The metal crinkle of squashed pilsner cans runs up the train carriage like electricity. A song goes up: “His name is Johnny, Johnny fucking Stones, de-der der der der der de-de-de-de der.” An announcement: “Nächste station, Olympiastadion.” Another song: “Phil Foden’s on fire and he’s playing the Germans off the park.” Doors slide open. The air smells of sweat, piss, bratwurst and possibility.
There is a montage on the big screen. There are some rondos on the pitch. There is a largely forgettable musical hors d’oeuvres which sounds like a group of guys trapped under the rubble of a collapsed nightclub, screaming for help over a pounding disco beat. Pennants are exchanged. Flags draped over the barriers like beach towels. The Spanish comfortably outnumbered. This could be Benidorm or anywhere.
