Wake-up call for Fabio's men after Seville siesta

If a Spanish team with potential for true greatness should fail to collect the trophy in South Africa 16 months from now, it will be quite a surprise.

As friendlies go, this one went well enough, albeit without teaching us much. That England are dogged, energetic and organised under Fabio Capello we knew and it was hardly a shock that a side laced with second and third choices lacked a shred of inspiration. Then again, a full-strength XI would have made little impression against opposition that waltzed through Euro 2008 with such ease and although England started and finished brightly enough, they scarcely featured as an attacking force in the intervening 70 minutes.

There is no disgrace in that. FIFA's ranking system may be legendarily absurd but there is no more doubting Spain's right to the No1 spot than Rafael Nadal's in his, while more creative teams than England would have been made to look like leaden lummoxes last night.

Phil Jagielka, starting for the first and possibly last time in central defence, didn't help, the misplaced pass that gifted Spain the lead suggesting no obvious threat to Moore's status as the finest reader of a game we have produced.

In Jagielka's defence, perhaps the outrageous kick-off time of 10pm local time - 10.06, in fact, after the Spanish were late arriving; don't these people realise we don't go in for such Iberian poncery as the siesta? - had left him dozy.

David Villa was wide awake, though, and once he'd capitalised on the howler with the speed of thought and feet that makes him such a world-class performer, the match was effectively over.

Had Villa not been replaced early in the second half by David Silva, in the closest thing the game can offer to a fully anagrammatic substitution, the eventual margin might well have been doubled. By then, Becks had trotted on for that record-equalling appearance and he duly proved his continuing worth to Capello by conjuring England's two best moments - first a grandiose crossfield pass to release Shaun Wright-Phillips for a passable shot on goal; then the beautifully-weighted pass from which Carlton Cole had a shot scrambled off the line.

The evening's only other classically Beckhamesque contribution came, alas, from a Spaniard, Xavi's devilishly whipped free-kick enabling Llorente to give the final score some semblance of justice. 

Don Fabio, whose pidgin English is deteriorating so rapidly that he is now a dead cert for the insulting Italian stereotype role in a remake of Mind Your Language, said "I understand a lot of things" when asked what he had learned from the encounter.

But he didn't care to expand and small wonder when all he could possibly have learnt is that, however dramatically England have improved under him, a giant chasm between our chaps and the planet's finest remains to be bridged.

Spain unquestionably belong in that elite group with quadrennial World Cup joint favourites Brazil and Argentina. Cesc Fabregas was absent last night but this team is so overladen with talent that he seldom starts, anyway. With Villa and Fernando Torres frighteningly slick and inventive in attack, Xavi and Andres Iniesta imperious in midfield and Sergio Ramos unleashing those storming runs from right-back, their attacking options are almost limitless.

And while David Pleat, doughtily clinging to his ITV Village Idiot title despite the ferocious competition, marked the kick-off by questioning Spain's pace, you needn't have noticed that this side included a Senna, an Alonso and an admittedly misspelt Pique to appreciate the lightning speed with which they slice through defences almost at will.

Even on a night when seldom obliged to engage top gear, they were a joy to watch and, having shrugged off that "perennial underachievers" cliché, it will take hideous luck or a startlingly good side to frustrate them next summer.

As for England, a sharp learning curve must be negotiated if we are to break out of the quarter-final straitjacket to challenge in South Africa. For the moment, with hope rebridled and reality duly checked, cleaving to Bobby Moore's newly-tied record and the glorious past it represents would seem the sensibly self-protective route to take.