George Frew reflects on a night of dashed hopes for England fans . . .

On Monday morning, the flags of St George cracked and fluttered briskly on the breezes of optimism which blew through a nation. In Witney and a thousand other English towns, in the shires and in the cities, it was the same old story, the same old, great anticipation: England expects.

This morning, they hung limply, wet with early morning drizzle and the tears of another major disappointment. England's Tony Adams, an admirable human being who manages to keep his personal demons at bay on a daily basis, revealed that he had been reading Shakespeare's Henry V, for inspirational purposes. Touchingly, he also admitted to buying the text, rather than just borrowing it from the library.

And we wondered - what next? Would Dennis Wise suddenly admit to studying Kafka on the team coach?

Back in the real world, some unwise assumptions were being made and some big brave words spoken. Portugal? No problem. 'The Lads' would surely see that lot off, after Tony had recited Harry's eve of battle speech in the dressing room, no doubt. After all, England had the boy Owen and Becks and . . . Shearer. No-one in the England camp was ever going to come out and say it, but many must surely think it - the Geordie icon's best days are far, far behind him, yet the England coach persists in playing him and naming him captain.

If things were somehow to go unthinkably wrong against Portugal, Shearer would not be far away when they started looking for clues at the scene of the crime.

And yet things started so brightly for this English team which Keegan announced was in with a genuine chance of winning this Euro 2000 tournament. Somewhere, the shade of Sir Alf Ramsey must have sighed. He at least knew what it took to win things. Still, two goals in the first 18 minutes or so against opposition that looked as if it had left its game on the training ground boded well and had Big Ron in the commentary box performing his usual verbal gymnastics.

And then a man called Figo started to play and the dark clouds began to gather. I watched the familiar looks come over the faces of my English friends. Just before the game, we'd indulged in the usual Anglo-Scots banter.

I wished them well and for once, I meant it. Keegan appears to be a decent man even if some say he's tactically clueless and no one but a churl would wish him anything other than success. When the first Portugal goal sailed past Seaman, my friends' expressions didn't change. Much.

England were still ahead and Scholesy could always repeat his three-minute miracle, couldn't he? Er, no. By half-time the Portuguese were level and even the most die-hard England fan would have been compelled to admit that the score was justified.

Come the hour, come the man, as they say. Unfortunately, it was a Portuguese man called Nuno Gomes who lofted the ball past the hapless Seaman with half an hour to play.

And then, bewilderingly, England began to lose the plot and started to play more like Wimbledon than the national side.

Big punts. Boot it up the park. Route One. Route one to the airport, that is. My English friends were no less baffled by what was going on than I, but they were a lot more hurt by it. To throw away a one-goal lead can be regarded as careless. To chuck it all away when you're two up and looking good was little short of criminal.

Still, the same ridiculous sense of expectation which persists every time England have a major game in the offing can still be modified. The FA need not cancel the hotel rooms for the second stage just yet. All is not lost.

But come Saturday, the Germans await.

Cry God for Kevin, The Lads and the Ghost of Alf Ramsey.