Watching Holland’s World Cup euphoria brings back fond – and hazy – memories of 1988.

It was the year they won the European Championship and I was lucky enough to celebrate the moment in the heart of Amsterdam.

Having confidently booked a fortnight’s holiday in Germany to see England beat all before them in that tournament, our group found ourselves with a week to spare.

England had played three, lost three (and you thought South Africa has been bad) and were already home.

We “picked up” Russian tickets to see them beat Italy in the last four but weren’t too fussed about hiking south for the final in Munich against Ruud Gullit and Co.

Instead we did the next best thing and hot-footed it the other way to the Dutch capital to watch the game on a big screen. Cue the most manic weekend of my life.

Those people sure knew how to party. It was loud, proud, hilarious, violent, messy – and non-stop.

Holland paraded the trophy the next day by canal.

The route was 20-30 deep in orange; people dangled over bridges, clambered up buildings or hung off lamp-posts.

We’d been up all night and were still nowhere near the front. Until Gullit himself appeared by our side.

Actually, it was an uncanny lookalike of the superstar.

But he was that convincing – or the audience were that out of it – that they all parted to allow him through to the canal.

We followed eagerly in his slipstream – and for over two decades I’ve been able to boast that I was stood right next to Ruud Gullit when Holland finally won their first major trophy!

I wonder if that Dutch doppelganger will be larging it again for the World Cup final tomorrow?

But I’m sure it won’t be the same without a gaggle of drunken Englishmen in tow.