ITALY v Germany

I didn’t know if Italy had scored once or twice. I’d had to abandon my prime spot in the centre of the crowd before the start of extra-time. I had to find a toilet.

I was now much more comfortable (both because I wasn’t packed into the middle of the crowd and because I’d eventually found a toilet) and I had a clear view to the screen. But it was just too small and I could only tell what was going on from the reaction of the crowd.

And with the game heading for the dreaded penalties against the Germans (although I had no way of telling exactly how many minutes were left), the tiny blue shirts on the screen shifted towards the end I was pretty sure they were attacking. I couldn’t tell for sure if the ball was shifting with them, but I presumed it was. And when the massive, relieved cheer went up, I knew they’d taken the lead.

Each of the replays was cheered in diminishing returns, but then another, even bigger, cheer went up. It surely couldn’t have been for a replay? But a second goal within a couple of minutes in such a tight game? Surely not? Maybe it was full-time? But then there was another huge cheer that I knew was for full-time, because everyone turned their attention away from the screen and either started to party like it was 1982, or stood stunned with a disbelieving grin plastered on their face. Italy, their domestic football in the middle of a huge scandal, were in the final.

I’d made sure I got to Bar Italia 45 minutes before kick-off. As I approached down Old Compton Street I could already hear the chanting and worried that I should have arrived even earlier. The crowd was already bigger than it had been for the Ukraine game.

I managed to secure a decent position, but not until after I had procured some supplies (water and Red Stripe) from the local off-licence, where business was booming; I wasn’t making the same mistake as last time. I’d also hoped to take advantage of the panini waiter that had been at the Ukraine game, but although I caught occasional fleeting glimpses of him, I never had half a chance of getting anywhere near him.

I wondered what the Italians had against Boris Becker when he appeared on the tiny screen to huge boos, and enthusiastic waving of the red and yellow cards laid on by the bar (thoughtfully printed with cartolino rosso and cartolino giallo, presumably so no-one mistook them for scraps of paper and threw them away). I couldn’t think of any 1980s Italian tennis players he’d pipped to Wimbledon glory. Maybe he’d said something derogatory about Italy?

But when every other German to appear on the screen (including chancellor Angela Merkel) got the same treatment, I realised it was nothing personal against Boris. And my Italian isn’t great, but I knew a few of the crowd’s many chants were less than complimentary about their rivals.

The crowd seemed pretty optimistic at kick-off, when three of the tallest blokes in the crowd suddenly materialised directly in front of me. My neck started to ache from craning to see the screen. I was having trouble keeping up with the action, but was helped by the crowd’s cheers for Italy’s chances, and – loudest of all – Tim Borowski’s yellow card.

The half-time exodus failed to materialise and I failed to make any forward progress towards the screen. I had to content myself with moving slightly to the left, more directly in front of the TV.

But I did move nearer the screen when the crowd surged forward for a good Italy chance. The only downside was that I now had my hands stuck in my pockets and the crowd was too tightly packed for me to get them out.

There was plenty of singing in the second half, although penalties were approaching, which is never a good thing against Germany. But as full-time arrived with the game goalless and extra time beckoned, my bladder dictated that I would have to abandon my prime (and very uncomfortable) spot.

Getting out of the crowd was almost as difficult as getting in. And as I went in search of temporary public toilets that I had seen before the Ukraine game, I realised that the Italian overspill had taken over all the surrounding bars.

But the temporary loos were more temporary than I had anticipated and I eventually had to nip into a pub to use their facilities, although I wasn’t a customer; the shame!

When I returned to my position on the edge of the crowd I could barely see but could tell that Italy had come close a couple of times.

And then they scored. Twice, apparently.