We arrived in neglected Bloemfontain in the early hours of the morning on game day. We had just been on a bus and sat next to a couple of guys who had seen three lions at a game park the day before. It was an omen. The lions were ‘lying in the road, dead to the world’. Sounds about right.

Yet, the atmosphere before the game was special. The waterfront was filled with fans searching to wet their lips with the first of the day; many holding aloft inflatable spitfires.

As you can imagine, much of the chanting centred around our history with Germany; and to their credit they took it in good spirit. I guess they had no choice.

I was terrified. I hadn’t eaten anything until we got to the ground. Having got a hotdog with mash & gravy at the Slovenia game, I had to get the same again. Reluctantly, I gulped down the tub of slush and went to raise our flag to add to the others around the perimeter of the stadium.

Another superstition I have is to rub the belly of a Buddha figurine. I got strange looks from the security guards as I brought it out for them to pat.

Maybe wearing unwashed underwear (the same used in the previous game) was a little too far – and of course now it made little difference.

We had seats in and around South Africans, English and unfortunately Germans; who were no better than the cluster of Slovenians in the ground. They had a large following (eclipsed by us) including a bare-chested guy near us covered in black, red and yellow.

At half-time the tensions had got to a few England followers near us. One had thrown his mate’s beer forward, consequently covering a German fan head to toe. Throughout the game the situation nearly escalated between the English two as they discussed whose fault it was.

To the other side of us the nerves had taken hold of a gentleman on his own. He was shaking like a dog doing his business and couldn’t hold out until the end of the match.

Although Germany had won, and convincingly, this wasn’t reflected outside the ground. There was a strange lull. Very few victorious fans stayed around to see who they were facing and celebrate at the bars.

It was the English fans who were setting the tone; chanting ‘we’re not very good’ and ‘we are going home’ – and an anti-German song thrown in for good measure.

Thankfully, of what I saw, we were gracious in defeat. Beers were bought for the old enemy and all was forgotten from the game for a short while.

It was when we went back to our refugee camp looking digs that it hit us.

At least we’re not French.