World Cup 2010: Day fourteen

So it’s England versus Germany in the knock out stages. Again. We’ve been here before haven’t we, and we know it doesn’t end well. It ends horribly - with some unsuspecting fool in an England shirt planting a poorly struck penalty into the arms of a German goalkeeper.

Yet despite the fact that we all know full well that Sunday’s match will only bring us disappointment, it promises to be the most hotly anticipated England international for years. It’s England versus Germany for God’s sake - the war, Bobby Moore, Gazza’s tears and all that. A chance to avenge those desperate defeats of ‘70, ‘90 and ‘96 against the one team we all truly hate. And that’s where I’m struggling.

The truth is, I’m finding it difficult to hate the German football team at the moment. I’m not even sure I can stretch to disliking them to be honest. This doesn’t bode well for Sunday. Surely I’m supposed to be fired up for our first competitive meeting with the old enemy for nine years? Surely I should be pinning up my mid-90s Daily Mirror front pages and watching the Great Escape in preparation for footballing warfare?

But no, something is missing. Disappointingly, the current German team lack that hate factor I‘m afraid. They play vibrant, attacking football for a start - which is completely at odds with the stereotypical uninspired efficiency that previous German teams have played with over the years. They are one of the few teams of this World Cup who have thrown caution to the wind and attacked from the word go - surely that is admirable?

German league football also has much to admire. Their liberal, almost socialist approach to the game sees the fans at its heart, with rules in place to ensure supporters have a say in the running of their club, and to prevent teams experiencing the financial meltdown we saw at Portsmouth this season. Safe standing areas are implemented in top flight stadia (including those constructed especially for the 2006 World Cup), and ticket prices are wonderfully sensible (It cost me just €16 to see Hertha Berlin at the Olympic Stadium in November for example).

My trip to Berlin is another reason why I’m struggling to stir up the anti- German feelings required for Sunday’s all important encounter. Hedonistic, stylish and unbelievably friendly, Berlin is a place where even an English football fan like myself is made to feel at home (particularly surprising given that I’m not remotely hedonistic, stylish or even unbelievably friendly). My experience there will almost make shouting abuse at the TV screen on Sunday seem like some sort of betrayal - “but we welcomed you to our city with open arms Englishman, and now you hum the Dambusters theme at us?”.

I wish we could return to the days of the late ‘80s and early ‘90s when the German team (or West Germany as they were when they defeated England in Italia ‘90) were ludicrously easy to hate. They kicked, dived and wore the kind of haircuts that looked like they had robbed a porn-themed fancy dress shop before taking to the field. Their players had more than a passing resemblance to Gestapo officers from World War Two films, and even their kits were awful. Worst of all, they were bloody good.

Oh what I’d give for the current team to have a Rudi Voller figure in their ranks. Sporting a poodle perm teamed with a caterpillar moustache, Voller was utterly ridiculous. He would throw himself to the floor as soon as a defender was within earshot. He would argue with referees about anything from penalty appeals to the weather. He had a semi-permanent look of smugness on his face that was only briefly wiped off when Frank Rijkaard decided he’d had enough of Voller’s poodle perm, and promptly spat in it - back in the second round of Italia 90’.

But no, the current team doesn’t have a Rudi Voller figure in the squad. Instead they have Mesut Ozil, a player who is simply a joy to watch. Heck, they don’t even dive that much anymore - how on earth are we supposed to hate them?

There’s only one answer. Dig out that tape of the semi-final in Italia 90 and turn the sound down, put that Pavarotti CD on and fast forward to Gazza’s fateful tackle on Thomas Berthold (a man Gazza described as a “wanker” and having “a mouth like a fish”). Watch Berthold scream, roll, roll and roll some more to make sure England’s player of the tournament was booked and suspended for the final. Watch first Stuart Pearce, and then Chris Waddle, miss their penalties in the shootout and the ensuing pile-up of celebrating Germans. Wait for the tears to fall and the anger to re-emerge, and you’ll be ready for Sunday afternoon.