A Scot and part-time Greek (from Oz) watches in LA as Samaras flops

Now, after scouting around for a Greek Sports Bar - we couldn't find one - we ended up in the inexplicably named Village Idiot amid a dozen or so flag-waving Colombian expats, a scattering of Greeks and a mass of American barflies, most of whom have as much interest in silky football as the average Rangers fan.

It was a sunny morning outside but in here it was wall to wall tellies, trendy Belgian beer and gargantuan plates of nachos and dip. There's no hummus (my Greek girlfriend Koula specifically asked) so we've had to make do with salsa, which seems a bit unpatriotic to me. Though having said that, it was delicious.

The excitement and anticipation - even though I'm a Scotsman supporting Greece, at the Brazil World Cup, in Los Angeles - was tremendous.

Continuing the slightly bizarre vibe, we'd actually become involved in a pub quiz on our first night in the States and after a slight hiccup on the question - 'Name the oldest Marx brother - Koula answered 'Karl?' - we ended up winning second prize.

But then it was game on: Greece - our boys - To Piratiko - (The Pirate Ship) - up against Colombia - Los Cafeteros - (The Coffee Growers) - ach, it was gonnna be a doddle!

There was to be no plundering. No swash, very little buckle. Instead, the industrious coffee growers looked the crema de la crema (sorry) right from the off. An excellent blend, deep, substantial and highly satisfying.

To put it simply, Greece were absolutely percolated.

Celtic supporters won't be all that surprised that Sulky Sammy Samaras was Greece's culprit in chief. Possibly it was the unfamiliar all blue strip, but Sammy played like an absolute malaka. (That's Greek for … well, I'm sure you can work it out.)

In no time at all - we'd only got about a tenth of the way through Mount Nachos, Colombia scored. A comedy capers goal it was, hit a defender's heel and trickled past the keeper, despite his despairing dive.

Not a classic, but well deserved, because they were all over us. It was truly 'us' now, I felt as Greek as Adonis, though as I continued to munch down on the nachos, big Demis Roussos might have been a better comparison.

Then, against the turn of play, just before half-time, the Colombian goalie denied To Piratiko with a brilliant save. This was it, we thought over the interval, another round of Belgian beer, three tons of nachos and dip still piled up, slightly accusingly.

But no, the second half proceeded, much like the first, all Colombia, Greek looking as ragtag as their home economy, the tragic details of which were given to us by Socrates, a Hollywood social worker (yes really) from behind his beer glass.

Another corner to Colombia - and another goal. Poor, some would say criminal marking from - guess who Sammy Samaras - at the near post and the Coffee Growers were two up. Our boys looked drained, every last grain exhausted.

In fact, it was beginning to look as if we'd be out of the cup - thoughts only on what might have could have bean. (Sorry again).

Then a point-blank header crashed against the crossbar. We didn't deserve it, but it would have put us back in the game. But it didn't go in. So it didn't.

The Colombians in the stadium and in the bar - suddenly there seemed to be so many more of them - started to party. The Greeks went quiet - or home.

Koula and I looked at each other, ordered another Belgian beer and abandoned the nachos which had by now changed from a Munro to a Corbett and trooped back to our hotel and bed. It was nearly 11am.

Ah well, tomorrow's another day. And it's not over yet. A result against Japan on Thursday in Natal - and we'll be there - and the campaign is back on course.

We fight on. We fight to win. (A direct quote from Mrs Thatcher following the ballot on her leadership in 1991. And we all know how that ended up.)

Never mind. In the words of my all-time favourite song - Virginia Plain by Roxy Music which I'm now about to live out - Baby Jane's in Acapulco - we are flying down to Rio!