When it comes to football, it may not surprise you to learn that I am hardly the most ardent fan. Previously, my interest in the sport has been limited to laughing when the England Band plays The Great Escape, and being bemused by the passion of the crowd. My emotions when I watch a match tend to range from petulant boredom during defensive passing, to tepid interest during a penalty. When I see true England fans, painted faces crumpling in despair as their team concede a goal, I can’t fathom how anyone can get so worked up about it. That violent see-saw of triumph and torture seems exhausting, and I’m glad to avoid such extremes.

However, my husband is a fervent Liverpool supporter, and my son is a fanatic who can recite the names of random international team members in a fairly disturbing way: ‘Belotti, Berardi, Chiesa, Raspadori’, he intones, with a manic light in his eye, as the camera pans across the players. He’s been collecting Euro stickers with the frenzied dedication of… well, a nine-year-old boy collecting Euro stickers. He also assumes a level of interest and expertise in me that I feel obliged to rise to, so have taken to reading the odd Guardian article so I can impress him with my knowledge: ‘… Erm, do you think Ronaldo will win that Golden Boot thingy…?’ only to cower as he responds with a barrage of stats and facts about minutes and assists. But I’ve absorbed a few titbits over the last few months, so feel fully qualified to write a critique of England’s semi-final game. After all, I’ve written about snooker in this blog, and that was enough to get me Sports Writer of the Year at the SJA Awards. No, hang on – that was Marina Hyde. Whatever. I know the offside rule; I read it on Wikipedia. So here goes.

At first, I was more interested in the food than the football. We had friends coming round, so rather than worry if replacing Sancho with Saka on the right flank was wise, I was considering a pasta bake. I’ve recently turned vegetarian, in the same way that Tina, one of our guests, has gone teetotal (‘from now on I’m just having gin & tonics’), so was pondering adding a few shards of waffer-thin parma ham and wondering how many garlic breads to get in (correct answer: too many). I bought pizza and popcorn for the kids, and a tub of brownies for us all to gorge on during the interval – sorry; half-time. That’s a good footy feast, right? Football’s coming home, to my house, for a bite to eat.

When we settled down to watch it, I suppose I wanted England to win, a bit, but also felt Denmark deserved a shot because of what happened to Christian Eriksen. Plus, I had the faint sense of dread that if we did win, it would become tied up in some gammony ‘this is because of Brexit’ nationalistic air-punch. I’m also part-Scottish, so really England can do one. But I had a mountain of rigatoni on my plate and a glass of pinot grigio in my hand, so I was ready to enjoy myself and get into the spirit of things. I had a few sporting exclamations up my sleeve: ‘GO ON, MY SON’; ‘AVE AT IT, LADS’; ‘MAKE IT YOURS.’ If things got really heated, I might throw in a chant: ‘Here We Go’ or ‘You’re Gonna Get Your Fucking Head Kicked In’ – something really rousing. No one would accuse me of non-participation, but equally I wanted to be in bed by 9.30pm, whether or not it went to extra time.

I was delighted to see the English team take the knee at the beginning – they really are such lovely boys. I feel very motherly towards them, and would also like to be Gareth Southgate’s long-standing wife. He’s the kind of man who would pick you up for dinner all dressed up, then take off his jacket to secure a loose tile on the front porch, in case of inclement weather.

Initially, the game was pretty boring because we were back to that England strategy of passing in a lacklustre way, as if the goal had been taken away for a polish and they were killing time waiting for it to be re-installed. The crowd began to sing ‘Don’t Take Me Home’, which also gave me pause. The implications of the lyrics surely go against the idea that football is actually on its way there. Don’t we all want to be in the same place? I began to get slightly irritated, mainly with my children, who were having a kickabout with a balloon and not appreciating this historic moment. I encouraged my eldest to take his inflatable elsewhere: ‘GO ON, MY SON’. The England team continued to play in a dull way – during a brief scrum around the goal mouth I found myself hoping Denmark would score just to make things interesting. Then they did, and it was such a magnificent strike that I was genuinely pleased for them. Oh God, I’m not a proper football fan, I just want everyone to have a nice time.

Our friend Justin said ‘I think it’s heading for misery’ and began to drink heavily. My husband was resolutely, annoyingly upbeat throughout the match: ‘It’s going to be fine, they’re going to equalise, it’ll be OK,’ which made me suspect he’d taken some sort of benzodiazepine. The ITV presenter was also bringing a kind of genial Tory dad energy to the whole thing. Was his name really Poogash? I had to google it. One of the children began to thump on the piano. ‘You’re gonna get your fucking head kicked in,’ I muttered, scrolling on my phone. Football was irksome and tedious, none of the kids cared, and I felt bloated from all that pasta. Then England scored, and suddenly I was on my feet screaming, and it seemed I was a football fan after all.

But once I realised that I really, really wanted them to win, I had to embrace the agony. The next fifty minutes were nail-biting, nerve-shredding, because equalising isn’t enough – the going-home equivalent of a train stuck just outside the station, and you’ve run out of snacks and need a wee but the toilet is occupied. ‘It’s the hope that gets you,’ Justin mumbled, cracking open his eleventh can. He was right – I’d rather be miles away under a no-travel order than nearly there. It’s just too tantalising. I ate two brownies in the extra injury time and then felt sick. Harry Kane kept getting near the goal then flubbing it, pissing about rather than putting the boot in. ‘Come ON,’ I yelled, with the same exasperation I reserve for our dog when she interminably sniffs a lamppost. It was so, so late, my eyes were gritty, my stomach distended, none of the kids were in bed, but also none of them were watching the football – they were watching YouTube clips of football upstairs instead. To relieve my anxiety, I trolled Priti Patel on Twitter. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ soothed my husband, who is a massive bellend.

When England were awarded a penalty in the 104th minute, I didn’t feel excitement or hope; just an anticipation of anguish. ‘Don’t worry,’ said my husband, who is a class A knob. ‘Harry Kane never misses.’ Harry Kane promptly missed, and I turned to my dickhead husband in outrage and thus missed what followed. Our living room erupted while I sat bewildered on the sofa. ‘What happened?’ ‘He scored!’ ‘How??’ I couldn’t process the result, because as well as the offside rule, I don’t know how penalties work; it felt like a cheat that Kane could have another go, just keep slamming it until it got past Kasper Schmeichel, who also seems like a very nice boy.

As victories go, I found it a baffling one, and couldn’t shake the idea that it was fudged. The train was stuck, so they’d just got out and walked along the tracks to the station. I guess, as long as you’re closer to home, that’s all that matters? But it troubled me as I put my hysterical children to bed and filled the recycling with Justin’s beer cans. Up in our loft bedroom, my husband beckoned me over to the skylight. ‘Listen,’ he said. I poked my head out and looked at the stars. The city was full of the sound of celebration – car horns honking, distant cheers, the faint pop of fireworks. I was home, and football was nearly there too. It’s driving through town, old friends waving a welcome, and there’s a shepherd’s pie waiting in the oven.

It was a messy, last-minute victory for a messy, last-minute country. But right now, we’ll take what we can get. As Gary Neville said, our standard of leaders the past few years has been poor, and it’s nice to have people to look up to and root for, for a change. It wasn’t a see-saw; more of a rollercoaster, of exhilaration and pride, torment, triumph, and being sick in your mouth. But who wants an even keel? Let’s aim for the summit, and relish the ride. Now I’m ready to welcome football on my threshold and clutch it to my bosom in a tender mum-hug. If it doesn’t quite make it, then that’s OK, because at least we had the hope that it would come.

‘AVE AT IT, LADS. I’ll make a pie, just in case.

• Euro 2020 Semi-Final, ITV