Click here for part one
Click here for part two
Click here for part three
Click here for part four
Click here for part five
Click here for part six
Click here for part seven
Click here for part eight
Click here for part nine
Click here for part 10
Click here for part 11
Click here for part 12
Click here for part 13
Click here for part 14
Click here for part 15

Well would you Adam `n Eve it? The Bubble `n Squeaks have only gone and pulled it off!

Although quite how they've managed it, few people here can really understand. Portugal is in a state of shock.

Personally, I'd hazard a guess at two basic reasons.

Firstly, familiarity is breeding contempt within the international game as players from the cosmopolitan leagues of the Premiership, Serie A and La Liga become more and more clued-up about each others individual strengths and weaknesses.

Take the performances of the so-called superstars who dominated all the pre-tournament advertising, for example: Zidane did nothing, Henry did nothing, Beckham did nothing, Raul did nothing, del Piero did nothing.

The list is almost endless. In fact, of all the players who I suspect earn £50,000+ per week, only Pavel Nedved came out of Euro 2004 with any real credit.

Therefore, I'd say nations for whom the majority of the squad don't ply their trade in the big three leagues had a slight advantage – so long as the players were good enough and the coaching was spot-on.

With Greece, that was the case.

In hindsight, I see many similarities in this Greek team with the host of different German teams who have frustrated everyone with their sheer efficiency on the way to landing yet another major international trophy.

It's almost as if Greece's German coach, Otto Rehhagel, realised the standard of player in his homeland is so poor these days, he thought he'd try his luck with the `libero' system on a bunch of more honest and technically superior unknowns elsewhere.

All of which points towards my second reason why Greece have won Euro 2004: they were, without doubt, the strongest and most resilient team at the tournament, both physically and mentally.

You only have to look at their results and performances after half-time in games to realise that.

In nearly five hours of second half and silver goal football, they conceded only one meaningless injury-time Ronaldo header in the opening game. Meanwhile, they bagged a goal themselves in each of those matches except the bizarre final group game against Russia.

So if my first reasoning hinted that perhaps Greece won the tournament by default I apologise, because they clearly didn't.

If you're wondering whether I actually got in to see Sunday's game, I didn't stand a chance.

An early morning phone call from Lisbon informed me that 11,000 Greeks were arriving on the day (most of them without tickets) and the traders were snapping up briefs at around €450 each to sell on at vastly inflated prices.

So my €220 wouldn't even have bought me a photo of a ticket and, needless to say, I followed up my own punting advice by doing £100 on the Portugal victory.

We spent our day queuing for UEFA's free Fan Park near Oriente train station in Lisbon, hoping to catch the game on the big screens with around 20,000 Portugal fans.

But, after waiting two hours, news filtered through by word-of-mouth and the queue of thousands suddenly dispersed. Our only conclusion was that the gates had been locked and the place was full to capacity.

In our haste, we then decided to head towards Rossio Square and the Marques de Pombal under the assumption that other big screens would be laid on – but both areas were like a ghost town and suddenly it dawned on us that we might not even get to see the game at all.

Eventually, we ended up huddled round a little telly outside a sandwich hut on Lisbon's most famous street, the Liberdade, before hailing a cab and catching the second half in a train station bar at Oriente.

Let's just say it wasn't exactly how I'd planned it!

Epilogue

If a hangover was primarily to blame when I was pining for home last Friday, I can make no such excuses now.

Flight NI600 departs from Lisbon to Manchester at 16:25 on Tuesday and I can almost smell my local chippy from here!

In all honesty, I've never been the greatest of long-stay travellers because I find myself homesick easier than most. God only knows why.

So I guess it's testament to Portugal and their staging of this tournament (not to mention our beautiful little country retreat at Casal do Ingles) that my daydreams held Mancunian life at bay for more than three weeks.

However, the last few days have been spent reading autobiographies, texting my mates and generally conditioning myself for the return.

Sunday in Lisbon aside, it feels like everyone else has gone home. All we have left now is a vast ocean of memories and nobody to share them with.

Therefore, that first pint in the Brewers Arms in Ladybarn on Tuesday night has rarely been far from my thoughts of late.

I'll tell all the lads how disappointingly anonymous Zinedine Zidane was on the first occasion I got to witness him in the flesh – then, suddenly, how gutted I was when he bagged two injury-time goals to send England to defeat.

The Bing-Bong-Bing of the public address system to announce substitutes, bookings, goalscorers and anything else that takes their fancy at Estadio de Luz will forever be my abiding memory of that game.

As England retreated further towards their 18-yard box during the second half, that noise became more frequent – and more ominous.

As Zizou placed the ball down for his equalising free-kick, they even used it to appeal for help in finding a little boy who was lost.

I swear, it could only have distracted our defence at such a crucial point and I will apportion some blame to that little rascal for the rest of my days.

I'll also tell the lads about my admiration for Portuguese girls in avoiding the popular western diet of McDonalds and lager.

The faces may only average 6/10 out here but a day on Foz do Arelho beach is an experience that can only be enjoyed face down towards the sand. The bodies of these girls average 8/10 – and that's being harsh.

I'll tell them about Dan the Latvia man, my new Eastern European football contact, who persuaded me to lay the Germans against his supposed minnows, a match that netted me £450 when it seemed like I was fast approaching the breadline.

I'll tell them about the amazing scenes at the biggest and most nail-biting game of the tournament as English and Portuguese sat peacefully together in every section of the stadium, everyone getting behind their own team at with incredible volume.

Never before have I been party to such a unique atmosphere and I very much doubt I ever will again.

When staying for 26 days and taking in 12 games of a competition like this, there's bound to be plenty to talk about when I get back and I've managed it all while having a decent punt whenever it took my fancy.

I've yet to chalk up the scores on the betting doors but my early estimations suggest I finished about SP, which can't be too bad considering my biggest fancy (Italy) went home early and the tournament was won by a 100/1 shot.

All of which might make some people wonder why I didn't just keep the two grand together and spend it according to a rigid day-to-day budget – but then I guess those people wouldn't be reading a punter's diary on BettingZone!

You all know the score and understand that I couldn't have done it any other way. It just wouldn't have been the same.