HOLLAND v Serbia & Montenegro

For some reason I’d never really liked Dutch football. Maybe because everyone else does and I can’t help being contrary; maybe because of a run-in with a couple of Aryan giants in Crete in 1994.

But it’s probably got much more to do with the Dutch influence at Glasgow Rangers, when they were annoyingly successful (for a while at least) with Dutch manager Dick Advocaat and a stream of Dutch players, most notoriously Fernando Ricksen.

But my cynicism was completely erased by the unremittingly positive atmosphere at the first Holland game, within minutes of getting into the Dutch bar in Chinatown. After half time, that is.

I’d known that it would be busy. Tickets for all the group games had sold out weeks in advance for the upstairs bar. I’d planned to get there an hour before kick-off but Sunday timetables and signal problems outside Waterloo had delayed me by 30 minutes.

And when I turned the corner towards the pub my worst fears were realised: hordes of oranje-clad fans were outside, craning to get a view of the screens through the windows. And if they were worried by yesterday’s excellent performances by their group rivals Argentina and Ivory Coast, they weren’t showing it.

It was a sight to cause bemusement amongst the passing tourists, here, outside a pub in London’s Chinatown, a scene you’d expect in Amsterdam. Coach parties stopped to take photos. And the local Chinese population were digging the vibe, watching the Dutch watching the game.

My view from the queue - of the right hand side of the screen at least - was surprisingly good (and it was a great chance to top up my tan). Unfortunately Holland were attacking the goal on the left, so I couldn’t actually see if Arjen Robben had scored after he broke through on goal. But I was left in no doubt by the explosive celebrations all around me.

Loads of fans were happy to watch through the window, forming a huge crowd in the street, but I eventually got in at half time, and the vibe, in spite of the cramped conditions, was nothing but positive.

There was a man upstairs with the loudest drum I had ever heard, and the anthems were being belted out: one, curiously (I thought), to the tune of Auld Lang Syne.

I could somehow see the screen past the towering Dutch Peter Crouch-a-likes (my eyes generally came up to their shoulders) and I was loving the biggest balloons in the world (orange, by the way) tethered to the bar.

My one fear was if they scored again there was a potentially catastrophic beer spillage situation, reminiscent of my experiences of the 2003 UEFA Cup final. It was my first game of the day after all, and I didn’t want to turn up at the Iran venue soaked in alcohol.

And I thought things had gone too far when one fan got on a table and made a grab for a chandelier. It’ll never take his weight, I thought. People were egging him on. He took hold of the light in both hands… and hooked it higher on the ceiling so people would have a better view of the screen. What a nice man, I thought.

I never got covered in alcohol because the game finished one-nil (curiously without much tension), although I had inadvertently broken my two-pints-a-game rule.

And the atmosphere was so good I could almost have hugged Dick Advocaat (no, not you Fernando). But I didn’t have time. And he wasn’t there. Too much fun for him.