ITALY v United States

The obvious venue for Italy was Soho’s Bar Italia, but I wanted the 100% authentic London Italian experience, so I headed for Clerkenwell.

I’d been to check out the social club – recommended to me by my most Italophile friend – on a Sunday, and was delighted to find the block on which it stood was crawling with smart-dressed Italians (and home to an Italian delicatessen to rival Edinburgh’s legendary Valvona & Crolla). I thought there must have been a wedding on at the Italian church, so finely dressed were the ladies and gents milling around outside it; but no, I realised, this is how Italians dress for church.

The club confirmed that yes, they would be showing the game, and I was welcome to join them.

So when I returned for the USA match I was relieved to find the gate open; but the door was locked. I tried the buzzer but there was no answer. Again, I had no Plan B. I wanted to watch the game here.

Eventually I got an answer and was buzzed in. I made my way up the beautiful old staircase to the social club, which was filled with a mature crowd set out around dining tables and chairs. I was waved up to the top floor with the younger fans.

I ordered a Peroni in my best Italian, only to be answered in English, in a broad London accent. I felt a bit stupid. London’s Italian community is one of its most established and these second and third-generation fans were talking nothing but English, and opted for English TV coverage over Italian in an impromptu vote. I mourned the disappearance of the boob-tube clad lovelies who pass for Jim Rosenthal in Italy.

But these London lads and lasses were nothing but Italy fans, hurling light-hearted abuse at the England players who appeared on the screen before the game, and utterly passionate once the match kicked off.

They weren’t happy with the early performance. Expectations were understandably high following the excellent defeat of Ghana. But now their team were struggling to exert their superiority over the weakest side in the group.

But there were wild celebrations when Alberto Gilardino headed Italy into the lead. The crowd were living every kick and decision in a pulsating and controversial match. They left the players in no doubt when they thought they’d screwed up, but reserved the best of their abuse for the ref.

Shortly before half-time the priest popped his head round the door, to huge cheers, and a shout of “You might want to cover your ears father!” They weren’t joking.

It was just as well the game was so captivating and the atmosphere so lively. We were squeezed onto loads of comfy sofas around the TV, and my comfort combined with my exhaustion at my epic run of three-game days, the heat and my slight intoxication to tempt me to slip off into a very welcome sleep.

But there was no chance of that, as there were howls of anguish as Cristian Zaccardo sliced into his own net.

Then Daniele De Rossi was sent off, and abuse was hurled first at the ref and then De Rossi, when the replay made it clear that the man in the middle had got his decision spot on. The game wasn’t going to plan.

I felt like howling with anguish myself at half-time, when bowls of pasta appeared for a few of the crowd. I had no idea where they had come from and knew I had no chance of getting any. And the Peroni had run out. I made do with Carlsberg.

Things were looking up as first Pablo Mastreoni and then Eddie Pope were sent off, to huge cheers. But the States were hanging on and there was frustration as Italy failed to make their pressure or extra man count in the second half, coming closest when Carlos Bocanegra headed onto his own crossbar.

There was anger and frustration with the final score, as I struggled to haul myself off the sofa and down the stairs.