Warning. This article is not suitable for Anglophiles, who are advised to skip straight to the column down below. The rest of you can, for half a page at least, do away with all talk of that sceptred isle, that earth of majesty, that seat of Mars, that other Eden and join in with around 350 million Europeans in the Union — cheering everyone against England.

Forget the single currency, or Beethoven’s Ninth. If there’s one thing that can unite a continent then it’s a football tournament. And if there’s one thing that can unite football lovers together, it’s a shared revulsion against the nation of shopkeepers. The Scots, the Welsh and the Irish — each conspicuous by their absence in Euro 2004 — have a song about their unpopular neighbours: “Let’s all laugh at England”. It doesn’t take long for the rest of Europe to join in.

It’s hard to explain why a country, which gave the world the beautiful game, the industrial revolution, and a universal language, can inspire such ill feeling. But then, just take one look at your typical England fan — complete with sunburn, man-breasts and can of lager — regaling about 1966-and-all-that and you’ll begin to understand why the good citizens of Euroland don’t like him.

Added to that is the British media, capable of producing the finest and worst journalism — especially when it comes to sports. Even the often holier-than-thou BBC can, on one hand, produce John Simpson and on the other produce John Motson. Motson is the corporation’s chief football commentator and is usually a good listen.

When England play however, you can expect a 1966 reference almost every 30 seconds. (Someone should tell him that if England somehow manage to win this tournament, he’d look a little pathetic still barking about it in 2042.)

And then there’s history. When the English national anthem contains a verse celebrating the massacring of Scots you can perhaps understand why the Celtic nations indulge in a little bit of Anglo schadenfraude. When English football hooligans taunt Germans with cries of “Who won the war?” you wonder if the sacrifice of all those brave men during D-Day was worth it. In any case, Russia and America won the war while Britain lost an empire. But just you try telling a horde of John Bulls that the sun set a long, long time ago. Especially when they’re trashing your home city.

Dublin, where I reside, has witnessed a Genghis Khan-style invasion of John Bulls this past week, as thousands take advantage of the exchange rate. At the same time, with the Republic of Ireland currently holding the EU presidency, there has been an upsurge of European tourists. This makes for interesting viewing during football matches, despite Ireland’s absence from the tournament.

Things however changed last Sunday, as the English arrived to watch their side take on France. Suddenly, everyone who wasn’t English became French for the day. The Marseillaise was belted out with gusto. The berets were adorned, the Beaujolais guzzled and the Gauloises smoked. And when a balding Algerian handed victory to the cheese-eating surrender monkeys, the citizens of Europe were singing odes to joy while the English wept.

Unperturbed, the English swelled ranks on Thursday and descended into Dublin in droves for Thursday’s clash against Switzerland. The Temple Bar area of the city was draped in St George’s Cross flags as the Little Englanders set up camp. The three Swiss people I met during the course of the entire afternoon felt a little intimidated, despite the best efforts of the locals to stick up for the land of Toblerone and cuckoo clocks. (But then, as Orson Welles famously remarked in the great film The Third Man, that’s what five hundred years of peace and stability do to you.) Pubs were taken over and things became raucous in the English pockets as Beckham and Co. made sure of victory. In stark contrast, each English goal was greeted with deafening silence in the pubs the locals/Europeans hung around in.

Thanks to the victory, the English were rowdy but generally well-behaved for the rest of the evening. A dramatic change from Sunday’s silent introspection and soul-searching. This is perhaps the greatest reason why there is such a collective will against England during every football tournament. Quite simply, the English are very sore losers. Since the French defeat, every English football commentator and writer has been a doomsayer, and there has been a national outcry for heads on sticks. No England supporter can talk about their team without a litany of hard luck tales.

By the same token, they can’t take victory too easily in their stride either. Youngster Wayne Rooney has been elevated to god-like status, and one win against mediocre opposition has provoked derisory claims of greatness. This hyperbolic reaction to football extends to other sports.

The cricket team only needs to win a couple of matches before everyone believes the Ashes will be reclaimed. Tim Henman just needs to beat a few non-entities and everyone believes Wimbledon is his for the taking. And as stated, Englanders will be banging on about 1966 to 2042 and beyond.

When faced with this complete lack of perspective and proportion, one can see why the Scots, the Welsh and the Irish (all nations used to losing) sing “Let’s all Laugh at England”. In victory or defeat, their lack of grip on reality is risible. This is why there is such a strong “anyone but them” mentality.

Dublin is bracing itself for another invasion of beer bellies for England”s next game on Monday. And for 24 hours, we’ll all become Croatian.