Diary – 14 July 2006

Berlin, 9 July. It wasn’t meant to be like this. High in the Olympiastadion — Block 28, Row 4, Seat 22 — at 7.45 p.m. local time, I shut my eyes and imagine the sights and sounds which I’d hoped to experience. For a few seconds, this magnificent amphitheatre is draped in red and white flags, ‘Rule Britannia’ fills the air and Becks and the boys are about to do their bit for Harry, England and St George. My reverie is broken by the pungent smell of a cheap cheroot. Puffing away, one row in front of me, is an Italian with Tricolore face paint. He’s becoming hysterical with excitement. I speak no Italian, but he seems to be shouting, ‘Balla-boom, balla-boom’. I’ve got nothing against Italians. Some of their wines are surprisingly good. But these tifosi weren’t scheduled to be here. Their seats were reserved — in my dreams — for the good folk of Carlisle, Hartlepool, Torquay and places like them: England fans, proper fans, salt-of-the-earth types who follow their teams on wet nights in February through domestic football’s dingy basement.