Wonder, Joy and Commiseration in Cardiff: Watching Wales vs. Portugal With Budweiser

The train to Cardiff is busy. I should have expected this – but when you're invited by Budweiser to hang out in the Welsh capital with a bunch of very merry football fans, the logistical details don't immediately spring to mind. The man to my right is beyond excited – he's telling me that his brother is at the Parc Olympique Lyonnais for the match. "He's bricking it," he informs me between nibbles of Haribo Starmix. A group of fans in the next carriage are singing, their voices filled with a deep sense of hope and assurance. There's electricity in the air – and it's infectious.

As my train screeches into Cardiff, I think to myself that "bricking it" is a nice way to sum up the feeling across Wales. Turns out I'm wrong: no one here is bricking it. In fact, if there were an antonym to the phrase, it would adequately describe what I see. People are smiling. People are singing. People seem – I dunno – genuinely excited and honoured to be watching their team play. I'm not used to this. It puts me a little on edge. There's a slight chance that the entire city has undergone a Stepford Wives scenario, or maybe it's simply that Welsh people are happy.

They certainly have good reason to be.

Welsh football has never had it so good. It is absolutely necessary to state that fact. This is, by about one hundred Ryan Giggs lying down in a row, the biggest moment in Welsh football history. This is not a country prepared for this sort of success or, for that matter, a team as good as the one it now has. Cardiff teems with shirts baring the names of Bale, Ramsey, Williams, even the occasional Robson-Kanu. I get a taxi to my hotel, drop my stuff off and make a quick turnaround for the fan zones down Mill Lane.

Wales are playing Portugal, who have been – for my money – a welt on the face of the tournament. Portugal are led by Ronaldo, a sort of made-from-bronze stallion of a man who is as good as he is loathsome. But the impact of Wales's crushing, wonderful, utterly amazing 3-1 victory of Belgium is everywhere in the city: people I stop in the street smile and laugh when I ask them if they're going to beat Portugal. The general consensus is: no, but then again maybe. Sort of. Okay: yes. I feel I may be pushing them – my enthusiasm for being in Cardiff, right now, could be getting the better of them.

The joy is everywhere. To celebrate Wales' achievement, Budweiser offered every single adult in the country a free beer. Many gladly accepted the gift. In Cardiff, Josh tells me that he and a group of friends had made the most of the free beers: "We got the code from the website and picked them up in a supermarket to have with the game. And we got a few more to go along with them, obviously.

"The idea's a proper winner. Loads of people I know have got a free beer, and they were handing out vouchers at the station earlier, for them to drink at the fan zones. Fair play, no one minds a free beer when it's offered and it's a nice way to celebrate what we've done at the Euros."

Budweiser's dedication stretches further than this. At their bottling plant in nearby Magor – one of the company's biggest – the production line has shut down for the evening so that employees can watch the game.

"We've never done it before," plant manager Tony Monteiro tells me. "Our priority is always on production. But on this occasion, it just felt right. There are about 80 people in for the match and the atmosphere is very exciting, quite electrifying. I think, regardless of the result, everyone is extremely proud. It's a momentous occasion."

I bump into Josh, Ciaran and Tom outside the Principality Stadium about three minutes before kick-off. They're in a hurry – who wouldn't be – but they're happy to tell me that they're worried about missing Aaron Ramsey. The midfield star – born just up the road in Caerphilly – is suspended, having picked up two yellow cards in five games. "Look, we'll miss him, mate," they say in chorus. "We'll really miss him." As the night goes on, more and more people will be mentioning Ramsey's name, his absence only bringing his startling form for Wales during the tournament into sharper focus. A lot of people wonder what could have been.

Not everyone here is Welsh. Like myself, some have been pulled toward the city to nibble on the entrails of excitement. I meet Tony and Robert, two scarf sellers, around the corner. "We don't care about Wales," says Tony. "We don't care about England, either. We care about Manchester United." He's interrupted as a group of women in heels the height of stilts go past. "Take note," he says. "When girls go for a night out in Cardiff, they go for a proper night out."

I duck into a bar called The Bunker, just on kick-off. It's packed – wonderfully sunburnt people (none more than myself, after a slightly ill-advised walk to Paddington in the mid-afternoon sun) stand alongside fans draped in flags, extra large shirts, spilled beer. They're all singing. I'm not sure they stop for the entire match. My senses engage in a battle – I begin to blur into Wales. It's like I'm in a wind turbine where the walls are comprised entirely of Charlotte Church.

I realise relatively quickly that speaking to people while the game is going on is a stupid idea. I try anyway. Matthew, Robbie, Callum and Jamie are decked out in full Welsh kits in the backroom. They give me a quizzical look. Jamie, half-gazing at the screen, half at me, informs me that, "this is 10 times better than rugby." I agree.

At half time, I slip out and go on the hunt for people to talk to. At this point it's still 0-0 and spirits are high (though it's unquestionably beer they're drinking here). I'm constantly struck by how friendly and cheerful everyone is. I know it's a momentous occasion, but I'm used to people running away when I reveal I'm writing down everything they say.

Ieuan and Cerys have travelled in for the day from the Valleys. They assure me that, "win or lose, we'll party on. No sad faces. Not tonight." Ieuan assures me that if he does see a sad face, "I'll make sure they get a drink and cheer up." Next, I bump into Rhodri and Theo. "You're an England fan, presumably?" asks Rhodri. "Well, I don't need to bring that up." Theo, smiling, says he's just excited for the game. "Look," Rhodri adds, "whatever you do in this article, please just mention the size of the seagulls we have in Cardiff. They're the size of fucking terriers." As if on queue, a gigantic seagull waddles past. It is, indeed, the size of a fucking terrier.

By the time we go back inside, Wales are 1-0 down. Ronaldo has jumped 27 feet into the Lyon sky and headed beyond Wayne Hennessey. The crowd are slightly stifled, but not downtrodden. A few minutes later, Nani has doubled the lead. The barman shakes his head. "The ref in the last game screwed us," he says. "He booked, what? Like five people? It was like he was swatting away flies. And the goals tonight. Awful and sloppy." A German man behind me explains that he's come down to Cardiff because he was promised the best atmosphere in the country. "I've been to Manchester and I've been to Seville in the past few months," he says, with classic German understatement. "And, yeah, this is quite good."

Later, as the night begins to slip through Welsh fingers, I hear a spirited rendition of "Wales! Wales! Wales!" Desperation begins to take hold – and, for about 15 minutes, the crowd turns. Players have changed from saviours into pariahs. The lexicon switches from your Sunday best to drunken sailors. Four letter words become the currency.

The mood doesn't last. In fact, by the end of the match, the fans are in fine voice once more. Songs follows chants follow songs follow declarations of love. The time ticks away – but everyone is determined to enjoy the last few moments of what has been Wales's finest footballing experience. Paul, sweat congregating on his forehead, pulls me aside and grabs his badge. "This is what tonight is," he says, punching his chest. "This is what it fucking is. Wales. This passion. We're all heroes tonight. Nothing – not Ronaldo, not Portugal – can take that away from us. Wales deserve this. This entire tournament has been incredible."

At the final whistle, I jump out on to street to catch some of 27,000 people who have been watching the game inside the stadium. The city pulses with life. There is not a sad face in sight. I keep saying this – that everyone seems constantly happy – but it's because it's factually true. There were very, very few sad people. People come at me thick and fast. I speak to Hayni, Alice, Kirsty and Lucy who say that this success "was for Gary Speed," the late Wales manager who began this journey.

Tom and Jordi, who I meet clinging to the Sir Tasker Watkins statue, cannot wait for the team to come back: "We want to say hello to them. We want to sing for them. We want to tell them how much we love them!"

As the evening ticks into the early morning, I begin to lose myself in a large crowd of people collecting on Westgate Street. They are dancing and clapping and crying and smiling and laughing and singing. They were all saying the same thing, over and over and over. Kirsty, Laura, Amber, Hannah, Steve, Rhodri, Gareth, Ben, Thomas, Mark, Sarah – everyone was caught up in the same song, repeated like a mantra. It will be my defining memory of the evening.

"Don't take me home, please don't take me home, I just don't want to go to work. I want to stay here, and drink a beer, so please don't, please don't take me home!"

Wales may have lost, but Cardiff went down singing.