A corner of New Malden that is forever Korea

Ahn Jung-Hwan headed the winner and 500 Koreans broke the world record for the high jump

Not long ago every country's football team was described by commentators as if they played like their national stereotype; Germans were "efficient", Italians "temperamental" and South Americans "cynical". If this was still in place, when the Japanese were knocked out this week the commentators would have said: "But the likelihood is, Gary, some of their players will still be running around the pitch in three weeks unaware that the game's ended."

But one of the wonderful aspects of this World Cup has been the opportunity it's given the English to experience the genuine nature of other cultures. For example, on Monday I was looking for somewhere to watch Brazil's match against Belgium. A lad in a yellow shirt directed me to a small Brazilian café where I was charged three quid to get in, a bit excessive I thought, to watch their telly. But then I was handed a pair of maracas and a whistle. Someone gave me a plate of food and I was led into a massive room pumping with Latin American rhythms and a thousand Brazilians gyrating the salsa, and they could all do it, even the ones with beer guts, twirling their partners and spinning their hips. Meanwhile the commentators on the huge screen were making their predictions for the match, so you'd get the odd blast of Ron Atkinson, a sort of "oop pop pop paah pop they'll have to watch the boy Wilmot bam bam baa bam baa".

For a brief moment the picture went altogether and was replaced by that day's edition of Wipeout, which must be the only time in history that a thousand people have danced under a giant screen showing a daytime quiz show. Then the game started and the place thumped to "bra-sil – boom boom boom – bra-sil", with no screams of "clear it", no heads in hands, just certainty that Brazil would win. And when Rivaldo scored the combined noise of cheers, maracas and whistles was like a plane taking off from your living room. The place physically rumbled so much that it must have shown up on machines that measure earthquakes. At the end, hundreds of them flowed onto Oxford Street and resumed their salsa dancing, whereas if England win tomorrow it won't be the same, even if someone could persuade thousands of people to flock to Trafalgar Square to do a Status Quo boogie up to Waterloo Bridge.

So on Tuesday I went to New Malden. This is a small town in Surrey which for some reason is home to several thousand Koreans, many of whom were squeezed into The Fountain pub, including their British ambassador. As with the Brazilians, around half the crowd were women and the atmosphere was just as enthusiastic, but bubbled with a tension that came from not expecting to win. So every time the ball came near the South Korean penalty area the room was filled with shrieks as if the whole place was hurtling down the steepest section of a roller coaster. Equally, if you looked away for a moment you'd hear a cheer to make you think you'd missed a goal, but in fact they were celebrating winning a throw-in on the half-way line.

And throughout rang the chant of what I think was "Dae Haningo", the Korean way of saying "Republic of Korea". Hoon, a cello player who's been living here for four months tried to teach me the correct way to deliver this, but almost certainly I spent the next 10 minutes yelling a sound that meant something like "there's a hedgehog in my fridge".

The local English contingent then tried to teach the Koreans to sing: "It's going home, it's going home, it's going, Italy's going home," which scanned perfectly as, in South London and Korean, Itlee has two syllables. But it's doubtful anyone believed it, until the moment Ahn Jung-Hwan headed the winner and the place went more mental than anywhere has ever gone anywhere anytime ever. Not when Castro took Cuba, not on VE day, not when Moses parted the sea have people screamed with as much delight. If only a relevant official had been present, they would have had to report that 500 people simultaneously broke the world record for the high jump. Outside a car covered in the flag of St George stopped on the roundabout and its occupants emerged to join a procession behind a woman with a gong. "These people have made this area," an English postman told me.

Only the most pitiful racist would deny that the presence of such a variety of nationalities enriches the life of this country. I'm sure David Blunkett, for example, would agree that it's splendid that Brazilians dance up Oxford Street and Koreans sing with English lads in New Malden.

But at one time these communities were subject to hysteria that they were all on social security, destroying our way of life and abusing our hospitality, in the same way that local newspapers and David Blunkett heap vilification on asylum-seekers. Abuse was slung at everyone – the Irish, the Jews, the West Indians, the Asians. Now they dish out exactly the same filth to the latest group seeking to come to Britain to improve their lives and ours.