ITALY v FRANCE

When Italy and France met in the final of Euro 2000, we watched it in the garden of our local pub in Shepherd’s Bush (complete with water feature, located idyllically up against the Holland Park Roundabout). It was only when the goals came that we realised one side of the crowd was prominently Italian, then the other mostly French.

I was supporting France that day. I did have £100 riding on it, after all. And now I once again wanted to find a venue with both sets of fans. I couldn’t go back to Shepherd’s Bush; the lovely pub had been knocked down in the name of progress, like so many other significant buildings from my past.

But I knew just the place: the West Kensington pub where we had watched Trinidad & Tobago all those weeks ago. It seemed like an eternity since that game. I was feeling much more tired and slightly flabbier than I had back then. But it was all worth it. This was a World Cup I’d never forget.

But I still had business to attend to. For once, I was more cautious than necessary, arriving at the venue an hour and a half before kick-off. There were some, mostly Italian, fans already there, and the coverage had started on Italian TV in the front bar. I got myself a hot dog.

With an hour to go, the blinds came down and some awful music came on. More and more Italians were turning up. Fifteen minutes later, the whistle-blowing and flag-waving started. There was a huge cheer when a white-gloved official placed that trophy on its pedestal. This was the real deal.

Thirty minutes before kick-off, the pub’s MC took to the airwaves, egging each team’s fans on with the by-now familiar shouts of “Allez les bleus!” and “Forza Italia!”

I ventured through the back and found it as crowded with French fans as the front now was with Italians. The atmosphere was overwhelmingly positive, with a real buzz of anticipation and the fans mixing without a cross word to be heard.

At 6.45 I was grateful when the music went off. I was in the front bar again and beginning to get really excited. And I wasn’t the only one. Not even Zinedine Zidane’s penalty just a few minutes into the game could take the wind from the Italy fans’ sails. They were reluctant to boo Florent Malouda for the dive that won the penalty, and cheered loudly when they thought Zidane’s shot hadn’t crossed the line. But it had, and then the only cheers in the front bar were from some lost France fans.

But the atmosphere didn’t let up, with Italy playing well, and when they equalised just ten minutes later, the fans almost took the roof off. And then there were shrieks when Luca Toni crashed a header against the bar.

The fans did have some boos in them though, reserved for French fans on TV; except, inexplicably, an attractive young French lady, who got big cheers. Strange.

At half-time I bid adieu to my Italian chums and squeezed through the crowds to the back bar with the French. Unfortunately there was no French commentary to be had, so I had to put up with Mark Lawrenson. I realised how lucky I was to have watched most of this World Cup on foreign TV.

There was excitement with France playing well in the second half, although, as befits the national stereotypes, they did seem slightly more reserved than their Italian counterparts. Except for my Danish France-supporting neighbour, who was pogoing around as if he desperately needed the toilet.

There was shock when Toni got the ball into the net, but cheers when it was ruled out for offside. And there were more cheers when Zidane returned to the pitch after an injury scare. As usual, the nervous excitement built towards the 90th minute, when it was time for me to return to the front bar.

The Italians kept up the chanting in extra-time, although they had cause to be nervous, with France dominating. They held their breath when Franck Ribery fired just wide, and erupted when Gigi Buffon tipped Zidane’s header over the bar.

That was nothing compared to the jubilation when Zidane was sent off minutes later. And as for the penalty shoot-out…

Italy’s record in shoot-outs is about as good as England’s, but this time every Italian was on target, and when David Trezeguet missed they went ballistic. And when Fabio Grosso tucked Italy’s fifth away, the champagne-spraying started, and the fans enthusiastically joined in with a non-ironic rendition of We Are the Champions.

There was a Frenchman sobbing into his mobile phone in the toilets as the dancing and singing continued in the front bar, and French fans had to file out past the celebrating Italians in the build-up to the trophy presentation, when an Italian woman fell of the chair she was jumping up and down on. Lots of the crowd were knocked over, but got back to their feet without a murmur of discontent.

The celebrations were long and loud. I’d had a great time… over the last month. I just hope that in 47 months’ time I’ll be cheering Scotland on from the Rob Roy, and this bloke will come in and say “Excuse me, I’m doing this website…”