Proud Spain Almost Lost for Words As Old Jinx Finally Ends

June 30.

The train lurched forwards, backwards and from side to side, smoke drifting down the carriage as Kalimotxo – that most classic of Spanish drinks, dodgy wine from a carton mixed with Coke in a bottle – stained the floor red. The thud, thud, thud of palms against windows, doors and floors, emulating the flamenco musicians who bang boxes, shuddered through the train. Any minute now, this thing was coming off the rails. At every station, more got on, red shirts, painted faces, yellow and red flags. "España entera se va de borrachera!" they chanted - the whole of Spain is going on the piss. And, the thing is, they were probably right.

Then came the song, the only one with words. Fernando Torres' name may accompany the tune "I Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You (I Love You Baby)'', but there's no love of my life or letting him sleep with my wife - although he is, and many would. "Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiker! Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiker! Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiker!" and "Illa! Illa! Illa! Villa maravilla!" are hardly acts of lyrical genius - and ''illa'' doesn't even mean anything. It doesn't take Ian Dury to come up with "I am Spanish, Spanish, Spanish!". There's no "we're all off to sunny Spain" or "siempre lo recordará" in the footballing version of "Y Viva España" - just some da-da-da-ing. And, as everyone knows, even the Spanish national anthem doesn't have any words, despite the worst efforts of the Spanish Olympic Committee. But this one, borrowed from Cádiz fans, does.

"Alcohol, alcohol, alcohol," they sang, "we came here to get drunk and the result doesn't matter at all." Up the escalator and out at Plaza de España, where thousands had gathered by the statue of Don Quixote, they were still singing it. Just as the pasty kid with the horrific mullet was singing it as he gingerly dipped a toe in the fountain at Callao, not even getting time to contemplate a celebratory dance before slipping and sliding to a shallow and watery humiliation while his mates pissed themselves.

They were lying of course. Never, ever before has a result mattered so much. It is hard to do justice to just how big last night's result was. One that buried the Spanish jinx for good. One that suddenly and completely changed the identity of the Spanish national team from one that has never won anything (somehow 1964 never seemed to count, even here) and never did anything to one that has a European Championship record bettered only by Germany – two victories and an appearance in the 1984 final. One that points to a glorious future, that seems to vindicate Spain's entire footballing philosophy. One that changed history and mentalities, in Spain and outside. One that, AS editor Alfredo Relaño, neatly surmised, was "beautiful, just and necessary".

It may, in truth, have ended up much like any given Saturday night in Madrid, only redder and on Sunday (right down to the dumb eejit trying to pick a fight with the bouncer 400 times his size). But never before has football had them out at Puerta del Sol, up at Colón, and all over Madrid, in Iker Casillas' home town of Móstoles or the road where Torres lived: Germany Street in Fuenlabrada. No sooner had the whistle gone and the 320 commentators on Cuatro TV finished squealing in delight than they were out all over Spain. Including Catalunya; including, or so we're told, the Basque Country (although the photo of six blokes in civvies in a bar is far from conclusive proof).

Bodies sprayed out of car windows like beef from a mincer, waving banners and honking their horns, getting oléd as they passed through Spain flags as matador's capes. Fireworks went off. Spain shirts were everywhere and so were Liverpool ones – more than Madrid or Barça. German fans were commiserated, especially the attractive blonde ones. One fan swapped a road sign over; the Castellana became Long Live The Mother That Gave Birth to Casillas Street.

The enterprising had ''Spain Champions of Europe'' t-shirts printed up already and were doing a roaring trade. So too the sellers of flashing red sunglasses and other assorted tat. Even the pickpockets were loving it: put on a Spain shirt, jump up and down, hug a delighted stranger and see if you can slip a hand round the back there and pinch his wallet. They weren't the only winners. At the newsagents the morning after the night before the queue was out the door. Everyone wanted a memento. Marca are offering a Spain champions beach towel but this was more about the historic covers. "We Are The Champions" screamed the front cover of AS. "We Are The Champions" agreed the front cover of Marca and El Mundo Deportivo saved a word, declaring simply: "Champions!". El Mundo (not Deportivo) reveled in "Spanish glory" and Público sighed a delighted "At last!"

They could hardly believe it. "Now," wrote Juanma Trueba, "read this slowly: we are the champions of Europe. Yesterday Casillas lifted the trophy that was always someone else's. This time the confetti was ours, the kisses, the champagne and the flags were ours. There's no more fear, no more complexes. Last night we passed the final test left for Spanish sport: football. Our football is now where it belongs." Marca declared it "no longer a dream, but a wonderful reality!" while inside Miguel Serrano was going all Suicidal Syd, hopping into a car with Richard Hammond and heading for a dinner date with Alexander Litvinenko. "May the No 27 bus run me over as I cross the Castellana and may a great big vase of geraniums crack my head in two," he cheered, "let the lift plummet 14 floors and leave me a mush at the bottom. Give me a heart attack, let me fall into the lion's enclosure at the zoo, or have a dizzying fit. I don't give a monkey's. I've seen Spain win the European Championships. I can die happy."

If Serrano had a death wish, AS's mad Tomás Roncero was, like most of Spain, nursing a hangover but "just happy to be alive" – so happy he even apologized to Luis Aragonés for hammering him over the absence of Raúl, instead hammering away at the exclamation mark key and reeling off all that is "great" about Spain. "I love you Spain," he cooed. "I'm proud of having an anthem that goes 'lo-lo-lo' and a King and Queen that seem magical and smashing chaps. Spain is greatness, power, style, elegance, heart and class … paella, suckling pig, Picasso, Goya, El Cordobés, Santana, Bahamontes, Nadal, Gasol, Alonso, the goat from the Legion, El Fary, Locomotoro, the test card, Burgos blood sausage, Flamenco dancing, Lola Flores, Rocío Jurado and of course football. ¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡Viva España!!!!!!!!!!".