And so, it was all a dream. We should have known, really, when our visions started to include footballers riding unicorns, or flinging bright blue rubber chickens at each other. None of this was real. Britons scavenging their wardrobes for pairs of shorts and flip-flops to wear day after pitiless, scorching day of unbroken sunshine, and hauling themselves to big screens where jubilant hordes flung beer in the air and over themselves and each other in carefree celebration. None of this was real, and it never could be. The sun did not shine, the net did not bulge, the rubber chicken was not tossed, the beer was never airborne.