SWEDEN v Paraguay

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.