The World Cup in One City

ITALY v FRANCE

2006-07-10T07:59:00.000+01:00

When Italy and France met in the final of Euro 2000, we watched it in the garden of our local pub in Shepherd’s Bush (complete with water feature, located idyllically up against the Holland Park Roundabout). It was only when the goals came that we realised one side of the crowd was prominently Italian, then the other mostly French.

I was supporting France that day. I did have £100 riding on it, after all. And now I once again wanted to find a venue with both sets of fans. I couldn’t go back to Shepherd’s Bush; the lovely pub had been knocked down in the name of progress, like so many other significant buildings from my past.

But I knew just the place: the West Kensington pub where we had watched Trinidad & Tobago all those weeks ago. It seemed like an eternity since that game. I was feeling much more tired and slightly flabbier than I had back then. But it was all worth it. This was a World Cup I’d never forget.

But I still had business to attend to. For once, I was more cautious than necessary, arriving at the venue an hour and a half before kick-off. There were some, mostly Italian, fans already there, and the coverage had started on Italian TV in the front bar. I got myself a hot dog.

With an hour to go, the blinds came down and some awful music came on. More and more Italians were turning up. Fifteen minutes later, the whistle-blowing and flag-waving started. There was a huge cheer when a white-gloved official placed that trophy on its pedestal. This was the real deal.

Thirty minutes before kick-off, the pub’s MC took to the airwaves, egging each team’s fans on with the by-now familiar shouts of “Allez les bleus!” and “Forza Italia!”

I ventured through the back and found it as crowded with French fans as the front now was with Italians. The atmosphere was overwhelmingly positive, with a real buzz of anticipation and the fans mixing without a cross word to be heard.

At 6.45 I was grateful when the music went off. I was in the front bar again and beginning to get really excited. And I wasn’t the only one. Not even Zinedine Zidane’s penalty just a few minutes into the game could take the wind from the Italy fans’ sails. They were reluctant to boo Florent Malouda for the dive that won the penalty, and cheered loudly when they thought Zidane’s shot hadn’t crossed the line. But it had, and then the only cheers in the front bar were from some lost France fans.

But the atmosphere didn’t let up, with Italy playing well, and when they equalised just ten minutes later, the fans almost took the roof off. And then there were shrieks when Luca Toni crashed a header against the bar.

The fans did have some boos in them though, reserved for French fans on TV; except, inexplicably, an attractive young French lady, who got big cheers. Strange.

At half-time I bid adieu to my Italian chums and squeezed through the crowds to the back bar with the French. Unfortunately there was no French commentary to be had, so I had to put up with Mark Lawrenson. I realised how lucky I was to have watched most of this World Cup on foreign TV.

There was excitement with France playing well in the second half, although, as befits the national stereotypes, they did seem slightly more reserved than their Italian counterparts. Except for my Danish France-supporting neighbour, who was pogoing around as if he desperately needed the toilet.

There was shock when Toni got the ball into the net, but cheers when it was ruled out for offside. And there were more cheers when Zidane returned to the pitch after an injury scare. As usual, the nervous excitement built towards the 90th minute, when it was time for me to return to the front bar.

The Italians kept up the chanting in extra-time, although they had cause to be nervous, with France dominating. They held their breath when Franck Ribery fired just wide, and erupted when Gigi Buffon tipped Zidane’s header over the bar.

That was nothing compared to the jubilation when Zidane was sent off minutes later. And as for the penalty shoot-out…

Italy’s record in shoot-outs is about as good as England’s, but this time every Italian was on target, and when David Trezeguet missed they went ballistic. And when Fabio Grosso tucked Italy’s fifth away, the champagne-spraying started, and the fans enthusiastically joined in with a non-ironic rendition of We Are the Champions.

There was a Frenchman sobbing into his mobile phone in the toilets as the dancing and singing continued in the front bar, and French fans had to file out past the celebrating Italians in the build-up to the trophy presentation, when an Italian woman fell of the chair she was jumping up and down on. Lots of the crowd were knocked over, but got back to their feet without a murmur of discontent.

The celebrations were long and loud. I’d had a great time… over the last month. I just hope that in 47 months’ time I’ll be cheering Scotland on from the Rob Roy, and this bloke will come in and say “Excuse me, I’m doing this website…”

PORTUGAL v France

2006-07-05T23:53:00.000+01:00

The weather forecast for Portugal’s semi-final against France was heavy thunder storms and even hail. Such is the sting in the tail of any British heatwave. Sure enough, the morning and afternoon were marked by some torrential downpours.

I was worried about the game, because the prime Portuguese venue was mostly exposed to the elements. I heard that there was yet another nearby Portuguese venue just around the corner that was inside a big old English pub. It would be perfect for adverse weather conditions. I decided to check it out.

But when I got there an hour before kick-off it was already full. The weather was holding out though, so I headed to my usual venue and managed to secure a place inside. And there was a further innovation outside: they now had draught Sagres as well as their exterior beer fridges.

I ordered a beer and was given a Superbock. I was beginning to wonder if I should start to order Sagres by name.

Half an hour before kick-off some lads arrived with a huge home-made banner; with 15 minutes to go the drummer – surely the best drummer in London – arrived, sparking off the chanting; and as the teams lined up to make their way onto the pitch the singing started, along with half-hearted, good-natured France- and Zidane-taunting.

And the opening stages of the game were a match for the fans’ enthusiasm. There was great anticipation for a long-range Maniche effort (Portugal’s usual source of goals), and the crowd were loving Cristiano Ronaldo’s trickery, even when, as usual, it came to nothing.

The Portuguese singing combined with the most English of terrace chants: “Who are ya?” directed at the great Zizou; “He fell over!” for any French player deemed to have gone down too easily; and, most frequently, “The referee’s a wanker!”

The latter was most heartfelt when Ricardo Carvalho was harshly adjudged to have brought down Thierry Henry in the box. Zidane stepped up, to chants of “Ricardo, Ricardo!” in the bar. Sure enough, the Portuguese penalty-specialist keeper went the right way, but the French master’s spot kick was just too good for him.

If Portugal had been underdogs before, they definitely were now. I sensed the crowd’s frustration, and at half-time many of my neighbours drowned their sorrows in espresso and fortified themselves with delicious-looking Portuguese cakes. Those crazy Portuguese, with their crazy Portuguese ways. Bizarre behaviour, I’m sure you’ll agree, when there was cheap beer and big meat sandwiches to be had.

Half-time brought comic relief as Portugal boss Luiz Felipe “Big Phil” Scolari advertised the official national team watch on Portuguese TV, but after that it was back to business.

Portuguese chances were few and far between. There was excitement as Pauleta smashed a shot into the side netting, and big cheers when Simao replaced the goal-shy striker.

But a couple of late half-chances were all Portugal had to show for their efforts and the final whistle was greeted with a round of applause for the players. They had made it to the semi-final and been beaten by a quality side.

But the disappointment and sorrow were all too tangible. The brilliant drummer kept on drumming, but the whistles, songs and horns were half-hearted. And as I trudged away up the South Lambeth Road, there were no cars with horns blaring or flags flying from their windows.

ITALY v Germany

2006-07-05T07:36:00.000+01:00

I didn’t know if Italy had scored once or twice. I’d had to abandon my prime spot in the centre of the crowd before the start of extra-time. I had to find a toilet.

I was now much more comfortable (both because I wasn’t packed into the middle of the crowd and because I’d eventually found a toilet) and I had a clear view to the screen. But it was just too small and I could only tell what was going on from the reaction of the crowd.

And with the game heading for the dreaded penalties against the Germans (although I had no way of telling exactly how many minutes were left), the tiny blue shirts on the screen shifted towards the end I was pretty sure they were attacking. I couldn’t tell for sure if the ball was shifting with them, but I presumed it was. And when the massive, relieved cheer went up, I knew they’d taken the lead.

Each of the replays was cheered in diminishing returns, but then another, even bigger, cheer went up. It surely couldn’t have been for a replay? But a second goal within a couple of minutes in such a tight game? Surely not? Maybe it was full-time? But then there was another huge cheer that I knew was for full-time, because everyone turned their attention away from the screen and either started to party like it was 1982, or stood stunned with a disbelieving grin plastered on their face. Italy, their domestic football in the middle of a huge scandal, were in the final.

I’d made sure I got to Bar Italia 45 minutes before kick-off. As I approached down Old Compton Street I could already hear the chanting and worried that I should have arrived even earlier. The crowd was already bigger than it had been for the Ukraine game.

I managed to secure a decent position, but not until after I had procured some supplies (water and Red Stripe) from the local off-licence, where business was booming; I wasn’t making the same mistake as last time. I’d also hoped to take advantage of the panini waiter that had been at the Ukraine game, but although I caught occasional fleeting glimpses of him, I never had half a chance of getting anywhere near him.

I wondered what the Italians had against Boris Becker when he appeared on the tiny screen to huge boos, and enthusiastic waving of the red and yellow cards laid on by the bar (thoughtfully printed with cartolino rosso and cartolino giallo, presumably so no-one mistook them for scraps of paper and threw them away). I couldn’t think of any 1980s Italian tennis players he’d pipped to Wimbledon glory. Maybe he’d said something derogatory about Italy?

But when every other German to appear on the screen (including chancellor Angela Merkel) got the same treatment, I realised it was nothing personal against Boris. And my Italian isn’t great, but I knew a few of the crowd’s many chants were less than complimentary about their rivals.

The crowd seemed pretty optimistic at kick-off, when three of the tallest blokes in the crowd suddenly materialised directly in front of me. My neck started to ache from craning to see the screen. I was having trouble keeping up with the action, but was helped by the crowd’s cheers for Italy’s chances, and – loudest of all – Tim Borowski’s yellow card.

The half-time exodus failed to materialise and I failed to make any forward progress towards the screen. I had to content myself with moving slightly to the left, more directly in front of the TV.

But I did move nearer the screen when the crowd surged forward for a good Italy chance. The only downside was that I now had my hands stuck in my pockets and the crowd was too tightly packed for me to get them out.

There was plenty of singing in the second half, although penalties were approaching, which is never a good thing against Germany. But as full-time arrived with the game goalless and extra time beckoned, my bladder dictated that I would have to abandon my prime (and very uncomfortable) spot.

Getting out of the crowd was almost as difficult as getting in. And as I went in search of temporary public toilets that I had seen before the Ukraine game, I realised that the Italian overspill had taken over all the surrounding bars.

But the temporary loos were more temporary than I had anticipated and I eventually had to nip into a pub to use their facilities, although I wasn’t a customer; the shame!

When I returned to my position on the edge of the crowd I could barely see but could tell that Italy had come close a couple of times.

And then they scored. Twice, apparently.

ENGLAND v Portugal

2006-07-02T10:07:00.000+01:00

I’d planned to travel to the furthest reaches of south-east or north-east London to watch England’s quarter-final clash with Portugal in one of the capital’s most English areas. But the day of the match turned out to be an absolute scorcher, surely hotter than any day of the year so far and with no breeze.

Faced with the choice between a three-hour round trip in the train and returning to our local with my lovely English wife and our friends, I’m ashamed to say I made the easy choice. As a son of the suburbs, I regretted that I wouldn’t be shining the light of fame on these particular parts of suburbia, but was more than consoled by the thought of watching the game so close to home.

Also looking forward to the game was our bus driver as we returned from Wickes on the morning before the game. The brave man was beaming as he wore his Portugal shirt and Portugal bandana. We wondered if he’d got permission from his employers.

We questioned his wisdom to be displaying his support so clearly, surrounded by his team’s opponents, but I decided he’d be alright. Portugal fans seem to have a better relationship with England fans than anyone else. I remembered one of my favourite Portuguese cafes displaying both countries’ flags (love their flags, those Portuguese) before the two teams met at Euro 2004, and offering “a free glass of port to all our English friends”.

We got to the hall where we’d watched the Ecuador game 20 minutes before kick-off but it was already busier than it had ever got against Ecuador: there was barely any standing room and it was absolutely roasting. Surprisingly, we found the pub itself less busy and made our way past the tempting barbecue to find ourselves spots with a decent view of the screen.

The crowd seemed slightly subdued as the game got underway. It was fair enough: this was England’s first test against decent opposition and they would have to play much better than they had so far. And it was hot.

But the atmosphere built as England started to play really well in the first half, creating a couple of decent chances. And the atmosphere was helped as the beer started to flow (and I was finding that my two-pint rule was unenforceable when watching the game with friends).

The nerves continued as the game proceeded at 0-0, and as David Beckham went off injured. But there were huge cheers for his replacement, the exciting Aaron Lennon, and I sensed that some fans may have shared my opinion that Beckham’s injury could be a blessing in disguise.

But then there was anger for Wayne Rooney’s harsh red card, which sparked the crowd into life, as they lived every moment of England’s subsequent backs-to-the-wall performance.

There were cheers as Paul Robinson saved and Rio Ferdinand cleared, and excitement and chanting when a good chance came from a Frank Lampard free kick. The atmosphere built towards the 90 minutes, as any mistake could now lead to practically instant elimination.

Then we had to go through it all again for another 30 minutes. There was tension, excitement as Peter Crouch came close a couple of times, and nerves as the second final whistle approached with Portugal applying the pressure.

After Simao scored and Lampard missed, my lovely wife couldn’t take the pressure and hid in the toilet. It’s a tactic that often works, and it did as Hugo Viana missed, Owen Hargreaves scored and Petit missed. The crowd went wild. She emerged from the toilet. But maybe she should have stayed in there, because the excitement gradually turned to shock as Steven Gerrard missed, Helder Postiga scored, Jamie Carragher missed and Cristiano Ronaldo scored.

England were out. The crowd were stunned. I shuddered to think of the decibel levels on the South Lambeth Road.

ITALY v Ukraine

2006-07-01T09:14:00.000+01:00

I’d planned to get to Soho an hour before kick-off, but had been unable to drag myself away from my sofa in time. Not because it’s a lovely, comfy sofa (which it is) or because I’m a lazy so-and-so (okay, I admit it). But because I was enthralled by Argentina’s match with Germany and considered it ridiculous to leave before the penalties.

I left straight after the shoot-out and was disappointed to later find out I’d missed the subsequent punch-up. We were well within the business end of the tournament, where the unbridled enthusiasm of Korea, Costa Rica and Togo is replaced by large helpings of tension as the big names start to go out.

I was hoping Italy wouldn’t have too much trouble with the best draw of the round, against my friends from Ukraine. I finally got to Frith Street 15 minutes before kick-off. I wasn’t confident that I’d arrived early enough to watch the game at Bar Italia, but had not one, not two, but three back-up plans up my sleeve.

I found Frith Street closed to traffic. I wondered if it was for the next day’s Gay Pride, but when I reached Bar Italia I realised it was for all us Italy fans. And there was a huge crowd already. The pre-match build-up was blaring out of wall-mounted speakers in Italian but I couldn’t see a screen. Surely all these people weren’t here to listen to the game on the radio?

Then I saw it, the one small TV facing out of Bar Italia. I’d never seen so many people watching on such a small screen, which was ironic as the bar is in the building where John Logie Baird first demonstrated television. You know, a few doors down from Mozart’s old place.

I managed to find a spot in the tightly-packed crowd where I could more or less see the action, but then wondered how on earth I would get a drink (or go to the loo). Going to the bar was out of the question, and there was no Portuguese-style waiter service. I could go to an off-licence, but the queues were probably massive and I would be lucky to get another space where I could see the screen. It was like being at a concert or Notting Hill Carnival.

There were some English voices in the crowd, but many people were talking Italian and, when it came to singing along to the brilliant national anthem, it became clear that this crowd was the real deal. By now it had swelled to many hundreds, lots of whom, I was sure, couldn’t see the screen.

And if they were worried about the scandal gripping their domestic game, they weren’t showing it. There was a great atmosphere and a real air of optimism. A bloke in the crowd told me he was confident Italy could go all the way.

I couldn’t quite see if Gianluca Zambrotta had given Italy the lead or not after just six minutes. But the uproar around me left me in no doubt. The crowd went ballistic and the chanting began.

As if there wasn’t enough noise, the bar were throwing whistles into the crowd. A waiter was bravely negotiating the crowd with a tray of panini. For some reason the bar had chosen the smallest man in the crowd for this task. Actually, he may not have been the smallest. It’s just if there were any smaller people in the crowd, there was no way I could see them. I resisted the temptation to procure a tasty snack, although I was doubly tempted by the lovely smell coming from the curry house just behind me.

There was plenty of Andriy Shevchenko-baiting, on the man’s last day as a Milan employee. And sporadic excitement for the handful of chances Italy created as the first half wore on. They were taking it easy after the first goal.

People started to go for provisions as half-time approached, which was my chance to get nearer the screen. I managed to move about four metres forward during the 15-minute break. I couldn’t face a trip to the off-licence I could see on the corner of Old Compton Street. It would involve squeezing through the crowd, and probably huge queues. And I didn’t want to lose my spot.

So I bought a can off my neighbour (at a ridiculous mark-up). The crowd was so tightly packed that I had trouble getting the can to my lips, but I was glad of the refreshment.

There was a constant buzz as the second half got underway. Amused onlookers were hanging out of windows, surely not to watch the game on the tiny screen but to get a good view of the huge crowd.

And there were huge cheers when Italy pulled off a great save and goal-line clearance (at least I think that’s what happened), and then huger cheers when Luca Toni gave Italy the breathing space they needed, making it 2-0.

The atmosphere was building still further as the sun started to go down, and when Toni got his second and Italy’s third the beer started to fly.

And full-time was the signal for an ebullient street party to kick in. I spared a thought for my friends at the Ukrainian Social Club, but Italy had qualified for a semi-final against Germany.

UKRAINE v Switzerland

2006-06-27T07:00:00.000+01:00

You probably found Ukraine’s 0-0 draw with Switzerland boring, but I had a great time. Once again, I was enjoying the hospitality of the Ukrainian Social Club, my third most welcoming hosts so far (just above Costa Rica but slightly trailing the sterling efforts of Ivory Coast and Togo).

On my way home from the previous night’s Portugal match, I’d had another call from my friend Taras at the club. It was Ukraine’s first evening game, and they were expecting a still bigger crowd than for any of the previous matches. Taras was pleased and optimistic to be facing Switzerland.

I certainly found the bar busier than before, but now I was confident enough to order my Ukrainian beer by name. They ran out of supplies later, but the other Ukrainian beer was just as nice (and strong), and came in another lovely big bottle.

And when I made my way through to the ballroom the crowd was bigger again. We all stood in respectful silence for the anthem, followed by an enthusiastic round of the usual polite applause.

And there was more applause when the English commentators were silenced and replaced by Ukrainian radio commentary. I was certainly relieved. I’d been enjoying listening to commentary I couldn’t understand rather than the usual British commentators I found so irritating.

But the Ukrainian commentary kept flickering in and out of life and was duly re-replaced by the wisdom of Mick McCarthy.

Thankfully Mick was soon drowned out by the crowd, as they supplemented their customary polite applause with cheers and shouts. There was more of an atmosphere than at the previous games, with a quarter-final tie against Italy at stake.

The crowd were out of their seats when Andriy Shevchenko hit the bar. And there were shouts when Alexander Frei repeated the trick for the Swiss, and concern as Switzerland went on to have the best of the first half.

My English friend from the Spain game had even convinced his footie-sceptic Ukrainian wife to come along. She was concerned by the first-half performance, but he thought it was definitely better than against Spain. I had to agree with both of them.

But the atmosphere built further as Ukraine played much better in the second half, and half the crowd thought they’d scored when Shevchenko unleashed a thunderbolt. They were out of their seats again when a header from a corner brushed the Swiss post, and desperately appealed for a penalty as the game nervously approached 90 minutes. Surely there would be no way back if someone scored now?

But it remained goalless at full-time. Taras admitted he was nervous as we went into extra-time. I, on the other hand, enthusiastically accepted my third big, strong Ukrainian beer of the night. I was beginning to regret not partaking of the sausages that had been on offer in the bar.

The applause, cheers and shouts were now joined by chanting and foot-stomping as the game built to another crescendo. But there were no goals to be had, and penalties beckoned for the first time in the tournament.

There was stunned silence when Shevchenko inevitably missed the first penalty, but then huge celebration, leaping in the air, cheers and chanting as Switzerland missed, Ukraine scored, Switzerland missed again, Ukraine scored, Switzerland somehow missed yet again and Ukraine scored. Ukraine were in the quarter-finals!

Nazdorovya!

The next report will be on Italy in the quarter-finals

PORTUGAL v Holland

2006-06-26T06:57:00.000+01:00

You hear them first as you approach along South Lambeth Road: the whistles, horns, car horns and singing; and then when you turn the corner you see them massed on the pavement outside Estrela.

I had returned to my favourite Portuguese venue (lazy journalism, I know, but I promise it won’t always be this way) and the crowd was bigger than ever as kick-off approached. I had no chance of getting to the bar for a beer and I couldn’t see any waiters, but then I noticed an exciting new development: they’d brought a fridge outside for more convenient beer sales.

I made my way past a shrine set up on top of a junction box (a wooden Jesus with a Portugal flag, a bottle of champagne and an assortment of candles) and got myself a Superbock.

Anticipation was particularly high for this, the first heavyweight clash of the knockout stages. And it seemed word had got around that this was the place for the footie party, judging by the number of English fans in the huge crowd.

The noise levels were cranked up further with huge cheers for kick-off. And then the drummer arrived. There was alarm at an early Dutch chance and then cheers as Mark van Bommel became the first of an astonishing number of players to be booked.

There was excitement at Portuguese half-chances, screams for Dutch chances, cheers for Dutch yellow cards, despair for Portuguese bookings, and appreciation for Cristiano Ronaldo’s trickery. And when Maniche opened the scoring… it was absolute mayhem. The celebrations were loud and long.

Ronaldo received applause when he had to come off, and sympathy from the ladies: “Ohhh Ronaldo! Don’t cry!” And there were cheers for Simao when he replaced him.

We were running the full gamut of emotions. There was shock at Costinha’s red card, gasps as Edwin van der Sar saved from Pauleta, and a fat middle-aged man in a replica shirt climbing a pole with a flag.

At half-time I got a clue to where all these Portugal flags come from as a Brazilian gentleman made his way round the crowd, trying to flog flags for a fiver. But we soon had more important business to get back to.

The start of the second half was nervous with Portugal down to ten men, but the crowd were still boisterous, and mightily relieved when Phillip Cocu blasted a good shot against the bar. There were huge cheers for any Portuguese attack, and wild celebrations when Holland were also reduced to ten men.

Once again, passing bus passengers looked on open-mouthed, and another middle-aged man with a flag took up a prominent position on the other side of the bar, this time on top of a phone box.

The excitement was cranked up further as the game got ugly, with a bit of pushing and shoving and several more bookings. The referee seemed to think it was Christmas, he was giving out so many cards.

And there was stunned disbelief when he somehow sent off Deco, who was being pushed about by a Dutchman. Now we weren’t quite sure what was going on. But Portugal were still 1-0 up and they just had to hold on for a little longer…

The excitement built into a nervous crescendo as the nine men of Portugal mounted a rearguard action against the ten of Holland. The Dutch were creating chances and the fourth official indicated six minutes of stoppage time!

But then Giovanni van Bronckhorst was sent off and the final whistle blew! There was beer everywhere as the fans celebrated formula one-style with Sagres and Superbock instead of Champagne.

And what a party was about to kick in. The drumming and dancing went up a level, and the crazy car celebrations started, driving up and down and up and down South Lambeth Road, horns blaring, and hanging out the windows waving their flags and scarves.

Now they would face England in the quarter-finals.

ENGLAND v Ecuador

2006-06-25T18:36:00.000+01:00

Maybe I should try spread-betting. The night before England v Ecuador, I’d predicted that England would have to wait until the 60th minute for their first goal. And sure enough, David Beckham obliged exactly on the hour. But I must admit that I’d also said that they would win 2-0, which they didn’t.

I’d decided that my third England experience should be in leafy suburban south-west London. Not because it was near my house, of course; but to experience England fandom from a new perspective.

The atmosphere was building relentlessly as my lovely English wife and I made our way to the pub. We passed loads of excitable fans in red, and even a residents’ association picnic in the park, complete with a brass band in St George’s Cross hats and a big screen for the game. But it was a private do though, so we carried on to the village hall appended to our local pub.

There was a very positive atmosphere in the hall, in spite of the game’s potential for huge disappointment. There was at least one celebrity local resident in the crowd, and a bit of a sing-along going on. “England ‘til I die!” chanted the crowd. I wasn’t sure if me joining in with “England ‘til eight o’clock!” would have gone down well, so I kept my big Scottish mouth shut.

But England’s performance was about as good as the quality of the singing in the hall. There were shrieks when Carlos Tenorio smacked the ball against the bar, and nerves thereafter. I was starting to feel a bit sorry for my England-supporting chums.

There was sporadic excitement and chanting as England started to create a few decent chances as the half went on, and then more disappointment when the screen suddenly went blank. But disaster was averted when it flickered back into life, albeit on the wrong channel, and normal service was soon resumed.

The crowd were getting boisterous towards half-time, in spite of England’s continued failure to score; and we all piled out into the beer garden at half-time, where there was a lovely barbecue going on.

And the atmosphere was buoyed by England’s improved performance at the start of the second half, as the midfield began to give Wayne Rooney the support he needed.

There was more chanting, primarily from a group of lads at the back of the hall, and a huge explosion of relief when David Beckham’s excellent free kick broke the deadlock.

With the pressure off after the goal, the atmosphere was upbeat again; there were cheers when Paul Robinson pulled off a couple of saves, and frequent Rooney chants for a couple of flashes of sheer genius.

But no-one went as far as to join in the lads at the back of the hall’s Sven Goran Eriksson chants, and although there was massive celebration for the final whistle and victory, I suspected the majority of the crowd left in doubt as to whether England could raise their game as far as they would have to for the quarter-final. In the meantime, I was off to watch the game that would determine who England would face in that next round.

TOGO v France

2006-06-24T09:21:00.000+01:00

The last group game was also one of the most difficult. There are very few Togo fans in London, as my disastrous (but strangely enjoyable) trip to the Africa Bar for their game against South Korea had proved.

This was my last chance: their last World Cup game. One plan was to try the Africa Bar again, hoping there would be more fans there on a Friday night. The other was a bar in Shoreditch, where events were being organised for all the African teams’ games. But we didn’t know if any of London’s few Togo fans would be there.

And then we had a stroke of good fortune, as we were called with a tip-off while we were at the Ukraine game. We were told to meet a man from Togo at Lewisham bus station at 6.00. We didn’t know what his name was, we didn’t know what he looked like, and we didn’t know where Lewisham bus station was.

And the Ukraine game finished just before 5.00 so we faced a mad rush-hour dash from west to south-east London. One of our Ukrainian friends told us which station we needed for the train to Lewisham and off we went, apologising for leaving so early in the celebrations.

We got there shortly after 6.00 and were introduced to our man. He said we were welcome to come and watch the game with him and his friends in their flat. It was all starting to come together. We hopped on a bus to complete our epic journey. I hoped I’d be able to find my way back to the bus stop after the game; I wasn’t sure if my little A-Z stretched this far.

But the flat was right next to the bus stop, and even better, it was above an off-licence. All our bases were covered.

There was over an hour left before kick-off, which gave us plenty time to discuss football while we all ignored Question of Sport (except for What Happened Next?, of course).

We chatted about African football and other football. They agreed that this game was important because it was against former colonial rulers France. I asked if they would be supporting Ghana in the next round. Definitely. I asked if they would be supporting France. They laughed. Maybe. And England? Definitely.

I asked if they had any local rivalries, maybe with Ghana or Benin? No, not really, they said, and told me that Benin have the best football stadium in Africa, but ironically they’re no good at football!

We discussed the controversies surrounding the Togo players’ bonuses, and they mourned the sacking of Nigerian Togo coach Stephen Keshi after he’d got Togo to the World Cup.

We talked about how no-one in Britain seemed to have heard of Togo (or how they think it’s called Toga) and about it being the only country in the World Cup without a UK embassy. They told us that there used to be one but that they closed it down because no-one went there.

One thing they couldn’t agree on was whether they had a chance against France, but they would all dearly love to get the draw that would put them out.

The talking stopped after kick-off. As the game went on at 0-0, which was quite a while, they got more and more optimistic. There were nerves as France came close, and cheers for Togo’s impressive keeper Kossi Agassa.

But when France did take the lead the lads took it with good grace, and there were more rueful smiles when Thierry Henry made it 2-0. They still had cheers for good play from Togo after they were beaten, and seemed pleased with the performance.

We thanked them for their amazing hospitality and I started the long journey home. I’d set out hoping to see all 32 teams with their fans. I’d unexpectedly failed on Tunisia and Serbia & Montenegro, but I’d managed some I’d been more worried about: Costa Rica, Paraguay and now Togo. I decided that 30 out of 32 wasn’t bad.

The group stages over, I now had an opportunity to see more teams twice or more, starting with England again on Sunday. But I was taking Saturday off. I reckoned I’d earned a break.

UKRAINE v Tunisia

2006-06-24T08:31:00.000+01:00

Far too late, I realised I had the same problem with Tunisia that I’d had with Serbia & Montenegro. Their match against Ukraine clashed with Saudi Arabia’s tie with Spain.

To make matters worse, the Saudi game was on terrestrial TV, while Tunisia were on digital. And the only place I had left to find Tunisians was Edgware Road, where many cafés would probably be showing Saudi instead.

But Saudi are definitely out and Tunisia will go through if they win, I thought. Surely some places would be showing the Tunisia game? No, it turned out. Every café we could find was showing Saudi v Spain, including one that had apparently been rocking for Tunisia v Spain, and none of them had a large crowd anyway. I wondered if London’s small Tunisian population was hiding from me somewhere. I had failed again.

We took a large amount of consolation from the fact that we were now free to go and watch the game with our new friends at the Ukrainian social club. They’d called us the night before to invite us along. Apparently there would be a bigger crowd there and they were showing the game on the big screen in the ballroom.

We’d promised to get there for some of the match, but now we could arrive even earlier. We got there just before half-time. They had the pennants out again, which I now realised were blue and yellow napkins stapled to some string.

There was certainly a much bigger crowd than there had been for the Spain game, with more young fans; although the familiar older men were there again too. The ballroom was like a large school hall, but with cool Ukrainian shields and things on the walls.

Apparently they had been playing quite well so far, but the atmosphere was muted: I thought there must be some nerves because defeat would put them out and it was still 0-0. They needed some breathing space.

There was sporadic excitement whenever Ukraine created a chance, and polite applause for any Tunisian bookings, and then celebrations when Tunisia’s Ziad Jaziri was harshly sent off.

My new friend Yuri magnanimously mourned Jaziri’s red card, worrying that it would make the game less of a spectacle. “But surely it’s good if it helps Ukraine win?” I asked. He wasn’t convinced.

And he was right about the spectacle: the second half was dull, although one of the great pleasures I take from the World Cup is enjoying really dull games. I suppose I felt right at home supporting a team that was playing so prosaically. And it was fitting that their goal should come from a dubious Andriy Shevchenko penalty.

Most of the crowd didn’t care how the goal came, celebrating loudly, the younger ones cheering and jumping around, while the older men were happy to noisily bang bottles on tables, and one of them later shouted “Handball!” when a Tunisian player was booked for grabbing his opponent by the testicles.

I don’t know if the many Shevchenko shirt-wearers in the crowd would agree (it reminded me of Spartacus: “I’m Shevchenko!” “I’m Shevchenko!” “I’m Shevchenko!”…), but I thought Ukraine started to play much better after Shevchenko was substituted, and there was excitement as they started to create chances.

Yuri agreed, admitting he wouldn’t play Shevchenko, because the others play better when they have responsibility thrust on them without him. Now we would find out if manager Oleg Blokhin thought the same, because Ukraine were through to the second round.

As we emerged blinking into the late afternoon sunlight, we wondered if the good burghers of this fine neighbourhood knew anything about the raucous, vodka-and-footie-fuelled Ukrainian excitement going on under their feet.

JAPAN v Brazil

2006-06-23T10:02:00.000+01:00

I couldn’t believe I was paying to get into a Wetherspoons pub. But if I was going to watch Japan with their fans I had no choice.

I’d had real trouble finding out where Japan fans were going to be watching the footie. London’s packed with lovely Japanese restaurants, but they all seemed a bit smart and minimalist for my needs. I’d pounded the streets of London’s most Japanese areas but found them not particularly Japanese.

So when I heard there was an event being organised in the West End pub that used to be the legendary rock venue The Marquee, I got my name on the list.

And it’s just as well I did, because it sold out and security was tighter than Fort Knox on national gold-stealing day. I had a booking reference and an entrance group. I was checked out by the bouncer then faced three more entry people: one to check my name was on the list, one to exchange my money for a ticket, and another to stamp my hand. I was in! And they had Kirin on tap! And little plastic tubs of Japanese food, although unlike at the Korea game I don’t think it was free.

And also unlike the Korea game, the fans weren’t all in team colours, although the vast majority of them had made a sterling effort, one bloke even dressing up in a full ninja outfit, mask and all. He wouldn’t get into Bluewater shopping centre, I thought.

There was a bloke beating a huge drum, accompanied by enthusiastic chanting, plenty of replica tops and flags, a girl with a Winnie the Pooh, and people waving sticks with blue and white tinselly crepe-paper stuff, which looked a bit like malnourished Muppets.

London’s über-trendy Japanese contingent was represented, as were Japanese blokes in suits. And there were lots of English people, including one in a Celtic shirt, with, of course, Japanese Celtic midfielder Nakamura on the back. He told me he’d supported Japan in their first game on his own in Muswell Hill. As far as I could tell, his only link to Japan was Nakamura.

Even though they had almost no chance of qualifying for the second round and Brazil were playing far better than they had in their last two games, the fans were hugely enthusiastic, screaming loudly whenever Brazil attacked (which was often). And when Japan somehow snatched the lead, the biggest cheer of the tournament so far rang out. They couldn’t believe it, and the be-suited bloke in front of me got down on his knees in supplication.

When Scotland took the lead against Brazil in Spain in 1982, one of the players later confessed that his first reaction was “Oh no, now we’ve upset them.” And so it proved, as they hammered us 4-1. Ever the optimist, I worried if a similar fate would befall Japan.

And sure enough, there were shrieks and rueful smiles when Ronaldo equalised. The Japan fans took the four goals that flew in for Brazil with good grace, and a certain amount of resignation.

There were even a couple of fans in the corner cheering Brazil’s goals, including a Thai bloke who had assured me he was supporting Japan (although not as much as Korea). He was also force-feeding me Kirin, but I wasn’t complaining.

And neither were the Japan fans. They’d been beaten 4-1 and they were out of the tournament, but they’d had a right nice time.

SERBIA & MONTENEGRO v Ivory Coast

2006-06-22T08:59:00.000+01:00

Apparently there are 40,000 Serbs in London. I don’t believe a word of it. I had shared a pub with what seemed like all 3,400 London Croatians the other night, but I just couldn’t find any Serbs.

Maybe someone got a decimal point in the wrong place, or maybe that 40,000 figure includes Kosovans. I knew there were lots of Kosovans in London, but I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be supporting Serbia & Montenegro.

My problem was that it didn’t seem like anyone else was either. I was dealt a major blow when I found out that the Serbian Community Centre would be closed again for the Ivory Coast game, even though it was in the evening. I was worried that there may be a lack of enthusiasm for their last World Cup game after they’d been hammered 6-0 by Argentina and now that they were definitely out.

And then I realised I had another problem, which I had inexplicably failed to foresee. I didn’t even know if any pubs would be showing the game, since it was on at the same time as the top-of-the-table clash between Holland and Argentina, which most punters would rather see.

So I was buoyed when I called the pub where I had failed to find any Serbs for their Argentina game. They had two big screens and would be showing both games. And they were expecting some Serbs!

But it wasn’t very busy when I got there with 15 minutes to go, but I got a drink and took my seat in front of the Serbia screen, hoping it would start to fill up nearer kick-off.

It was a nice set-up, with footie photography exhibited on the walls, and a clear view of both screens, although with commentary just for Holland v Argentina, which made watching Serbia & Montenegro a rather surreal experience.

It would have been the perfect venue in which to spend the four final days of the group stages, and watch an unprecedented four World Cup games a day! But I had other things on my mind.

There were a couple of reasonably Serbian-looking men among the crowd, but they didn’t seem particularly interested in the game; I think I was the only punter paying any attention to it. The other half of the pub was packed with viewers for Holland v Argentina, while I was more or less on my own. If we were on a boat it would have capsized.

My worst fears were realised when Serbia & Montenegro scored. I clapped but there was not a flicker of recognition from my fellow viewers. I hoped there were no other World Cup nerds there like myself who were ticking me off as the Serb with whom they had seen the game. I was trying to decide what to do when they scored again. No-one seemed to notice. I was off.

The trouble with Serbian websites is that they’re all in Serbian script. I had been on one which had a picture of a Serb footballer and a link to a bar on Victoria Embankment. I had no idea what it said, but it was my last chance.

I hurried down there (although I was starting to find it hard to find the energy to hurry anywhere), only to find it empty apart from a few be-suited drinkers enjoying a post-work pint. I turned to leave.

But on my way out I noticed they had a downstairs bar. I investigated. But it was just as empty and it turned out they were showing Holland v Argentina. I had failed.

I had seen 28 of the 32 teams I wanted to watch with their fans. But now I knew that I couldn’t make it to all 32. I had never expected to fail on Serbia & Montenegro. I had found Costa Ricans, Paraguayans, Ivorians, Ukrainians, Angolans, Saudis and many others, but no Serbs.

I resolved to pull out all the stops to make it to 31.

ENGLAND v Sweden

2006-06-21T09:22:00.000+01:00

It would be a shame to conduct such a rigorous academic study of multicultural London as this without including one of the city’s largest communities. But it’s not my fault that the Indian national team is the international equivalent of Cowdenbeath, not even making it to the final Asian qualification stage alongside such greats of the game as Kuwait and North Korea.

But London’s Indian community is so well established that I knew very well that many first, second and third-generation Indian Londoners would be supporting England as passionately as the next man or woman. So there was only one place to go: London’s least white – by far – area: Southall, where only 8.7% of people consider themselves White British. And it was just up the road.

And as I made my way past the legendary Himalaya Palace cinema to the Sikh pub I had been recommended, I was glad to see quite a few of the local Indian motorists were sporting the familiar car-based England flags.

But, 10 minutes before kick-off, the pub was less busy than I’d hoped. I was consoled by the excellent décor: it was a great blend of Indian and British, as glitzy as yesterday’s Saudi venue but ten times less tasteless. There were paintings of Indian princes, copious gilt-framing (including the gilt-framed big screen on which the national anthems were currently being played), a mosaic mirrored bar and back-lit scenes of Indian village life, all housed in a traditional boozer, right down to the vintage Guinness adverts; and of course, with the St George’s Crosses up for the World Cup. And they had Kingfisher on tap!

As the match got underway the pub started to fill up, with some of my neighbours also expressing surprise that it wasn’t busier. But England were already guaranteed a place in the second round.

The crowd was a decent size, although not huge; but they were not lacking any commitment, indulging in the familiar Rooney chants when the boy wonder burst through towards goal; passionately discussing all the footie issues as the game went on; and celebrating loudly when Joe Cole struck a contender for goal of the tournament.

At half-time I noticed that the signs on the toilet doors were in a language I didn’t understand (or recognise). I worried about committing a huge faux pas, but then realised that, just like there were no other white faces in the pub, there were no female faces of any persuasion. So I wasn’t going to have a chance to come across Parminder Nagra touching up her make-up in the ladies. She was probably too busy saving lives in Chicago anyway.

For the first time in the tournament, Sweden tore into their opponents after the break. There was dejection when they equalised, but the positive atmosphere remained, even as the Swedes lay siege to England’s goal. I wondered if this relaxed atmosphere was a specific characteristic of Indian England fans, but my most glamorous mole later told me that it had been the same where she was watching it. It was probably more to do with England already having qualified for the second round. I gave up trying to identify any specific characteristics of Indian England fans.

Huge cheers went up when it looked like Steven Gerrard’s late goal had earned England all three points, and there was despair when Henrik Larsson equalised in the last minute. But not too much despair: England had done enough to win the group and would avoid Germany in the next round.

I made my way to the station, struggling to resist the tempting smells of the local food vendors.

SPAIN v Tunisia

2006-06-20T10:42:00.000+01:00

I don’t believe in luck. Of course I’ll admit that jumping in a puddle and falling up to your waist in a hole concealed by the water is unlucky. I just don’t think you get lucky or unlucky people. But I was beginning to think maybe I was bad luck. A “cooler”, like William H Macy’s character in the excellent film of the same name: someone whose negative aura can be used to bring those near him bad luck.

So far, the only mild upset I’d been on the right end of was Trinidad & Tobago’s draw with Sweden. I’d supported Poland to comprehensive defeat by Ecuador, Mexico to a draw with Angola, had seen every team in Group E play, but none of them win, and now surely my malign influence could be the only explanation for Spain’s protracted inability to turn around a shock one-goal deficit against Tunisia.

I was beginning to wonder how successful Celtic and Scotland could be if it wasn’t for me.

I’d decided to go for the most authentic Spanish experience I could find, and had asked in a Spanish restaurant at the top end Portobello Road. “There’s this place…” they told me. “A bar?” I asked. “No, not a bar.” “A restaurant?” “No, not a restaurant; it’s just this… place.”

This place, when I eventually found it, turned out to be a Galician social club hidden away in a North Kensington basement (try and find it; I bet you can’t). It may not have been a restaurant, but the food looked delicious. I would have partaken but my belly was full of mixed lamb kebab.

Because of its proximity to Edgware Road, I’d got there long before kick-off and it was already starting to fill up, with mostly middle-aged fans who were happy to wear the replica kit and assorted scarves, flags and caps, irrespective of either age or gender.

This may have been a Galician club, but these were full-blown Spain fans, and I am willing to bet that if there was a competition for London’s most Spanish-looking people, the ladies’ winner and both the finalists in the men’s section were there for the game. Although there was one very English-looking and sounding bloke wearing the shirt of those other local heroes, QPR.

As befits any sort of Spanish organisation, there was a cabinet rammed with football trophies on the wall, and all sorts of Galician and Spanish memorabilia, including a signed photo of the king and queen. I wondered if they were regulars. And there was Galician beer for me.

There was enthusiastic footie discussion in the build-up to the game. But the talking stopped at kick-off as the fans were spellbound. Even Diego Maradona, in a co-commentary position, fell silent; although that was probably because he couldn’t get a word in edgeways past his enthusiastic colleague.

And the silence in the Galician club was broken by Tunisia’s shock early goal. The fans were disgusted, especially with Carles Puyol, and their despair at the players’ inability to make their dominance count was becoming louder and louder as the game wore on.

Spanish TV channels love their statistics as much as the Americans do, especially when they tell the right story. And the statistics that frequently flashed up on the screen confirmed the story we could all see: Spain were all over Tunisia, but the only statistic that mattered was Tunisia 1 Spain 0. The fans took no consolation from their team’s impressive tally of balls into the box.

The despair mounted as Spain wasted chance after chance, but there were cheers when they thought they’d equalised on the stroke of half-time; unfortunately the ball was desperately scrambled off the line.

Talking to the man at the next urinal is an awkward situation at the best of times. But when he’s an angry Galician spouting off at 100mph about Spain’s hugely frustrating performance, it’s particularly tricky. I think it’s fair to assume he was upset that they could find it so difficult against Tunisia after beating Ukraine 4-0.

I mumbled that I thought they had been unlucky so far and that the goals would probably start to come soon. He said yes, or Tunisia might score again (I think). I was having trouble understanding what anyone was saying, but couldn’t tell if it was because my Spanish was rusty or if they were talking Galician.

The tension continued to mount for most of the second half as Spain continued to fail to make their dominance count, but there was huge relief when substitute Raul eventually equalised, and jubilation when Fernando Torres gave Spain the lead a few minutes later.

But there were still nerves until the very last minute, when Torres converted a penalty to confirm their place in the second round, sparking wild celebrations in North Kensington.

SAUDI ARABIA v Ukraine

2006-06-20T09:47:00.000+01:00

I’d had a bit of trouble finding a suitable venue for Saudi Arabia. I heard that the Park Lane Hilton’s brasserie was a possibility, but it had been empty for their game against Tunisia. I had asked at the embassy, but they had been unable to help, even though one of my contacts had been invited to watch the first game there. Although when he got there he was turned away.

I’d heard that a good place to watch it was a Saudi academy in that most resolutely English part of west London, East Acton. It was a part of town I thought I knew well, but I had no idea it had anything as remotely exotic as a Saudi academy.

I was expecting it to be some sort of college for twentysomethings, but realised I was probably barking up the wrong tree as I approached it and a gaggle of giggling schoolgirls expressed their surprise to see this white bloke in a Saudi shirt.

It was a normal-looking school and there didn’t seem to be any sort of World Cup fever anyway, so I cut my losses and retraced my steps as quickly as my little legs and the Central Line would carry me, hurrying back to Edgware Road. I got to what was quickly emerging as Edgware Road’s premiere footie-watching restaurant ten minutes into the game. They were already losing.

There was a £10 minimum charge to be seated near the big screen. There were few takers, but it was no problem for me; I was hungry and would easily spend that sum on food. I ordered a mixed lamb kebab and a Coke.

This was certainly the glitziest venue I had been to so far, with some sort of gold-coloured metallic floor, copious back-lit stained glass, mosaic tables, a shiny mosaic ceiling, glowing pillars, mosaic mirrors, and some sort of optic light glass waterfall feature.

It was a mixed crowd, including just a few replica shirts (I was beginning to realise that they were so rare, giggling schoolgirls would probably be surprised to see me in one even if I looked Saudi). Some diners and shisha pipe smokers were oblivious to the match, but others were getting into the swing of things, including an enthusiastic party of hijab-clad young ladies screaming at every dangerous Ukrainian attack (of which there were quite a few).

There wasn’t much cheering, but there wasn’t much to cheer, with Saudi Arabia turning in an abject performance, and no-one seemed surprised when Serhiy Rebrov helped himself to the Ukraine’s second goal ten minutes from the break.

I was beginning to wish that I’d organised my schedule to watch this match in the Ukrainian Social Club. But I put such treacherous thoughts out of my mind. I was here to support Saudi Arabia; even if most of the other people in the venue weren’t.

Half-time brought blessed relief from Ukrainian dominance, and Arabic advertising for bizarrely western products – Snickers, Walkers, the Premiership – on Saudi TV, which was also providing my first opportunity to watch a game with captions in an alphabet I didn’t understand.

The second half carried on as the first had finished, although the Ukrainians only waited one minute to score, which was three less than in the first half. But by now the crowd appeared to have resigned themselves to a hammering. And a hammering they got as Maxim Kalinichenko added the fourth with five minutes to go.

SWITZERLAND v Togo

2006-06-20T08:51:00.000+01:00

As every fan knows, the best bit of the World Cup is the group stage. You can keep the sudden-death excitement of the second round. The group stage wins hands-down simply because you can watch three games a day; such classic ties as Iran v Angola, Tunisia v Saudi Arabia and… Switzerland v Togo.

So Monday was a sad day, the last three-match day of the World Cup before it gradually loses its grip on global dominance and hibernates for another 47 months. Fans could now only watch two games a day for the next week, and there would soon be days with just one game; and some with none at all!

But this year my disappointment was balanced by a large dollop of relief. I confess that my hectic schedule was taking it out of me. Racing from venue to venue while stressing about where I was going to watch the more obscure teams and whether I would get in at the more popular ones, while joining in the celebrations/dejection (delete as appropriate) and drinking was starting to take its toll. And I’d been harbouring a cold for almost the whole time (but, brave little soldier that I am, I didn’t tell you that, did I?)

For this year’s last 2.00 kick-off I was heading to the legendary/infamous former heavy metal venue below London’s only Swiss restaurant. I got there five minutes before kick-off, only to find the door to the basement firmly locked. And the man in the restaurant told me “It’s a private party…”

I prepared to implement Plan B which, for once, was just down the road at the Swiss church in Covent Garden. I was relieved when he added “… but you can go down.” My heart sank again when I got to the bottom of the stairs, to find three men gathered round a small TV.

So I checked around the corner and found a decent little crowd preparing for the action on a big screen, which was just as well, because one of my network of informants later told me that the crowd in the Swiss church was as tiny as those in most British churches on a Sunday.

I bought myself a bottle of Swiss Mountain and took my seat, in what looked like the inside of an Alpine barn (I know what I’m talking about, I’ve seen Heidi), with Christmas cake icing walls, dark wooden beams and the added bonuses of Swiss flags and scarves for the game.

And what the crowd lacked in size it made up for in sound, cheering loudly for Switzerland’s chances and shouting when Togo came close. And when Alexander Frei gave the Swiss the lead, a man swinging a huge bell added to the celebrations.

But Switzerland were not playing well and Togo were starting to create good chances, causing consternation amongst the crowd, who were clearly angry with their team’s performance.

I was frustrated too. The forbidden buffet that the private party were tucking into smelt delicious. And I had received a tip-off that there would be a Togo fan here, who I was hoping to quiz for a venue for their final group game, now almost definitely their last game of the tournament. But no-one in the crowd looked remotely Togolese. Apparently he couldn’t make it.

The second-half Swiss frustration was relieved briefly with laughter at Mark Lawrenson stating the bleeding obvious “Switzerland want one goal now, but Togo need two”, but, just like Brazil (not the compliment it usually is) the night before, there was audible consternation as Togo pushed Switzerland all the way, before Tranquillo Barnetta sparked celebration and massive bell-ringing with the goal that somehow put Switzerland top of the group.

BRAZIL v Australia

2006-06-19T08:35:00.000+01:00

The only venue I could find for Japan was sold out for the Croatia game. I had no choice but to miss my third game and try at a later date.

The good news was I could now get to the Brazil game as early as I wanted. Unfortunately I couldn’t have wanted to get there early enough. I’d known that London’s main Brazilian bar, in Covent Garden, had had to turn hundreds of people away from their opening match. So I got there 75 minutes before kick-off.

But their lacklustre performance against Croatia* hadn’t put anyone off. There was a large crowd of yellow shirts milling around outside in what I hoped was some sort of disorderly queue. But the bouncers confirmed my worst fears and I was forced to turn to Plan B.

As I trudged to the tube station I passed more and more yellow shirts and took some consolation from the fact that most of these Brazil fans looked even less Brazilian than me. I knew London’s West Indian community had always supported Brazil, at least until Jamaica and Trinidad and Tobago started to qualify for the World Cup, but now it seemed everyone wanted to join the party.

Regular readers will be surprised that I had a Plan B, and now I was worried that it would also be full by the time I got there. Especially when I discovered that the Central Line was part-suspended for engineering works. I was so desperate that I decided to chance my luck with the Circle Line… on a Sunday.

I got to London’s original Brazilian neighbourhood 30 minutes before kick-off. The streets of Bayswater were also flooded with Brazil fans, most of whom looked just a little more, well, Brazilian than their Covent Garden counterparts.

I made my way to a restaurant where a friend and his Brazilian nephewfather had met Brazilian Arsenal midfielder Gilberto Silva. At least he wouldn’t be taking my seat at this game, since he had one on the bench in Germany. But there were plenty of other people to take my seat. The restaurant was full.

So I tried my luck in their basement, where I got a seat at the bar (although my view was slightly obstructed by green, yellow and blue balloons) and a bottle of Brahma.

This was the most authentic Brazilian experience I had found so far, and I was pleased when it started to fill up with unglamorous Brazilians (there being, of course, two types of Brazilians: glamorous and unglamorous).

And I was doubly pleased to find that, like me, they don’t believe the hype. They think Ronaldo’s fat and they despaired when Ronaldinho tripped over his own feet. They were underwhelmed by the big names’ uninspiring performances.

There was brief excitement, followed by disappointment, when Ronaldo spurned a couple of chances. And there was anguish when the big screen slowly rolled up into the ceiling and we were left with sound but no pictures. A man in a comedy yellow and green wig tried, but failed, to fix it, so we gatecrashed the restaurant.

The upstairs experience presented me with its own problems. I was standing near the kitchen where they serve plates of meat and chips, and I was sorely tempted. But I couldn’t justify the expenditure on a day on which I was only watching one game (having, thanks to the Togo disaster, already seen both France and South Korea, who were playing next).

Brazil boss Carlos Alberto Parreira must have put a rocket up his team at half time, because just three minutes into the second half the restaurant burst into relieved jubilation as Adriano put them ahead. There was much dancing for joy (except for a table of brave Aussies down the front), and bursting of piñata balloons by the staff.

The restaurant was sparked into life by the goal, and the biggest cheer was reserved for Robinho’s appearance as a substitute. But as Brazil edged towards a 1-0 victory and Australia created more and more chances, the excitement became tinged with a healthy dose of consternation, more huge cheers going up when Dida saved from Mark Bresciano.

But when Robinho smacked the ball against the post and Fred put away the rebound, there was another huge outburst of relieved celebration. Brazil were through to the second round.

*Kaká and Dida are exempt from any criticism, implied or otherwise, of the Brazil team.

ITALY v United States

2006-06-18T10:59:00.000+01:00

The obvious venue for Italy was Soho’s Bar Italia, but I wanted the 100% authentic London Italian experience, so I headed for Clerkenwell.

I’d been to check out the social club – recommended to me by my most Italophile friend – on a Sunday, and was delighted to find the block on which it stood was crawling with smart-dressed Italians (and home to an Italian delicatessen to rival Edinburgh’s legendary Valvona & Crolla). I thought there must have been a wedding on at the Italian church, so finely dressed were the ladies and gents milling around outside it; but no, I realised, this is how Italians dress for church.

The club confirmed that yes, they would be showing the game, and I was welcome to join them.

So when I returned for the USA match I was relieved to find the gate open; but the door was locked. I tried the buzzer but there was no answer. Again, I had no Plan B. I wanted to watch the game here.

Eventually I got an answer and was buzzed in. I made my way up the beautiful old staircase to the social club, which was filled with a mature crowd set out around dining tables and chairs. I was waved up to the top floor with the younger fans.

I ordered a Peroni in my best Italian, only to be answered in English, in a broad London accent. I felt a bit stupid. London’s Italian community is one of its most established and these second and third-generation fans were talking nothing but English, and opted for English TV coverage over Italian in an impromptu vote. I mourned the disappearance of the boob-tube clad lovelies who pass for Jim Rosenthal in Italy.

But these London lads and lasses were nothing but Italy fans, hurling light-hearted abuse at the England players who appeared on the screen before the game, and utterly passionate once the match kicked off.

They weren’t happy with the early performance. Expectations were understandably high following the excellent defeat of Ghana. But now their team were struggling to exert their superiority over the weakest side in the group.

But there were wild celebrations when Alberto Gilardino headed Italy into the lead. The crowd were living every kick and decision in a pulsating and controversial match. They left the players in no doubt when they thought they’d screwed up, but reserved the best of their abuse for the ref.

Shortly before half-time the priest popped his head round the door, to huge cheers, and a shout of “You might want to cover your ears father!” They weren’t joking.

It was just as well the game was so captivating and the atmosphere so lively. We were squeezed onto loads of comfy sofas around the TV, and my comfort combined with my exhaustion at my epic run of three-game days, the heat and my slight intoxication to tempt me to slip off into a very welcome sleep.

But there was no chance of that, as there were howls of anguish as Cristian Zaccardo sliced into his own net.

Then Daniele De Rossi was sent off, and abuse was hurled first at the ref and then De Rossi, when the replay made it clear that the man in the middle had got his decision spot on. The game wasn’t going to plan.

I felt like howling with anguish myself at half-time, when bowls of pasta appeared for a few of the crowd. I had no idea where they had come from and knew I had no chance of getting any. And the Peroni had run out. I made do with Carlsberg.

Things were looking up as first Pablo Mastreoni and then Eddie Pope were sent off, to huge cheers. But the States were hanging on and there was frustration as Italy failed to make their pressure or extra man count in the second half, coming closest when Carlos Bocanegra headed onto his own crossbar.

There was anger and frustration with the final score, as I struggled to haul myself off the sofa and down the stairs.

CZECH REPUBLIC v Ghana

2006-06-18T10:05:00.000+01:00

I knew that the Czech and Slovak Club would be busy. As London’s undisputed premiere Czech venue, it would be heaving with fans for a Saturday afternoon kick-off.

So it was a bit of a pain to find that we were going to have to wait 10 minutes for our first tube. We formulated a quick, train-based change of route and headed up to West Hampstead. Whether our new route was any quicker I don’t know, but it made no difference. When we got there a sign on the gate told us it was full.

We pleaded our case with the gatekeeper, who was very understanding, but couldn’t do anything for us. “We are completely full. Our former president is in there,” he explained. I’m not sure if it was the ex-pres himself who had taken my seat, but it seemed like a perfectly logical explanation.

And he confirmed what I had feared: he didn’t think there were any other Czech venues. Oh well, there’s always the third group game, I thought. But then it got even worse: the gatekeeper told me he didn’t think they’d be open for it because it was a 3.00 kick-off. I knew they’d been shut for the first game and was beginning to think that I would have to hope for them to make the knock-out stages.

I didn’t have an alternative venue because I knew this was the place to be: my Plan B had been to come back for the final group game. We decided to check nearby pubs for Czech overspill, but there was no-one there, and, worse still, they were already 1-0 down. If they lost to Ghana they would be unlikely to make the second round, and I might not be able to watch them at all. I was starting to panic. I hadn’t expected to fail with the Czech Republic.

Then I got a call from a friend who was in the Czech Club and was asking where I was. I told him I couldn’t get in. He tried to get me in, but they were adamant. I asked him if the ex-President was there. He was. Was it Vaclev Havel? It was. I took some consolation from the fact that I’d lost my seat to the father of the modern independent Czech Republic, but was pissed off that I’d arrived too late to watch the footie with one of my heroes.

Then, like some sort of guardian angel, a blond Czech fan came hurrying up the street towards the Czech Club. In desperation, I pleaded for his help. He said he thought there might be one more place up in Willesden. He didn’t know what it was called and he didn’t know if they even had a TV, but we thanked him and rushed up there.

There was a big pub opposite the station, but there was no sign of any Czechs in there. Dejected, we decided to give up. Then, on the other side of the station, we noticed an Irish pub. It can’t possibly be there, we thought. But we had nothing better to do, so we checked it out. And there was a blackboard by the door with a Czech flag, some Czech writing, and an arrow pointing up the stairs.

So up we went, and found ourselves in what looked like a tiny Irish restaurant, but a tiny Irish restaurant full of young Czechs watching the footie. They had TV!

So I got myself a well-earned pint of Pilsner – in a good, old-fashioned chunky English pint pot – and took a very welcome seat.

But the atmosphere wasn’t great. This was an important game, and they were still losing. But there was sporadic excitement, particularly when they thought they’d equalised in the first minute of the second half (off-side); and one enthusiastic, loud bloke in the corner.

The team were clearly missing injured strikers Jan Koller and Milan Baros, and every moment of excitement was followed by inevitable disappointment.

And I had more disappointment to deal with: there was a delicious smell of Czech food, but the only menu I could see was in Czech.

There were cheers when Asamoah Gyan fired a penalty against the post, but Tomas Ujfalusi had been sent off and Sulley Muntari eventually grabbed Ghana’s second. The Czechs were understandable dejected. Maybe these wouldn’t have been good circumstances for my first meeting with Mr Havel after all. He’d just have to wait.

PORTUGAL v Iran

2006-06-18T09:14:00.000+01:00

You know those little England flags you see flying from cars? The Portuguese have little car flags too, but they also have full-size ones, usually tucked around their bonnet, but often flying from a special flagpole on the back of their car.

The flags (car-based and otherwise) were out in force along South Lambeth Road, which was buzzing with anticipation 15 minutes before kick-off against Iran. There was a huge crowd at Bar Estrela, even though unlike at the Angola game there were no outside screens. It was an afternoon kick-off and the blazing sun must have been too much for them.

So I squeezed my way into the front of the bar, under one of the big screens, where I eventually managed to get myself a beer. I wondered how many bottles of Sagres and Super Bock they would get through today. At £1.60 a pop they were selling like hot cakes, but hot cakes that would cool you down and quench your thirst on a day as hot as this.

The waiters were gamely maintaining table service, squeezing their way through the tight crowd not just with drinks, but also full meals, including one flaming number that drew appreciation as it passed narrowly by highly flammable football shirts.

Unfortunately Portugal’s performance was not matching the atmosphere or weight of expectation in Bar Estrela or the other Portuguese bars strung along the road either side of it. They were toiling to find a route to goal against a team they should be able to beat without too much trouble.

There were flurries of excitement, followed by disappointment, when Portugal made, then missed, chances; and there were nervous moments when Iran started to create chances of their own.

Finding it a little hot inside, I decided to beat a hasty retreat and watch from the packed pavement. But it was almost as hot outside, and now my view was badly obstructed. But one glance at the heaving bar told me there was no way back.

The disappointing performance and the hot weather combined to make the atmosphere increasingly nervous as the game progressed. Some of the crowd were even allowing their attention to be diverted by the usual Fast and the Furious-style crazy revving of the customised cars of South Lambeth Road. But all that changed when Deco opened the scoring midway through the second half.

The huge crowd erupted in a blast of relieved excitement, and there was more to come ten minutes from the end when Luis Figo was brought down in the box and Cristiano Ronaldo stepped up to blast the penalty home.

Finding it hard to resist both a bargain and the fantastic waiter service, I allowed myself a third, celebratory, beer, only to discover that the Super Bock I had been drinking was 5.6%.

But I wasn’t too worried; Portugal were through to the second round and the car-based, horn-and-flag-centric celebrations started in earnest. But we couldn’t hang around to join in the fun this time. We had to race north if we had a chance of getting into London’s foremost Czech venue.

MEXICO v Angola

2006-06-17T10:06:00.000+01:00

A couple of Mexican blokes came up to me in the street on my way to the Mexico-Angola game and asked: “Excuse me, can you tell me where…?” “Mestizo?” I interrupted.

There aren’t many Mexicans in London, and there’s pretty much only one Mexican restaurant they would be seen dead in. And they were showing the game in their downstairs tequila bar.

So I told my new friends to come with me, and explained how a little German manager had scuppered Scotland’s chances of qualifying for the World Cup (they’d made the mistake of asking). They’d just arrived in London, on their way to Germany.

But first we had a game to watch. The basement was packed 30 minutes before kick-off. The good-natured mixture of strip-and-flag-clad Mexicans (one with a patriotic red, white and green kazoo), English (identifiable by their sombreros) there for a Mexican good time, and a bloke in an Argentina flag were not deterred by the bad Mexican pop blaring out as kick-off approached.

They were serving tacos and other Mexican deliciousness, and I regretted the quarter-pounder with cheese I’d stupidly grabbed on my way to the best Mexican restaurant in London.

And of course no Mexican night is complete without a crazy woman running round blowing a whistle and forcing people to down tequila slammers. I was beginning to feel a bit old.

I felt more at home once the game kicked off. The boisterous crowd were showing real enthusiasm for the game and sprang into life when they thought they’d scored in the first minute, the ball bouncing off the top of the net.

There was plenty of chanting, excited anticipation for free kicks, and olés when Mexico strung a series of passes together. But the team were not matching the fans’ performance.

The crowd were starting to show their disappointment as their team continued to spurn chances towards half-time, but the mood lifted during the break as the poor football was replaced by Mexican music. The fans packed the dance floor for an exuberant Mexican ball.

But then the football started again and it was so uninspiring that the fans in the bar started their own mini Mexican wave in an attempt to amuse themselves.

They remained enthusiastically optimistic although their team continued to spurn chances, but their frustration was revealed by their chants of “Un gol, un gol, queremos un gol!” (A goal, a goal, we want a goal!)

As the game wore on Mexico created more and more chances. Veteran Joao Ricardo was performing heroics in goal for Angola, but surely a Mexico goal would come? The excitement built, but then the final whistle confirmed the poor result and the crowd couldn’t hide their disappointment. And then the disco started and they all cheered up and flocked to the dance floor.

As the Angola fans on TV celebrated their first ever World Cup point, a sombrero-clad Englishman in front of me confided to his mate: “That’s the place to be.” I thought you want to get yourselves down Stockwell mate.

IVORY COAST v Holland

2006-06-17T07:43:00.000+01:00

I had checked at the Serb Community Centre in Ladbroke Grove and they told me that they would be showing their games. So I was surprised when I turned up, on another scorcher of a day, 20 minutes before kick-off, only to find the door locked and no sign of life.

I hoped they were just cutting it a bit fine. I hadn’t even arranged a Plan B because I had been so confident.

And then my best mate phoned to find out how it was going: “Not great…” Thankfully he was wired to the world-wide web and gave me the details for another option I had seen before, on City Road; on the other side of town.

So when kick-off arrived and there was still no-one there I jumped on the tube to race across town. I thought I’d made matters worse and got on the wrong platform when the first announcement said “The next station is Latimer Road”. But it was the announcement that was wrong and I was soon changing at King’s Cross.

And the board at King’s Cross said the Northern Line train I needed was eight minutes away. I considered getting out and walking, but it turned up straight away.

So I got to the pub well before half-time. They were showing the game on a couple of big screens, but the place was empty apart from an Argentina fan and some people having lunch.

I hoped the Serbs would show more enthusiasm for their final, evening, group game.

And now failure was not an option with the Ivory Coast. They could both very well go out in the group stages and I only had one chance to watch either of them again.

But I could now get to my Ivory Coast venue with plenty of time to spare. This was going to be my most authentic African experience, but it was the game about which I was most nervous.

A very helpful man from an Ivorian community organisation had told me that they’d been planning to hold an event in a Peckham town square, but the council were too worried about public disorder. It wasn’t the sort of news I wanted to hear.

He directed me to a restaurant stranded halfway between Brixton and Stockwell, on a street still to feel the merest hint of gentrification. I was nervous as I stepped across the threshold, but glad to see I’d definitely found the right place.

Along with the fairy lights and plastic flowers, there were assorted Ivory Coast football shirts all over the walls (which were painted in the national colours), and a couple of Ivory Coast football boots behind the bar.

But there didn’t seem to be anyone there. It was 30 minutes before kick-off, though. But a man in an Ivory Coast shirt turned up straight after me and made his way through the back. I plucked up the courage to follow him.

There was already a decent crowd through the back half an hour before kick-off. I wandered in and asked: “Hello, can I watch the football with you?”, to which they replied “Of course!”, “Come in!”, “Have a seat!”, “Let me buy you a drink!”

I shouldn’t have been worried; this was the most welcome I’d been made to feel so far, as they all shook my hand. They were tucking into cans of Stella and bottles of Flag, their local beer (very nice, by the way), and, alarmingly, pouring huge shots of Johnnie Walker Black Label from the bottles on the tables.

They were amused by my reasons for supporting Ivory Coast, amazed that I’d come all the way from Twickenham: “But eet’s far, non?”; and laughed when I told them I hadn’t been able to find any Serbs. They told me they’d lost 6-0 and I’d missed the best performance of the tournament so far. I worried that the Serbs wouldn’t want to watch their last game now.

Ivorian radio blasted out as kick-off approached, which certainly made a muted Jim Rosenthal sound much sexier on the TV screen.

They were taking the game seriously. They had to win, having been narrowly beaten by Argentina in their first game. My neighbour told me that their (French) manager was rubbish, and that everyone wanted him to play Aruna Dindane, who was on the bench.

Everyone had an opinion and they were expressed loudly as the game went on. I sat between the fans in blissful ignorance as all the debate was in French. There was a great deal of laughter too, with the jokes flying around. I smiled along, although I didn’t have a clue what anyone was saying.

The crowd were the most animated I’d seen so far, but there was dismay as Holland helped themselves to a two-goal lead. My neighbour talked of a conspiracy against African teams. Some major decisions had certainly gone against his team so far, and I said I thought it was strange Ivory Coast and Ghana had both been given such difficult groups.

But despair turned to elation when Bakari Kone blasted a shot past Edwin Van der Sar. There was jumping around, shouting and dancing in celebration.

Ivory Coast carved out more good chances towards the end, but dismay set in as they continued to miss their chances and went out, in spite of good performances against two of the tournament favourites.

I commiserated with my hosts. I thought they’d been very unlucky. They thought it was more to do with their French manager. They thanked me for coming. I thanked them for their hospitality. And I really meant it.

I’d broken my two-beer rule again.

SWEDEN v Paraguay

2006-06-16T10:20:00.000+01:00

There’s a short street in Marylebone that has the cute nickname of Little Stockholm. It just looks like a Marylebone street with a couple of Swedish flags on it, but on the night of the Paraguay match it was crawling with lovely Swedes.

They’d organised the games with admirable precision. I’d bought my ticket (four pounds, including a drink) weeks before, but I was already too late to get into the Swedish pub and was being accommodated in the overspill venue, the Swedish church on the other side of the road.

As I went in I had my hand stamped and my ticket exchanged for a lottery ticket that I would then be able to exchange for my drink. It was like a village fete. In a church. With booze. And a hugely important football match. On another huge screen, as it turned out. There were more signs about bag searches (no smuggling booze into the venue, please) and this time I was worried about them finding my shirt for their group rivals, England. But they didn’t search my bag.

I wondered if I’d inadvertently drawn the long straw by being too late for the pub. The church was also heaving with a capacity crowd, and what a lovely church it was. It was certainly the first venue to which I’d been on my quest that had showers in the gents’. My only criticism is that the best seats had been grabbed by some sort of priests.

There were a few fellow Celtic fans among the many Swedes, who were, of course, there to see “King” Henrik Larsson. We mourned the retirement of former Celt Johan “we call him Terminator because he looks like Dolph Lundgren” Mjällby from the squad.

But we had a match to watch, with an enthusiastic crowd sporting their yellow-and-blue shirts, flags and wigs. They managed to maintain their good-natured excitement in spite of their side’s inability to threaten Paraguay’s well-organised defence, although they did express some mild frustration at a Zlatan Ibrahimovic miss.

For the first game I had been to in the tournament, there were cheers when the possession figures appeared on the screen: 60% Sweden, reason enough for celebration, I’m sure you’ll agree. But at half-time there was consternation. Another draw would leave them probably having to beat England to go through.

They confessed that they were worried about their recent failure to score goals. When they told me how far back it stretched I realised they were right to be worried, and I struggled to think of any encouraging words. So I bought myself a hot dog instead. It was very nice.

The level of consternation in the crowd was palpable as the second half ground on with Sweden failing to show a cutting edge. I was feeling really sorry for them and almost wanted to cry (although that doesn’t take much, sometimes just a particularly good episode of Grand Designs).

But they maintained their enthusiasm in the face of adversity, and there were moments of huge excitement in the second half: at a Larsson free kick, and a goal-line clearance and good saves from the South Americans.

Things were looking ominous for Sweden as the final whistle approached, until, with just a couple of minutes to go, Freddy Ljungberg eventually broke the deadlock. There was mayhem in the church. I jumped for joy. I almost couldn’t believe it. The celebrations were wild. They were almost out, but now they were almost definitely through to the second round.

I shook the doorman’s hand, congratulated him, and left grinning from ear to ear as if it had been Scotland. You’ve got to love those Swedes.

ENGLAND v Trinidad & Tobago

2006-06-16T09:17:00.000+01:00

England presented me with a couple of unique problems. Of course, finding England fans in the capital of England wouldn’t be difficult; but how on earth was I going to choose from the hundreds of potential venues? And could I actually bring myself to don the shirt of Scotland’s biggest rivals and cheer them on? I knew I could never support my biggest club rivals, Rangers.

I had a few ideas for different venues, but today’s game had to be in a central location. I had to get there in good time from the Ecuador game and be able to arrive at the Sweden game before kick-off, to meet a photographer from a Scottish newspaper. And I had just an hour between games, and the vagaries of London’s public transport system with which to contend.

I’d planned to watch the match in Trafalgar Square and was hoping for good weather. It turned out nice, but, as my lovely long-suffering football widow wife told me the night before, they were showing no more outside games in London. Just as well she’d told me; otherwise it would just have been me and the pigeons. I’d been too busy watching games to keep up with the World Cup news.

My only other reasonably central option was the Clapham Grand, a nightclub and former cinema that was showing many of the games on its 40-square metre screen. The biggest in Europe, they reckon. But it was first come first served and they were throwing open their doors 45 minutes before the end of the Ecuador game. I knew I’d have to get there as early as I could, especially if the Trafalgar Square crowd had to be accommodated somewhere.

So I donned my England shirt on the Bakerloo Line (it’s funny, the words you never thought you’d write) and it felt strangely liberating. Just for the record, I really like England. I’ve got a lovely English wife, a very nice half-English dad from London; I think it’s one of the best countries in the world (after Canada, Costa Rica, Sweden and Italy – in no particular order – for the record); and, at the risk of sounding like a glory-hunter, they’ve currently got some of the best footballers in the world.

But I’m a Scotland fan, so England remain the most difficult national side for me to support. I know England fans will support Scotland, but we are no more than a minor nuisance to them. For a Scotland fan to support England is like an England fan supporting Germany.

And I’d frequently found being in pubs while England were playing a particularly uncomfortable experience. And I say that as a veteran of multiple uncomfortable football experiences.

But rules is rules, so I was supporting England. After giving up on a train at Waterloo that sat by the platform while they waited for a driver to turn up, I made it to the venue in time, but was alarmed to see they were searching bags. I had a Scotland shirt in mine for the shoot we were going to be doing at the Sweden game. Thankfully the bouncer either didn’t realise what it was or deemed us a negligible threat, because he didn’t mention it.

The cinema screen certainly looked like the biggest on which I’d ever watched football, and I made my way down to the Saturday Night Fever-style flashing dance floor by the glitter balls (and no, that’s not David Beckham’s latest nickname) at the front. The nightclub/former cinema did earn authenticity points for their pie stall however, and I can vouch that their produce wasn’t bad (if a little small for my taste).

There was a positive atmosphere as the game got underway and I was beginning to wonder what I’d been worried about. I was keeping my mouth shut in order to maintain my undercover status, but then I froze. I thought I’d been rumbled.

As one, the crowd suddenly started to bellow “Are you Scotland in disguise?” over and over again. I thought “Yes, I am, but how do you know? I have a relatively dark complexion for one born north of the border.” Then I realised they were, of course, directing their shouts not at me, but at the Trinbagonian players on the screen. They were intimating that they didn’t think they were very good.

But it soon became clear that their accusations of Scotland-alikeness could just as easily be directed at their own team. England were failing abjectly to put Trinidad & Tobago under any real pressure. After just 21 minutes the Clapham crowd were loudly chanting for the introduction of Wayne Rooney.

And the atmosphere wasn’t improved by a Peter Crouch miss. Then on the stroke of half-time Stern John almost grabbed a shock goal, but John Terry brilliantly cleared it off the line, to huge cheers.

And the half-time atmosphere was helped by Three Lions, Vindaloo and, perhaps prophetically, The Great Escape on the disco sound system, accompanied by a good old cockney sing-along.

But frustration was building as the game wore on, Crouch missed again, and the dreaded 0-0 looked more and more likely. So when Rooney and – more significantly as it turned out – Aaron Lennon came on, the crowd were sparked back into life.

And so were England. Their new shape gave them the cutting edge they’d been missing and big Crouchy eventually atoned for his earlier misses, his opening goal sparking a relieved outburst of celebration in the crowd, resulting in a beer-over-balcony spillage situation.

And then Steven Gerrard wrapped up the points and the crowd went wild, knowing they’d made a great escape, and confirmed their place in the second round.

Once again, however, I had my own escape to make. I had some Swedes to meet.

ECUADOR v Costa Rica

2006-06-16T07:33:00.000+01:00

Apparently Trinidad and Tobago were playing some team called England on Thursday, and there was feverish speculation that a certain Wayne Rooney might feature. But first things first: Ecuador had a crunch match against Costa Rica, and a win would put them in the second round.

I’d been pleasantly surprised to find out that London had recently acquired a reasonably large Ecuadorian community, packed tightly around Elephant & Castle with the Colombians.

So I’d got myself down there and asked a waiter in a Hispanic restaurant where I could watch the game with the fans. He grinned and answered “Aquí,” stressing it in such a way to make it obvious I’d just asked a stupid question. If only all the countries were so easy, I thought.

And as I got the lift out of the station shortly before kick off I saw three lads bedecked in yellow, red and blue shirts, flags and hair dye. I followed them. They were going to the Ministry of Salsa, a few doors down from the restaurant I had chosen. There was a decent crowd there preparing for the action on their big screen, so I joined them.

The crowd was made up primarily of young fans, dressed in team paraphernalia, but in a Los Angeles street style, with bandanas, back-to-front caps, and baggy shirts and shorts.

Meanwhile, older members of the crowd were mostly tucking in to big bowls of delicious-looking-and-smelling food while the match got underway. To make the food even more appealing, it was being served by Hollywood actress Marisa Tomei. At least I think it was her.

Coverage on the big screen came courtesy of Ecuadorian TV, complete with hundred-miles-an-hour commentary. I wondered if the commentator had to talk so fast to fit in everything he had to say around frequent adverts for various lotteries, which appeared at the bottom of the screen during the game, with their own dialogue: “text Ecuador to this number to win a thousand dollars!”

The crowd weren’t displaying as much excitement as the commentator, with a surprisingly laid-back vibe in the Ministry. Maybe they suspected that this game was going to be easy, having already beaten Poland. Their team did nothing to prove that assumption wrong, taking the lead after just eight minutes, sparking wild celebrations from the previously too-cool-for-school young fans.

I was enjoying Ecuador performing above all expectations so far in the tournament, and found myself cheering along at the goal.

The laid-back vibe returned until just after half-time, when Ecuador doubled their lead, to huge cheers from the crowd. They now had a big foot in the second round.

The atmosphere started to buzz as full-time approached, the Costa Rica fans who were sneaking out of the stadium early on TV getting short shrift in the Ministry; and the kids really sparked into life when Ivan Kaviedes made it 3-0 in the last minute.

Ecuador were through, but I couldn’t hang around for the party. England were next up, and I had to get there early if I wanted to get in.

GERMANY v Poland

2006-06-15T10:26:00.000+01:00

I was all set to watch Tunisia take on Saudi Arabia in the only Tunisian restaurant in London, but they decided they wouldn’t be showing the game after all, with the owner jetting off to Germany to watch the game there.

My only Plan B was to check out the action on Edgware Road, but I only found one café with much of a crowd. And, as one Tunisian fan there told me, it was about half Tunisian and half Saudi, so I decided to regroup and try and catch a future Tunisian game.

And I’d heard that there might be a Saudi gathering at the bar in one of Park Lane’s swanky hotels, so I prepared to switch sides and raced down there, only to find hardly anyone watching the game.

I had one more potential Saudi venue up my sleeve, but it was too far away now that the game was well underway. And that’s how I missed a game for the first time in the tournament.

So I got to the Germany venue with plenty of time to spare, and took a well-earned seat and a Weiss bier in a tall, football themed glass as I prepared to support a team playing against someone I’d already supported for the first time in the tournament. After my hectic pub-hopping week I couldn’t face one of the big fat two-pint glasses with a huge head favoured by the Germans.

My glass had an Argentina flag on it and said they’d won the World Cup twice. I wondered if they just had glasses for teams that had won the cup fewer times than Germany. I couldn’t see the Scotland glass with a proud boast of no World Cups, but I was pretty sure that there probably would be one.

Authenticity’s all well and good, but when it comes to a German bar, you really want blatantly non-German staff in lederhosen and wench outfits, and oom-pah music; and that’s what this venue provided, along with jelly-wrestling beer wenches (although not tonight). Female customers can even join in to battle it out for a £100 beer tab. It’s funny; the things you never realised were German.

And then some men turned up with big shiny instruments and big funny hats. A real oom-pah band! And they even played the theme from Star Wars! I was loving it.

The boisterous crowd proved they were real football fans when they largely ignored the pre-kick off Old Trafford-style announcement for everyone to take a seat so that others could see.

The Poles were getting stuck into the Germans on the pitch, generating a noisy atmosphere in the pub, and there were loud cheers for the frequent Polish yellow cards and for a good chance on the stroke of half-time.

But I suspected the fans were putting a brave face on their struggle to score, trying to appear impassive. As the game went on and Poland went down to ten men the Germans created more and more chances, but the fans were repeatedly frustrated by Celtic’s Artur Boruc, who was playing a blinder between the Polish sticks, and probably playing himself into a transfer away from Celtic Park.

And then Germany hit the bar twice in the last minute and the crowd thought they’d scored when they had the ball in the net; but it was ruled out for off side. And then they did score, and let their mask slip with delirious celebrations. They really did care.

UKRAINE v Spain

2006-06-15T08:19:00.000+01:00

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.

CROATIA v Brazil

2006-06-14T10:55:00.000+01:00

Apparently there’s not very many Croats in London, but I don’t believe it. They’d arranged events at three or four London pubs for their opening game against Brazil, and we headed for the one that we thought would have the most action.

And I presume we chose right, because both the ground floor and first floor bars were rammed with fans, sporting their famous checked shirts…. and checked hats… and checked caps… and checked bandanas… and checked flags… and checked inflatable flags… and checked face paint… and, my personal favourite, checked minidresses. This corner of London’s swinging Kings Road really had been turned into a mini Croatia, complete with Hajduk Split flags on the walls.

There was plenty of boisterous singing in Croatian, proving that everyone here was Croatia through and through, but judging by the Aussie and English accents I was hearing, a healthy chunk of the support were second or third generation, explaining where all these Croats had suddenly appeared from.

And they were well up for this game against the champions. They had no inferiority complex. Not for the Croats any platitudes about simply being glad to be here, meeting the lauded Brazilians. No, they’d come to win. Good on them. Although they managed to spare some cheers for the ubiquitous Brazilian bikini babes who were wheeled out on the screen.

And the team were playing with the same admirable attitude, tearing into the Brazilians and enjoying as many chances as their illustrious opponents. The crowd were loving it and the atmosphere was fantastic.

I was loving it too. Even if I hadn’t been on my quest, I would have found it hard to resist the lure of Croatia; especially considering the unqualified praise lumped on Brazil by the press.

I was even getting behind Rangers’ Dado Prso who was somehow having an excellent game. But then disaster struck on the stroke of half time, with a top-drawer strike from Brazil’s Kaka. The crowd were stunned.

But they roared back into life in the second half, as did their team. Maybe my judgement was clouded by the intense atmosphere, but they were playing at least as well as Brazil.

The excitement mounted throughout the second half as they went in search of the equaliser they deserved, building to a crescendo towards the final whistle.

But when that whistle came they were deflated. They were pissed off to lose 1-0 to Brazil. We offered our commiserations. They said it was alright. We still knew they were pissed off. But maybe it was alright. On the basis of that performance, and with Japan and Australia to come, we should be seeing more of Croatia’s committed fans in this year’s tournament.

FRANCE v Switzerland

2006-06-14T09:49:00.000+01:00

I was worried that we wouldn’t be able to get into my French venue of choice. I knew London had a large, albeit spread-out, French population and we were heading for London’s number one French sporting venue.

But when I called to ask if we should reserve a place, the affable Frenchman on the other end of the line told me they don’t take bookings. “You just turn up and… voila,” he explained.

And he was right. It was busy, but we just turned up a few minutes before kick-off and… voila. I guessed that the London French must have been watching the game all over the city.

But the atmosphere early on seemed slightly nervous. Maybe it just appeared subdued compared to the crazy Korean enthusiasm, but I guessed that memories of World Cup 2002, when les bleus failed to score a single goal, were preying on French minds.

The one player to spark excitement was young hope Franck Ribery, whose every touch of the ball was met with anticipation, and there was huge excitement when he shot just over.

But, as the wine (and other funny drinks) started to flow, the atmosphere built, with France starting to mount decent attacks towards the end of the first half and into the second. And there were huge cheers when Thierry Henry returned to the pitch after a slight injury scare.

I was still convinced that, until France scored, there would be nerves. As a friendly Algerian bloke admitted to me at half-time, it was hard to know just how well France would do in the tournament. He wasn’t worried about the squad being too old, but was surprisingly modest about the quality of France’s world-class players (Zidane included), and he made the shocking admission that he thought that England were better and that he would be cheering them on too.

Also working on Anglo-French relations were three Englishmen in the crowd, who I took to be Arsenal fans there to support Henry.

In spite of France’s continued failure to score, excitement built in the second half, with the chants of “Allez les bleus” ringing out. And when a girl squeezed through the crowd with a huge suitcase, it seemed strangely in keeping with the event.

There was more and more anticipation as the game reached its climax. Surely France would get the goal their superiority deserved? Almost, as the atmosphere peaked in the 90th minute when substitute Vikash Dhorasoo blazed a shot inches wide of the Swiss post.

But when the ref blew to confirm the poor result, the excitement evaporated, the crowd understandably downhearted; although with South Korea and Togo still to play, surely their first World Cup goal since 1998 can’t be far away.

SOUTH KOREA v Togo

2006-06-14T07:38:00.000+01:00

I tried to find a specific Togolese venue, I really did. But when their only entry on the Africa Centre’s database is their embassy, and that’s in Paris, it’s not easy. I’d kept my eyes peeled for their cool flag in areas frequented by other Francophone Africans, but I was having no joy. So all my hopes were resting on the Africa Bar in Covent Garden; again.

They assured me they would definitely be showing the South Korea game, so I donned my well-smart Togo shirt and headed down there. I wondered how many fans would be joining me. I shouldn’t get my hopes up too high. Probably just a few.

As I strolled through Covent Garden I spotted a few South Korea fans. I wondered if they would see my Togo shirt and kick my head in, Tae Kwon Do-style. But they seemed much too nice for that. And as far as I know there’s no specific South Korea-Togo.

And as I turned the corner for the Africa Centre, I realised I had stumbled across a Korean hotspot. There were young red-clad fans all over the street.

I slid past them and down into the Africa Bar, which was even more deserted than I had feared: my only companions were my fellow country-collector Jesse, from the Angola game, and the Eritrean barman.

I got myself a bottle of Tusker and joined them as the game kicked off anyway, hoping for a late surge of Togolese interest.

But after 15 minutes it became clear that it wasn’t happening and, although we were having a nice time, I decided to crank the fickle factor up to maximum and switch allegiances during the game.

I left the bar, changed my shirt, regretted not bringing any earplugs, and stepped into the pub across the road. It was full of young Korean fans and their crazy enthusiasm was impossible not to love. It soon became evident that they were almost definitely the most enthusiastic fans in the tournament.

At times – many times – it was like listening to the crowd at a Take That concert. High-pitched screaming greeted the slightest bit of action. When they made a tackle in their own half, they screamed. When an attack disappointingly headed for the corner flag, they screamed. Fouls, clearances, misses, substitutions, shots, bookings, saves, attacks, opposition attacks and Togo’s opening goal were all greeted with varying volumes of wall-to-wall screaming, starting at ear-piercing and going up. Covent Garden’s animal life ran for shelter and put its paws over its ears.

The only event that wasn’t rewarded with screams was a wild gesticulation by their manager Dick Advocaat, which drew embarrassed giggles from the fans.

At half-time we moved to a much bigger basement venue, which was just as full of red shirts, and twice as loud. And then Togo’s Jean-Paul Abalo was sent off and South Korea equalised. They screamed. Loudly. Four times. Because every replay is greeted with the same level of enthusiasm as the goal was the first time.

And then South Korea took the lead. The place went absolutely wild and I sustained a slight foot injury in the celebrations.

After the final whistle the celebrations spilled out into Covent Garden Plaza, where rain was now falling in sheets after the last few days of scorching heat. The wild, red-shirted celebrations attracted the same levels of passer-by bemusement that Holland and Portugal had on Sunday.

And a pleasant young lady gave me some nice free Korean food.

I just hoped I’d be able to find a few Togo fans before they got knocked out.

GHANA v Italy

2006-06-13T10:31:00.000+01:00

I was so glad that Ghana had qualified for their first World Cup. Not because it was long overdue and they deserved it more than anyone; but because there are bloody loads of Ghanaians in London and they know how to throw a party.

Our already considerable options for the Italy game grew shortly before kick-off when we were invited to an event in a swanky new Ghanaian bar in Clerkenwell, and we decided it would be rude to turn it down.

So we sped up to the heart of, ironically, London’s Italian community and made our way down to the basement bar, where we were greeted by our charming hosts. I had managed to acquire a lovely Ghana shirt from Puma for the game, and, with them being like gold dust, promised it to AJ, one of our hosts, at full time.

The bar was stocked with special west African Guinness (brewed at 7.5% especially for the west African market, where they like their beer strong), which they were making into punch with some sort of thick yellow stuff for the ladies, presumably because it wasn’t already quite strong enough. It was dangerously delicious.

Although they were in the same tough group as USA and the Czech Republic and tonight they were facing one of the tournament favourites, the atmosphere was unremittingly positive, upbeat and lively; if perhaps just a little too, well, polite for our Scottish sensibilities. Two things that I’m glad to say weren’t as polite were the signs on the toilet doors.

The crowd was, of course, overwhelmingly Ghanaian, with a healthy sprinkling of English friends who cheerfully admitted they just couldn’t resist the lure of the Ghana.

Unfortunately, Italy were playing as well as everyone had feared they just might and there were screams as they went close. But the excitement mounted as Ghana, with their star-studded midfield, were giving as good as they got in this second heavyweight clash of the tournament.

The atmosphere remained lively even after Italy made their class tell when they took the lead just before half time, and Ghana chased the game to the bitter end, when Italy substitute Vincenzo Iaquinta made it 2-0.

But the fans weren’t too downhearted, knowing they’d given a good account of themselves against a top side, and that Ghana still had a good shout of making the knock-out stages.

“Will you beat the Czechs?” I asked AJ as I gave him my shirt at full time. “We’ve got to beat America too,” he said, to which I replied: “Did you see them this afternoon? You’ll beat them. I’ll bet my shirt on it.”

USA v Czech Republic

2006-06-13T09:56:00.000+01:00

There were so many questions about where to watch America: Do they actually care about football? Can it really be true that they don’t like alcohol and pubs? Will they all be watching the game at home sipping Tab Clear?

Fortunately my favourite Soho diner doubles as a sports venue: admittedly primarily for basketball, baseball, American football and ice hockey; but they were definitely showing the game and expecting a good turnout.

We got there with plenty of time to spare but it wasn’t looking good. Some sort of country rock was blasting out and it was more or less empty. But it started to fill up as kick-off approached, with a polite grown-up crowd.

The atmosphere remained calm and dignified as the game kicked off and it didn’t get any more atmospheric as the impressive Czechs helped themselves to a 2-0 lead, although there was some excitement when Claudio Reyna thumped a shot against the post.

My neighbour had also been expecting it to be busier. We wondered if people were still at work or maybe outside enjoying the sun, and he told me that other Americans were going to the nearby Sports Café for the game. He admitted that expectations weren’t high and I wondered if that was the main reason for the poor turnout.

“But there is quite a lot of support for the soccer team in America, isn’t there?” I asked him, “I mean not as much as…” “In Europe,” he added. I was going to say the big four American sports, but he made a good point.

We chatted about wunderkind Freddy Adu, who had failed to make the squad although the team were sorely lacking inspiration in one of the toughest groups. Then at half time I wished my neighbour luck in the second half (they were going to need it) and headed down to the Sports Café.

I had decided to try and avoid the Sports Café, thinking all nations might go there and preferring authentic country-specific venues; but it seemed fitting for America, and sure enough their fans outnumbered the Czechs.

The crowd was younger and more boisterous than it had been in the diner, but there still wasn’t much excitement, understandably since they were 2-0 down with Italy and Ghana still to play.

I still harboured the suspicion that they hadn’t quite grasped the finer details of the game – “25 minutes!” shouted one excitable youth when there were 15 minutes to go – and when excellent new Arsenal midfielder Tomas Rosicky made it 3-0 I was glad I had chosen this match to watch the US. Because if they weren’t interested before this game, I suspected they would all be watching basketball instead of the Italy and Ghana games.

After drowning their sorrows with some refreshing Gatorade.

AUSTRALIA v Japan

2006-06-13T08:27:00.000+01:00

You know that advert where some Aussie blokes hate the sun and try to find somewhere dark to drink their beer? The one where you think silly advertisers, that’s not right? Well they may have a point.

There’s nothing Aussies like better on a hot, sunny day than to pile into a huge dark venue with no windows. And drink large quantities of beer.

I knew west London’s huge dark Aussie venues better than is perhaps good for your health, having lived more or less next door to a couple of them for a few years each. And my cavernous Aussie barn of choice for the Japan game was the one closest to my heart: the Redback in Acton. I had, after all met Pat Cash there (thoroughly nice man, by the way).

But if you’ve been paying attention to my adventures so far, you’ll probably have noticed that my Plan B is often better than Plan A. Undoubtedly so on this occasion. The Redback was closed.

Thankfully Plan B was just up the road in Shepherd’s Bush and we got to the Walkabout in plenty time to see our hosts go behind to a dodgy goal from Celtic’s Shunsuke Nakamura. It was a goal whose dodginess elicited a predictable response from the huge Aussie crowd, who let their displeasure be known with great volume.

The action was unfolding on TVs around the venue, and one huge screen at the back of the room above the stage where I remembered watching second-rate rock bands several years before.

It was a good, open game, with Australia perhaps a little more enthusiastic in their tackling, and any injured Japanese players getting short shrift from the local crowd. I did wonder if the fans – and players – still hadn’t quite grasped the gulf in acceptable tackling between football and their preferred sports.

It suddenly occurred to me that this might be a bit of a local derby, but was told that no, it wasn’t. The big rivalry is with their final group opponents Croatia, but I was assured that it was all very friendly. Then an announcement rang out: “Next Sunday, the Socceroos against some sh*t team called Brazil,” and a girl shouted “W*nker!” when former Aussie boss Terry Venables appeared on screen. I marvelled at the Aussie ability to appear friendly while hurling abuse. The Croats had a lot to look forward to.

The second half carried on the way the first had finished, with Australia failing to create any real scoring opportunities, but the crowd still enthusiastic. I knew they could be more enthusiastic though, and so it proved with the game’s incredible climax: Tim Cahill drew Australia level – the crowd went wild with delight – Cahill gave Australia the lead – they shouted themselves hoarse – John Aloisi made it 3-0 – the beer started to fly through the air, joining the assorted inflatables that had been a feature of the game.

Having broken my two-pint rule again, we left the Aussies to shout themselves hoarse and spill booze while we stumbled blinking into the sunlight and headed up town to try and find some Americans.

ANGOLA v Portugal

2006-06-12T10:23:00.000+01:00

There aren’t many Angolans in London and, to make matters worse, the embassy had decided to bus loads of them over to Germany for the World Cup and give them free tickets. Nice one.

But shortly before their first ever World Cup game - incredibly against their former colonial rulers Portugal - I had some good news: there was an Angolan restaurant in south London.

I had no time to visit to check it out so I gave them a call. “This number has not been recognised,” said the voice on the end of the line. Bu we dashed down there anyway, hoping that it would be open. After all, I always had Plan B: The Africa Bar in Covent Garden.

We got to the restaurant, to find it, not only under a new name, but with a sign on the door: “To whom it may concern, take notice that agents of the landlord have taken possession of these premises.” Plan B it is, we thought. So we dashed back over the river to Covent Garden.

But the Africa Bar was closed; the only sign of life in the Africa Centre was a church service. We didn’t want to disturb them and it was pretty obvious that this was another lead that had gone cold.

Then something unusual happened. Four lads appeared looking confused and talking about Angola. “Are you looking for a place to watch Angola?” I asked. “Yes,” replied their leader, “I’m doing this thing where I try to watch all the World Cup teams with their fans in London…”

“Funny you should say that…” I said. It was like when two groups of explorers meet in the jungle in an old film. At first there’s distrust, then they join forces and go on to greater things.

Jesse (the leader) had one more lead, a bar in Stockwell. We all knew it was controversial because it’s in the heart of Little Portugal but we had no choice. So, battling London Underground line-closures-for-essential-maintenance, we all raced back south of the river, hoping to catch the second half with some Angolans.

We got to the venue at half time, and sure enough there were some Angolans there (admittedly heavily outnumbered by Portuguese, and even by Ecuadorians).

We had a quick look further down the street and were blown away by what we saw: the crowd outside Estrelha – the heart of Little Portugal – was massed 20 deep on the especially wide pavement, curving in a huge arc around the screens and speakers the bar had set up on the pavement. I was here to watch Angola, but found myself drawn irresistibly to this huge crowd of horn and whistle-blowing Portuguese.

But my disloyalty to the Angolan cause was, perversely, rewarded. Although they made up a minority of the crowd, the Angolans at Estrelha were more than making themselves heard, and waving their flags and scarves, particularly a group of teenage Angolan girls screaming loudly a little behind my right ear.

All the top-floor bus passengers who passed by were glued to the action, not on the screens, but on the pavement slightly to their left, a thin blue line of good-natured coppers just about keeping the crowd out of the way of the traffic.

Incredibly, Portugal’s narrow 1-0 win over average opposition was the spark for a huge party on the streets of Stockwell. Cars bedecked with ever-bigger Portuguese flags drove round and round the block, tooting their horns incessantly. Some sort of Portuguese jeep/samba/booty-shaking thing was going on round the corner. People were spilling out onto the street to celebrate in front of buses.

If anyone was just passing by and couldn’t get through, they couldn’t use their horn to get people out of their way. Everyone would just think they were joining in the celebrations.

As one of the coppers said, “What will they be like if they actually win the cup?” I could still hear them celebrating from Vauxhall station 45 minutes after the final whistle.

And the Angolans could be proud of their boys’ performance too. Everyone’s a winner.

I wasn’t sure if I’d just been supporting Angola, or Portugal, or both. One thing I did know was that I’d be back as often as my schedule would permit.

It’s on days like these that I think London really is the best city in the world: where else would we have found so many Dutch, Iranians, Angolans and Portuguese getting so passionate. Who said New York? Get out of my sight.

IRAN v Mexico

2006-06-12T09:32:00.000+01:00

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.

HOLLAND v Serbia & Montenegro

2006-06-12T08:06:00.000+01:00

For some reason I’d never really liked Dutch football. Maybe because everyone else does and I can’t help being contrary; maybe because of a run-in with a couple of Aryan giants in Crete in 1994.

But it’s probably got much more to do with the Dutch influence at Glasgow Rangers, when they were annoyingly successful (for a while at least) with Dutch manager Dick Advocaat and a stream of Dutch players, most notoriously Fernando Ricksen.

But my cynicism was completely erased by the unremittingly positive atmosphere at the first Holland game, within minutes of getting into the Dutch bar in Chinatown. After half time, that is.

I’d known that it would be busy. Tickets for all the group games had sold out weeks in advance for the upstairs bar. I’d planned to get there an hour before kick-off but Sunday timetables and signal problems outside Waterloo had delayed me by 30 minutes.

And when I turned the corner towards the pub my worst fears were realised: hordes of oranje-clad fans were outside, craning to get a view of the screens through the windows. And if they were worried by yesterday’s excellent performances by their group rivals Argentina and Ivory Coast, they weren’t showing it.

It was a sight to cause bemusement amongst the passing tourists, here, outside a pub in London’s Chinatown, a scene you’d expect in Amsterdam. Coach parties stopped to take photos. And the local Chinese population were digging the vibe, watching the Dutch watching the game.

My view from the queue - of the right hand side of the screen at least - was surprisingly good (and it was a great chance to top up my tan). Unfortunately Holland were attacking the goal on the left, so I couldn’t actually see if Arjen Robben had scored after he broke through on goal. But I was left in no doubt by the explosive celebrations all around me.

Loads of fans were happy to watch through the window, forming a huge crowd in the street, but I eventually got in at half time, and the vibe, in spite of the cramped conditions, was nothing but positive.

There was a man upstairs with the loudest drum I had ever heard, and the anthems were being belted out: one, curiously (I thought), to the tune of Auld Lang Syne.

I could somehow see the screen past the towering Dutch Peter Crouch-a-likes (my eyes generally came up to their shoulders) and I was loving the biggest balloons in the world (orange, by the way) tethered to the bar.

My one fear was if they scored again there was a potentially catastrophic beer spillage situation, reminiscent of my experiences of the 2003 UEFA Cup final. It was my first game of the day after all, and I didn’t want to turn up at the Iran venue soaked in alcohol.

And I thought things had gone too far when one fan got on a table and made a grab for a chandelier. It’ll never take his weight, I thought. People were egging him on. He took hold of the light in both hands… and hooked it higher on the ceiling so people would have a better view of the screen. What a nice man, I thought.

I never got covered in alcohol because the game finished one-nil (curiously without much tension), although I had inadvertently broken my two-pints-a-game rule.

And the atmosphere was so good I could almost have hugged Dick Advocaat (no, not you Fernando). But I didn’t have time. And he wasn’t there. Too much fun for him.

ARGENTINA v Ivory Coast

2006-06-11T10:32:00.000+01:00

Argentina against Ivory Coast was a match to get excited about. One of the world’s undisputed, but unpredictable, heavyweights against the best team in Africa, a side on the ascendancy; both of them packed full of class players from the world’s top leagues. To add to the spice, there was a good chance that one of these top teams wouldn’t make it to the knock-out stages, since they were sharing a group with Holland.

So it was a bit of a shame that I could only see a tiny corner of the big screen and none of the action at all. In fact, I could barely move. I was squeezed into a boat on the Thames, packed full of Argentineans. It was a little bit scary, especially when the boat rocked from side to side or tilted worryingly (which was most of the time).

I was even more disconcerted to be told by a couple of charming Independiente fans that I was wearing the shirt of their hated rivals. I’d owned a Racing club shirt for several years, having been attracted to its similarity to the national shirt and the no-to-drugs-and-violence messages on its sleeves.

But now I was being told of a huge Buenos Aires club rivalry to which I’d been happily oblivious. “But it’s not as bad as Boca-River… is it?” I asked. “Well, yes, it is,” they cheerily informed me. “Is it dangerous for me to wear it?” “No, you’ll be alright; while Argentina are playing.”

I was slightly reassured, but wondered what would happen if, as was quite possible, Ivory Coast beat Argentina. I’d experienced Scottish club rivalries rearing their ugly heads after ignominious World Cup defeat, my mate’s Rangers-supporting granddad refusing “to share a taxi with any f**king Celtic fan,” and was hoping for a fine Argentine performance. For my own safety.

But there can’t be that many Independiente fans on this boat I thought, assuming that most Argentineans support Boca or River. But then another charming gent smiled at me while making some sort of derogatory reference to Racing and I wondered if I was going to end up in the river.

The atmosphere below decks wasn’t helped when Argentina appeared to get the ball over the line, only for it to be ruled out. I think that’s what happened anyway; I couldn’t really see. So I decided to try my luck on one of the smaller screens elsewhere on the boat, where it was slightly less packed.

I found a screen that I could just about see, and began to realise what a good game I’d been missing. Both sides were playing some great stuff and when Argentina took the lead the crowd went wild, the boat rocked a little more, and the cheers were further magnified when a certain Diego Maradona appeared on screen, celebrating in the stands with the best of them.

And then they made it 2-0. The cheers grew louder, the boat rocked more, Diego appeared on the screen again and the cheers went up again. Things were looking good for Argentina. And I was hopeful of making it home without an impromptu swim.

But in the second half Ivory Coast began to tear into Argentina, threatening to get back into the game, which they did when Didier Drogba made it 2-1, topping off an excellent team effort with a sharp finish.

Argentine nerves were fraying on the boat. Gasps greeted every Ivory Coast attack, of which there were many, but the Argentine defence was performing heroically.

The only people on the boat who didn’t seem desperate for the game to end were the English fans behind me calmly discussing how each player’s performance affected their dream teams. I couldn’t blame them; I have to admit I would usually be doing the same thing.

And then there were more celebrations as Argentina had the ball in the net for a third time, but it was ruled offside and the nerves returned as they counted down the minutes, hoping to hold onto the result that would put them in pole position in one of the groups of death.

As the minutes ticked away Diego appeared on the screen again, waving his flag around like a man possessed. Huge relief greeted the final whistle, the chants changed from “Diego, Diego!” to “Argentina, Argentina!” and a disco started.

TRINIDAD & TOBAGO v Sweden

2006-06-11T08:28:00.000+01:00

Thanks to some excellent tube station short-cuts, we made it to our chosen venue, a West Indian pub in Cricklewood, 20 minutes before kick-off. But we were disconcerted to find it empty, with the honourable exception of an elderly white couple sitting under the big screen.

The barman admitted he didn’t know how many people would be coming, so we crossed our fingers, ordered two pints of Red Stripe and some delicious fish and jerk pork, and took our pick from the many empty seats.

I couldn’t imagine that no Trinibago fans would come to this pub for their first ever World Cup game and I was hoping that they were just leaving it until the last minute. But as the game kicked off with only a couple of people milling around, we realised we desperately needed a Plan B. The only problem was I didn’t have one.

I didn’t know any better venues nearby, but then I had a rare blast of inspiration: I remembered reading about T&T fans watching their play-off victory over Bahrain in a big West Kensington boozer. It wasn’t a Caribbean venue, but it was where we were going.

So we jumped in a minicab with a very chatty Dutch driver, who was looking forward to the next day’s game against Serbia & Montenegro (he told us where he was watching it, but there was a bit of a Dutch/Scottish communication breakdown); and raced south with the game on the radio.

We made it to the venue with a few minutes to go before half-time, only to find it full of Swedes, which didn’t exactly suit my long-term plan. After waiting too long to get served and circulating amongst the worried-looking (it was still 0-0) Swedes for a few minutes, I had a look in the back bar, and was delighted to find it a riot of red, white and black.

There were ladies swathed in the T&T flag, and a couple of sporting gentlemen in red, white and black Indian headdresses, which somehow seemed to make perfect sense. And a slightly scary-looking, man-bothering middle aged Scottish lady in full T&T regalia.

And when the MC(!?) announced the half-time score – “Listen to this folks, Trinidad and Tobago nil, Sweden nil!” – the Trinibago cheers were cacophonic, and the impromptu half-time carnival kicked in, with some sort of misguided ABBA reggae mix, plenty of dancing and envious glances from Swedes who weren’t too pleased with the scoreline.

But things tilted Sweden’s way in the first minute of the second half with a harsh red card for T&T defender Avery John, which didn’t go down too well in the back bar. T&T were facing a mammoth task now if they were to get anything from the game, which was starting to look like it might have last-minute heartbreak written all over it.

The MC was doing his best to keep Trinibago spirits up as the game became a nervous affair, and his efforts were bettered by the T&T players, who were out to prove they weren’t there to make up the numbers. And when Cornell Glen nearly snapped the crossbar with a fierce drive the unthinkable started to become thinkable.

Shaka Hislop pulled off a couple of excellent saves as Larsson, Ibrahimovic, Ljungberg & co piled on the pressure and the tense atmosphere reached fever pitch in the bar as the minutes counted down.

But ten-man T&T held on for their first ever World Cup point, sparking the wildest celebrations I’d ever seen for a nil-nil draw. I would have loved to have stayed, but I had an appointment with some Argentineans.

PARAGUAY v England

2006-06-11T07:33:00.000+01:00

The day of England’s first World Cup game was what the tabloids like to refer to as a “scorcher”. The streets were awash with hundreds of thousands of red or white shirts as the England faithful made their way to their chosen venue, and the St George’s Cross fluttered from every conceivable vantage point (or car).

But, if you’re like me, you’d be wondering where London’s 150 Paraguayans are watching the game. And, on the morning of the game, I was still wondering.

I’d visited the tiny West Kensington embassy, where I got a very pleasant reception (apparently they had been inundated with good luck messages for the England game from Scottish and Welsh fans), but little useful information: “I’m going to watch it in Germany. There aren’t many Paraguayans in London. I don’t know but I’ll try and find out for you…”

And I’d been on the website of the Anglo-Paraguayan Society, but somehow couldn’t find a phone number or email address for them!

It looked like I was going to have to resort to Plan B: the Scottish pub in Paddington, which was bound to be full of Scots cheering on the Auld Enemy’s latest opponents. But this wasn’t about England-bashing.

So I was overjoyed to receive a tip-off on the morning of the game that the Paraguayans would be descending on a flamenco bar (better known to myself and my friends as one of a trio of infamous late-night Spanish drinking dens) in the West End. But it was a private party and I probably wouldn’t be able to get in. So I phoned the venue, and was told to turn up at 1.00 and try my luck.

And even better news was to follow when Plan B was bumped down to Plan C by the appearance of a new Plan B: a Paraguayan-run Latino pub in Hackney. If we couldn’t get into the flamenco bar we would now face a race east, and if there was no action there, another sprint back to the west.

So it was just as well that I was able to stroll straight into the flamenco bar, which was just starting to fill up with the sort of faces you would sooner expect to see in New York or LA, bedecked in red and white stripes, hats and flags. Apparently London’s Latino population has quadrupled over the last few years, from not very many to still not very many.

I hadn’t had any problem getting in because there was no guest list: the event was organised by the Anglo-Paraguayan Society but apparently hardly anyone had RSVP’d so they had no choice but to let everyone in. Whether people hadn’t RSVP’d because they couldn’t find their contact details I don’t know.

It was a real family affair. The female fans, who had also made up roughly half the crowd at the Costa Rica game, were now joined by a stream of impossibly cute kids in tiny Paraguay shirts, who happily strolled in front of the table-mounted projector, impassive to the howls of anguish when they blocked out the picture.

And there wear tears from some of the kids after just a few minutes, as David Beckham’s perfect free kick was flicked into his own net by unlucky Carlos Gamarra as he tried to clear. The significant England-supporting minority (mostly husbands and sons from what I could ascertain) tried not to overdo the celebrations, and the mood remained upbeat, even when Paraguay keeper Justo Villar went off injured.

The atmosphere was further enhanced (not that it needed it) by a bit of drumming from the back of the room and the place went wild when they thought they’d equalised on the stroke of half-time. But the ball had clearly drifted wide and I felt awful sitting in the midst of the jubilant celebrations (which lasted a good minute) knowing full well they were in vain. But no-one seemed that bothered when the anti-climactic truth dawned.

And the excitement was cranked up even further in the second half as Paraguay got on top and searched out that elusive equaliser, with huge cheers for Peter Crouch’s booking. As England defended desperately in the last few minutes, the excitement reached fever pitch, but it was not to be. The Paraguayans remained philosophical, but I was starting to have my own worries. I’d supported three teams so far and they’d all lost. Would Trinidad and Tobago be the unlikely team to change all that?

POLAND v Ecuador

2006-06-10T08:59:00.000+01:00

There may be many thousands of Poles in London, but the recommendations I got made it pretty clear that one venue stands head and shoulders above all others: The White Eagle Club.

And it seemed every Pole in London had the same idea as me, as they marched down Balham High Road swathed in flags and scarves to the huge venue, its car park full of Polish flag-sporting cars.

I’d got there on the stroke of kick-off thanks to the Northern Line, there was a large crowd milling around the door and I realised I was unlikely to get in. My worst fears were realised when I got to the door, only for the evidently worried lady there to tell the bouncers “no, we can’t let anyone else in”.

I started my plea in the worst possible way: “I’m not Polish…” I hadn’t had much choice; she had addressed me in Polish, a language in which it is stunningly difficult to get by if you can’t speak it. Then I followed it up with the best possible word: “but…” and some rambling nonsense about how I was there to support Celtic players Artur Boruc and “Magic” Zurawski.

Understandably exasperated, she let me into the side bar, where I was told the game would be on on a small screen. I said that was great, before wandering into the main bar. And what a barn of a bar it was. Almost the length of a football pitch itself, and filled to the rafters with passionate Poles. If I’d seen all the Costa Ricans in Britain earlier in the afternoon, it seemed I was now sharing a huge room with all the Poles in London, New York and Warsaw.

Then I tried to buy myself a drink, only to discover I would have to go to the side bar to fill in a membership form. The price to pay for not speaking Polish, I suppose. The side bar turned out to be not a bad little venue; it was also full, and passions were running high. But I got myself a bottle of crazy-strong Tyskie and sneaked back into the cavernous main room.

The action was taking place on a huge screen, but I was having trouble following it, with so many people in the way, and the commentary (which I couldn’t really hear anyway) courtesy of Polish TV.

The Poles were taking their first game more seriously than the Costa Ricans had. They expected to beat Ecuador and knew it was a game they couldn’t really afford to lose. The chants were loud, and I’m sure people would have been swinging on the chandeliers if they weren’t so high on the vaulted ceiling.

So Carlos Tenorio’s opening goal didn’t go down too well. But the atmosphere was lifted in the second half. I was convinced that Poland had equalised when the room erupted into huge cheers and it wasn’t until several minutes later that I realised they must have just hit the woodwork, when I noticed that the score hadn’t been updated on the screen, and the atmosphere was less than jubilant. Then Agustin Delgado added Ecuador’s second, and the noisy post-mortem kicked in.

Not a good night for Polish football, but on the positive side I did manage to pick up a couple of mini Polish flags.

COSTA RICA v Germany

2006-06-10T08:16:00.000+01:00

It was the first day of the World Cup finals, but football fever seemed a little thin on the ground. There were no flags on cars, no-one was wearing the national strip and there was very little excitement.

I wondered if it was because the team’s star player was facing a race against time to be fit for the opening game. Or maybe it was because of the huge corruption scandal that had shocked the national game, leaving some of the country’s most famous clubs facing relegation.

Whatever the reason, it seemed just as well that I was leaving Milan on the next flight to London.

Then I started to wonder if I had cut it a bit fine to get to the first game. I only had one bite at the Costa Rican cherry. The lady at the embassy had told me that there are only 100 Costa Ricans in Britain (after all, she said, why would you want to leave Costa Rica?) and that it was difficult to get them together for big events. She was trying to organise a gathering to watch the opening game but wasn’t sure if it would come together.

The German embassy had offered to play the Costa Rican embassy in a game to mark the start of the tournament, but, as she said, they only had two staff. I offered my services and said I’d be at the opening game even if no-one else was, and crossed my fingers…

So I was mightily relieved when the invitation to the opening game at a bar in Mayfair dropped into my inbox. And even better, there were to be free traditional Costa Rican hats for the first 20 people to show up. I had visions of 20 Costa Ricans sitting round a table politely cheering their team on.

But as we sat on the runway at Milan waiting for air traffic control to give us a slot I wondered if I would be there for kick-off, never mind a hat.

The delays mounted up and the journey from Gatwick into London caused its own problems, but I got to the pub with five minutes to spare, only to panic that there were no Costa Ricans in there. Then I found the stairs to the upstairs bar…

All 100 Costa Ricans in Britain must have been packed into that tiny room (including the ambassador), along with a healthy helping of English (“friends of friends”), Welsh, Australians… and apparently a couple of Germans who for some reason seemed to have chosen the least appropriate pub in London to watch the game. You couldn’t move for jubilant Central Americans.

The Germans made themselves heard early on, when Torsten Frings went close and Philip Lahm opened the scoring with a sixth-minute thunderbolt. But the Costa Ricans didn’t seem to mind, neither that there were Germans in their midst or that they were losing. They were here to enjoy themselves, and weren’t going to let the small matter of going a goal down temper their rampant enthusiasm.

They were cheering every tackle and every save (of which there were many, poor Jose Porras more than earning his corn between the sticks), so when Paulo Wanchope got behind the German defence and calmly pulled the Ticos level, the place went wild. Maybe Germany were there for the taking? Maybe they could be written off? But I’m sorry to say, my brain poisoned by a lifetime of supporting Scotland, my first thought was “oh no, now you’ve upset them”. My mind went back to Scotland equalising with Brazil in the opening game of 98, only for the champions to crush our naïve dreams with the winning goal.

And it wasn’t long before Germany took control. Wanchope provided another glimmer of hope when he pulled it back to 3-2 and the fans went crazy again, and, although it made no difference to the outcome, the Tico party carried on. After all, this was the game they could afford to lose. But I had to drag myself away. I had Poles to find… (and I never got a hat).

INTRODUCTION

2006-05-03T21:26:00.000+01:00

On a street like any other in West London there’s a pub that, at first glance, looks as English as Jimmy Hill. But step inside on international week and you could be forgiven for thinking you’ve been teleported four or five hundred miles north to Glasgow, Edinburgh or, more likely, Aberdeen.

There are tens of thousands of us Scots in London, quietly toiling away as barmen, accountants, salesmen or, more usually, high-ranking politicians. And when Scotland are playing the Rob Roy heaves with the massed ranks of the Tartan Army. It’s boisterous and noisy. You’ll have Tennent’s spilt on you. You’ll be lucky if you can see any of the game on any of the screens, unobscured by hulking Highlanders or lanky Lowlanders’ heids. But when (or if) Scotland score, you’ll know about it. Your eardrums will ache for hours afterwards. In other words, it’s brilliant.

It was particularly brilliant when Scotland beat Holland 1-0 in the first leg of their Euro 2004 play-off. We nearly took the roof off when we bulged the Dutch onion bag. How we gasped for the rest of the game as we somehow held the Orange hordes at bay. But as anyone with so much as a passing interest in international football knows, that sort of result is sadly now the exception rather than the rule for the boys in dark blue. As much was clear in the return leg, where we were lucky to lose 6-0.

And, of course, Scotland didn’t even make the play-offs for the 2006 World Cup. How great it would have been to cheer the lads on for all three games from the pub. Of course, I was now free to enjoy the tournament without worrying about us embarrassing ourselves against Costa Rica or Iran again (at least Peru and Morocco weren’t going to be there). But as a man who can’t watch a kids’ game at the local summer fair without taking sides, I needed someone to support.

Or better still, everyone. This was my chance to become the most fickle fan of all time. Changing your team once in your lifetime is one time too many. But what if I was to change every day, sometimes more than once, to support 32 teams in a month? And could I watch each of those teams as if it was a home fixture in London? In pubs, bars, restaurants and social clubs where Ghanaians, Croatians and Argentines who live in London would watch their games? I assumed many venues would be easy to find but I knew I would have my work cut out with others. I thought Portugal, Poland and Brazil would be easy, but does London have an Angolan community? What about Paraguay? And what sort of venue would Saudis choose to watch the game? Mind you, given my congested fixture list, any break from alcohol would prove very welcome.

So my interest in every qualification group was suddenly magnified and I found myself supporting teams I’d never previously had an interest in, but whose large London communities would make my life easier. How I cheered on Australia (but considering how their play-off opponents, Uruguay, had kicked Scotland up and down the park in 1986, it felt only right). How aggressively I backed Trinidad and Tobago against Bahrain. But it didn’t all go to plan. Ireland’s meek performance against Switzerland was a particular blow. Nigeria would have been far easier than Angola. And I was probably the only non-Turk in London lamenting those bad boys’ defeat by those efficient Swiss.

India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and New Zealand’s perennial football underachievement (I blame cricket and rugby) cost me a large chunk of London’s population. But I was still confident that I could find enough Ecuadorians, Ivorians and Ukrainians to make it all possible. After all, London has a growing Latin American population (apparently). And all those people who I assume are probably Nigerian could well be from Togo: there’s only Benin in between anyway (a quick glance at a map confirmed).

And what would I learn? How does Japanese football fandom differ from American? Korean from Iranian? Swedish from Serb? Does London even have a Costa Rican community? Fuelled with misplaced optimism, rusty Spanish and a tenuous grasp on Italian, I swapped my passport for my A-Z and set out to find out.

Coverage of each game will follow on a match-by-match basis, updated daily, starting with Costa Rica versus Germany and Poland versus Ecuador on 9 June...