Europe's football tournament has been bliss

What have we learned, over the three weeks? That it seemed like three years. I now can hardly remember that first exciting week, gorging on two live games each day, at 5.45 and 7.45 - what bliss that was. Then having to exist on only one a day. Now, as I write, waiting for the semis to start, there's two days with no footer at all. God, it's hellish: dunno what to do.

Up here in Lakeland, it was bone-dry those first weeks, the lawns yellow like straw after two months - repeat, two months - without rain. In my mind, Euro '08 will always be associated with brilliant, stunning weather, promising a marvellous summer - then it all suddenly collapsed. A bit like Cristiano Ronaldo.

Before it all began, he was the most talented, perfect, gorgeous human on the planet. Now he's a bighead, arrogant, spoilt, always fails on the big occasion, we'll be well shot of him.

The back pages do have these intense love affairs, frightening to follow. Michael Ballack, they never liked him. What's he doing at Chelsea, they all said, moody, arrogant, waste of money. Now, as we approach the semis, he could be Man of the Tournament.

I got it all wrong as well. On my wallchart, which I have filled in every day, if just to amuse the sheep staring through the window, I gave one, two or three stars to each team in the group games. Holland and Portugal got three. Where are they now?

It's interesting to note that three of the four winners of the group stages didn't get past the quarter-finals - Portugal, Croatia and Holland. While three of the four who finished as group runners-up went on to the semis - Turkey, Germany and Russia. Which proves, er, whatever you want it to - the obvious one being that, in a football tournament, the spoils go to the tough, the determined, the organised, not the showy and flash. Hence the success of Germany and Russia.

The Germans did well, but my main memory of them will be Angela Merkel cuddling the German boy manager, or so it looked, when he got sent from the bench. Then of endless, pointless, stupid close-ups of him behind a muzzy, fuzzy, glass window, doing bugger all.

I enjoyed Slavin Bilic, the Croatian manager, especially his one earring. Weird. Didn't suit his position, his clothes or his character, such as we know it, as if he'd got it from a Christmas cracker and was wearing it for a bet. But then I still haven't got over Rafael Benítez, the Liverpool manager who normally dresses like a railway clerk, turning up last season with a goatee beard. What fantasies lie behind the most boring of exteriors!

Andrei Arshavin of Russia is my new hero. I like the fact that he's 27, yet until a week ago he was almost unknown to most Prem fans and TV commentators. He has the potato-fed cheeks of a country yokel and would never be able to get into a boy band. He doesn't prance and dance like Ronaldo, do gel or haircuts. He just gets on with it, suddenly carving open the opposition, who have been unaware of him till it's too late.

Next season, after he's joined Man United/Chelsea/Arsenal with the back pages drooling over him, he'll take the straws out of his ears, get his hair done, no longer live with his mum, acquire a shit-hot agent, have his life story ghosted, a Ferrari in every bedroom, a babe in every cupboard, Real Madrid on the blower, and then we'll be saying oh, no, he's just another spoiled brat. Until then, enjoy him while you can. See you next season . . .

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