Adrian Chiles: I watched the town square empty as Croatia despaired

The language of footballing despondency is international. At half-time on Monday night a young chap from Zagreb called Stjepan, with a hangdog expression older than his years, turned to me and said "ovo je classicno za nas". This is just typical of us. Whoever it is you support you always feel hard done-by. Being a football fan firmly of the glass-is-half-empty variety, Monday night was always going to be a lose-lose situation. My mum is from Zagreb but my dad is English. And for every other game England have ever played (save the two friendlies against Croatia) I've supported them, as you'd expect from someone born and raised in England.

The language of footballing despondency is international. At half-time on Monday night a young chap from Zagreb called Stjepan, with a hangdog expression older than his years, turned to me and said "ovo je classicno za nas". This is just typical of us. Whoever it is you support you always feel hard done-by. Being a football fan firmly of the glass-is-half-empty variety, Monday night was always going to be a lose-lose situation. My mum is from Zagreb but my dad is English. And for every other game England have ever played (save the two friendlies against Croatia) I've supported them, as you'd expect from someone born and raised in England.

But when it comes to Croatia something deeper - oedipal probably - kicks in. I can't bear those English we all know who make a big deal of supporting Ireland because their Grandad's from Sligo, even though they've only ever lived in Slough. But on Monday I was no better than them.

I'm on holiday on the island of Murter just off the Adriatic coast. I watched the match with a hundred others outside a little bar in the town square. I knew I couldn't be entirely sure where my loyalties lay until a goal was scored. And then I was sure. I leapt about embracing a complete stranger in red and white checks before manfully clinking glasses and doing my best to relate how our (that's an English "our") goalkeeper is known as Calamity James. Sadly, I couldn't think of the word for calamity but I think, with the help of action replays, I managed to get the idea across.

As Croatia's unconvincing rearguard action began the locals entertained me with their grasp of the basics of British culture. A shot of a morose-looking England fan, pink from the sun, drew a snort of derision: "poor sod, he's been drinking all day and now they're losing. Shame." A shot of Mrs Beckham was greeted with a sigh of recognition, then a gasp of astonishment as we all took in the vast dimensions of her sunglasses. And then, as a free-kick was conceded on the edge of the Croatian area, I swear every man, woman and child in that square visibly wilted with the knowledge of what Mrs Beckham's husband could do from that range. Yes, the Beckham brand burns brightly simply everywhere on planet football.

Football is so important here because it's inextricably linked to nationhood. Back at home the outbreak of flag-waving seems oddly synthetic next to the reality here, which is that Croatia, as an independent state, has only been a reality for barely a decade. Everyone here's keenly aware that the only thing most of the world knows about their country, apart from that fact that it was involved in a particularly nasty war, is that it has a half-decent football team.

Hence the headlines in that morning's papers imploring the team to win this "match of matches". Italy have been beaten twice and Germany, too, in that famous World Cup quarter- final. To beat the English, a third European footballing superpower, would have been further affirmation of full nation status.

But it wasn't to be. And they weren't sticking round to the bitter end to witness it. "Massacre", said one bloke with feeling as he slouched off into the night cursing horribly. There were 20 minutes left. Another guy followed him: "this is bad for my nerves". By the final whistle there was only me and the restaurant owner there. "Now, I support England with you," he said without enthusiasm.

On the television, though, I was impressed to see how well they took the defeat. In the past I've witnessed much berating of the referee, God, the gods, whatever. But here they all put their hands up and said the best team won and best of luck to them. Bizarrely the next programme took the shape of a live outside broadcast from Goran Ivanisevic's rented house in Wimbledon. This resembled a wake with Goran and Zvonimir Boban squashed together on a too-small sofa between a journalist with vast beard and enormous belly and another journalist with an unfeasibly long nose. Together they morosely reflected on what they'd seen; said how it had taken the shine off Goran's victory that day and tended to agree that Croatian football needed a bit of rethink.

Weightier questions remain unresolved. For example, one posed by the Vecernji List newspaper that morning: "who's more lovely, Robert Kovac's wife or Posh?" Similiarly, over a shot of women clad in Croatian and England bikinis: "Who's got the biggest breasts?"

In search of answers I went to the kiosk yesterday morning for the papers. No joy. No papers. A national holiday. Not a day of mourning, but a day to celebrate victory in the anti-fascist war. That was a game of two halves, too.