Harry Taylor with friend Dave Hale in Berlin for England’s Euros final against Spain

FOOTBALL often defies logic. Whether it’s jumping up and down in the arms of a stranger, ­shouting at the top of your lungs at an adult a few yards away, or, in my case, spending nearly 24 hours in a car going to and from Berlin to see England play in the ­European Championship final on Sunday.

The ticket offer came in one of the better Whats-App messages I have received after midnight.

I had checked my phone in the small hours of Friday to see a friend asking if I was working Sunday and Monday, and if not, did I want a ticket and to join him and his friends for a roadtrip across northern Europe.

The idea felt like a romantic throwback. Five men in a car, travelling to see England hopefully bring back their first ­trophy since 1966.

I’m not someone given to spontaneity, especially when it involves spending hundreds of pounds.

There’s always the ­nagging fear that I might need the money for something more important, like my rent, food, or non-league football matches.

But at the age of 31, how many more opportunities will I get to self-indulgently jump in a car with four other men and go and watch England in a major tournament final?

We met in Brixton at 8.30am on Saturday and set off. It was the stereotypical lads’ weekend, great spirits and plenty of banter. We even had a man known as “Two Sheds”, just to complete the awayday checklist.

A fellow traveller in the car was BBC Radio London’s Harry Low. BBC News editors had got wind of our journey and wanted to help fill a gap on the Saturday scheduling. So after getting off in Dunkerque we pulled off to do our first piece so the world could see our ­motley crew.

He and the now-infamous Two Sheds set up a place to film in the car park of a small town nearby. All was going swimmingly, the connection worked, Low had persuaded us to go on camera, and he was doing his introductory piece when a car pulled up behind us. It appeared we had inadvertently set up in a disabled parking bay.

I, off camera, motioned that it would take two minutes and put my hands up apologetically. The woman in the passenger seat nodded her understanding. However her husband did not agree. He drove sharply forward towards us, in what was nearly a “viral” moment for the wrong reasons, however self-inflicted.

Luckily we managed to edge forwards slowly so he could park and we could continue, but not the most promising of starts.

Harry catching up with the news while away

From there to Autobahn 2, which Germany wears like a belt across its midriff. The main realisation was just how vast Germany is. Its historic cities of Dortmund, Hanover, Essen and Bielefield seem on a map as though they are fairly close together. However hours would go by driving at speed before reaching anywhere of note, a seemingly never-ending Germany still stretching out in front of us. Thankfully for our sanity, nobody broke out the question: “Are we there yet?”

After stopping on ­Saturday night in Cremlingen, a small town on the outskirts of Braunschweig, we arrived early on Sunday at our hotel in Falkensee, a western Berlin suburb.

For a history anorak like me, Berlin left me walking around with my mouth agape. We got off the train at Potsdamer Platz, which was once split by the Berlin Wall. A short distance away was the Brandenberg Gate, next door is the Bundes­tag. Almost everywhere you look is something of significance.

Everywhere you looked there were England fans, with travellers from Britain outnumbering the Spanish by about 10 to one. A thousand or so had gathered in the shadows of the Brandenberg Gate, hoping to get into the ­fanpark.

There were good-natured exchanges with Spanish fans, and the German police largely left them to it. England fans had also taken over the Wiedendammer Brucken bridge over the River Spree, letting off flares and decorating railings with flags from every ­corner of Britain.

Following England is an expensive business. On the train to the Olympiastadion I spoke to a group of fans from Eastbourne who had been in Germany all summer. They had spent £6,000 while there for the tournament. I asked them how they could afford it. “We can’t. I’ve got to start paying it off as soon as I get back home,” he said. Then he paused, grinned and instinctively said: “Then we’ve got to start saving for the USA in two years’ time.” It’s in the psyche of England fans to always be looking to next time, even on the eve of a final.

As we queued to get into the Olympiastadion the heavens opened. It was as if they knew the English had arrived. Fans huddled together underneath flags that had become makeshift covers, getting to know other supporters who had flown, driven or coached their way to eastern Germany. But then suddenly as they opened and fans got through, the sky cleared to bathe fans under glorious sunshine.

Inside it was exactly as football should be. ­English and Spanish fans mixing freely together, plenty of good nature, a park outside the stadium for fans to sit on the ground and enjoy themselves, helpful stewards and police. Rather than the English experience where all too often football fans are a threatening inconvenience, it became the clichéd “festival of football”. If only fans and authorities back in the UK could use it as a ­template for big games, rather than shunting fans between police escorts, aggression and concrete.

The Olympiastadion itself is impressive, if not laden with difficult history. It was Hitler’s Olympic amphitheatre, where Jesse Owens’ name can still be seen etched on the side of the stadium after his two wins – and bold resistance against Nazi racism.

For the game itself, I have to take the blame for England’s defeat. I had stood throughout the cagey first half that led the sides to go in all-square at half-time. During the break a German fan behind me asked if I could sit down in the ­second half so he could see. It was a reasonable request. I joked that I would, but only when Spain were attacking. So I broke with what I had done for the first 45 minutes as Spain kicked off and took my seat. About 90 seconds later, without England having touched the ball, Spain scored the opener. I turned to my German neighbour and said: “Sorry, I have to stand now. This is what happens when I sit.” I apologise to the nation for my actions. It should have been so different.

Afterwards I feared for whether the atmosphere may have turned nasty, and if England would live up to their worst stereotypes. As I got outside the ground I could see Spain and England fans milling around together again, no threats, no anger.

It was exactly as football should be, even if it means England, again, walking away without winning. Football wasn’t coming home, but we were.