MEXICO v Angola

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.