Yes, yes, of course I watched it.

In fact, sad anorak that I am, I caught most of it in a friend’s house in Edinburgh, where I was stranded on Monday, and then watched the recording all over again at home in the evening. And, guess what, it was still 2-0 the second time around.

For tournament veterans like myself, there was the all too familiar cycle of pre-match euphoria, swiftly followed by post-match distress.

Yet the folks I really felt sorry for were those too young to have been exposed to the horror movies of the past, and who arrived bright-eyed and bushy tailed to the national stadium, or their schools, expectations undimmed by previous experience.

I’d love to tell them it’s not always like this, but for the fact that it IS always like this.

Having said which, the selective amnesia of the Scotland fan knows few bounds. I have a couple of friends coming to stay over on Friday night to watch the England game, and I fully expect we will have talked ourselves into a famous victory (however implausible) before the 8pm kick off.

And should that venture end in tears, we will doubtless re-assemble on Tuesday, clutching some back-of-an-envelope calculation proving beyond reasonable doubt that a solitary victory over Croatia could somehow propel us into round two.

Before that the remains of Andy Murray’s body is back on court. Being a fan is a disease.