Diary - 14 July 2006

Berlin, 9 July. It wasn’t meant to be like this. High in the Olympiastadion — Block 28, Row 4, Seat 22 — at 7.45 p.m. local time, I shut my eyes and imagine the sights and sounds which I’d hoped to experience. For a few seconds, this magnificent amphitheatre is draped in red and white flags, ‘Rule Britannia’ fills the air and Becks and the boys are about to do their bit for Harry, England and St George. My reverie is broken by the pungent smell of a cheap cheroot. Puffing away, one row in front of me, is an Italian with Tricolore face paint. He’s becoming hysterical with excitement. I speak no Italian, but he seems to be shouting, ‘Balla-boom, balla-boom’. I’ve got nothing against Italians. Some of their wines are surprisingly good. But these tifosi weren’t scheduled to be here. Their seats were reserved — in my dreams — for the good folk of Carlisle, Hartlepool, Torquay and places like them: England fans, proper fans, salt-of-the-earth types who follow their teams on wet nights in February through domestic football’s dingy basement. Reward for such loyalty should have been theirs tonight, a joyous occasion in the German capital. But it hasn’t turned out that way. Instead, it’s the Italians who are going to celebrate until dawn. Except, of course, one: Nancy Dell’Olio. Her name would doubtless have been on a party list, but she left town early — along with the clueless Sven.

The World Cup has done much to improve Germany’s image. The locals have been courteous hosts. Yet Berlin remains a city of ghosts. Not far from Unter den Linden, a tree-lined thoroughfare dotted with bars and restaurants, there are graphic reminders of a heart of darkness. From the Nazi horrors of the 1930s and 1940s to the nightmare of post-war communist oppression, Berlin has a tortured soul. To its credit, the city’s leadership seems determined to face up to the past. Five years ago a museum was opened to tell the story of Germany’s Jews. Designed by Daniel Libeskind, it’s a masterclass in how to make history come alive. In 1932 there were 173,000 Jews living in Berlin, the fifth largest Jewish community in the world. The museum, rich in personal accounts, tells us how they got there and what became of them. Walking round the Garden of Exile and Holocaust Tower, we fall silent. It’s a sickening experience, one I’ll never forget.

The Russian army is not what it was. To gauge the scale of decline, visit Check-point Charlie, the barrier where Berlin’s split between capitalism and communism was once most evident. On the west side stood American GIs; on the east Soviet guards. These days, with Germany reunited, street vendors sell kitsch memorabilia of the East’s Moscow-backed regime. A regular soldier’s headwear costs E20. I’m not impressed, so the Turkish stallholder upgrades his offer to a field marshal’s cap for E25. Never was promotion so easy. Little bits of concrete are priced at E15. ‘What are these?’ I inquire. ‘Berlin Wall,’ replies the seller. Quite possibly, they are from a wall somewhere in Berlin. Equally, he could have picked them up on a building site in Ankara. I settle for a ‘medal’ with an imprint of Russia’s greatest general, Georgy Zhukov. Having saved first Moscow from the Nazis and then Stalingrad, Zhukov drove his Red Army all the way to Berlin. Price of medal? E5.

On a section of what’s left of the Berlin Wall, running along Niederkirchner-strasse, someone has sprayed: MADNESS. I wonder if the graffiti artist is a fan of the 1970s ska revival band, led by Suggs McPherson? Unlikely. Perhaps it’s a reference to the nearby Topography of Terror exhibition? Possibly. Hang on, I’ve got it. This is crystal-ball stuff: a comment of exquisite prescience on the lunacy of Zinedine Zidane.

One of my favourite movie performances is Joel Grey’s in Cabaret, playing a camp-as-coffee compère. The film is set in the decadence of 1930s Berlin. As the Nazis are tightening their grip on Germany, Grey invites his customers to ‘leave your troubles outside ...in here life is beautiful’. The venue for Cabaret is the KitKat Club, and guess what? It still exists. For purposes of research, I’m compelled to go there. Until, that is, I check out the website. No longer a haunt where the likes of Liza Minnelli would strut her stuff, KitKat is strictly for sado-masochists, boasting a dresscode of ‘Fetish, latex, kinky, glamour, costume and elegant evening dresses. No regular street wear and no underwear (we’re not a swinger club)’. It’s seems that I’ve forgotten my gimp mask and studded dog collar, so we settle instead for some pasta and two bottles of Sicilian red at the pizzeria.

Sitting in the departure lounge at Berlin airport, feeling slightly old-fashioned after a night on the aforementioned vino collapso, I spot a vaguely familiar face. But something’s wrong. Where his eyes used to be, there are two crimson golf balls. Clearly in need of industrial-strength coffee and an illegal quantity of Ibuprofen, this chap is Adrian Chiles, stalwart of the BBC’s World Cup coverage, who’s been, er, carousing after the tournament’s dramatic finale. Adrian supports two teams, because he’s half English and half Croatian. ‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘You get twice the fun.’ The brace of red spheres sticking out of his head swivel menacingly in my direction. ‘Twice the misery, mate. They both got knocked out.’ He has a point.

Jeff Randall is the Daily Telegraph’s editor-at-large.