It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Scotland were meant to get themselves back on track here at Hampden against a lesser opponent, at least on paper.

But it ended in a dispiriting defeat. There was a worrying injury to captain Andy Robertson, too. And the unedifying spectacle of the visiting support serenading a mute Hampden with a chorus of ‘Scotland get battered everywhere they go’, especially hurtful when for the first time in a long, long while, there felt more than a grain of truth behind the jibe.

Ultimately, there were more questions raised ahead of the European Championships than answers given. Scotland are unlikely to come up against a team who will allow them so much of the ball or sit so deep in Germany, and it is probably just as well. They didn’t seem to know what to do with it.

The national team’s winless run over the six matches leading into this one were accompanied by something of an asterisk given the level of opposition they were up against, and they were given some leeway as a result by the Tartan Army. Particularly as there had been the comfort of some more than decent performances within the sorry sequence.

But this was hugely worrying, and there was not as much as a crumb of succour to be had. Scotland had 83 percent of the ball in the first half against a well organised but limited opponent, and did precisely nothing with it.

There was a lot of shuttling the ball from one side of the pitch to the other, but there was no penetration. None of the energy that fizzed and cracked about their passing in the first 70-odd minutes in Amsterdam before the late collapse. No imagination. Barely a save of note for Northern Ireland goalkeeper Bailey Peacock-Farrell to make. And absolutely no excuses for the level of performance, or for a morale-sapping result that seemed to suck the life out of players and supporters all at once.

It is somewhat unfair to single out one offender above many others, but poor Nathan Patterson had a night to forget. From the opening minutes he looked nervy, and when his inexplicable error saw Scotland somehow fall behind despite their dominance of territory, his head looked to have gone.

He seemed to have done the hard part as he recovered from losing a 50/50 with former Motherwell loanee Brodie Spencer, before trying to be too clever by half by playing a reverse pass inside his own area.

He succeeded only in finding Liverpool youngster Conor Bradley, who subsequently found Angus Gunn’s top corner via a nick from Jack Hendry to stun the national stadium.

Robertson then succumbed to the ankle knock he had taken in an earlier collision with Trai Hume, adding insult to literal injury, with Clarke taking the opportunity to throw on Lewis Ferguson and shift to a back four to try something – anything – to get his team going.

Boos rang around Hampden at the interval for the first time in recent memory, and Gilmour tried to get the crowd back onside after the break in the time-honoured Scottish tradition of clattering into someone, putting a wild challenge in on Spencer reminiscent of the one that saw John McGinn receive his marching orders for Aston Villa recently.

Gilmour saw yellow, and the crowd stirred at least a little, but there were still scant signs of life from the men in dark blue (and fluorescent yellow, for some reason), who continued to toil against the increasingly retreating visitors.

At last, Gilmour found a run in behind, with Ferguson getting on the end of his clipped ball but his shot being blocked behind by a combination of defender and goalkeeper.

That it took until almost the 70th minute for the ineffective Lyndon Dykes - who was crowded out all evening - to be replaced was a surprise, and it was Che Adams who Clarke turned to, and then Lawrence Shankland too in a final, desperate attempt at salvaging something from a massively disappointing evening.

Shankland did have a sight of goal as a set-piece fell to him six yards from goal, but his shot found Spencer instead of the net.

Ferguson had a late header tipped over, and Shankland nodded high and wide too after nipping in front of the keeper, but even a draw would have been cold comfort.

After the lessons dished out over the difficult assignments of late, this was supposed to be the light relief. The Tartan Army were supposed to be sent floating out of Hampden on a wave of optimism ahead of the summer, and the watching nation (this game was inflicted upon them on cooncil telly) were meant to be swept up in the reverie.

But this was like a night from the not too distant but undoubtedly dim eras that preceded Clarke’s arrival. Before the end, even the go-to guys like John McGinn looked unsure of themselves.

He has plenty of credit left in the bank, and Clarke’s team do too after what they have done over the past few years. But there is no doubt that this showing has exhausted some of that faith.

It was a shocker. Let’s hope they have got it out of their system in the dress rehearsal, and this isn’t a sign of things to come on the big night.