70-odd thousand supporters in the ground; a grandstand finish; some heroic effort and some painfully poor choices when Our Lot seemed likely to score. Star player on the night and wisest, coolest head? In the pundit’s chair – Emma Hayes. And goddammit she’s lost to America. Everybody else bit lost in the rush and the ‘urgency’. So yeh, Proper England.

Russo fabulously mobile and full of intent – but only on the park for twenty minutes. James and Kirby and Stanway scandalously wayward or seemingly lazy… but probably just nervy, because despite their experience these MASSIVE, FLOODLIT, WEMBLEY NIGHTS are maybe something you do grow into over time. And then, in any case, they were stirred to brilliance. The visitors run ragged but also doing that ‘we’re here and we’re going to pick our moment because we *just might* have more class (or certainly composure) than you Inglish’ thing. The Oranje looking, in that first half, like they might get battered but win three nil.

Pick your moment to get irate about. Or enthuse about. Or say ‘this could only be England’ about. Because this was/is authentic, now. Was it the godawful second goal, where every Lioness in the building went AWOL, or misjudged, or daren’t commit, before the consistently excellent Earps let a distinctly ordinary shot squirm under her body? Was it when James repeated the Unbelievably Bad Choice Option, despite having time and options? Was it Kirby – the brilliant, low-slung, cerebral, skilful Kirby – being persona non wotsits again; as absent as her fellow water-carrier (and fellow absentee) Walsh? I lost energy on all these things.

But c’mon. We were gripped. By the drama of the last half hour, and the quality of Hemp, despite her cruel isolation, and by the two richly weighted assists from James, and the wonder-pass that made the Netherland’s opener. Gripped.

When Toone – who had rightly been dropped after a series of performances which kinda personified the Lionesses thoroughly disappointing campaign – slid in the winner from James’s perceptive cross, Wembley went medium-bonkers in a particularly satisfying way.

England had surged back, hugely to their credit. The gaffer – Wiegmann – who had maybe been found wanting, tactically, early doors, threw Mead and Russo and probably Stanley Matthews at this, late on. She could have withdrawn Bronze or Stanway or Kirby or anyone but Hemp, at the half. Instead the tangential (and wasteful) Kelly got the hook, with England two-down and weirdly both dominant and worryingly porous. Then Morgan, then everybody with an English passport put shoulder to the wheel. It was a great win.

What it means though, is likely disappointment. Post-match, the wonderfully sturdy Earp heaped the blame on herself. Nah. One big error but she was exposed by poor work in front. Plus England should have capitalized on chances before and after the two weak concessions. Earp we love, for her general quality and the occasional delightfully obvious and possibly marginally defiant ‘what the fuck’, to the nearest and most intrusive camera. You’d want her in your mob.

As a squad, this particular group have under-achieved in this particular competition. But what the fuck? They got Wembley rammed. They won something major. They are worth the investment and the grief. They are our new, watchable, wonderful Ingerland.