I feel sick. Why am I sweating? Why are my palms so sticky?

The players think they suffer during penalty shoot-outs. What about we poor TV viewers?

You are never more aware of your heartbeat than when everything else, for a brief moment, stops. When all that matters is the here and now. Thump, thump, a pounding in the chest, a hammering under the ribcage, the soul’s drum banging out a tune.

This is watching England in a penalty shoot-out. Everything that is important for those few minutes is there in front of you, television’s most compelling, gripping drama.

Except it has always hurt. The pain is unbearable, the sense of anticipation agonising, the fear of defeat all-consuming. It is a horrible sensation.

How to cope? I feel sick. I need a drink. Sip it slowly. No, gulp it. Why am I sweating? Why are my palms so sticky? Why am I pacing around my living room? Why does my head hurt? Why am I pulling the stubble on my chin, trying to tear it out? Why am I rubbing my face so hard?

Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It is just football, it is just a game of football. But there it is, my heart beating, fast and worryingly loud. The thought of what happens next is torture.

England’s players will have felt their hearts beating rather than heard them amid the din in Moscow on Tuesday. It will have felt uncomfortable, out of control, a mild sense of panic threatening to flood the senses.

This is England. We know what happens next. Prepare yourself for it. Do not let it get the better of you. They will win and we will lose. Again.

World Cup semi-final 1990, unbearable, cruel. My football-daft 12-year-old self in floods of tears in the living room, in bed.

Then the joy of Euro ’96 and beating Spain on penalties at the end of a dire quarter-final. Stuart Pearce’s clenched fist. Germany in the semi-final. A gut-wrenching game that England should win. England lose on penalties.

Two years later, another World Cup, this time against Argentina. Ten-man England are defiant, they are brave, they hold on. They lose on penalties. Portugal 2004, Germany 2006, Italy 2012. All of the memories are vivid, all of them bad, all of them sad.

England were going to beat Colombia, they had survived an attempted fightback. Injury time, just focus, see it out, defend this corner like you have all the others. Oh no, no, no. Things are thrown. A child’s shoe. You stupid… Thank goodness he has gone to bed and cannot see his footwear being launched at a wall or hear the expletives.

Extra-time, largely uneventful. We know what is coming. The commentators cannot resist, all they want to talk about is penalties. England’s curse.

I cannot watch this again. I will not put myself through this another time. I say my goodbyes to those watching the game with me.

My heart already hurts. England’s World Cup is over. I will go for a walk. I will have a cigarette, even though I have not smoked for years. So what if it takes a few minutes of my life? It is not like I will ever see England win a penalty shoot-out anyway.

The air is still warm outside. I hear birds singing. The sunset is beautiful, England in the middle of a summer heatwave. Beautiful England, shimmering and swaying in the hazy evening light. Glorious England. I love this country.

I do not want to see updates on my phone, but I text my wife to tell her to ring when it is over. I feel

I will go for a walk. I will have a cigarette, even though I have not smoked for years

calm, serene almost. This feels almost good. I have done the right thing.

There are windows open, I hear the groans and the swear words. A man’s voice. Jordan Henderson has missed for England.

It is happening again, but no, a cheer. Further down the road. A child’s voice: “He’s missed, he’s missed. Mummy, he has missed…” What is happening? A few more steps, another cheer. “Get in there Pickford lad, you beauty…” A Geordie accent, a Newcastle supporter in awe of a former Sunderland player. What is happening?

Back towards home, excitement, hope. Silence in the streets, except for the birds singing. And then the noise erupts as living rooms and pubs roar in collective delight and the sound spreads, briefly drowning out the birdsong. A hundred different celebrations, but I hear the child’s clearest, a squeal, he is crying, but he is not sad, This is amazing, this is incredible.

I start to run, a car comes past, windows down. “We’ve b----- won, mate, we’ve only b----- won a penalty shoot-out!” I can no longer hear my heart beating, this is joy, sheer unadulterated joy.

Did I really just scream in the middle of the street? I think I did. Who cares. I am home again, football is coming home.