SPAIN v Tunisia

I don’t believe in luck. Of course I’ll admit that jumping in a puddle and falling up to your waist in a hole concealed by the water is unlucky. I just don’t think you get lucky or unlucky people. But I was beginning to think maybe I was bad luck. A “cooler”, like William H Macy’s character in the excellent film of the same name: someone whose negative aura can be used to bring those near him bad luck.

So far, the only mild upset I’d been on the right end of was Trinidad & Tobago’s draw with Sweden. I’d supported Poland to comprehensive defeat by Ecuador, Mexico to a draw with Angola, had seen every team in Group E play, but none of them win, and now surely my malign influence could be the only explanation for Spain’s protracted inability to turn around a shock one-goal deficit against Tunisia.

I was beginning to wonder how successful Celtic and Scotland could be if it wasn’t for me.

I’d decided to go for the most authentic Spanish experience I could find, and had asked in a Spanish restaurant at the top end Portobello Road. “There’s this place…” they told me. “A bar?” I asked. “No, not a bar.” “A restaurant?” “No, not a restaurant; it’s just this… place.”

This place, when I eventually found it, turned out to be a Galician social club hidden away in a North Kensington basement (try and find it; I bet you can’t). It may not have been a restaurant, but the food looked delicious. I would have partaken but my belly was full of mixed lamb kebab.

Because of its proximity to Edgware Road, I’d got there long before kick-off and it was already starting to fill up, with mostly middle-aged fans who were happy to wear the replica kit and assorted scarves, flags and caps, irrespective of either age or gender.

This may have been a Galician club, but these were full-blown Spain fans, and I am willing to bet that if there was a competition for London’s most Spanish-looking people, the ladies’ winner and both the finalists in the men’s section were there for the game. Although there was one very English-looking and sounding bloke wearing the shirt of those other local heroes, QPR.

As befits any sort of Spanish organisation, there was a cabinet rammed with football trophies on the wall, and all sorts of Galician and Spanish memorabilia, including a signed photo of the king and queen. I wondered if they were regulars. And there was Galician beer for me.

There was enthusiastic footie discussion in the build-up to the game. But the talking stopped at kick-off as the fans were spellbound. Even Diego Maradona, in a co-commentary position, fell silent; although that was probably because he couldn’t get a word in edgeways past his enthusiastic colleague.

And the silence in the Galician club was broken by Tunisia’s shock early goal. The fans were disgusted, especially with Carles Puyol, and their despair at the players’ inability to make their dominance count was becoming louder and louder as the game wore on.

Spanish TV channels love their statistics as much as the Americans do, especially when they tell the right story. And the statistics that frequently flashed up on the screen confirmed the story we could all see: Spain were all over Tunisia, but the only statistic that mattered was Tunisia 1 Spain 0. The fans took no consolation from their team’s impressive tally of balls into the box.

The despair mounted as Spain wasted chance after chance, but there were cheers when they thought they’d equalised on the stroke of half-time; unfortunately the ball was desperately scrambled off the line.

Talking to the man at the next urinal is an awkward situation at the best of times. But when he’s an angry Galician spouting off at 100mph about Spain’s hugely frustrating performance, it’s particularly tricky. I think it’s fair to assume he was upset that they could find it so difficult against Tunisia after beating Ukraine 4-0.

I mumbled that I thought they had been unlucky so far and that the goals would probably start to come soon. He said yes, or Tunisia might score again (I think). I was having trouble understanding what anyone was saying, but couldn’t tell if it was because my Spanish was rusty or if they were talking Galician.

The tension continued to mount for most of the second half as Spain continued to fail to make their dominance count, but there was huge relief when substitute Raul eventually equalised, and jubilation when Fernando Torres gave Spain the lead a few minutes later.

But there were still nerves until the very last minute, when Torres converted a penalty to confirm their place in the second round, sparking wild celebrations in North Kensington.