome are psychological. Oddly enough, the hurdles will probably be greater for fast bowlers. Fear of killing is worse than fear of being killed, I suspect. I haven’t once considered giving up batting. Equally, I intend to continue batting in a cap. I have been proud of the fact I have never batted in a helmet, but pride has rarely seemed so foolish now. Nothing has changed, however. Wickets in Cambridgeshire will remain slow and low. Bowlers at club level won’t bowl any quicker. I’ve never felt in physical danger before. If anything, I hope this horrific incident will make me watch the ball – respect the inherent danger of batting – even more.

Not for the first time I am glad not to be a bowler. Any bowler, let alone Sean Abbott. I can’t begin to imagine just how wretched he feels, and I wouldn’t blame him for never wanting to bowl another ball. How do you not feel guilty? How do you tell yourself that the possibility of a repeat is next to impossible? How do you regain a trust in (and love of) cricket? Next week’s Australia-India Test must be in doubt. Australian players will need time to grieve. Playing cricket will be part of that process, but not yet.

RIP Phil Hughes; Long Live Cricket.

Wales have just hung on for a valiant point in Belgium. Scotland beat Ireland on Friday night in front of a raucous Parkhead crowd. In between, at Wembley, England … were England. How has it become so meaningless? Has football changed, or have I?

Friendlies have long since failed to capture the imagination, and now, thanks in part to UEFA’s decision to increase the European Championships to a 24-team competition, England’s  qualifying campaign – aided by a piss-weak group – has taken on the form of a procession.

Maybe it’s a funeral procession. Perhaps Wayne Rooney, who collected his 100th cap on Saturday, has been unfortunate in being in it from the start. Thinking back, Rooney’s broken metatarsal in Portugal could be the moment the England team died.

Euro 2004 was the England of Gary Neville, Ashley Cole, Sol Campbell, Steven Gerrard, Frank Lampard, Paul Scholes, David Beckham and Michael Owen. Already a decent side, but with Rooney it was something else. Rooney and England, for all the hype of the Golden Generation in 2006, have failed to engender such raw excitement since then. When Rooney limped out of that quarter-final in Portugal, hope limped off too. Rooney has returned to action, rarely, if ever, reaching the heights of that debut tournament; hope has been all but lost.

Think about it. What, really – Theo Walcott’s hat-trick in Croatia aside – has happened since 2004? I would say there hasn’t been much to shout about, but anyone subjected to 606 would know the folly in that. Even the penalty shoot-outs, compared to the gut-wrenching drama of 1990 and 1996, have lacked any sense that England were unlucky or were somehow deserving of more. Owen Hargreaves deserved some sympathy in 2006, but the rest? And in 2012, nobody could argue that England’s dire showing wasn’t worthy of the contempt of Andrea Pirlo’s panenka penalty. The thrashing by Germany in 2010 was equally ignominious.

The cold truth is that England haven’t a hope of winning a trophy. Even colder is the truth that it is not a surprise. Why should it be, when the Premier League and Champions League remain so dominant? Come on, who didn’t see the international break as an intrusion to the domestic season? It is no shock that England’s descent into permanent mediocrity has coincided with the arrival of the mega-rich to the Premier League.

Why, when so much money is being made, should anyone with any power give a shit about the national team? A Russian owner? A French manager? An Ivorian midfielder? A Portuguese agent? An Australian media mogul? Barclay’s? Sepp Blatter? David Cameron?

It should come as no surprise that the FA, even if they wanted to, can do nothing but sweet FA against the forces of deregulation. Everything else is cheaper to import – why not footballers? Everything else has been de-nationalised – why not football? It’s a world in which profit is king – the costs of which can be pointed out or, more likely, picked up by us fans. Money talks, and we’re feeding it lines. Money says we don’t care about the national team enough to stop shelling out for Sky TV. Or season tickets, or replica shirts. You get what you pay for, says Money. And Democracy backs it up. We – or at least enough of those who could be bothered – voted for this neoliberal bunch. Against this, the national team doesn’t stand a chance.

Part of me isn’t that bothered. The rational part of me that supports football rather than a team. The part of me that recoils from some of the “Ten German Bombers” singing, flag-waving nationalism that I’ve encountered following England. The part of me which is no longer seven years old, waking up to find a note from my dad saying that Gary Lineker had scored a hat-trick against Poland. Hey, we all grow up, and it’s unrealistic to expect to still feel the same way about something as childish as football.

What about today’s kids, though? My friends Colin and Ryan took their respective sons to Wembley on Saturday. Neither were born in 2004. Will they know comparable drama to Italia 90 and Euro 96? The thrill of Owen’s goal against Argentina, or Rooney’s explosion onto the world stage? Will the Scotland game on Tuesday mean anything like what those fixtures used to? I hope so. After such a great World Cup, international football should be important. The Premier League owes a debt to Gazza’s tears and England’s heartbreak at Italia 90. Time to start paying it back.

Among all the guff that erupted last week in the wake of Mario Balotelli’s shirt-swap, Barnay Ronay in The Guardian summed it up best: “Funny things, football shirts. It is apparently OK to reinvent, redesign and aggressively retail your club’s shirt from season to season. Or to cover it with adverts and market it as an object of desire at a price that is beyond the sensible reach of most fans. This is to respect and value and cherish the shirt. On the other hand taking the shirt off at half-time in order to conduct an ill-timed exchange: this is entirely unacceptable, a debasing of the hallowed fibres, a knee to the guts of the hard-working fan, and a crime to be punished at the earliest opportunity by a convenient post-match public shaming.”

On to Sunday: another game, another shirt taken off, another public shaming – this time, Robin van Persie drawing scorn from Louis van Gaal for receiving a yellow card for removing his shirt in the aftermath of scoring a dramatic injury-time equaliser for Manchester United against Chelsea.

Is there a more ridiculous rule in football? Possibly, but there can’t be any that is more symbolic of the grip that commerce has on The Beautiful Game. Scoring a goal is an emotional thing – just ask Temuri Ketsbaia. Lost in that emotion, a shirt might get ripped off. Equally, a shirt might be removed to reveal a heartfelt message to a loved one. But no, footballers aren’t people – they are adverts. It can’t be long before a player kisses the sponsor’s logo.

Having said that,  LVG was right in his post-match interview to call RVP “stupid.” Whisper it, but much more stupid than Balotelli. Why? Because, at a time when the smallest margins are said to count, van Persie’s yellow card could have repercussions. Accrue enough bookings and he could be suspended. Some yellow cards are worth it. The kind of clever, tactical foul that Gilberto Silva was the unsung master of certainly fits the bill. As a sometime Derby fan, I know only too well after last season’s play-off final that even a red card can sometimes be worth it. But a booking for celebrating a goal? When you know the rules? Put it like that, and stupidity covers it.

So well done to van Gaal for telling it how it is. And well done, too, to Garry Monk, who apparently dishes out fines to his Swansea players if they dive in training. In the spirit of Brian Clough, why shouldn’t managers set the moral compass for their players? I will never forget our manager sitting us all down at training the day before our first ever game as Cambridge Crusaders Under 10s. The message was clear: anyone who swears at the referee will never play for this team again.

It is a shame then that Brendan Rodgers found the need to divert from his (team’s) shortcomings by making a scapegoat of Balotelli. Patience with him may well be wearing thin, but should not be affected by the simple act of swapping a shirt at half-time – a simple act that would have been the non-story it should still be had he waited a few seconds to be out of camera shot. Liverpool’s problems – the departure of Luis Suarez, Daniel Sturridge’s injury, the over-reliance on Raheem Sterling’s tired shoulders, continued defensive weakness and Simon Mignolet’s meekness – are deeper than such superficiality.