Moritz Volz

I went to Wembley when England lost to Germany in August last year. I sat with the England fans and got loads of abuse. It probably had something to do with the fact that I was wearing one of my Germany Under-21 shirts and an Afro wig that was made up of the colours of the German flag.

This time we were going head to head in Berlin and as Ipswich Town had given me a night off I went to watch the game in Fest, which is a German bar on Fulham Road in West London. Unfortunately the wig seems to have gone walkabout, but as it was a big occasion I dug out the shirt from my one appearance on the bench for Germany's senior team and wore that. You know, the shirt with the three stars above the badge. The stars that say the Motherland has won the World Cup three times. Not one. Three. Got that?

Fest is done out a bit like a bierkeller - long wooden tables, all in nice orderly straight lines (the German equivalent of feng shui) and staff dressed up like the cast of The Sound of Music. I was intrigued to see how many Germans would be in there and I have to say I was quite impressed. Not long after we arrived, a whole gang invaded our table - some things never change - and were all chatting away in the mother tongue. I tried to go for a bit of bonding and join in, which was all well and good until this one girl, who we'll call Helga for the sake of convenience, told me my German was “actually pretty good”. Great. Even my own countrymen think I'm English. What has become of me?

With the two-pint steins out in force, I decided to follow suit. I can tell you it takes exactly three small bottles of orange juice and one bottle of fizzy water to fill one. I'm not sure anyone noticed I wasn't drinking beer. It just looked like some obscure Bavarian home brew. And more importantly, it still had maximum clinkability. Prost!

Keen to get in the spirit of things, we got the food order in sharpish. Currywurst, pork knuckle and schnitzel. And lots of potatoes. I'm telling you, those tables must have been reinforced with girders to take the weight of all that meat. It was pretty good stuff, but the tinned sauerkraut was as soft and sloppy as England's opening goal.

I was a bit disappointed not to see the German national uniform on show. You know, sleeveless denim, sweatbands, sandals and luminous socks. I thought it would all be out in force, especially among a football crowd, but it was quite civilised.

So, the game. Here are my thoughts. Do David James and Glen Johnson call each other up beforehand and arrange who's going to have corn rows and who's going Afro? Has there ever been a player as small as Piotr Trochowski? His head was below the linked arms of the players either side of him during the national anthems. How can someone called Jermaine Jones be German? And finally, good shout on getting a Swiss referee - that's the only neutrality acceptable when England and Germany get going.

Oh, and full marks to the two blokes behind me who were cheering for England, in German. Not quite sure what that was all about, but it was very funny. You're both obviously as messed up as me. And anyway, who cares about the result? It's all about the stars on the shirts: 3-1.