Like a Brazilian exchange student who stays for the summer who you really fancy, it made you fizz, gave you something that you wanted to keep forever but you knew that, for all you hoped, it would never last.

It all came to a head one sickly hot summer’s evening when you were staring at the hungover sun slowly dropping in the horizon. They leaned in close, feeling the glowing warmth of their body’s aura, and whispered in that sweet, sultry voice, like the filthy cocktease they were “Germany have put seven past Brazil, in a semi-final, in Brazil’s own back yard”. That fleeting moment of passion has forever been etched in your mind. Then they left, promising they would be back in two years. You hoped it would be the same, truly, deeply. Surely nothing can change that much in two years?

Two years later, and they came back. They’d now moved to France, and it had enveloped them. They looked the same, sure, but there was something different about them. Tired, uninterested, weary. Both of you now two years uglier, flabbier, and weathered. You tried desperately to get that old person back, everything that worked two years ago now seemed forced, an ever embarrassing ploy to rekindle something that made you feel vital and special.

It happened again, the moment you treasured two years ago was being replayed, but it was different. The sun hadn’t been seen in weeks. You begged, and pleaded with a higher power for it to be like 2014 again. Your resolve was broken with the bitterly whispered words, “Listen mate, all I can offer at the moment is Slovakia 0–0 England”. With that they left. You’ve got them until mid-July, so anything could happen, but deep down you know it will never be as good as two years ago.