ENGLAND v Trinidad & Tobago

England presented me with a couple of unique problems. Of course, finding England fans in the capital of England wouldn’t be difficult; but how on earth was I going to choose from the hundreds of potential venues? And could I actually bring myself to don the shirt of Scotland’s biggest rivals and cheer them on? I knew I could never support my biggest club rivals, Rangers.

I had a few ideas for different venues, but today’s game had to be in a central location. I had to get there in good time from the Ecuador game and be able to arrive at the Sweden game before kick-off, to meet a photographer from a Scottish newspaper. And I had just an hour between games, and the vagaries of London’s public transport system with which to contend.

I’d planned to watch the match in Trafalgar Square and was hoping for good weather. It turned out nice, but, as my lovely long-suffering football widow wife told me the night before, they were showing no more outside games in London. Just as well she’d told me; otherwise it would just have been me and the pigeons. I’d been too busy watching games to keep up with the World Cup news.

My only other reasonably central option was the Clapham Grand, a nightclub and former cinema that was showing many of the games on its 40-square metre screen. The biggest in Europe, they reckon. But it was first come first served and they were throwing open their doors 45 minutes before the end of the Ecuador game. I knew I’d have to get there as early as I could, especially if the Trafalgar Square crowd had to be accommodated somewhere.

So I donned my England shirt on the Bakerloo Line (it’s funny, the words you never thought you’d write) and it felt strangely liberating. Just for the record, I really like England. I’ve got a lovely English wife, a very nice half-English dad from London; I think it’s one of the best countries in the world (after Canada, Costa Rica, Sweden and Italy – in no particular order – for the record); and, at the risk of sounding like a glory-hunter, they’ve currently got some of the best footballers in the world.

But I’m a Scotland fan, so England remain the most difficult national side for me to support. I know England fans will support Scotland, but we are no more than a minor nuisance to them. For a Scotland fan to support England is like an England fan supporting Germany.

And I’d frequently found being in pubs while England were playing a particularly uncomfortable experience. And I say that as a veteran of multiple uncomfortable football experiences.

But rules is rules, so I was supporting England. After giving up on a train at Waterloo that sat by the platform while they waited for a driver to turn up, I made it to the venue in time, but was alarmed to see they were searching bags. I had a Scotland shirt in mine for the shoot we were going to be doing at the Sweden game. Thankfully the bouncer either didn’t realise what it was or deemed us a negligible threat, because he didn’t mention it.

The cinema screen certainly looked like the biggest on which I’d ever watched football, and I made my way down to the Saturday Night Fever-style flashing dance floor by the glitter balls (and no, that’s not David Beckham’s latest nickname) at the front. The nightclub/former cinema did earn authenticity points for their pie stall however, and I can vouch that their produce wasn’t bad (if a little small for my taste).

There was a positive atmosphere as the game got underway and I was beginning to wonder what I’d been worried about. I was keeping my mouth shut in order to maintain my undercover status, but then I froze. I thought I’d been rumbled.

As one, the crowd suddenly started to bellow “Are you Scotland in disguise?” over and over again. I thought “Yes, I am, but how do you know? I have a relatively dark complexion for one born north of the border.” Then I realised they were, of course, directing their shouts not at me, but at the Trinbagonian players on the screen. They were intimating that they didn’t think they were very good.

But it soon became clear that their accusations of Scotland-alikeness could just as easily be directed at their own team. England were failing abjectly to put Trinidad & Tobago under any real pressure. After just 21 minutes the Clapham crowd were loudly chanting for the introduction of Wayne Rooney.

And the atmosphere wasn’t improved by a Peter Crouch miss. Then on the stroke of half-time Stern John almost grabbed a shock goal, but John Terry brilliantly cleared it off the line, to huge cheers.

And the half-time atmosphere was helped by Three Lions, Vindaloo and, perhaps prophetically, The Great Escape on the disco sound system, accompanied by a good old cockney sing-along.

But frustration was building as the game wore on, Crouch missed again, and the dreaded 0-0 looked more and more likely. So when Rooney and – more significantly as it turned out – Aaron Lennon came on, the crowd were sparked back into life.

And so were England. Their new shape gave them the cutting edge they’d been missing and big Crouchy eventually atoned for his earlier misses, his opening goal sparking a relieved outburst of celebration in the crowd, resulting in a beer-over-balcony spillage situation.

And then Steven Gerrard wrapped up the points and the crowd went wild, knowing they’d made a great escape, and confirmed their place in the second round.

Once again, however, I had my own escape to make. I had some Swedes to meet.