THERE should be a blues song for Scotland supporters. A sort of dark-blue blues song. It could start: “Woke up this morning/ Out of the Euros.” Or for rugby fans: “Woke up this morning/Out of the World Cup.”

I reflected on this despondently as I headed to the Scottish Football Museum Hall of Fame dinner with Hugh Keevins – not so much a glass half-empty man, more of a glass filled to the brim with dark, heavy and intoxicating despondency man – who informed me: “All we have left is nostalgia.”

“All I have is neuralgia,” I said, chewing a paracetomol. My only hope at the dinner was that it had been promised that I would be sitting at “Baillie’s table”.

I composed my ditty of hope as Keevins wittered on and I searched in vain for a sharp razor in my glove compartment. I sang quietly: “If it is to be a Baillie/ I will go gaily/ But only if it is Louise/Please, please, please

Unfortunately, 30 minutes later I had to write the downbeat last verse: “How did I dodge her?/ I have landed with Rodger”

The night did get better. The Keevins’ medication did kick in, so I was able to remove the Samaritans from speed dial and pull on the mental Speedos for a comforting wallow in a deep pool of nostalgia. There were the reminiscences of George Graham, a double-winning player and an Arsenal manager of significant substance. There was the dry, witty chat of Maurice Malpas, who was part of a Dundee United team that was robbed in a European Cup final. There was Craig Brown, who was part of a Dundee team that also reached a European Cup semi, slaughtering the German champions Cologne en route. There was more, but this was more than enough.

A warm feeling of subdued joy permeated the room. Either that or I was experiencing one of my hot flushes. It was undeniable, however, that there was an outbreak of happiness. Keevins, under intense interrogation, was willing to concede that the sun might, just might come up tomorrow.

The source of any redemption for the Scottish game, though, remains elusive. My spirits were slightly raised by the performance of Douglas Costa for Bayern Munich against Arsenal this week. I believe he may qualify for Scotland if he is related to the Sauchiehall Street Costas.

On a wider front, there has been an outbreak of post-exit bingo where the usual causes for our downfall are ticked off: teachers strike, weans not playing in the street, the SFA, too much coaching, not enough coaching, the SFA, too many other sports, the SFA, the manager, the poor crop of players, the SFA. Suffice to say, there is work being done with young players and by good people, some of them employed by, yup, the SFA. We will have to wait and hope.

But another visit to Hampden this week provided dramatic proof that we do not suffer alone. The Scottish Football Museum was the venue for the launch of Puskas, a biography by Gyorgy Szollosi (Freight Books, £11.99). Much of the chat recently has been about the demise of the Netherlands as a footballing force but the demise of Hungary may escape the attentions of those whose who do not have a bus pass in their back pockets.

In the forties and fifties, Hungary was the best team in the world. In Ferenc Puskas, they had a captain who had a legitimate claim on on the title of Best Footballer Ever. They also had Zoltan Czibor, Jozsef Bozsik, Sandor Kocsis and Nandor Hidegkuti. They thrashed England at Wembley and in Budapest with an aggregate score of 13-4. They won the Olympics. They did not compete in the World Cup of 1950 but lost, in highly controversial circumstances, to the West Germans in the final of the 1954 tournament. They had beaten West Germany 8-3 in the group stages but Puskas had been injured by a brutal challenge. He hobbled through the final, scoring a mere two goals and having another ruled offside. This decision still causes growls in central Budapest. Puskas was later to have extraordinary redemption as a Real Madrid player but Hungarian football was fatally wounded after the Uprising of 1956 and slipped slowly but inevitably down the rankings under Communist rule.

The mood of the Hungarians who visited Hampden this week to celebrate Puskas and the publication of the biography was upbeat. They were, after all, visiting the football shrine where the great man scored four in a European Cup final. That 7-3 defeat of Eintracht Frankfurt in 1960 was regarded by Puskas as his greatest game in a club shirt. It is fondly remembered, too, by a generation of Scots.

There was an air of mutual commiseration between Hungarians and Scots about where our nations stand in world football but the Hungarians still have a hope of playing in France with a play-off against Norway next month. I also reminded the Hungarians they had been to a Word Cup final and had taken three Olympic team golds.

Our major achievement is to sing the dark-blue blues, verse after verse, year after year. The Hungarians protested they had suffered too but I reminded them to console themselves with that wonderful Caledonian folk tune that begins: 'There's ayeways someone worse off than yirsel/ And it’s usually Scotland.'