IVORY COAST v Holland

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.