Euro 2004 Diary

by Joel Rookwood

Images by Joel Rookwood, Alex Griffiths and Tom Watkinson.

The Rough Guide to Euro 2004

Just when you’re looking for something to fill the ninety days that fall awkwardly in between domestic football seasons, God reminds us of his bounty, and delivers us from boredom. His summer gift to us? None other than international football…

This year, cutting the close season almost in half was ‘Euro 2004’, a month-long football event. UEFA’s latest showcase tournament proved a fitting competition for the continent’s most talented prima donnas to perform their vast array of diving manoeuvres and display the latest line in ridiculous haircuts. The Portuguese had seen an opportunity to put their vast supply of unwanted and mismatching bathroom tiles to good use, employing them as the base of the design of a stadium or nine. Europe’s football governing body, bless them, were kind enough to reward this sound engineering economics with the opportunity to avoid the necessity of having to qualify for the tournament and actually stage the event. How Graham Taylor must rue the day he turned down shares in B&Q in 1993.

However amidst the graceful actors and colourful ceramics the tournament did also produce some very entertaining football. Indeed the very thought of some of the potentially explosive encounters on offer in the initial stages were sure to get the heart racing. Hosts Portugal against neighbours Spain, England taking on their old adversaries the French, and of course no European tournament would be complete without giving the Dutch and the Germans a chance to spit at each other for ninety minutes.

But for those of you who have become somewhat disillusioned by football, disheartened by a growing interference which is removing the game from its roots and in need of something a little more honest and low-key to relight the flames of passion for football that burn inside you - well I can’t promise anything, but this might just prove to be right up your street. For in the opening phase of the competition my exclusive tour of Portugal saw me take in a game from each group, each entirely meaningless and featuring the side who finished bottom of their respective section, adding to the glamour of the experience. Zidane’s last minute winner against England, Sweden notching five without reply, the classic Holland-Czech Republic encounter, I missed them all. I just couldn’t resist the pull of Bulgaria and among others, the mighty Latvia.

As this introduction suggests, my trip to Portugal was not the 5-Star vacation it may have been for some. Indeed every aspect of my trip smacked of a budget holiday, elements of which even the dirtiest of East German backpacker would have cringed at the thought of. But unmistakably it did prove to be a good old-fashioned football tour. No landmark or monument was photographed or even visited. The focus remained strictly football. A mate accompanied me on the trip, and with him being of the blue persuasion, and I of the red, the Rooney/Gerrard argument was to feature heavily in conversation. We of course are Liverpudlians, a quaint little city on the outskirts of England.

In keeping with the ethos of the visit the two of us had decided that we would descend on Portugal via the cheapest possible means. So, after throwing up for the duration of an early morning Dublin-bound ferry from Liverpool, a tactic the airport police wrongly interpreted as an attempt (albeit the laziest one on record) to avoid the hooligan checks by British officials, we hitched a lift with RyanAir to Faro. It was whilst wading though the chickens during our attempt to disembark the ageing aircraft however, that our situation became really precarious. For it was at this point when I realised I had forgotten my driver’s licence - our trip threatened to have finished before it had started. For the tickets we had pre-arranged during our flying visit were for matches taking place in cities spanning the length of the country, and on consecutive days. With time not on our side, a lack of transportation (which was to double up as our accommodation) threatened to devastate our plans.

Unsurprisingly the car hire staff would not hand over the car keys without presentation of my documents. However the lady behind the counter was sympathetic and eventually decided to bend the rules a little, agreeing to accept a faxed copy of the license. But having rang home and pleading with a mate to spend two hours of her Saturday evening trying to locate the solitary piece of paper in my bombsite of an office, her failure in this mission rendered our plight all the more desperate. And then suddenly I remembered where it was. I had been caught speeding coming home from a game a few months earlier and had to present my license. I sat motionless in the office of an unnamed car hire company faced with the painful realisation that the single piece of A4 paper I needed was safely locked away in the filing cabinet of a Halifax courtroom. And I was powerless to do anything about it.

However, growing still more accommodating and compassionate, the legendary staff at the car hire centre then said they would accept just my licence number. Yet subsequent phone calls home proved once again entirely fruitless. And so, even though the rules had well and truly been snapped in half by this point, we were approaching our fourth hour still sat helpless on the same seat in the same office. Our final hope lay in finding a car hire company in the vicinity who had my details on their system. With midnight and closing time fast approaching, few people were keen to lend a hand. But the lady on the reception desk at one company, inevitably the last one we tried, found my details on their computer. Strangely enough it turned out I had hired a car in Serbia with the said company en route to Bulgaria to watch Liverpool play a meaningless UEFA Cup match earlier in the year. I could have kissed her. Aware of the fact I had seven minutes before the other building was to close however, I deciding against wasting one of those minutes getting arrested for assault. Instead I raced over to the car hire centre with the vigour of a man half my weight, passed on the good news to my companion, and the printout to the ever-patient lady at the original counter. The formalities were soon completed and we were handed the car keys, the very ones that had been dangling cruelly in front of my eyes for four of the most excruciatingly painful hours of my life. The earth was now ours, and everything that’s in it. We had done it the hard way, but regardless of that… we were on our way to Albufeira.

The venue of several much publicised arrests of drunken English hooligans may have seemed a strange place to begin the tour de Portugal, but with friends staying in the area, it represented the only possibility of a bed all week, and so it was a necessary starting point. Unsurprisingly the stories that had dominated the English media during the preceding fortnight were grossly exaggerated once again. You’ve got to love those tabloids… Having met with friends on Albufeira’s now infamous strip, we enjoyed a few hyped up beverages, before managing to flee the supposed war zone. We somehow managed to escape the intolerable violence, which amounted to a drunk Scottish couple arguing over who can drink the most vodka, and the response of a lone Norfolk teenager to being temporarily refused alcohol, which was simply to grunt and then fall asleep on the bar that was propping him up. Scary stuff.

We returned to a friend’s place, a villa temporarily inhabited by a group of too many twenty something’s from Torquay, where we stayed the night on the spider-infested stone floor. We remained blissfully unaware that this was as luxurious as it was going to get. As we sat discussing the Rooney phenomenon and England’s chances of success in the tournament (which for some was the same line of argument), the door flung open, scattering the pile of empty Super Bock cans that had intelligently been laid in front of it. In walked a deflated member of the party who had returned home complaining that he had been unable to sell two tickets for the following night’s game in nearby Faro for face value. Our luck was beginning to change. We tried not to look too pleased with ourselves as we handed over 70 Euros in exchange for the tickets, casually placing them in the safest place I could think of. I turned over to hide my glee, remembering the desperation we had lived through that day, and the antithetical position we now found ourselves in, wiped the cobwebs from my brow and fell asleep.

The next morning we awoke and headed straight for Faro for the must see Russia-Greece game at the newly erected arena. It was the first of six nights we were to spend in the country, and we had no intention of wasting even a single one. The Greeks who poured into the stadium that evening were small in number, and smaller still considering half of the clan decked in blue hailed from north London, and were therefore not real Greeks in my book. The Russians on the other hand inhabited most of the ground and were fairly loud throughout the warm up. With the direction of our favouritism as yet undecided, on the basis of this fervent support, and in the knowledge that they had lost their opening two games, we opted to cheer for the Russians. We were in the Greek end, but that didn’t seem to matter. My ‘People’s Republic of Liverpool Flag’ resided proudly behind the Greece goal, whilst in the opposite end a Russian flag overtook the spot where a friend’s ‘Everton FC – the People’s Club’ banner was positioned moments earlier. My connection with the Russians was growing stronger by the minute.

Yet as the game got underway and the quickest goal in the competition was followed by a decisive second for the Russians, I began to feel a little sorry for the Greeks, who’s fans appeared so desperate to see their team qualify for the quarterfinals. So minutes before the interval when Greece pulled a goal back, we decided to collect our thirty pieces of silver, and join their fanatical support during the second half. …Don’t worry, it’s international football, you can do that.

Despite the lack of goals, the second half proved to be a far more enjoyable experience, getting mixed up in the carnival of emotion dominating the Greece end. The blues lost the game, but thanks to Portugal’s simultaneous defeat of Spain, Hellas went through regardless of the result. Short of a couple of early goals, a decent teenage ‘keeper and bellowing 'Rus-c-eya' loudly and monotonously at random intervals, the side who finished bottom of group offered very little to the occasion. The Greeks however, whilst fairly unimpressive on the pitch, were fanatical off it – we vowed to watch them play again before the tournament was out.

Later that evening, with the excitement of Greece’s progression dying down, our attention turned to the 400km drive north to Coimbra with which we were now faced, in order to catch France’s final group game against Switzerland the following evening. So we decided to drive overnight and sleep in a service station en route. During the early morning leg of the journey we passed Leiria, and the stadium where France had played Croatia a few days earlier, and thought it rude not to stop and investigate. The ground staff seemed perplexed by our presence there, but at first not concerned enough to prevent our entry. So we managed to have a walk around the stadium and the pitch, that was until a burly suited individual approached us and bellowed, “is no possible.” We interpreted this as an invitation to vacate the premises which, having had a look round and a walk on the hallowed turf, it was a request with which we were only too happy to comply.

We arrived in Coimbra before midday, and parked next to the French ‘Fan Bus’ in the shadows of the stadium. On discovering that there were a few lone Englishmen in the vicinity the inhabitants of the coach wasted no time in exchanging ‘pleasantries’. We were asked for our autographs, for apparently being English we ‘must be hooligans’. Again… you’ve got to love those tabloids. The People’s Republic of Liverpool flag which they were then subjected to confused them somewhat as to our nationality, which my limited French would only let me explain in terms of Liverpool being the Marseille of England. Their mocking writing action was soon retracted and replaced with confused acceptance.

Our stay in this the University City was a little more cultural than we expected. We even got the chance to look around a few of the shops on the city’s quaint streets, which were packed with French speakers decked in head to toe in either ‘Le Bleu’ of the French contingent or the red of the ‘Hop Swiss’ brigade. Aware that we were detouring away from the ethos of the trip however, we also took the time to visit one of Portugal’s fan parks, which UEFA had proudly publicised as a success even before a ball had been kicked in the competition. There was live music amongst the entertainment and a fan’s football tournament was also being held on a temporary synthetic grass pitch. After we had bumped into another group who hailed from the same city as us, we thought it rude not to enter a team. So the France/Portugal/Switzerland fans contest was duly won by a team from the People’s Republic of Liverpool. It was Denmark ’92 all over again.

The lunacy continued when crossing the river Modego once again to head back to the stadium, when we noticed a man descending down a death swing across the water. Despite the fact that it was only an hour until kick off, I knew whatever that was, it had to be done. And indeed it was, with the locals letting me to the front of the queue for seemingly no other reason than the fact I was English. Embarrassingly however, I could not glide as graciously and silently as the nine-year girl who was a place ahead of me in the queue had done, the macho reputation of the English tarnished with a single drawn-out scream.

The match that followed, for which I arrived just in time, was a largely enjoyable affair, with both sets of fans generating a cracking atmosphere, and the numerous impartial spectators adding to the occasion as best they could. The Australian sat next to me was a notable exception however, blurting out a tuneless ‘Le Bleu’ whenever the French end opened their mouths. The lone Aussie was evidently unconcerned that the mass of blue were in actual fact chanting in unison ‘Zi-Zu’. This of course was recognition of the planet’s best player who was performing regular miracles on the grass below. Sometimes at international football competitions such as these you don’t need to be bilingual to understand and even participate in proceedings, you just need a brain and a pair of ears.

On the pitch the Swiss battled hard, and yet in the end the holders proved too much for Henchoz and co. The Liverpool defender was once a fine centre half but looked inviting as an unfit, ageing and out of position fullback for the likes of Henry and Trezeguet. The Swiss gave a good account of themselves and at one stage looked set to earn a 1-1 draw, yet in the closing stages their opponents nonchalantly stepped up a gear, scoring two late goals, topping the group as a result.

Outside the stadium after the game, with their team safely through to the knock-out stages, the French, complete with live cockerels, brass bands and Fabien Barthez look-alikes commenced the celebrations, which would continue long into the night. It was an impressive sight, almost matching the Greeks for sheer passion. Subsequently my Englishness, such as it is, was tossed aside as an irrelevance. I’ve partied with Germans in Euro ’96, Argentines in Japan ’02 and now French in Portugal ’04, simply because the situation warranted such a reaction. I’ve no doubt this would land me in hot water with any self-respecting patriotic cockney, but in the Liverpudlian’s guide to acceptable conduct, if it’s a laugh, it’s usually worth it. And the French were certainly good value. Not only were there countless songs recited about their own side, but the Portuguese also got an a mention, with “Porrrtuugel!” echoing around the square outside the ground, much to the delight of the onlookers in the adjacent high-rise blocks that tower over the Coimbra stadium. Somehow you couldn’t imagine fans such as the hypothetical Londoner in such graceful mood after a game. Particularly given that a fair proportion of those present were actually sober.

Our next match was another 100km or so north to the small town of Guimaraes. After spending a second consecutive night in the car, and washing in the cold sea, we stopped off in Aveiro before setting off for the place where Italy were to take on Bulgaria. Aveiro seemed a desolate place with little to offer but a brightly coloured newly erected sporting arena. It was like being at the laughable Reynolds Arena on the outskirts of the bleak capital of the world that is Darlington, only in colour. Our entrance to the stadium and indeed the pitch was met without any resistance, and given that it was a carbon copy of Leiria and a little sterile, we didn’t stay long. For the Italians lay in wait and we had tickets to sell, which we had been given for free by a friend who couldn’t make the trip - honest Guvn’r.

With this being the final Group C game however, the other two teams, Sweden and Denmark were also in action, with the two Scandinavian nations locking horns in Porto. We passed the city on our way up to Guimaraes and so, you’ve guessed it, decided to stop off again in order to sample the pre-match atmosphere. Red and yellow mixed happily on the streets of Western Porto, despite the fact that no one was allowed within a mile of the ground until 4pm for ‘security’ reasons. With this threatening to be the far more meaningful encounter in the group we were keen to stay, but with the day’s business still outstanding, we reluctantly headed north once again.

When arriving in Guimaraes we soon learned that the tickets we had been given to offload would not be easy to sell. The place was not exactly awash with fans of either country and the Portuguese seemed fairly disinterested in the whole affair. We couldn’t even depart with them for half the face value. With the grey skies producing the downpour they had threatened all morning, we were beginning to lose faith in Guimaraes. That was until we poured into a café to escape the showers, where we discovered a group of highly entertaining Bulgarians. For inside the packed coffee house the assembly, who hailed from Sofia, were enjoying the occasion, complete with trumpets and loudspeakers. The idiot who was responsible for making noise through both devices, was completely unintelligible, seemingly to his own people as well as the crowds of other nationalities gathered. Nevertheless he kept the intrigued masses entertained for the duration of the downpour.

With brighter skies bursting through the clouds later that afternoon, we headed for the streets, where more Bulgarians showed the Italians the way, the latter mysteriously remaining aloof. The foreground contained singing and dancing fuelled by considerable inebriation, with the background featuring the display of an uneasy mix of Bulgarian club flags. The rogue elements of several rival teams were represented in close proximity, and when spotted taking a picture of this, I was approached by a CSKA fanatic who grabbed me and told me he ‘hated Levski like we hated Everton’. My Evertonian accomplice sneered and turned away in disgust. I decided it was wise to follow suit. …And they say the English are nuts.

We entered the game with spare tickets in our pockets, which seemed a travesty, but I doubt we could have even given them away to the football-shy public. My banner was erected, and was one of four Liverpool ones on display, with a further three exhibiting the blue of Everton. Throw in the random Yeovil, Scunthorpe and Shrewsbury flags which were amongst those from Britain and you’ve got your typical Italy-Bulgaria game. A charming Italian, on seeing my flag and the countless others in other parts of the ground, decided to utter some abusive remarks about being English in my direction. Evidently the utopian concept of a republic within a country, expressed in the sentiment of my banner, was lost on him. When he was informed of his error of judgement in no uncertain terms, the idiot then proceeded to sing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’ There was nothing to do but laugh and walk away.

The Italians did win the game, but offered little else to the occasion save for a flare or two, ignited at random intervals. The club game clearly rules over the Azzuri in Italy. In the opposite end however, the very fact that the Bulgarians managed to score in the 2-1 defeat saw a wave of emotion and excitement sweep across the terraces. And then, led unmistakably by a group of Celtic fans, who no doubt had come to see Stilion Petrov play, a conga started in the Bulgarian end. Not for the last time in the tournament, I had found myself in the wrong end.

With the trip to Portugal beginning on the south coast of the country, the following day saw us head as far north as the competition would take us, with a visit to Braga, just south of the Spanish border. The encounter was Holland against the minnows of Latvia, an occasion which was to prove an education. Early in the afternoon, whilst mingling with the fans, I felt I had to point out to a Southampton-based tout I spotted, that the sign that he held above his head was not likely to see him conduct the business he clearly desired. For the placard he held aloft was advertising a pair of tickets for the Czech-Denmark quarterfinal. However I had to inform him that Denmark had been knocked out due to Italy’s victory the previous evening. But he proceeded to prove that I was the one who was mistaken. Unbelievably I had left the ground the night before disappointed at the fact that the undeserving Italians had progressed to the next round, completely unaware, as indeed those in the stands obviously were, that Italy had in fact been eliminated. The muted celebrations in our end must have been short-lived. For although the stadium officials thought against letting any of the crowd know the score from the Sweden-Denmark game, and subsequently the destiny of the Guimaraes victors, it can’t have been long before they realised. Just thinking about those miserable Italians… I couldn’t smile wide enough.

Antithetically Braga was awash with colour and good-natured excitement. The army of orange completely took over the city, with every fan who saw our Liverpool and Everton tops taking the opportunity to express their hatred of Germany. I thought only of Markus Babbel’s opening goal in the 2001 UEFA Cup final, and couldn’t help but disagree with the sentiment they expressed, but thought it best to smile, nod and keep my feelings to myself. After all, they were only trying to find common ground, and for most Englishmen, Germany are the enemy. The Dutch continued to amaze the Portuguese and Latvian onlookers by commencing a two mile procession, following an open-top orange bus, to the stadium, singing and dancing all the way. The Dutch scarves we had round our necks helped us blend in a little as we were caught in proceedings en route to the stadium. That was a walk I won’t forget in a hurry.

When we arrived at the ground, designed apparently by a Geordie, we discovered that it had only two stands, which stood down the sides of the pitch. Behind one goal was a hill, with a mountain behind the other of course, for surely no stadium is complete without a mountain. It was like no ground I have ever seen or probably will see again. More astounding even than that was the fact that to access the stand I was in, a walk under the pitch was required. It bordered on the farcical. For decades football stadiums have incorporated a ‘Kop’ behind the goal frequented by home fans. The name originated from a hill in South Africa, where numerous Liverpudlians lost their lives during the Boer war. And as unthinkable as it might be for any Liverpudlian not to have a ‘Kop’ in a ground, a concept and a name that my club gave the world, it had to be said that this stadium was remarkable. I only hope Everton’s new ground use the same architect. They might actually fill two stands.

The game was never going to be a tight affair, with the Dutch scoring three without reply, a situation which could have proven much worse for Latvia had Holland not squandered a host of opportunities to add to their lead. The wayward finishing, notably in the second half was perhaps not hard to explain however. For the focus of attention of the game strangely enough seemed to be placed more on the other Group D game. With the Czechs already through to the next round, the prospect of an early exit for the Germans at the hands of their old adversaries the Dutch was clearly on the minds of everyone present. The recent match between the two countries undoubtedly adding to the history of antagonism. I was sat on the front row just yards from the corner spot when midway through the second half, Seedorf, the player who has won three European cups, each with a different club, asked me the score, in English, of the Germany game. I couldn’t believe my ears. The game was frozen because someone, a player no less was asking me the score of another match. I could not help him, but a stadium official to whom he turned to next managed to communicate the desired information, holding up outstretched fingers to reveal the respective goal tallies. The whole world waited obliviously as the Milan midfielder ascertained the score, before excitingly swinging in a corner, which bounced once before going out for a throw-in on the far side of the pitch.

The crowd appeared even more concerned by events in Lisbon than the players, singing ‘Czechy’ as fans of the impressive Czech side do whenever their team are in action. The Dutch even cheered the Germany score-line, which flashed up at the end, with greater vigour than they did any of the three goals their own team scored. The win, coupled with the early exit of the Germans was celebrated as if they had just won the final. Strangely enough their soul success in the tournament came with a victory in the 1988 event, the hosts of which I’m sure you don’t need reminding of. The Dutch seemed to grow in belief that night, that maybe, just maybe, 2004 could be their year. Portugal were soon to put an end to that.

In between the group stages and the first knockout round, we took the opportunity to visit Porto, an overcomplicated and sprawling city when you’re an Englishman driving a left hand drive, without a map or any grasp of the local language. We stopped briefly at FC Porto’s unwelcoming though impressive arena, whose honour list notably had not been updated to include their recent Champions League triumph, after which we went to Boavista. The ground of the lesser of Porto’s sides is far more modest than FCP’s and looks older than it claims on the staff entrance. The sign on this door was one we took to mean ‘enter if no staff see you’, and so remaining unnoticed, we took the chance to disappear quietly up the dark staircase on the other side of the doorway. As luck would have it, we came out at the corporate entrance, and so cut through one of the executive boxes, and got out onto the pitch. After a few minutes though, with a couple of souvenirs bagged for some of the folks back home, we were on our way. For the day ahead was to stage an event of far greater significance.

With the Dutch remaining an impressive sight as an away following, the encounter that saw the first quarterfinal decided was to prove a far more meaningful one. For it was the Estadio da Luz on June 24th that bore witness to undoubtedly the most significant tie of the round. England v Portugal in Lisbon - it’s a phrase that just falls off the lips. The honesty and simplicity I mentioned earlier as being the ethos of my visit had vanished hors de la fenetre, as my soul was sold in order to get a slice of elitist pie. This was when the competition really started to matter.

Now I was sceptical about the new ground. I saw Benfica play hosts to Porto in a heated and memorable contest a few years ago at their former home, the historic Stadium of Light, and was disappointed to hear it was being bulldozed. However one cannot deny that the new home of the historic club is simply spectacular. There is a saying in Portugal that Coimbra studies, Braga prays, Lisbon poses and Porto works. On this evidence, the penultimate portion of that saying certainly rings true. It is a charming city, combining the cobbled streets of Bruges with the winding back roads of Venice, the trams of Amsterdam with the leafy boulevards of Paris. The stadium of its famous club is certainly a fitting arena.

Lisbon had the dubious honour of hosting three of England’s four matches, yet this was the first I was to witness. And it proved an encounter of epic proportions. Portugal is one of England’s oldest allies, yet still it’s fear of the vociferous minority of English fans was clearly evident. Untold amounts have been spent on riot gear, water cannons and pepper spray. The capital was besieged by crowds for the game, with 40,000 thought to have ascended on the city, and I’m yet to hear of a single arrest. The local feeling was that it would be bad if England were to lose for fear of the fans venting their frustrations on unlucky bystanders, yet it is bad if they win as they will stay longer. Of course this notion went out the window as soon as the two countries were drawn together. There was no longer any doubt - the English were no longer welcome.

Unlike some England internationals this was not viewed by the masses who had travelled over from Carlisle, Shrewsbury and hordes of other English strongholds as just another opportunity for the unofficial union of hooligans to busy themselves exchanging numbers to arrange battles on the country’s rail network for the coming season. For this was a night when even the most hate-filled and aggressive of hooligans wished for little else than an England win. The away fans gathered en mass close to a fountain outside the ground, where the collection of highly imaginative flags were unveiled, drink flowing freely, songs – again proving highly sophisticated – were sung, and ticket touts scuttled around in search of their next easy prey. And it was amazing to see the level of desperation of some to see the game, and how quickly idiots from Cornwall to Cumbria were willing to part with untold hundreds of euros just to see their team lose. But I suppose if it were Liverpool I would no doubt have felt the same. You just had to be there. And so we too joined the idiots paying over the odds for a ticket, well, just.

Inside the ground the stadium was full of flags bearing the St George cross, with England’s massive support clear for all to see. This was English fandom at its greatest. Passionate, fervent and considerable in number. The fans decked in the white or red of England even outweighed the home fans, an impressive a sight as you’ll see following England I’m sure. I felt my interest in the game and the occasion soar as a result, the anxiety proving contagious. Notably, we did find ourselves in the Portugal end however, seated next to another random fan to enjoy the match with. His country of origin? Why Israel of course.

Signed Rooney Shirt

England took an early lead through the ever-reliable Michael Owen, an advantage that they held for what seemed an eternity. Portugal’s slim chances of finding an equaliser were rendered anorexic by the ticking clock, some resolute defending and their own woeful utilisation of the possession in England’s defensive third. But of course the goal did come, and the rest, as they say, is history. With Rooney, the apparent saviour of English football, having left the field with barely half an hour played, the dejected and tearful Liverpudlian, sorry, I mean Evertonian took with him England’s fading hopes of progression to the semi-final. The deal for exclusive rights of his story from The Sun however I’m sure provided enough silver to cushion the blow. 30 pieces should have done it.

The match was a nail-biting affair, with both teams scoring a second in extra time. This time though it was England’s time to notch a heartbreaking equaliser. Sven’s men had almost found a dramatic winner at the death, but it was not to be. Once again in a major tournament for England, penalties, and then sudden death beckoned. And so inevitably it came down to a final kick, a twelve-yard shot that would, for 99.9% of the crowd at least determine the mood for the next week. Elation or heartbreak. It was only me and the mad Israeli next to me who maintained a mood amounting to something like indifference. Anyway, I don’t know why I am trying to instil a mood of suspense here - we all know what happened. Our penalties were taken by players who lacked either the belief, form or as was mostly the case sheer ability to convert them, and consequently the hosts, technically a more gifted and confident side, were always going to go through. And boy did they celebrate.

With Steven Gerrard also being forced to go off during the game, England’s substitutes, which came in the shape of a mediocre Aston Villa forward, some Canadian hippy and the visionary that is Phil Neville, were laughable. Furthermore the death threats the referee received for disallowing what would have been an injury time winner were equally farcical. England should have brought on Alan Smith or Defoe, or possibly both, yet neither were even in the squad. Regardless of this much-debated point, English reaction was bitter and unsportsmanlike. The German’s would have focused on putting the lessons they learned in defeat into improving chances of subsequent success. The English would rather find a scapegoat and hound him, ignoring the reasons Portugal defeated them – they were just better.

A line in A Bola, a local football publication, the following morning featured a photo of a placard that was held aloft in the crowd which read “Last flight to England 21:30. Thank you and goodbye.” If ever there was proof that Portugal and indeed everyone else but England wanted the country who had given the world the game out of the competition, the smug display of this picture was it. And yet while the continent, and by that I mean UEFA, breathed a sigh of relief that England were at last eliminated, the joke would soon be on them, as the countries remaining in the competition struggled to fill the stadiums for the matches that followed. The Irish and Scottish didn’t make it, the German’s fell at the first hurdle, with England defeated at the second, which basically left the Dutch and the host country to fill the stadiums for the remaining fixtures. It didn’t look promising.

Before we left Portugal however, there was time just to deliver one promise I had made earlier in the tournament, that being to see Greece play again. Their quarterfinal match against the holders the French was fittingly staged in the only stadium I was yet to enter, and so it was to the Estadio Jose Alvalade for a sixth game in as many nights.

Now a tournament in a foreign country can do strange things to a man. A bit of sunshine and a few strange accents brings out a whole new world of possibilities. Unbelievably I even contemplated the idea of face painting before this one. I had become everything I have always loathed about football. Fortunately I noticed the digital camera in the hands of my accomplice before I could act on this stupid whim. The wry smile that had spread across his face told me that he read my intentions, and was only too keen to capture the moment on camera. My flirtation with football fan idiocy lasted all of five seconds. Had this consideration turned into action, it would have proven a decision that would have lived with me forever. My compadre, I felt sure, would have made certain of that. Inside the ground however were countless competitions and games for fans to compete in, which for all those with the ability level above the ‘woeful’ line, represented a good opportunity to win souvenirs for friends which would later be passed off as expensive gifts.

The lunacy of modern football was soon to rear its ugly head again though. After a lengthy queue for one such competition, the young French boy on crutches in front of me was told that his dad had to take the shot for him. It was a Carlsberg beer promotion and apparently it’s illegal to kick a ball five yards for the U18s in Denmark. That must explain why Jesper Olsen remains one of the country’s all time greats.

Things then got really out of hand, when I was forbidden from taking my sun cream into the stadium. It was a day of sweltering heat and yet this protective spray was treated with utmost suspicion. It was only to be expected I suppose, as clearly I had meant to use the deadly weapon as a missile as soon as I got to my seat. Behind me though, an even more troublesome individual was being questioned on entry, a middle-aged English woman, who had the cheek to try an sneak some perfume in the ground inside her handbag. That’s tantamount to assault in itself, and yet the stadium officials, all four hundred of them which were assigned to do yet another meaningless job, merely confiscated the dangerous object, deciding against an arrest. The stadium breathed a sigh of relief. Each idiot who stood there doing nothing probably put a Euro on each ticket. If I had have paid for mine, I’d have been fuming.

In the ground I managed to get a seat in the section dedicated for the press, and sat behind Alan Smith and a few other journalists, watching them swigging pretentious drinks and listening to them spout nonsense about state of the national game. One last time… you’ve got to love those tabloids. This was the ninety-eighth game I had seen this season, and every one was done the hard way. Cheeky and cheap travel, ridiculous or non-existent accommodation and tickets on which the word press or complimentary never once featured. And I didn’t need a team sheet to name the French midfield or a TV to watch a highlights package. I could see the pitch clearly enough, and accepted that half time is for the purchase of drinks.

This was the second time I had seen the Greeks and indeed the French during the tournament, and unlike the previous encounter I had seen against the Russians, a good proportion of the Greece end actually seemed to hail from somewhere near Greece. Anyone with a tan was Greek that day, though that had probably something to do with the English’s view of the opposition than anything else, yet there were also growing numbers of supporters from the country itself, a number which swelled with each fixture until they eventually won the competition, when half of Athens seemed to have emigrated to Lisbon.

The French were loud despite being pitiful in number, and were heard singing ‘Portugal’ at every opportunity. Indeed everyone seemed to want to mock the English, with flags from the Isle of Man, Wales, Scotland and Ireland all proudly displayed, together with a Northern Ireland banner which read simply “bring on the England” referring to the forthcoming World Cup qualifiers. With Greece recording a famous victory that evening over an annoyingly disinterested and heartless, though undeniably talented French side, it would be unfair to claim that this was an evening where England had the last laugh. It was Greece’s night, or one of them anyway, and nothing should deflect attention from them, in what was their tournament. But England had at least the penultimate chuckle of the evening. For with the French a goal down in the dying stages of the game, the whistles from the excited Hellas faithful were drowned out by a large number singing repeatedly ‘England’. Every Englishman in attendance, of which there were a impressive amount, probably exceeding ten thousand, shot to their feet to join in, some getting extra height by clambering up onto their seat. The rest of the ground, and in particular the French end fell silent, with the small army of Englishmen dotted around the ground falling about laughing. It was a fitting send off to the tournament for England fans, and represented at least a small opportunity to rub someone’s nose in it in the competition. Because lets face it, Croatia and Switzerland don’t really count.

At that moment I got a text from a friend who had got a late holiday deal to Athens where he was watching the wild celebrations unfold. He foolishly assumed that I was in a Liverpool bar watching on in envy of the fact that I wasn’t somewhere more atmospheric. I didn’t have the heart to reply and tell him where I was. Instead I just smiled, turned off my phone and went to join in one last party with the Greeks before returning home. Viva Hellas.

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