PORTUGAL v France

The weather forecast for Portugal’s semi-final against France was heavy thunder storms and even hail. Such is the sting in the tail of any British heatwave. Sure enough, the morning and afternoon were marked by some torrential downpours.

I was worried about the game, because the prime Portuguese venue was mostly exposed to the elements. I heard that there was yet another nearby Portuguese venue just around the corner that was inside a big old English pub. It would be perfect for adverse weather conditions. I decided to check it out.

But when I got there an hour before kick-off it was already full. The weather was holding out though, so I headed to my usual venue and managed to secure a place inside. And there was a further innovation outside: they now had draught Sagres as well as their exterior beer fridges.

I ordered a beer and was given a Superbock. I was beginning to wonder if I should start to order Sagres by name.

Half an hour before kick-off some lads arrived with a huge home-made banner; with 15 minutes to go the drummer – surely the best drummer in London – arrived, sparking off the chanting; and as the teams lined up to make their way onto the pitch the singing started, along with half-hearted, good-natured France- and Zidane-taunting.

And the opening stages of the game were a match for the fans’ enthusiasm. There was great anticipation for a long-range Maniche effort (Portugal’s usual source of goals), and the crowd were loving Cristiano Ronaldo’s trickery, even when, as usual, it came to nothing.

The Portuguese singing combined with the most English of terrace chants: “Who are ya?” directed at the great Zizou; “He fell over!” for any French player deemed to have gone down too easily; and, most frequently, “The referee’s a wanker!”

The latter was most heartfelt when Ricardo Carvalho was harshly adjudged to have brought down Thierry Henry in the box. Zidane stepped up, to chants of “Ricardo, Ricardo!” in the bar. Sure enough, the Portuguese penalty-specialist keeper went the right way, but the French master’s spot kick was just too good for him.

If Portugal had been underdogs before, they definitely were now. I sensed the crowd’s frustration, and at half-time many of my neighbours drowned their sorrows in espresso and fortified themselves with delicious-looking Portuguese cakes. Those crazy Portuguese, with their crazy Portuguese ways. Bizarre behaviour, I’m sure you’ll agree, when there was cheap beer and big meat sandwiches to be had.

Half-time brought comic relief as Portugal boss Luiz Felipe “Big Phil” Scolari advertised the official national team watch on Portuguese TV, but after that it was back to business.

Portuguese chances were few and far between. There was excitement as Pauleta smashed a shot into the side netting, and big cheers when Simao replaced the goal-shy striker.

But a couple of late half-chances were all Portugal had to show for their efforts and the final whistle was greeted with a round of applause for the players. They had made it to the semi-final and been beaten by a quality side.

But the disappointment and sorrow were all too tangible. The brilliant drummer kept on drumming, but the whistles, songs and horns were half-hearted. And as I trudged away up the South Lambeth Road, there were no cars with horns blaring or flags flying from their windows.