A very English way to fail. Nothing quite so became England's World Cup as the epic manner of their exit. Asked to choose death or glory, they took both. Their performance last night elevated them above the antics of the lobotomised section of their support and left the World Cup with a good taste in its mouth. Ten men tunnelling their way from a siege to the brink of freedom.

This was a thundering game, at times it moved with Wagnerian grandeur, on other occasions with delicate subtlety. The interest never flagged or waned. Argentina claimed the big prize. England take back some of the high ground lost in their defeat to Romania.

Daniel Passarella, the Argentinian manager, captured the essence of the evening most succinctly.

"To send the English back home is wonderful. It is a very big joy, but it was very, very hard. I think everyone was waiting for us to win, and we are very happy to have won. Now we have to go out and start thinking about Holland. But the English, what passion!"

What passion indeed. Another exit from a major tournament through the cruel and unusual punishment of the penalty shootout.

David Batty clinched the Pizza advert this time. His miss sends England home, but the rapture with which their glorious defeat will be greeted casts England's erratic adventure in a more golden light.

"It was unbelievable. We could not have asked more from the players," said Hoddle when it was all done. "I don't know if destiny was against us. Everything went against us. But it is not a night for excuses. It is a night for us to be proud."

England are entitled to that. They could so nearly have pulled off one big coup last night.

Instead they left behind every ounce of their energy and one of the goals of the tournament which put them a goal up after the opening exchange of penalties. Owen, the sprite with the cold heart and magic feet, went dancing away. Chamot chased Ayala gaped.

He scored. Right out of the comic strip and onto the pitch.

It's wrong, of course, bloody wrong that Michael Owen should be 18 and have it all. Looking down from the high windows of middle age the rest of us can either resent him or enjoy him.

Last night we opted for the latter. He scored only once last night, but his first half contribution was measured by the sounds which shook the ground every time he hit full stride.

Scored just once? Why be churlish. It was a goal of such beguiling brilliance as to be worth half a dozen of the more mundane sort.

The Argentinians, for their part, were inventive and passionate, but last night in St Etienne was one of those occasions when those were the qualities needed just to keep a team in the game. Had they a twister like Owen in their ranks they might have won by a hatful. Instead, Ortega's judicious promptings were wasted. Batistuta looked alarmingly blunt and Crespo, when he arrived as a replacement, was only marginally better.

In midfield, Argentina dominated, all the more so after Beckham's departure for the most expensive act of silliness he is ever likely to commit. Yet the English defence which had been widely suspected of slowness gave a tutorial in the art of tackling.

Throughout the tournament thus far it has been the Argentinians who have prided themselves on the parsimony of their defence.

They will have come away from St Etienne last night with a sense of wonder. Two hours of football during which they enjoyed a grotesquely disproportionate share of the possession failed to produce them a goal from open play.

Batistuta's penalty and Zanetti's wonderfully worked free kick were triumphs of either planning or execution, but all their spontaneity ended up crashing off Adams, Campbell or Neville.

So that was it, the game that may well have been the game of the tournament. Certainly in terms of the drama it condensed into its two-hour slot it is unlikely to be surpassed, but Daniel Passeralla will wake up this morning and appreciate that this was a wonderful game between two flawed sides. His team won but they look unprepared for the steep ascent that lies ahead.

They play the Dutch in Marseille next Saturday and unless Batistuta finds his mood and the Argentina learn to maintain their tempo it will be their final game.

England will be home by then. There will be few tears shed in the French towns which have suffered the tidal wave of spite the English following surfs in on. St Etienne was reasonably quiet yesterday and the streets weren't spangled with broken glass before it got dark but the atmosphere was heavy.

Funny the things which mere football jerseys evoke. The cotton cloud white and swimming pool blue of the Argentina strip brings on misty reminiscences and indulgent smiles when encountered on the street. A slew of English jerseys brings on the trepidation associated with trodding on a wasps nest. You daren't move lest you annoy them.

Policing the English at this World Cup has cost four times as much as policing the support of a normal team and has provoked debate as to what is the acceptable level of damage which must be suffered by ordinary people before a football competition is diminished by the withdrawal or suspension of a team.

The competition got off lightly enough this time. So too did Glenn Hoddle, his uncertainties and conceits will be buried under all this glorious passionate failure. Flying home he will hardly fail to savour the irony that it was Beckham, the first club the tabloids used to beat him with, who spoiled the party.

"I'm not denying it cost us the game," said Hoddle. Harsh words from a callow man whose team gave more than he or some of his supporters deserved.