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I love Spain. I love the food, I love the price of wine in restaurants, I love the fact that I don't feel like a complete imbecile when I'm there because I can speak a little of their language, and I love the fact you can watch top-flight football without your bank account taking a pounding.

But there are things about Spain that trouble me, peculiarities that defy reasonable explanation. One of them, for example, is the curious way in which some Spanish men drape pastel coloured V-neck sweaters over their shoulders.

Another is the poor record of Spain's national football team. at major tournaments equates to one of life's great imponderables.

The latter was very much at the forefront of my thoughts during a recent trip to Spain with my wife and her father.

I was keen to see whether the Spanish would be in the midst of the massive deluge of pre-tournament hype we normally get in England and I wanted to know whether they were confident their team would finally throw the monkey off their back.

I tried my luck at a small seaside bar in . After the barman had told me that Real Madrid would prise , I asked him about his hopes for the Euros.

The first half of his reply was sort of a grunt crossed with a resigned exhalation, the sort of noise that seemed equal parts contempt and despair.

"Spain? No chance," he said. "Not with that idiot in charge."

There may or may not have been expletives colouring the barman's answer, but the "idiot" in question was Spain coach .

The coach's from his squad was very much headline news and, from what I could gather, it was proving to be a very divisive issue.

The newspapers were full of talk about the places up for grabs in Aragones's squad while some of the features focused on how the tournament will showcase some extremely impressive young talent. No mention, though, of the likes of Wayne Rooney or Theo Walcott.

Also contained within the sports pages were plenty of adverts, promoting the kind of products we have come to associate with the beautiful game.

The days when footballers only advertised boots, balls, nylon tracksuits or, if they were really lucky and happened to be Kevin Keegan, are long gone.

In the space of several pages in one Spanish paper I was told which car to travel home in ahead of the match, which beer to drink when the match had started, on which brand of TV to watch the match, and which make of digital camera to have at the ready if I wanted to record any memorable moments.

Disappointingly, though, I did not see a single life-size cut out of any players at the various supermarkets and shops I visited. At no point did the wife have the opportunity to say that so and so is a lot smaller than she expected...not that the other half is all that familiar with most of the Spanish squad.

Advertising shortfalls aside, I hope Spain do well in the tournament. I think they play attractive football, and I remember vividly the haunted faces on their supporters' faces after they in Hanover two years ago.

But I'm not adopting Spain. In fact I'm not adopting any of the 16 nations in action at Euro 2008.

After years of being tied to England - and suffering the continual crushing disappointments that entails - I'm going to see how the wind blows in Austria and Switzerland and support whoever I like, when I like, in a thoroughly shameless manner.