If I didn't have to spend the 30 minutes writing about it, I'd just tell you that England were indescribably awful and stop there. Indescribable is a tough state of play for a sportswriter. When you're looking for the words, you feed off of what's in front of you. I've run out of ideas, I'm apathetic and aimless, directionless. I'm yawning. I don't have a back-up plan. And that is the best reflection of what I've just watched that I can give. That is exactly what England deserve. They don't warrant bile, vitriol, or sympathy. Maybe I've been in France too long, but I just want to shrug my shoulders, and maybe scratch my head. That's what I spent the match doing anyway, as Andy Farrell booted ball after ball straight down the middle of the field, and then turned his head to watch it sail back past him and into touch somewhere near England's 22. Farrell's kicks were one thing about England that wasn't aimless: every one picked out a waiting South African. Shaun Perry appeared deeply befuddled throughout the half he was given before being hauled off. His decision-making was awful, and he repeatedly squandered England's possession, and like Farrell, must surely be unlikely to appear again in this World Cup, if ever again, in an England shirt. Mark Regan, was he even on the field? Until the game was dead, and even though it was practically comatose from the fifth minute it didn't keel over till minutes before half-time, England's plan involved tossing the ball off the shoulder to the nearest man and charging straight into contact. So that was what the tactical master-plan that Brian Ashton claimed to have had in place for "weeks and weeks". Brilliant. Run the ball at the man, or kick it to Percy Montgomery. Genius. It was not even well executed. England missed tackles throughout. The penalty count was stacked against them as heavily as the score-line. They failed to adapt to the demands of Joel Jutge, and some of their offences, such as Matt Stevens' shove, which lead directly to three points for South Africa, were just idiotic. Were there any bright spots? Jason Robinson played his best Test for a long time. Oh yes, and then he went off in agony, clutching his thigh, in the 60th minute. England's fans are booing them right now, those that haven't already left the Stadium. Around them, South Africans are beaming, and so they should. Their team has just embarked on a lap of honour, having achieved one of the greatest victories in the history of the Cup. The Springboks are a magnificent team, and will surely play in the final of this tournament. I'm still lost for words. The horrendousness of that performance has left me dumbfounded. It was a sick dream, a joke, a nonsense, and it will haunt every one of those players for the rest of their careers. Four of the sorriest years in sport reached a nadir in Paris tonight, and whatever the hell they do between now and the moment they are dumped out of the Cup, I imagine they'll never forgive themselves for limp, cadaverous fashion in which they played tonight.