So, surviving the Fatherland is “all about avoiding the leather pants” reckoned Aki Riihilahti in TheGame two weeks ago. Fair enough, my friend, but take it from a German — if you’re going to knock leather pants, it’s vital that you distinguish between the kind worn by the Village People and good old Lederhosen, because I for one am all for the Lederhosen.

I’m still gutted that the pair I had as a kid got ruined. But it taught me a valuable lesson and I’ve not left a Kinder egg in my pocket since.

Did you know that every member of the Bayern Munich squad has a pair?

It’s true. My friend Michael Rensing is one of their keepers and they all go out wearing them. Can you imagine? That’s like Man United hitting the town dressed as Morris dancers . . . or Moritz dancers, as I prefer to call them.

I really believe that lederhosen could be made into the ultimate fashion item if one of the major designers got involved. I can tell you now that if Dior launched a pair you’d see plenty of footballers wearing them over here. Stick a few diamonds on the front and you’d be laughing all the way back to your mock Tudor mansion. That’s the thing with the English. Us Germans may not be known for our style, but you lot have no shame. If someone tells you it’s in, you’ll wear it, whatever it looks like.

Leaving Germany at 16, I escaped being too influenced by what I like to call Teutonic Chic — you know the look, a carefully sculpted moustache, highlighted mullet, sleeveless badge-covered denim jacket, fluorescent trainers. I say I escaped it, but I have to admit to having highlights once . . .and my hair did creep over the collar a few times when I wasa kid. But I was only taken to the barbers twice a year so it was big all over — kind of Jimmy Bullard-meets-Mrs Doubtfire.

Anyway, back to fashion. It’s all seasonal, of course, which means my Ugg boots will soon be put away — to the disappointment of the lads at “Fulheim” (as German TV likes to call it). But the summer look is key to anyone trying to perfect Teutonic Chic. It’s mainly centred around the sock and sandal combination worn with a pair of incredibly tight nylon shorts — think Stuart Pearce circa 1989 and you’ll get the idea. You see, you English have all been off to the Med and come back in your espadrilles and flip-flops. But not us. We take our style with us, and we bring it right back home again. You won’t see a pair of stylish baggy linen shorts anywhere along the Rhine. Tight, nylon, and preferably adidas all the way. Aki, beware.

But while seven years in England has largely removed any compulsion to dress myself in this way, every now and then I do find myself struck by a wave of extreme patriotism and revert to type. The last time it happened was when we played Italy in the World Cup semi-final. I sat in front of the TV in one of my old Germany Under21 shirts, a pair of adidas shorts that were made for a ten-year-old, and a good, honest Birkenstock-and-sock combination that would have made my forefathers proud . .. and all topped off with a black, red and yellow afro wig just for good measure.

Didn’t help, though, because we still lost. I blame my friend for bringing Italian beer to my flat. Talking of which, I’ve just seen one of my neighbours pull into the communal car park in an orange Lamborghini with a number plate that says “B1 CEP.” That’s totally inspired me. I’m getting one for the Golf so I can park next to him — “5ANDAL” Hang in the there Aki . . .