Before this game Thomas Tuchel had said he would base his starting XI on what he saw on the training ground. Halfway through an evening at Wembley Stadium that felt like being stabbed very slowly through the eyes with a butter knife made entirely from death, ear wax and empty corporate leisure product, it was tempting to wonder about this.
What exactly had the players left out done in training to be deemed ineligible for this England team? Turn up naked? Vomit into a traffic cone? Attempt to stage a game of Cluedo during set-piece practice? Perhaps Adam Wharton had killed a crow and stapled its innards to the dressing‑room door.
For 80 minutes or so this was un-football, non-sport, an activity that seemed to approach a point of nothingness, no action, no content. All of it soundtracked by the classic Wembley atmosphere, a reminder that there is no more profound silence than the silence of tens of thousands of people.
In the end something had to happen. The thing that happened was also fitting as England scored the opening goal via a one-inch tap in from a player whose name was then booed by the home fans more loudly than the goal had been celebrated.
A few minutes later Ben White also gave away a very soft penalty for Uruguay’s equaliser, which at least created some muscle memory in the crowd of referee rage and decision injustice.
It was a deserved equaliser, if only because nobody deserved to win. In fact to that point England and Uruguay had produced arguably the worst football match ever played.
This is a controversial statement. Minds will wander back to hundreds of drab contests down the years. But think about the factors here. The talent available. The size of the crowd. The backdrop of a World Cup. The fact Tuchel had spent four months plotting and planning and scheming for this night, before pursuing the self sabotage of a chemistry-free team at war with itself in pursuit of World Cup selection.
This was the real significance of a 1-1 draw so forgettable you literally forgot it as it was happening in front of you. If England had no rhythm and no patterns here this was out of choice, as Tuchel fielded a team that could have been listed as A Trialist, A Man, A Ringer.
Of the starting XI only Harry Maguire and Marcus Rashford have any real chance of being first choice at the World Cup. The rest were competing against each other to get in the squad. Too much filler. Too much not-quite-sure.
There was widespread agreement that calling up 35 players for this game was some kind of masterstroke, which is at least more evidence that Tuchel is good at talking about stuff in a convincing way. But this was always a bad idea. There is a reason Sir Gareth used to bang on about community and creating a club vibe. Here we had the opposite, a no-club vibe, a shoved-together in a lift with some strangers dynamic.
Two Spurs players started. Some club second-choicers got a game. A Henderson-Garner midfield is not going to bring the best out of either Henderson or Garner. Meanwhile England had an entire sixth form school trip’s worth of cool guys in the stands in matching coats and hoodies, staring down sullenly.
No other major nation is doing this in these games. Spain and France played their stars this week. The World Cup is looming closer. Did we learn anything here? Or rather, anything good?
Wembley had been a tinny, echoey place even before kick-off, with that feeling of a leisure event taking place rather than a game of football. Fireworks happened. Smoke drifted emptily. A variety of military personnel held up a big round sheet.
On the pitch Phil Foden had a chance at No 10. He drifted and shuffled and shuttled and called for the ball but didn’t get it much. He looked like what he is, a footballer who hasn’t played much football trying to make football happen in a non-football football match.
In between England played like a team of disconnected elements. Now and then someone would surge off on a random dribble. Why not? You’re being explicitly told this is not a serious team. And also that you’re in competition with the player next to you. This was about not ruling yourself out any more explicitly than the next bloke, about stinking less.
Adam Wharton came on at half‑time and the team looked better, if only because Wharton has that rare ability to pass the ball forward. He has to go to the World Cup. As does Cole Palmer, who offered an obvious upgrade.
Otherwise the only real lessons from this game are that Tuchel is fallible at this level, if only because he’s making it up as he goes along and the job is very tough. That England are not as good as people want them to be. The back up starting centre forward here has five league goals since January last year. And that in many ways this was an echo of the old problem, the clash between owners and operators, league and country.
Tuchel has talked a lot about having an England team that reflects the Premier League. Well here it was. Tired players. Stretched resources. Club interests looming over your shoulder. This was the dream international for the Premier League, a room temperature B-team stroll about; but also a reminder that the job of an England manager is also to resist it.