MOSCOW, Wednesday 9.04pm. England have a free kick on the edge of the Croatian penalty area.

There’s a big bloke sat next to me, he’s Russian, attempts to ask me what will happen next.

“Trippier.... top corner.... goal” I slowly tell him. He nods. He seems to understand.

Seconds later, he’s got me in a bear hug. I celebrated England scoring in a World Cup semi-final with a foreigner I didn’t know even, before I got to grab hold of my dad or jump up and down with my mate Paul Fryer.

I’d watched the quarter-final win over Sweden in a Hartlepool pub. When England scored, I got a big hug off Bob Cross. He was even sweatier than the hefty Russian I’d meet four days later.

WE decided, spur of the moment on Sunday, to go to Russia. After around six hours of being constantly crashed out of the FIFA website, I eventually landed three seats.

Category A tickets for England’s biggest game in 28 years, since the last time we made the last four of a World Cup. The last England game I saw was at the Stadium of Light in 2003, Wayne Rooney’s debut and he’s long had his day.

Flights? Early morning Tuesday from Birmingham, into Stuttgart, four hours to wait before an Aeroflot journey to Moscow. Everyone descending on Russia had arrived via some weird and unconventional routes. The strangest one I heard was ferry from Hull to Amsterdam, train to Lithuania and then a flight into Moscow.

Looking for accommodation in the city was crazy. It seemed either to be hostels, bunk beds and poky rooms for a tenner or a lavish hotel with gold velvet curtains, chandeliers, and butlers with a big curly moustache for £900 a night.

I knew of some lads from Hartlepool who were in Russia, they had been since the first game, that last-gasp win over Tunisia which seems a tournament away.

They had travelled far and wide, slept on overnight trains, told their wives, work and girlfriends they would be back when England were knocked out. Few expected them to be away this long.

In Moscow they had found a place which had a stack of new Ikea beds in a dance studio to sleep in. When we got there, our new flat pack beds were being unpacked and laid out.

The owner didn’t speak English, to communicate he spoke into his phone, which translated into English text.

When we left on Thursday morning, his final message on his phone screen read “I am so sorry England are out of the World Cup.”

He knew his 1000 rubles per night per person was up.

First night and it was straight to Red Square, to the grand and splendour of the capital of one of the most powerful, but viewed as miserable, nations in the world.

For the World Cup, Russia’s face is painted with a smile. Foreigners welcomed with open arms. It seems the key areas where football fans would see and pass through has been spruced up, painted, cleaned and covered.

Thirty years of grime removed for the World Cup.

The bank of TV studios for the broadcasters of the world overlooks St Basil’s Cathedral, which looks like it’s made of gingerbread.

There was no sign of Lineker, Shearer, Wright, Neville and co late after France had beat Belgium.

Shearer, however, was serenaded and lauded by England fans the following day as he walked past the Punch & Judy pub five minutes walk from the tv studios. He stopped for selfies and autographs galore, raising spirits further among excited, drunk, expectant supporters.

Later that afternoon there was banks of Croatian fans chanting, signing their booming anthems.

Naturally the English sang of football coming home. Harry Maguire’s family walked past, all wearing shirts with their surname on the back. Even they were asked for selfies.

THE 25 minute metro journey to the Luzhniki Stadium was joyous, carriages of fans packed in, loud and excited.

England shirts were everywhere, of all ages, designs and styles, retro styles outnumbering current.

The stadium looms into view from the metro station, and after three security checks we were inside the inner ring. If you want to buy anything - World Cup merchandise, a pint of Budweiser in a plastic World Cup semi-final glass, or a programme you can only use a Visa card.

Three Lions blasted out over the tannoy inside the arena. Everyone in red, white and blue joined in. After all, football really was coming home.

It should still be, but fears about how good and smart Luka Modric is were proved right and he ran the show. England retired to their own penalty area. Unable to get back on top, or for our ball playing centre-halves to get possession and build, Modric roamed and orchestrated the game.

Football’s not coming home now. Only the fans, as a scramble for flights back to the UK started.

As we headed through the city centre on Thursday morning, we were approached by a Radio 5 Live producer, asked if we would be interviewed live on air. I’d already twice appeared on BBC Tees, done a video blog for The Northern Echo website and been interviewed by a Bangladesh TV station. 

Proud or disappointed we were asked. There is no correct answer, both apply.

If England had won on Wednesday, we were ready to stay and hunt down final tickets.

My dad was there at Wembley in 1966. You could probably count on one hand the number of England fans who were there back in the day and then in Russia for what might have been on Sunday evening.

We thought this wouldn’t be all over just yet. It is now.