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Berne

Picture the scene - a huge, cavernous underground factory somewhere in the flatlands of Holland populated by industrious and willing orange munchkins.

They slave away producing every conceivable clothing item in bright, distinct orange to satisfy the need of a nation's football frenzy.

I doubt whether Berne has ever seen anything like what it witnessed on Monday as the Dutch provided a textbook lesson in the fine arts of bringing a major tournament to life.

Orange Elvises, orange mountain maids, orange bears, orange road workers, nuclear plant workers in orange radiation suits - orange variations of any kind of clothing you care to mention rolled into town and sparked a huge, huge party.

It was an awe-inspiring sight and, inching my way through the increasingly inebriated masses, I felt for the first time here in Switzerland the true magic of a major football tournament, the point at which it all starts to make sense.

The Italians were here as well but somehow they fail to invade your senses in the same way. They wear shirts and hats and drape flags over their backs but tend to sport a stylish jean, a neat trainer and a handy line in man bags. It just isn't the same.

They sing the same song - ner ner ner ner ner nerrrr nerrrrrr - over and over (anything wrong with a few words?) but had lost their voice after their . Wandering back into town, many had that thousand-yard stare that I know all too well.

The banter that had characterised the afternoon hours under the Swiss sun had become very one sided.

No question, Monday belonged to the Dutch and, if Euro 2008 is to really ignite, their massive presence is all the more welcome.

Occasionally, a businessman in a suit would emerge confused and lost from amid the mass of orange, wondering what had happened to his beloved city.

I could only sympathise, for he would have looked no more out of place if he had suddenly found himself wandering across a medieval battlefield.

The floor could only occasionally be seen, such was the mass of litter, while the Dutch fan in 2008 is incomplete if he does not have a loudspeaker, which he uses, to his great amusement, to communicate with his friend mere inches away.

By the time the Dutch started their mass march to the stadium, the water in the fountains had turned orange while the age old formula of drinking plenty and allowing yourself to bake in the sun for several hours was coming along nicely.

I had hoped to watch the match on a big TV at a Fan Zone but could not get anywhere near either one. A tiny glimpse of a bottom corner of the screen was the best view on offer, but it seemed to satisfy many of those who could no longer focus.

Thousands of ticketless Dutch remained outside the ground while the game was on, but the curious local populace who had come to join the party made up for any shortfall in numbers.

Many wore Italian or Dutch colours but you could spot them a mile off. For starters, they weren't hammered and, secondly, couples wore alternate colours. The Swiss, I guess, are keen to maitain a sense of balance and neutrality.

In the end, I settled for an Australian-Czech bar, an unusual combination but at least I could see the match. Several Czech fans turned up and promptly fell sound asleep, sunglasses gradually slipping off their heads, much to the increasing annoyance of the barmaid. Still, at least the one sat next to me didn't throw up all down my new shorts.

Afterwards, as I walked back to my hotel, I had the definite feeling I was leaving a massive party.

But not everyone in town was here for the football.

Earlier in the day, I had been minding my own business in a seat on the other side of a square from .

A tour group of elderly people gathered several feet in front of me to listen to their guide.

In a sterling illustration of how age withers our control over the body, a man at the back suddenly let rip the most remarkable burst of flatulence I have heard in a long, long time. It was a good job nobody in the near vicinity was trying to light a cigarette.