In the Gateway to the Highlands, no joy to be found in England's Euro mullock
In the original Perth, Michael Lynch discovers sorry Scots fans too despondent to even jeer the lacklustre English as the Euro blues hit home
Ask anyone if there is any other group of football fans who might want to see England lose as much as Australians and you would surely suggest Scottish supporters. After all, for the Scots England is the ''Auld Enemy'', the arrogant power south of the border whose insufferable fans seem to think their team has a divine right to success whenever they enter the international stage.
Well, that's what I thought, especially given the history between these two nations - and not just on the football pitch, where they met in the first-ever international game in the 1870s - but through the centuries, where they have clashed over borders, sovereignty and status as much or more than any two countries on earth.
But a weekend spent in the Scottish city of Perth left me sadly disillusioned as I went in search of atmosphere and enthusiasm for the England v Slovakia Euro round of 16 clash.
Maybe if I had been in Glasgow or Edinburgh, where passions are perhaps more inflamed and they feed fat the ancient grudges both nations harbour, it might have been a different story. Perth was once rather more genteel but is now somewhat down at heel and surely would be fired up by fans wanting to show their disdain for England.
But I am no longer so sure given the apathy I encountered in the Scots city known as the Gateway To The Highlands, the place which gave the West Australian metropolis its name.
Okay, Scotland hardly covered themselves in glory at these Euros and on a five-day visit north of the border I chatted with plenty of football supporters whose gallows humour about their team's shortcomings could not really disguise their disappointment at Scotland's early demise.
I had been in a pub much further south - in Cambridge - when the Tartan Army invaded Munich's Allianz Arena for their first game in mid-June only to have all their hopes crushed within 20 minutes when the hosts raced to a two-goal advantage, one they would turn into a 5-1 win before that night was out.
It was hard to feel anything but sympathy for the handful of expatriates stuck in the University town that night. They had braved the scorn of England supporters to watch their team's Euro opener, only to down their pints and abandon all hope at halftime.
Surely, with England having largely stunk the tournament out, those same Scots would be only too delighted to watch England labour in another game they were expected to win, with the prospect of an England defeat providing plenty of motivation for them to turn out early on a Sunday evening in the hope of a humiliation.
What a disappointment they turned out to be.
The first pub I entered, right in the city centre, had the match on a big screen but without any commentary.
The crowd was made up of a handful of couples tucking into pizzas and other bar food delights and a large group of women in the corner giggling and joking but certainly not about the football; they were more interested in singing along to the sixties pop soundtrack and cheesy country and western accompaniment than seeing whether Harry Kane, Phil Foden or Jude Bellingham was driving England forward. Even a man in what suspiciously seemed like an England shirt had seemingly given up the ghost, his head bowed and brow furrowed as he concentrated on a newspaper crossword.
Even when the Slovaks took a shock lead through Ivan Schranz in the 25th minute in Gelsenkirchen there was barely a stir. No real guffaws or suppressed laughter, no catcalls and certainly no jeering or cheering.
Undeterred, myself and my two companions - one a Scot, one a Londoner but who has lived north of the border for some 25 years and now identifies more as a Scot than a Sassenach - trudged through town in search of a more vibrant hostelry.
We passed one all right, in the centre of the urban area, but its liveliness seemed to have more to do with the 1950s rock and roll tribute band that was blasting tunes out the doors than any Scottish schadenfreude over England's problems.
When we did get to another it looked promising: the volume was up, and the strains of Roy Keane calling out England's failure to inspire on the live broadcast was promising.
But where were the people? Where were the crowds? Where was virtually anybody? As we ordered pints, a scan of several booths revealed a handful of people, only a few of whom seemed to be watching the game as it ground to what seemed, inexorably, a humiliating England loss.
And then came Jude Bellingham's last-gasp overhead kick equaliser, with the sorry Slovaks despondent that they had come within 30 seconds of creating the biggest success story in their country's sporting history.
When Harry Kane headed home to put England in front right at the start of extra time the only sound that was heard came from a corner of the pub, where an ecstatic supporter clad in a Darlington FC shirt was whooping with joy.
It seemed I had traversed the entire city, checked out several pubs and found the only active England supporter in the place. That may explain a lot more about Scottish football (outside Glasgow) than anything else.
At least I will be in London for the quarter-final......