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…”

PORTUGAL v France

The weather forecast for Portugal’s semi-final against France was heavy thunder storms and even hail. Such is the sting in the tail of any British heatwave. Sure enough, the morning and afternoon were marked by some torrential downpours.

I was worried about the game, because the prime Portuguese venue was mostly exposed to the elements. I heard that there was yet another nearby Portuguese venue just around the corner that was inside a big old English pub. It would be perfect for adverse weather conditions. I decided to check it out.

But when I got there an hour before kick-off it was already full. The weather was holding out though, so I headed to my usual venue and managed to secure a place inside. And there was a further innovation outside: they now had draught Sagres as well as their exterior beer fridges.

I ordered a beer and was given a Superbock. I was beginning to wonder if I should start to order Sagres by name.

Half an hour before kick-off some lads arrived with a huge home-made banner; with 15 minutes to go the drummer – surely the best drummer in London – arrived, sparking off the chanting; and as the teams lined up to make their way onto the pitch the singing started, along with half-hearted, good-natured France- and Zidane-taunting.

And the opening stages of the game were a match for the fans’ enthusiasm. There was great anticipation for a long-range Maniche effort (Portugal’s usual source of goals), and the crowd were loving Cristiano Ronaldo’s trickery, even when, as usual, it came to nothing.

The Portuguese singing combined with the most English of terrace chants: “Who are ya?” directed at the great Zizou; “He fell over!” for any French player deemed to have gone down too easily; and, most frequently, “The referee’s a wanker!”

The latter was most heartfelt when Ricardo Carvalho was harshly adjudged to have brought down Thierry Henry in the box. Zidane stepped up, to chants of “Ricardo, Ricardo!” in the bar. Sure enough, the Portuguese penalty-specialist keeper went the right way, but the French master’s spot kick was just too good for him.

If Portugal had been underdogs before, they definitely were now. I sensed the crowd’s frustration, and at half-time many of my neighbours drowned their sorrows in espresso and fortified themselves with delicious-looking Portuguese cakes. Those crazy Portuguese, with their crazy Portuguese ways. Bizarre behaviour, I’m sure you’ll agree, when there was cheap beer and big meat sandwiches to be had.

Half-time brought comic relief as Portugal boss Luiz Felipe “Big Phil” Scolari advertised the official national team watch on Portuguese TV, but after that it was back to business.

Portuguese chances were few and far between. There was excitement as Pauleta smashed a shot into the side netting, and big cheers when Simao replaced the goal-shy striker.

But a couple of late half-chances were all Portugal had to show for their efforts and the final whistle was greeted with a round of applause for the players. They had made it to the semi-final and been beaten by a quality side.

But the disappointment and sorrow were all too tangible. The brilliant drummer kept on drumming, but the whistles, songs and horns were half-hearted. And as I trudged away up the South Lambeth Road, there were no cars with horns blaring or flags flying from their windows.

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.