It was the 1990 World Cup, and I lost my German girlfriend on penalties

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t very wise to invite a German girl to come on holiday with me during the World Cup. This was in 1990 and I was staying at my parents’ house in the South of France. Rather shamefully, I cannot now remember her name. She was tall and blonde and writing a dissertation on the history of the Third Reich. I picked her up on Cambridge High Street.

Few were expecting great things of England at Italia ’90. Under Bobby Robson’s stewardship, England had failed to qualify for Euro ’84, failed to qualify for Euro ’88 and only just squeaked into the knockout stage of the ’86 World Cup. At the beginning of the 1990 tournament, Robson had already announced his intention to retire as manager.

England’s performance in the group stage was far from assured and when I sat down to watch our first knockout game against Belgium I wasn’t optimistic. I had resigned myself to switching allegiance to West Germany who were playing Holland two days later in deference to my blonde companion.

Yet England played well, beating Belgium 1-0. Until then, my support had been half-hearted. I was reluctant to invest too much faith in the team for fear of being disappointed. After the win against Belgium, however, I was fully committed. For once, England seemed to be rising to the occasion. The team had gelled and a star had emerged in the form of Paul Gascoigne. We looked capable of going all the way.

As a consequence, the West Germany match two days later was more fraught than I’d anticipated. My friend had been genuinely pleased for me when England beat Belgium, cheering at the final whistle, but I couldn’t reciprocate. We watched the match in a local bar and everyone was rooting for the Dutch. When the match ended in a 1-0 victory for West Germany she punched the air and let out a cry of ‘Ja wohl!’, prompting me to avert my eyes. We walked home in silence.

Next up was England’s thrilling encounter with Cameroon who’d emerged as the tournament’s giant-killers. We saw it on a black-and-white set in my parents’ sitting room and I can still remember the Gallic inflection the French commentator put on the names of the English players, turning them into honorary Frenchmen. (Not hard in the case of Gascoigne.) Even though the screen was no bigger than 12 inches, the players seemed to grow in size as I watched. Players whose names had meant little to me a week before — David Platt, Chris Waddle, Stuart Pearce — were suddenly transformed into heroes.

Inevitably, we were up against West Germany in the semi-finals. I debated whether to drive to Turin in the hope of buying a ticket outside the stadium, but it was a long way to go on the off chance. So it was back to the local bar.

By the time we arrived a coach-load of English tourists had appeared and were fanning out around the television set. ‘What is that tune they are all whistling?’ whispered my companion. ‘No idea,’ I said. (It was the theme of The Great Escape.) Before long they’d extended their repertoire to include The Dambusters and Colonel Bogey. ‘Probably not a good idea to mention you’re German,’ I said, before joining in enthusiastically.

By the time the match reached extra time, the earnest PhD student had received a crash course in the importance of the second world war to the English psyche. Every time the German forwards penetrated England’s defence they were compared to ‘Panzers’ and if Peter Shilton had to contend with two or more shots on goal he was the victim of a ‘Blitzkrieg’. When the England players remained steadfast in the face of West Germany’s assault they were acclaimed for displaying the ‘Dunkirk spirit’.

The anti-German feeling reached fever pitch during the penalty shoot-out and I was terrified that the Aryan goddess who’d remained silent throughout would be found out. Luckily, she managed to contain herself when Chris Waddle missed the last penalty of the game, sending Germany through to the finals. The holiday came to an end the following day and our relationship never recovered. When I invited her to join me in France I had naively imagined I could put patriotic sentiments aside, like the fighter aces in La Grande Illusion. But I hadn’t counted on England doing so well. Without quite being aware of it, I had turned into John Bull.