Or so we thought. For after about 20 minutes of the Portugal-Germany quarter-final, a gripping match but nowhere near involving enough for Clive Tyldesley, as the commentator speculated on the possibility of a Croatia-Russia final and then came to the obvious (for him, only for him) conclusion: England, because they'd lost out to these nations at the qualifying stage, could take the most comfort from failure. This had been the real Group of Death, the no-electricity, babies-get-eaten, hell-on-earth.

Everyone is nicking everyone else's clothes at these championships. My team Hibs used to be the only gays in the village. Or so we thought. When Hearts fans began singing "Oh the Hibees are gay-ay" to the riff of the White Stripes' 'Seven-Nation Army', we quickly overcame any feelings of unease to treat the taunt as yet more proof of our specialness, like our stunning location (views of Forth now obscured), our sloping pitch (since levelled), and our pioneering electronic scoreboard (last spluttering of 'GO­ L!!!' – 1986).

But throughout the Euros, the riff has boomed out and the crowds have sung along. I don't know for certain that German supporters, during their rendition, were having a go at Cristiano Ronaldo and his matching diamond earrings – my German is poor and my brother, although currently learning the language, can only tell me that a "Schweinsteiger" is a "pig-climber" – but I cannot pretend that I wasn't a bit miffed. This was our abuse, directed specifically at us.

Now, like the generic, bland greetings displayed in a million branches of Clinton Cards, it was the world's.

This has not been Germany's only theft. Before the match, they sneaked into the Portuguese dressing-room and stole the flair manual from a locker. To the surprise of the Portuguese, the Germans lined up 4-2-3-1, just like them. To the knock-lederhosen-off astonishment of themselves, they managed to contrive a Portuguese-style goal from hypnotic passing, scored by the pig-climber.

"Hang on," said my brother, "if Germany are Portugal – who's going to play the parts of the thugs?" A good question, and one that bothered us for, oh, about five minutes, by which time Arne Friedrich had stamped on Ronaldo's ankle, an act which added injury to insult.

Spain, in their match with Sweden, resembled Italy: they won despite tensing up and not playing well. Turkey, against the Czech Republic, gave a fair impersonation of Germany with that impossible comeback – thanks to Petr Cech's absolutely spot-on impersonation of some Scottish goalies we could name.

What a crazy, mixed-up tournament. It's as if the organisers have provided a dressing-up box at each stadium and invited players to experiment with different guises.

Even Holland have joined in, though they've retained some of their essential contrariness by choosing a style from outwith the competition. If the hippies of Haight-Ashbury had formed a team during the Summer of Love, they would have played like this Dutch side: they're flashing so many peace signs at each other that the drugs-testers must be highly suspicious. Meanwhile, Holland's usual role – in-fighting like mad – has been taken by France.

Ah, Les Bleus. Their departure from Euro 2008 involved so much pouting and flouncing that I thought I was watching a football version of that great movie The Dresser with France and Italy as Tom Courtenay and Albert Finney – two old queens whose time had passed.

The match was like a dreadful repertory-theatre version of a classic play, full of fluffed lines and bad shooting, camp neckerchiefs and over-sculpted goatees. Saying that, Italy could yet return to being Italy and lift the trophy.