Sick as Portuguese parrots

Last night I put on red and white make-up, wept tears of joy, followed by tears of despair, and found myself being kissed by a man I'd never met before in my life. It was late, I was in a foreign city and alcohol had passed my lips but none of this explains my behaviour. I blame something far more important: football. Last night I was at Lisbon's Estadio da Luz to see England lose to France.

To most people - including my colleague, Liz Jones, who complained in these pages last week that she has become a football widow for Euro 2004 - England versus France is only a game. Eleven men kicking a sheep's pancreas around an oversized lawn.

But I have always preferred former Liverpool manager Bill Shankly's more romantic view of the beautiful game: "Football is not a matter of life or death. It's more important than that."

True, I'm not much of a fan of domestic football. How could I be? I support QPR (No letters, please. We may have been promoted, but I'd still rather watch the office photocopier). Yet I've been going to England games with my brother, Matthew, a television producer, and my father, Tony, a barrister, for years.

We've made it through the good times - seeing England demolish Holland 4-1 at Wembley in Euro '96 and beat Colombia 2-0 in France '98. We've made it through the bad times - sitting in the rain as England played their last game at Wembley, a 1-0 defeat at the hands of Germany, after which Kevin Keegan resigned as England manager.

And we were there last night, tears of exultation running down our faces when Frank Lampard scored, followed by despairing disbelief when Zinedine Zidane scored his second goal in as many injury-time minutes to give France their dramatic 2-1 win. Undaunted, we'll be back in Portugal next Monday to see Sven's men take on Croatia in England's final group match.

Why do we spend hundreds of pounds and give up our weekends to watch In-Ger-Land - especially when we know the result can hurt as much as it did last night? Because hanging out with thousands of England fans generates a far greater sense of national pride than any of the made-for-television events, such as the Golden Jubilee.

Flag waving is fun, but we do not succumb to Tony Blair's middleclass angst and pretend that football makes us feel like "men of the people". We go because, whatever the result, international football is the greatest show on earth - not to mention a bullet-proof excuse for a boys' weekend away. My sisters, Catherine and Vicky, never come.

The game may only last 90 minutes but the trip is always a long weekend. We leave on Friday and return on Monday - or "Tuesday", as we like to call it.

From the moment we apply for tickets, the fun starts. Where will the games be? "Hope it's fashionable Lisbon, not glitz 'n' tits Faro. It's Lisbon!"

Competition for cheap flights is ruthless. "If we fly to Jerez for 2p, get the overnight train to the border and drive through the night we'll be there in time for breakfast." Wherever we fly to, the captain always welcomes passengers "who have come to watch England win". Each time we believe him.

Like the footballers we go to see, we each have a role to play. Dad always chooses the hotel. This time he declared the "little bit fascist but ultra-modern" Four Seasons was "the perfect place for the Becks' generation".

Matthew and I take care of the food. "Let's book Cafe de Sao Bento," we agreed after studying the Rough Guide to Lisbon, which said it offered the best steaks. As we left the restaurant last night after tucking into our fat fillets, we walked out into a square where fans were watching highlights of Portugal's opening game against Greece - which the hosts surprisingly lost 2-1 - on a giant screen. Forget Henman Hill. This was cinema paradiso.

Wherever we go to watch a game, it is two days before we see a ball kicked. But we use our time wisely - texting our poor, deluded friends back home who think football is just a game. Yesterday it worked - until the 90th minute, at least. Even the most confirmed footie-phobes sounded jealous.

Susan, my novelist friend who is on a sailing holiday in Greece, confessed she was "eyes-rolling-skywards pissed off " that I was in Lisbon. Perhaps she just fancies Becks. Tim, a sports-mad editor on a men's magazine in London, insisted that he really did understand the offside rule and asked whether I had any spare tickets.

When we reached the stadium there was the obligatory face painting, the warbling along to Three Lions and the latest jokes to enjoy. "Bed it like Beckham," is this championship's must-wear T-shirt and "Are you Scotland in disguise?" the song to sing to taunt opponents with. Then the tears came.

I can take losing. As an England fan, it is an occupational hazard. The only thing I still can't get used to is the kissing. When Lampard scored last night, Micky Connon - the supporter sitting next to me - leapt to his feet and kissed me hard on both cheeks.

Sorry, Micky, I said I wouldn't tell anyone, but football is a funny game. No, it's much more than that. Win or lose, it is the only game.