RAISING his head like a thirsty horse emerging from a trough, No.1 son surfaced from a bucket of lager that should have been used for dookin' for melons.

With foam spraying as if a fire extinguisher had just gone off, he asked: "How good is this?"

This was the Olympiastadion, Berlin, on the day of the German cup final between Borussia Dortmund and Wolfsburg.

The scenes were extraordinary. They were also very German. The buckets of beer could be consumed in the stands. The odd fag was glowing too. So was most of the support yet it was a generally good-natured affair.

The only note of discord - apart from routine booing from Borussia fans when Wolfsburg collected the trophy - was when I stuck to my guns on not having mayonnaise added to my chips, in the same way as snow caps Everest. Frankly, the food vendor could not comprehend such individuality and spoke of my decision in awed tones to his workmates.

The final, though, did provide some traditional aspects. The first was that our team lost. The second was that we - and by we I mean I - indulged in some puerile wordplay around the German for exit, namely "fahrt".

This lasted beyond my son returning from Berlin before me. Thus, in the manner of a demented tramp, I could be seen wandering the city alone chuckling at signs. Again.

The other traditional pastime was occasioned by Ally, No.1 son, asking where one would place the Olympiastadion in the pantheon of stadiums. Like all fitba' chat between father and son or between mates, this demands context.

For example, is the question what stadium would you choose if a gang of terrorists kidnapped you and your release was conditional on the validity of your response? This has only happened to me twice and the questions were best film and best route to Slough avoiding the M4. My answers - a, Godfather and b, take the A307 and then the A30 before picking up the M25 near Staines-Upon Thames - ensure that I am here to address you every Saturday, for which I know you are grateful. Both of you.

There is a host of criteria to consider over "best stadium". The Olympiastadion scores high for atmosphere, modernity and facilities.

It has its glitches. One had to have both the cunning and the enterprise of Jesse James to board a train leaving the stadium. One also had to have the speed of Jesse Owens to rush in when the doors opened. And the shoulders of Big Jessie, conductor on the Auchenshuggle bus. She made Charles Atlas look like a fold-up map.

It also has men's and women's toilets. One of each, it appeared by the length of the queues last Saturday.

But it is a contender for top stadium for a fan-friendly experience, as long as one decides not to go to the toilet at half-time or reject the mayonnaise option. It stands up well against two of my other favourite behemoths: the National Stadium, Warsaw, and Croke Park, Dublin.

But there must be room for the emotional. Olympiastadion will remain a special venue for the Wolfsburg fans who attended on Saturday as it was the place where their team won their first national cup.

Similarly, the home ground of one's favourites is a repository of memory. Even when the grounds have been remodelled, it is still possible to look around and see where one stood in marvellous victory or dispiriting defeat.

There have been the casualties, though. There are many reasons why box-like stadiums with bucket-seats make sense. But there is a cost in terms of collateral damage. Most old stadiums looked like collateral damage from a bombing raid but they had something, mostly the capacity to pass on deadly viruses. But they also had an individuality.

Sitting in the Olympiastadion on Saturday, I reflected (I had, as always brought my compact mirror plus my napper caught the floodlights in a fetching way) that my first foray into professional football with Ally had been to Annfield Park where Albion of Stirling once played. It was dusty, weedy and slightly decrepit. Strangely and increasingly, so am I.

It was also built for crowds of 30,000. Towards the end when attendances were somewhat less than that, one felt that one was surveying the Serengeti in its vast emptiness and an exotic animal would at one point nudge its nose over the back of the uncovered terracing.

It also had that great facility where one could walk around at half-time in the misguided hope that one could see Albion score at close range. It was possible, too, to have one's spot. Or one's half acre. There one could be approached by those determined to convey their incredulity at yet another desperate performance to a like-minded soul (idiot).

It has now been flattened like a tanner ba' player with pretensions of humiliating a full-back of savage belligerence.

The Olympiastadion will be full tonight as Juventus take on Barcelona. More than 70,000 will watch from the stands. There will be those who will watch it from Annfield. The terracings of old have given way to houses.

It is far from paving Paradise and putting a parking lot but there is a wistfulness about it that is only increased by the realisation that I still enjoy watching football with my son more than a quarter of a century after that first Annfield day.