Monday, June 12, 2006

IRAN v Mexico


I knew there were lots of Iranians in London but I was having trouble finding them. I’d asked about venues in an Iranian restaurant in Marylebone, where the waiter had sent me across the road to ask a man in a launderette. I thought I had nothing to lose, so I checked it out.

The gentleman in the launderette was very nice, if a little mysterious. He said there may be a restaurant that might be showing it but that he’d have to ask his son and he’d get him to call me. I asked if he could give me the name of the restaurant and I’d phone them myself. He didn’t know the name of the restaurant.

The next time I spoke to him, he had good news. The restaurant would be showing the game and it was okay for me to go. His son would call me to arrange to pick me up and take me there. He still didn’t know the name of the restaurant. And he didn’t seem prepared to give me his son’s phone number.

I felt like Bernstein or Woodward in All the President’s Men. I had visions of clandestine meetings in the Selfridges underground car park.

But on the morning of the Mexico game I was beginning to think it wasn’t going to come off. We hadn’t arranged a rendezvous and we were prepared to try our luck on Edgware Road.

But as I was standing in the crowd outside the Dutch bar, I realised I had a voicemail message. It was the launderer’s son. I called him back and we were on: he gave me the name and address of the venue!

We got there on the stroke of kick-off, although I did wonder if I was going to be turned away when one of the waiters asked if I was Mexican (bizarrely, considering I was wearing an Iran shirt).

I assured him no, we were here to support Iran, and we were ushered into the downstairs bar, where there was no beer to be found but the enthusiastic young crowd were digging into Coca Cola (in Arabic cans, but with Wayne Rooney on them!), kebabs and shisha pipes.

The lack of alcohol lent proceedings a polite, dignified air (even when Mexico took the lead) but the atmosphere was not lacking, thanks to the fruity smoke billowing around the room, and of course by Iran’s equalising goal.

But my neighbour sat there impassively while the celebrations raged around him. He was supporting Argentina, he told me. He was from Kurdistan. “Why Argentina?” I asked him. “Diego Maradona,” he replied. Ah, I thought, I’ve got a like-minded individual here, as we reminisced about the maestro’s performances in 1986.

“You must be about the same age as me then,” I said. “Yes, I’m 24.” That’s strange, I thought, I’m 31.

It was only later that I made them simple calculation and realised he would have been four years old when Diego set the world alight.