UKRAINE v Spain

My first visit to the Ukrainian Social Club didn’t fill me with confidence. It was, surprisingly, located in a row of big old houses at a prime west London address. But there was no sign (or handle) on the front door and the intercom and bell were out of order.

So I plucked up some courage and gave the door a push. It creaked open. Inside the house looked semi-derelict. I couldn’t hear any sign of life. I plucked up more courage and ventured inside.

I was afraid of stumbling over some sort of clandestine meeting, and was sure that no-one would believe my story about looking for a place to watch the footie. Upstairs I found a padlocked door with a sign on it. It was written in Ukrainian script, but with a phone number. I copied it down and got out of the deserted house.

I phoned the number later and a friendly lady told me yes, they would be showing the football, and yes, I was very welcome to come along.

I got there with 15 minutes to go, and quickly discovered that I’d been looking in the wrong part of the building. A couple of middle-aged Ukrainians were hanging out yellow and blue pennants outside the basement, and they ushered me in. There were more pennants on the walls and they were putting out yellow and blue napkins on the tables. I was the first person there.

Then I was joined by an Englishman with a Ukrainian wife. She wasn’t coming because she didn’t like football. I asked him if she didn’t see it as a chance to express her country’s new-found independence. He said he’d said that, but no, she just doesn’t like football. Then he bought me a big, strong Ukrainian beer for two pounds. I was starting to take a shine to the Ukrainian Social Club.

We wondered if everyone else was still at work: they were showing the game again that evening for anyone who couldn’t make it during the day. They were upset that they seemed to be the only team in the tournament that didn’t have an evening kick-off in the group stages. They had a big screen in the ballroom where they used to get big crowds for Dynamo Kiev games (and, of course, Eurovision) but there weren’t enough people to merit using it for afternoon games.

It gradually started to fill up as kick-off approached, first with a few more middle-aged men, who sorted themselves out with strong spirits and bread, meat and pickles, and then some younger fans.

The crowd wasn’t huge, but I was looking forward to watching the game with them; until Xabi Alonso spoiled the party with the opening goal after just 12 minutes, and David Villa made it two just five minutes later. Spain were rampant and my companions vented their anger on their team. I’m sure it was of little consequence to them, but I admired their language’s quality for sounding upset.

And when Spain added two more in the second half as Vladislav Vashchuk was harshly sent off, I wondered if anyone would turn up when they showed the game again in the evening. I had visions of some unfortunate souls struggling to avoid the score all day, Likely Lads-style, and then turning up to watch their team be ripped apart.

There were laughs from some of the older fans when team boss Oleg Blokhin lambasted substitute Serhiy Rebrov for blasting a shot over the bar, and there was excitement when Spain keeper Iker Casillas came too far out and Andriy Voronin was through on goal, but the Spanish did well to clear the danger, but the fans ended up about as pleased as anyone would be with a four-nil defeat.

I hoped they would turn it around against Saudi Arabia and Tunisia and qualify for the second round. I wanted an excuse to come back to the Ukrainian Social Club.