A room full of anoraks, a rained-off match. Yet Emma John finds moments of glamour

The Portuguese tourist board has come up with a campaign in which some of the country's most famous faces - José Mourinho and Cristiano Ronaldo among them - extol their homeland. "My country has 220 days of sunshine a year," boasts the Special One, without taking credit for even one of them, which is gracious of him.

It certainly makes me want to head to Portugal immediately, particularly the moody silhouette of Ronaldo, whom I was lucky enough to see in the flesh at the end-of-season Football Writers' Association dinner. He had achieved the considerable feat of being named Player of the Year for the second year running. Even more impressively, he managed to bring some rock-star glamour to an event that has all the razzmatazz you would expect of a gathering of middle-aged sporting anoraks - which is to say, none.

Ronaldo provided a talking point for the evening by arriving a good hour late and requiring additional seating at the top table for a large entourage. He was then separated from his friends during dinner, and seated between two grey-haired gentlemen, representing sponsors and organisers (the equivalent, surely, of the naughty step). It only made his raffish smile and his diamond ear-stud shine brighter. He gleamed with hair gel, looking hopelessly handsome. It was as if Kanye West had just parachuted into a Rotary Club meeting.

A few days later I was at Lord's with another collection of sporting diehards, and this time they were actually wearing anoraks. It was the Saturday of the first Test against New Zealand, and I was taking a Kiwi friend to cheer on her team. By the time we reached the ground the rain had set in. There had been nine overs of play - a nervy number for the organisers, who have to offer full-ticket refunds for anything lasting fewer than ten overs. In other words, if there was any way of booting the players back on to the pitch for another six balls - even if it required scuba gear - they would take it. The loan of one of Senhor Mourinho's 220 sun-filled days would have been handy.

Happily, I was able to introduce my friend to the cultish habits of cricket spectators on damp days. You can't admit defeat and leave the ground, partly because you've bought a ticket worth the price of a small nuclear missile, but mainly because you've made a bunch of ham sandwiches that you can't face taking home again. I encouraged her to tell herself that the dark clouds that stretched to the horizon were "brightening at the edges", that the mizzle was lifting, and that both teams wanted nothing better than to leave the warm comfort of their dressing rooms to stand on a sodden pitch in the gloomy half-light. Then, with about 22,000 equally self-deluded nitwits, we sat in the stands and watched the FA Cup final played out on the big screen. Without sound.

In the end, we saw nothing of the game - the players never made it out again. But at one point, Kevin Pietersen ran from one side of the ground to the other, and we cheered. At another, the New Zealand coach John Bracewell walked through the crowd. (Nobody would have noticed, but a helpful steward walked ahead of him officiously shouting, "Stand back, please! Clear the way!" which cleared up any confusion.) It wasn't much, but considering we were semi-delirious with the cold, we could convince ourselves that we'd had our little moment of glamour. It doesn't always take a Ronaldo.

Emma John is the deputy editor of Observer Sport Monthly

Hunter Davies is away

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