The radio waves were wheezing and spluttering from the effort of crossing the Channel but the voice came through loud and clear. It belonged to an official of the Football Supporters' Association. And he was in philosophical mood.

Yes, he said, it was a pity that England were out of Euro 2000; the fans would be terribly disappointed. But no, it hadn't been a disaster. Far from it.

Sure, there were one or two excesses carried out by a mindless minority but nothing like the kind of mayhem which the wicked media had been reporting.

In fact, and not a lot of people realised this, the hosts would actually miss us. Certainly the bars of Charleroi would miss us, after all the money we'd spent in them.

All in all, he said, it was quite amazing that things had gone as well as they had. The way he put it, the entire event had reflected nothing but credit upon the English football follower.

It was an extraordinary performance, conjuring images of young English hearties whistling Pack Up Your Troubles as they marched jauntily away from the scene of defeat, while moist-eyed Belgian publicans waved their guests goodbye with spotted handkerchiefs.

Why, only a cynic or a reporter would dream of mentioning the flying chairs and the swinging boots, the tears of women and the screams of children, the blood on the pave-ments and the stench of vomit and teargas and cold, sweaty fear.

Oh, and around 900 arrests. All of them victims of brutal policing, mistaken identity or that inexplicable anti-English bias so often encountered on the continent of Europe.

Now normally I should not waste your time with the prattlings of a minor clown, but last week the man from the FSA seemed to embody the witless air of self-delusion which currently infects the English game.

The attitude is one of blank denial; if we close our eyes, cross our fingers and wish ever so hard, then we can persuade ourselves that nothing really happened. Can't we?

Well, actually, we can't. It doesn't work. Not if you're an official of the FSA, or that poor chap who leads what is laughingly known as England's 2006 World Cup bid.

Not if you're the apparatchik in Charleroi who seriously informed me that much of the trouble was caused by Turks wearing English shirts. And not if you're Joe Ashton MP, chairman of the all-party football group, who warned against perfidious Germans goading Englishmen into retaliation.

All defending, all denying, all refusing to accept the evidence of eyes and ears; evidence which tells us that English fans are every bit as appalling as most of us feared.

Had the English game been led by men of genuine moral authority, then the team would have been withdrawn from Euro 2000 as soon as the first outrages were committed in Brussels, since withdrawal would have been brave and sensitive and right.

In the absence of such leaders, shame was allowed to congeal into disgrace and England came within an inch of suffering entirely justified expulsion.

Yet still nothing was learned. England's bid for the World Cup has always seemed a faintly dubious proposition, given the overriding claims of South Africa and the strong suspicion that the Germans were promised a clear run and later betrayed.

But still it was possible to swallow hard and wish them well, even if the chances were remote and the expense stratospheric. All has changed. In the aftermath of Euro 2000, the bid is as dead as Python's parrot.

But still denial is the order of the day, so we are told that South Africa is a terribly dangerous place and that there are still votes to be swayed. I have also heard, time and again, the view that England is the logical venue for the World Cup, since we are the only people who can control our hooligans.

It is a stun-ningly amoral argument; the notion that the thugs should be rewarded with football's greatest prize for their success in terrorising foreign cities. Mercifully, it can no longer happen.

In truth, the one selfishly persuasive argument for an English World Cup is the suspicion that England are incapable of qualifying by any other route.

Watching their attempts to survive the Euro 2000 group matches was like watching a drunk on a tightrope; occasionally exhilarating yet always a stumble away from shattering failure.

The reactions have been unusually interesting. Naturally, the coach has come under fire from the armchair generals. Kevin Keegan, we hear, should be playing 3-5-2, 3-4-2-1 or 3-6-1.

Personally, I was rather taken with the notion of sending them out in a 4-3-2-2 formation and taking our chances with a careless referee.

But the truth is that no coach on earth could work wonders with such material. As a most perceptive critic observed last week: 'There is no point in drawing up a new curriculum if the class is still struggling to read and write.'

Keegan rightly cursed the indifference of his team's passing, yet decent passing is the product of intelligent movement and nimble control, and they were woefully absent from all three games. We learned little; instead, our fears were emphatically confirmed.

The only players who satisfied the examiners were Martin Keown, Paul Scholes and David Beckham. For David Seaman, Tony Adams and Paul Ince, it was a tournament too far.

Sol Campbell provided further evidence that he is less than half the player we hoped he might become. Dennis Wise, as this column has long argued, is a limited scuffler who is utterly irrelevant at this level, and of the Brothers Neville, we shall maintain a kindly silence. And Alan Shearer was simply sad.

Once upon a time, he came close to being a great international striker; here he was merely a man prepared to dive for his country. It was depressing beyond words.

In fact, you realised how deep was your despair when you found yourself looking at the touchline and wondering if Steve McManaman might make a difference.

Keegan is not blameless. While he should not have to answer charges of 'tactical naivety' from every addled phone-in host or laddish opinionator, he may privately concede that his faith in his captain was sentimentally misplaced and that his assessment of Wise and Phil Neville was simply wrong.

These are not cardinal offences and there has been no serious demand for his head, apart from the usual nostalgia in certain quarters for the ducking and diving of Terry Venables.

But even that risible yearning no longer carries the same conviction and their appetite for Arthur Daley will continue to be satisfied by reruns of Minder. Yet you wonder what goes through Keegan's mind when he assesses the European scene.

So far, it has been a marvellous tournament with football of staggering quality. The game on the Continent seems to have taken a quantum leap. Any one of the finest sides in this competition - Holland, Portugal, Italy, Romania and the entrancing French - would surely have strolled to victory in the mundane year of '96, so dramatic has been the raising of standards.

England remain resolutely off the pace; cursed by the short-term greed and wilful myopia of our major clubs. Most are guilty of seeking instant solutions by hurling indecent chunks of money at any available foreigner, and the nouveau-riche notion that cash can buy class shows no signs of abating.

I offer just one example. Chelsea, the club who became the first to start a match with 11 foreign players last season, have spent £25million in this close season.

They have bought Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Eidur Gudjohnsen to join Tore Andre Flo and Gianfranco Zola at the front, while Mario Stanic will seek a place in the midfield. After showing that kind of commitment to the national game, I do hope that nobody at Stamford Bridge is tempted to wag a censorious finger at the national team.

Still, nothing should surprise us. You see, English football remains deep in denial. Our eyes are closed, our fingers are crossed, and we are determined to celebrate our latest and most glorious European triumph.

You don't believe me? Then have a word with the man from the Football Supporters' Association.