The most famous managerial team talk of all time is also the shortest. “Lads, it’s Tottenham.” Years of history and shared experience, condensed into just three words, bringing a whole squad of players into the same perfect clarity at the exact same moment.

Years later, and we all still know what Spursiness is, even as they have become the most consistently excellent side of the past three years. Similarly, we know that Arsenal are always moments away from a collapse in confidence and form, or that Liverpool are going to look for all the world like they still have Phil Babb and Bjorn Tore Kvarme playing in defence.

The implications of this are fascinating. How is it possible for those characteristics to pass down, year after year, despite every player, coach, director, ballboy and kitman changing over that time? Philosophy fans will recognise this as the Ship of Theseus paradox; everyone else will know it as the Trigger’s Broom paradox. Is it really possible for traits and failings to pass down from one generation of a team to another, or are we simply seeing patterns and characteristics because we are trying so hard to see them?

The two interpretations aren’t necessarily at odds. Identity is nothing more than a story we tell ourselves, about both who we are and who other people are. Often, the most likeable, respectable and level-headed people are those who are able to close that gap between how they see themselves and how the rest of the world sees them. Eliminate that gap, and you get someone who is unpretentious, honest and humble – a pleasure to be around.

But we know those people to be disappointingly rare, and the reason for that is because holding such self-awareness in crystal-clear focus is bloody difficult. There are so many things standing in the identity gap, pushing it back open with robotic strength. Disproportionate guilt, self-recrimination and self-doubt push from one end to form Arnold Rimmer, Bojack Horseman and the chronically depressed; jealousy, injustice and ego heave and shove at the other to reveal David Brent, Alan Partridge and Donald Trump.

In this way, the identity gap can be self-fulfilling. If you tell yourself you can’t do something again and again, there’s a very good chance you will indeed be unable to muster the required effort. And that is where the identity problem begins to afflict football teams.

If the expectation around the Arsenal camp is that they will collapse, it effectively gives the players permission to do just that: it becomes part of their identity. Get into an England player’s head that not making a mistake is more important than taking a chance, and they will play that way.

When those failings become so deeply embedded in the culture of a club, it takes an extraordinary effort to exorcise them, regardless of how glaringly apparent they may be. Ask your average player if they want to win, and they will answer with a big, loud ‘yes’. Ask them if they want to change, and their answer will be much less resounding.

It is possible to effect a cultural change quickly, but it takes something incredibly rare and extraordinary to turn the old ways to ash and make room for the rebirth: Leicester winning the league, Newcastle going close under Kevin Keegan, or your new fitness-obsessed manager arriving at almost exactly the same time as your inspirational captain quits drinking after years of alcoholism.

Usually, though, change is hard. Change is intimidating, as it requires you to put your identity at risk. And change can take a long time. Stoke City can sign all the Champions League winners and be as so-so at home as they like, but their reputation for Pulisball will remain concrete-firm for years to come. People and institutions revert to type with incredible regularity: when the public perceives you as one thing, it is only natural to move towards that and try to close the identity gap.

Short of some exceptional intervention, the only way to move on is by breaking the loop between perception and performance – and that can only happen if the players buy into the idea that the change is necessary so wholeheartedly that they are able to shut out the ghosts of the past.

Managers prize cheerfully adaptable professionals like James Milner and Gareth Barry so highly -even beyond their undoubted ability on the pitch – precisely because they are crucial in fostering a culture where change is not seen as a necessary evil, but as an exciting opportunity for self-improvement. Unfortunately, because reaching the top of any profession required a certain level of unbending self-confidence and self-image, such characters are rare.

Every team faces these cultural challenges at some point. They then have two choices: either the players need to have the honesty, responsibility and personal strength to effect that change in themselves; or they can sit around waiting for some extraordinary intervention, some incredible revolution, some inspiring voice to make it all happen.

Which of those options does the England squad think is their best chance of stopping their World Cup opponents from simply saying ‘lads, it’s England’?

Steven Chicken – follow him on Twitter