So the Dutch royal family is celebrating a double World Cup victory. How quaint. One can almost picture King Willem-Alexander and Queen Máxima, waving from a balcony in The Hague, surrounded by tulips and the gentle aroma of herring. Meanwhile, over here, our own team is just now limbering up for the knockout stage. It is a scene of such telling contrast that even the most jaded observer might pause to reflect.
Let us consider the deeper meaning of this triumph for the Netherlands. A double victory suggests not just skill but culture, infrastructure, and national will. It speaks of a society that has prioritised excellence in sport as a matter of civic pride. The Dutch have long understood that football is more than a game; it is a canvas for national identity. Their 'Total Football' philosophy, pioneered by Rinus Michels and Johan Cruyff, is the embodiment of collective genius, a system where every player understands their role within a fluid, intelligent whole. This is not luck. This is a civilisation that values coordination, discipline, and innovation.
And now our own team, the English, stands on the precipice of the knockout stage. But with what air of confidence? Our preparations have been a tale of bluster and anxiety, a national neurosis playing out in stadium lights. We have the Premier League, the so-called 'best league in the world', but our national team so often resembles a collection of individuals rather than a cohesive unit. We are the heirs to a game we invented, yet we too often play as if the past is a burden rather than an inspiration.
I am reminded of the Roman Empire in its decadence, importing grain from Egypt while neglecting its own fields. We import foreign players and managers, hoping their brilliance will rub off, while our domestic talent development remains stunted. The Dutch, by contrast, cultivate their own. Their youth academies are the envy of Europe, producing technically gifted players who understand space and movement. It is no accident that their national team often punches above its weight.
But this is not just about football. It is about national decline and renewal. The Netherlands, a small country with few natural resources, has repeatedly reinvented itself: from maritime power to trading hub, from agricultural innovator to social liberal model. In sport, as in other fields, they compensate for size with ingenuity. Britain, meanwhile, suffers from what the historian Niall Ferguson calls 'imperial nostalgia', a longing for a past dominance that blinds us to present failings.
Let us not pretend that this is merely a matter of luck or chance. The Dutch royal family celebrates because their society has built a system that rewards excellence. When we win, we celebrate luck. When they win, they celebrate a process. The difference is a lesson for our times.
As the British team prepares for the knockout stage, we should ask ourselves: what does victory mean? Is it a momentary relief from the grey grind of Brexit and inflation, or is it a sign of deeper health? I suspect the former. We will cheer, we will sing 'It’s Coming Home', and we will ignore the structural weaknesses that leave us perpetually hopeful but rarely triumphant. The Dutch, with their double victory and their royal wave, remind us that true success is built, not wished for.
So as the tournament progresses, let us watch our team with hope but also with a critical eye. And let us quietly envy the Netherlands, that small, pragmatic republic that understands something we have forgotten: that greatness requires not just talent, but a culture that nurtures it.