One British Vogue Editor’s Wild 72 Hours in Switzerland for the Women’s Euros Final

It’s not been an easy ride to get here—everyone agrees. England has frequently pushed the dial with sheer grit and determination, and sometimes a fluke, often at the last minute (literally). Players have battled racist abuse—leading to center-back Jess Carter taking a break from social media—and endless misogyny throughout. A quick scan through any comment section on TikTok and you’ll find men with England flags as profile pics practically frothing at the mouth with rage at the Lionesses’ flagrant success. For Heineken’s Social Swap experiment—in which Jill and commentator Gary Neville swapped social media accounts to live-tweet the Champions League Match—Gary got responses like, “get back in the kitchen, babe,” and “best leave the football to the boys then, luv.”

“It highlighted the sexism that still goes on in the sport,” Jill tells me, although she tries not to focus too intently on it; there are matches to be won, cups to be polished, and the women’s game is growing at lightning speed. “Is there still work to be done? 100%.”

For now, though, the only focus is on the final, and at kick-off, there isn’t an eye in that stadium not on the ball. When Spain’s Mariona Caldentey scores at the 25th minute with a powerful header, Jill Scott, two seats down from me, remains motionless and unmoved. “This means England are going to win,” someone says behind me, and for some reason I know what they mean.

Because this is what England does: they giveth and they taketh away, and any team would be foolish to relax this early. Spain, for their part, are weirdly fast. They whip past, never appearing to tire, and in person, up close, it can almost appear superhuman, the way their legs shuffle and bend. But England are better than anyone thought they would be. Hannah Hampton flies across the net, and our players are tricksy, even sturdy at times in defense. By the time Alessia Russo equalizes in the second half, there’s a mood shift in the stadium, and I’m again reminded of Jill’s words: when we win.

The penalties are tense—they must have been tense for those watching at home—and I’m clutching my own hair as if I might literally drop through the floor if they lose, never to be seen again. But when Hampton saves a penalty from Aitana Bonmatí—possibly the best woman footballer in the world, with an almost electric level of precision—it becomes clear that we might win the Euros for the second time in a row. And when Chloe Kelly steps up, there’s a feeling of certainty in the stands, at least among the Brits. We’ve seen her do this before: that stride to the goal, that signature hop, the hint of a smirk. She scores, as we knew she would, and the crowd flips out en masse. “Sweet Caroline” blasts through the speakers, the podium gets wheeled on, sparks fly into the sky. There’s a sense of shock and dissociation. Wait, what, did we just do that? I ask nobody in particular. Wait… what?!