ITALY v Ukraine

I’d planned to get to Soho an hour before kick-off, but had been unable to drag myself away from my sofa in time. Not because it’s a lovely, comfy sofa (which it is) or because I’m a lazy so-and-so (okay, I admit it). But because I was enthralled by Argentina’s match with Germany and considered it ridiculous to leave before the penalties.

I left straight after the shoot-out and was disappointed to later find out I’d missed the subsequent punch-up. We were well within the business end of the tournament, where the unbridled enthusiasm of Korea, Costa Rica and Togo is replaced by large helpings of tension as the big names start to go out.

I was hoping Italy wouldn’t have too much trouble with the best draw of the round, against my friends from Ukraine. I finally got to Frith Street 15 minutes before kick-off. I wasn’t confident that I’d arrived early enough to watch the game at Bar Italia, but had not one, not two, but three back-up plans up my sleeve.

I found Frith Street closed to traffic. I wondered if it was for the next day’s Gay Pride, but when I reached Bar Italia I realised it was for all us Italy fans. And there was a huge crowd already. The pre-match build-up was blaring out of wall-mounted speakers in Italian but I couldn’t see a screen. Surely all these people weren’t here to listen to the game on the radio?

Then I saw it, the one small TV facing out of Bar Italia. I’d never seen so many people watching on such a small screen, which was ironic as the bar is in the building where John Logie Baird first demonstrated television. You know, a few doors down from Mozart’s old place.

I managed to find a spot in the tightly-packed crowd where I could more or less see the action, but then wondered how on earth I would get a drink (or go to the loo). Going to the bar was out of the question, and there was no Portuguese-style waiter service. I could go to an off-licence, but the queues were probably massive and I would be lucky to get another space where I could see the screen. It was like being at a concert or Notting Hill Carnival.

There were some English voices in the crowd, but many people were talking Italian and, when it came to singing along to the brilliant national anthem, it became clear that this crowd was the real deal. By now it had swelled to many hundreds, lots of whom, I was sure, couldn’t see the screen.

And if they were worried about the scandal gripping their domestic game, they weren’t showing it. There was a great atmosphere and a real air of optimism. A bloke in the crowd told me he was confident Italy could go all the way.

I couldn’t quite see if Gianluca Zambrotta had given Italy the lead or not after just six minutes. But the uproar around me left me in no doubt. The crowd went ballistic and the chanting began.

As if there wasn’t enough noise, the bar were throwing whistles into the crowd. A waiter was bravely negotiating the crowd with a tray of panini. For some reason the bar had chosen the smallest man in the crowd for this task. Actually, he may not have been the smallest. It’s just if there were any smaller people in the crowd, there was no way I could see them. I resisted the temptation to procure a tasty snack, although I was doubly tempted by the lovely smell coming from the curry house just behind me.

There was plenty of Andriy Shevchenko-baiting, on the man’s last day as a Milan employee. And sporadic excitement for the handful of chances Italy created as the first half wore on. They were taking it easy after the first goal.

People started to go for provisions as half-time approached, which was my chance to get nearer the screen. I managed to move about four metres forward during the 15-minute break. I couldn’t face a trip to the off-licence I could see on the corner of Old Compton Street. It would involve squeezing through the crowd, and probably huge queues. And I didn’t want to lose my spot.

So I bought a can off my neighbour (at a ridiculous mark-up). The crowd was so tightly packed that I had trouble getting the can to my lips, but I was glad of the refreshment.

There was a constant buzz as the second half got underway. Amused onlookers were hanging out of windows, surely not to watch the game on the tiny screen but to get a good view of the huge crowd.

And there were huge cheers when Italy pulled off a great save and goal-line clearance (at least I think that’s what happened), and then huger cheers when Luca Toni gave Italy the breathing space they needed, making it 2-0.

The atmosphere was building still further as the sun started to go down, and when Toni got his second and Italy’s third the beer started to fly.

And full-time was the signal for an ebullient street party to kick in. I spared a thought for my friends at the Ukrainian Social Club, but Italy had qualified for a semi-final against Germany.