It makes no sense. You travel thousands of miles to watch a game of football.

But its brilliant.

You see other fans, supporters, followers – on the same mission. There is a gathering and a convergence and a massing of fellows. The excitement builds.

The flock grows and the noise increases. The mob expands and sings. It is rowdy and good natured but beyond polite. The humour is random and funny. The opposition are maybe taunted a bit.

There are shirts and colours and flags and hats. The camaraderie is exquisite – help is always at hand.

Then you share the emotions of the game. The joy and sometimes the despair.

In some foreign land you are following England away.

This year we have to go to the United States of America. If we can, if we dare, if its possible, we follow England away.

The players are talking up a brotherhood. It starts on the streets, and in the parks and all those days when kicking a ball was solace against the world. When under English skies, while those clouds skudded over hills and cities, we played our game, the game we gave the world.

Its 60 years since we won. Hold us.

Its England away.

Come on England.