The prayers of Alphonso in the Casa Franco bar in the Costa del Sol went unheeded.

In a nation of more Saints' days and fiestas that you can shake an incense stick at, Spain's soccer crazy legion joined Alphonso in a state of purgatory today.

Last night the great Iberian hope again proved Europe's most slated under-achievers.

Spain's World Cup '98 aspirations crashed with more decibels than to be found in a Bernabeu Stadium crammed to the rafters with a convention of maracas wielders.

And what a fall it was. Spain's collapse was of Manchester City dimensions. Win your last group game 6-1, the biggest margin of triumphs so far in France, and then over and out. Finita.

The Spanish six-pack beating of Bulgaria in Lens was ultimately pointless, the substance diluted to zero by Paraguay's success over Group D winners Nigeria in Toulouse.

It was almost too much for Alphonso and company to endure as he and fellow staff returned to waiting on in a restaurant that flash-fried from fun to funereal. As he said when turning the television to the appropriate channel, "This is futbol, this is Spain. Let us pray".

But as in the Casa Franco business was not as usual along the Avenida Maritiemo in sun-bleached Torremolinos.

Expectation was high, but not as high as the fear of failure. The dread was palpable all day before the game and even the network coverage of "Tve" was low key.

There was no Lynam casualness, nor was there any outrageousness ala John Barnes. Anchorman Jose Angel la Casa was sombrely dressed, flanked by ex-internationals Michel and Bakero, both draped in undertaker-type suits.

There was bunting in the bars, and bonfires on the beach, and there were also tourists - si.

Sunshine si, Sangria si, paella si. But Spain in the World Cup - no si, just sick as a parrot. I almost wish Bob Wilson was here. Cheers.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.