Triple Dutch proved one trip too much

It would be folly to focus too much of my World Cup final report on the match itself. For one, it was a horrific spectacle. Secondly, the team of the nation I watched the match in failed to win, score or endear themselves to just about anybody. Thirdly, despite having travelled for a month in anticipation of these 90 minutes, I didn’t pay much attention to it - I’d deduced the above factors within five minutes of the match kicking off. Sometimes games are slow starters that always retain a sense of intrigue throughout, often with the potential to explode into life. However, others you can call as a shocker before most of the players have touched the ball. A few people in England have since told me they quite enjoyed the game, but I suspect that has more to do with gratuitous violence and the overwhelming challenge Howard Webb was presented with.

In any case, even if the game had encapsulated me into watching all 120 minutes intently then I would have been in some serious discomfort due to strains on my neck, packed as Museumplein was from the late afternoon onwards:


The Dutch media reported that over a million had descended on the capital specifically to watch this match. Considering Amsterdam has a population of around 800,000, you can imagine it was quite the influx – which would explain why I found it near impossible to find anywhere to both enjoy a meal and watch the Germany-Uruguay third place play off the previous evening. Ultimately, I had to settle on a place where the owner had to be prompted by customers to wipe the tables clean and they gave me dinner without a fork (the child serving me seemed quite offended when I asked for one.)

Pre-match, merriment encompassed the city as far as the eye could see, whether it be with some Spanish-Dutch unity or folk just taking in some music:





Once I reached Museumplein, this sense of occasion upgraded its manifestations to piggybacks, climbing on top of lampposts and helicopters dropping flowers from the sky. “You know the police have told people not to come here today,” said one Oranje fan. “They say the city is full! No chance man, just look at this place… There’s people smoking joints out here man, this is just one big party!” Yeah, well, that’s not all they were smoking:


Still, you have to been smoking something stronger still to come to the conclusion that Holland deserved to win that match. Spain once more showed the indisputable irritating sense of perfection that dictated the trophy was worthily theirs. The Dutch defence weren’t stretched beyond all recognition nor was Maarten Stekelenburg’s goal peppered, but that’s entirely the point: like the three 1-0’s that preceded this, the result seemed beyond doubt and the Spanish seemed in complete control despite not offering a regular attacking threat. They just hold onto the ball and wait for the right moment – even if they have to wait until minute 118. So hearty congratulations to La Roja, which I’m sure that will mean a great deal to them coming from me.

As for the Dutch aggression, no one seemed to comment on it – people were more irritated that on the rare occasions they did have the ball, they did so little with it. Equally I felt little in the way of anti-Webb feeling – people didn’t seem to bemoan individual decisions, rather just the ultimate result: a third World Cup final loss. Cue emotional scenes:


My total record, by the way, reads: P15, W6, D3, L6. F15, A14. Curiously the six wins all came in a row (admittedly only achieved by Germany, Holland and Spain) as did the three draws.

Which just leaves me, regrettably, to wrap up. Firstly some thank yous. A huge thanks to my parents who, as well as making big contributions towards the trip being a possibility in the first place, also stepped in to help turn Madrid from a crisis into a mere inconvenience. Thank you to my employers, who did little more than raise an eyebrow when I told them I’d be away for the entire duration of the World Cup. Thank you to everyone who expressed an interest in this blog – even if this may have just been family and friends, most of whom have probably stopped reading by now, you at least encouraged me to pen to paper. Thank you to Andrew Jennings, Simon Kuper and Stefan Kzymanski for providing informative and entertaining reads for long, long train journeys. And, if you’re reading guys, a massive thanks to those of you who drafted and later signed the Schengen Agreement of 1985 and the Maastricht Treaty of 1992 – your vision of a unified Europe really helped to make things easier, lads. And Timothy Berners-Lee, the man credited with inventing the internet – you are a legend.

The biggest thanks, however, must of course go to all those who made the travelling worthwhile. So, in chronological order, a massive shout out to Kostas and George; Snezana, Marija and Milica; Harry; Vlasto, David, Andrew, Andreas, Igor and the entire squad of the School of Slavonic and Eastern European Studies Association Football Club; Sara, Jure, Vanč, Ryan, Christina, Justin, Denise, Lana, Bole and Marco; Christor, Emir, Marco, Corrado and Luca; Nelly and David; Jilles and Yannick; Philip Rance, Daniel, Ralf, Ludwig, Paul, Julian, Philip Elam; Leen, Stefan, Rob, Ramon, Ron, Omar, Marcos, Jon, Joe, Alex, Peter, Lana, Chris, Jenelle, Brett, Laura, Ellen and Sam; Miguel, Jan, Sonia, Anthony, Kevin, Matt, Mike and Russ; and to Sam and Paul.

In particular, I must make a special point of thanking Snezana Bucic, Sara Soukal, Philip Rance and Jan and Sonia Fairey for going above and beyond to accommodate me. You guys most definitely make the team of the tournament.

So the moral of the story? Well, the corrupt incompetent insular and morally bankrupt group of people that run this game and retain full responsibility for the organisation of its flagship tournament, and the lucrative privileges that come with it – FIFA to you or me - will consistently refer to football’s, and the World Cup’s, power to bring people together. They will hark wistfully about how they facilitate the game’s ability to transcend race, class or gender the world over, from Algeria to Argentina. They’ll speak in the most corny of terms about romance, friendship, tolerance or passion. They’ll try and claim credit for all of the above.

Do, and don’t, listen to them. Listen to them because, corny as it might be, a lot of it is true. What I have seen first hand is that when a World Cup comes round, the buzz spreads like nothing else. There is simply no other occasion where I could find myself sitting alongside some Norwegians cheering on some Italians; at what other time could I, immediately upon introduction, enter into a debate with a Portuguese couple and their Greek friends in central Bratislava; when else could a pair of Americans cheer at the worst possible time in the midst of an overwhelmingly partisan Slovenian crowd and get away with it? If you live in a major city come the next one, get out there and see this – the multicultural times we live in mean you’re never far from someone who will have an interest in almost any game. And trust me, it makes the games a lot more fun when you’re with someone who cares.

Don’t, however, listen to FIFA because it’s got nothing to do with those clowns. Indeed, the games governing body in fact, through their blind arrogant blundering, serve to highlight the incredible power of the game as opposed to facilitate it – it takes a great game to bring the world together; it takes a truly special game to continue to bring the world together despite for decades and decades being in the grasp of greedy power-crazed beaurocrats.

Summarising the incredible power of the game, I’ll leave the final words to Nelly, a ridiculously captivating 80-something year old former languges teacher from Luxembourg whom I met on a train from Milan to Zurich. When discussing Italian celebrations she had witnessed following the previous tournament’s final, the woman apparently known as ‘The Priest Eater’ in her home country for her passionately secular views, highlighted to me just how dumbfoundingly popular the game really is: “The Pope must be jealous,” she said with a smile. I may have gone seeking to live off other teams’ glorious results, but for that moment I basked in the most glorious scoreline I had ever heard: Religion 0 Football 1. Like Spain, the result was never in doubt.

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GREECE 0-2 South Korea
SERBIA 0-1 Ghana
SLOVAKIA 1-1 New Zealand
SLOVENIA 2-2 USA
ITALY 1-1 New Zealand
SWITZERLAND 0-1 Chile
FRANCE 1-2 South Africa
GERMANY 1-0 Ghana
HOLLAND 2-1 Cameroon
HOLLAND 2-1 Slovakia
SPAIN 1-0 Portugal
SPAIN 1-0 Paraguay
HOLLAND 3-2 Uruguay
GERMANY 0-1 Spain
HOLLAND 0-1 Spain

Überschadenfreude

So it was in Berlin where the idea that I’d kept a decent eye on my possessions evaporated once and for all, as well as being the location for a return to losing ways.

On that fateful train to Berlin (the laptop continued on somewhere towards Poland) I knew that for one, they had to party fairly substantially for Germany to overturn the considerable bias I already felt towards Holland in terms of a decision as to where to watch the final, and that for two, they had a job on their hands winning in the first place. But I thoroughly believed they would – Germany, not Spain, had played the best football of the tournament thus far, despite the howls of denial from the ignorant Alan “most average German team I’ve ever seen” Hansen. Just because you haven’t heard of the players, that doesn’t make them average Alan.

So I naturally assumed they’d take this form into their semi, and boy did the Germans assume it too. The thing is, even when the Germany side genuinely is average, the German people are still somewhat alien to concept of losing. So when the Germany team just put eight goals past England and Argentina, the fact that their opposition don’t really lose games either doesn’t register as particularly relevant.

The location for this one could only be the Brandenburg Gate fan mile. Unfortunately that picture is where the visual documentation of my time in Berlin ends, camera calling time on his battery life immediately afterwards. Nonetheless, due to the narrow multi-screened nature of the venue, there was absolutely no way of capturing (or comprehending) the vast numbers in attendance. At 300,000 strong, this was most certainly my biggest crowd of the tour.

Apologies for any keen Germans reading, because like the post before this, the one before that and what is to follow, this is to once more become about the Dutch. I thought in Sam and Paul I was choosing a unique story – two young guys, one in Dutch orange, one in German white - I assumed by striking conversation with the pair I’d be on for a night of quality Euro-banter as we cheered Deutschland onto that final we all wanted, sparking a late evening of debate over whose asses would be kicked by whom and in what manner.

Turns out they were both Dutch. Paul was, incredibly, just so desperate for a Holland-Germany final that he’d gone out and bought a cheap Germany shirt to display his support, presumably to be burnt in some sort of ceremony ahead of the final. So in seeking England fans in Munich I had encountered Germans wearing England shirts; now while trying to corner a German fan in Berlin, I ended up with a Dutchman in his arch enemy’s colours. They sure do things differently on the continent.

Paul and Sam were vintage Dutch, casually mocking the German team, people and language, while simultaneously gaining their friendship. Well, that is until the 73rd minute onwards, where the atmosphere dipped somewhat. Once more, the alien concept had manifested itself and they were out (whisper it quietly, but with two final defeats and two semi final defeats in the last eight years the German image is fast developing from inglorious victors to glorious losers).

But we just couldn’t resist but stay and observe. Despite all three of us possessing a genuine sense of warmth towards German people, being two Dutch guys and one English guy you simply cannot watch swathes and swathes of miserable angry Germans file past you, and not break out in a vast smirk. Of course no Englishman has anything to be smug about, but that doesn’t matter – the six-year-old boy in me who remembered Euro ‘96 would have wanted me to enjoy this. Schadenfreude derived from Germans is the ultimate Schadenfreude. Uberschadenfreude, they’d probably call it, if they had any idea how it felt.

The wittiest comment of the day came from another Dutchman, who quietly spoke into Sam’s ear as thousands of bowed heads marched past. “Yeah well, this is how they made us walk for five years.” Well, I did say wittiest, not most politically correct.

Sam, in his bright Hup Holland Hup t-shirt certainly attracted attention, but – with the exception of two nasty drunks who spat on him - it was overwhelmingly positive. Well, kind of. “You must kill those Spanish,” they said, again and again, so I was told every time I asked for a translation. It appeared the Germans have now developed a mechanism to deal with the anger of losing: direct it at the team who just beat you.

So back on the train to Amsterdam it was. It was the third time in ten days I’d be in the city alone, but it would be the first time ever that I’d experienced a World Cup final atmosphere.

When Glastonbury meets Wembley

Firstly, apologies for my sudden extended period of silence during the climactic week of this summer’s football. I would love to be able to excuse it by bemoaning my luck or apportioning blame elsewhere, but the be all and end all is I left my laptop on a train that was heading to Poland. As a result I am a little, though not completely, short on some pictures and videos, but will endeavour to tell the tale of how the quarter finals onwards went down in the tournament’s most successful continent.

First, I must cast your mind, and my own, back to my last update. I’d just left Catalonia and was heading towards Valencia to enjoy Spain’s quarter final vs Paraguay. What I am missing now is two things, taken from the very same bar: 1) Some photos of some mortified Argentineans following the 3^rd and 4^th goals from Germany in their quarter final; 2) Footage of one ultra-passionate man celebrating, commiserating and generally getting wound up by Spain’s topsy-turvy encounter. In particular, I regret that I can’t show you his exuberant fist-pumping and friend-hugging nature once Xabi Alonso had tucked away a penalty, only for him to be tapped on the shoulder and informed the ref had disallowed it. You’ll have to take my word that his subsequent expression when the re-taken penalty was saved was, indeed, a picture.

The rest of the Spanish however seemed strangely mellow towards the result, Valencia resuming relative normality almost immediately following the full time whistle. Just ask Matt, Mike and Russ, three Americans who I overheard bemoaning the lack of car honking or flag waving in the streets as I sat down for some dinner:

Perhaps you might think it unusual for people from the States to bemoan a lack of World Cup passion but don't let the backwards baseball caps put you off - in fact almost every American I encountered on this trip were not only keen on the tournament but also possessed a knowledge of it which belies their soccer-ignorant reputation. Once I interrupted their private conversation and explained that I’d discovered something of a country-to-country variation in ‘World Cup fever’, they invited me to join their table; I duly ate Russ’s salad when the waitress accidentally served it to me; they duly paid for it. “You’re the first guy who’s actually spoke to us on this trip,” they said. Three other more stereotypically obnoxious and loud-mouthed Americans bothering the locals on a table nearby perhaps illustrated why. Sensible minded yanks suffer guilt by association like no other.

With hindsight, we can comfortably say we should have all be in Spain a week later if we wanted a party. However I was headed back to central Europe once La Roja had secured their semi final place, eager as I was to witness both Holland and Germany’s semi finals on ‘home’ soil. In anticipation for the match against Uruguay, Amsterdam had certainly increased its oranje factor by the time I’d completed my 24 hour train ride, the city buzzing more so than any encountered thus far on the trip. Rob, whom I had met on the last visit, tipped me off about Museumplein, which would be housing a giant screen – as well as around 40,000 – 60,000 Dutch fans, depending on your source.

It was to be a delightful combination of the atmospheres one would expect from both a music festival and a football match: mischief, humour and hedonism met passion, raucousness and colour and thankfully I retain some pictures and footage which illustrate this. For example, here is a game the Dutch like to play when there’s a lull in play – it’s called Throw the Toilet Roll, and delightfully the girl in front got one on the head:

It generally takes something special to distract Hollanders from such merriness, so it was a good thing Giovanni van Bronckhorst finally delivered the World Cup belter we’d all been waiting for. Celebrations were wilder still once Wesley Sneijder made it two:

But the real fun was to be had at the afterparty, once the full time whistle went (after one false start) and Holland had secured their place in the World Cup final for the first time since 1978. Cue Viva Hollandia:

From Museumplein is the short walk / bike ride to Leidseplein where the masses descended for the biggest Tuesday night gathering of the year:

You may notice towards the end of the preceding video the garbage truck comandeered by jubilant crowds, ultimately resulting in the police force having to live up to their killjoy billing and seize back the vehicle, one would presume for the good of the recycling scheme. Ungracious descents from the top of the cab ensued:

The scenes were excessive and enthralling, and went long into the night. If Germany were to do the business, then Berlin had some party to match if it was to persuade me to stay for the final. One fan, a rare example of someone who wanted to avoid the Germans in the final, even told me not to head east once I’d explained where I’d been so far: after six victories in a row, I was even being considered a good luck charm.

World Cup joy: it really does get everywhere

In the kind of bizarre sense this trip is working out, I have now come across the World Cup party atmosphere I was looking for - in a country over 1500 kilometres away from any participants in the match I watched. En route to Valencia, I made a brief stop in Catalonia for a couple of days. Don’t think Catalonia would be a hotbed for partisan World Cup passion? Nor did I. Then I discovered Salou. The costal town represents a somewhat untainted Costa del Sol or Benidorm - i.e. a successful beachside holiday resort, with plenty of foreigners (and even a Wetherspoons) but lacking in the ultra-intoxicated stag parties spewing up onto its pavements. And the other thing it has is Dutch people. Lots and lots of happy-go-lucky holiday makers from the Netherlands. So when I heard this was the case, plans to visit Barcelona were shelved and I headed to a Dutch bar to watch Holland’s quarter final vs Brazil.

Accompanied by Anthony - we’ll call him a friend of the family because explaining his link to me via my mother and various other people would be too laborious and probably not all that interesting - we spotted The Ski Hut as soon as the bus pulled into Salou, a particularly oranje decorated establishment. Indeed not only did we spot the Hut itself, we also spotted the various orange-clad employees lining the street attempting to coax as many Dutch people through its door as possible. And they did a decent job - come kick off the atmosphere has developed into a bit of a mini-Amsterdam, minus the whiff of pot or the billions of bicycles.

Naturally the atmosphere suffered due to Holland’s somewhat muted first half performance. But, for once, this represented one match where my so called ‘prophecies’ actually rang true. Pre-match I said “You will win 2-1,” to Kevin, just about the most decorated of all the Netherlanders in the bar. And at half time I said to him: “You need some Sneijder magic.” Whether a fairly hopeful cross from deep which was turned into the net by a Brazilian defender and a header from five yards really classes as ‘magic’ is debatable but I’m regarding my utterances as wise and true nonetheless.

Kevin was, of course, just one of many who erupted with joy following the full time whistle. Along with that video, there are so many joyous scenes I managed to capture on camera and should you meet me in person in the forthcoming months I’ll probably show you some of the material which didn’t make it here. Nonetheless, I’ve tried to upload as much as possible to give you a colourful display of images rather than words for this particular entry. Let’s just say, with this particular flag bearing group making themselves known to every vehicle on the road whether they liked it or not, the people of Salou would be hard pressed to remain oblivious to the result that evening.



Is that Owen Wilson carrying the flag? Could be.

But what’s that I hear you say: what about the camera of pain? The inflictor of misery? Surely a day didn’t go by where I didn’t capture some form of World Cup disappointment? Of course not. Bizarrely, in the small Catalonian town of Valls I found myself watching Uruguay v Ghana with strong Ghana supporters behind me and Uruguayans watching through the window. Particular bizarre considering that when myself and Jan, another, let’s say, family friend, arrived in the so called Barça bar (due to the fact the walls are covered in FC Barcelona posters) it was empty and they didn’t even have the game on - the barmaid had to be prompted by us. Within minutes of changing the channel, the place was suddenly packed out with African followers - or, at the very least, sympathisers.

And you know what I did when Ghana were awarded a penalty in the very last seconds of Extra Time: I got the camera out. I truly regret, however, that I stopped filming the second the penalty was missed - I think part of me thought I was going to get beaten up. But you’ll be delighted to know that come the shoot out I also zoomed in on my unfortunate African friends for Dominic Adiyiah’s poor penalty, complete with Uruguayan celebrations (it would appear that she is giving me the finger at the very start - perhaps she knows what this camera can do):



What I enjoyed most about the winning spot kick was that the South American Señor wasn’t even watching, too consumed as he was with lighting his cigarette. Wifey lead the celebrations, and the Barça bar went from busy to empty literally within seconds - you can see many of the African supporters streaming out in the background:



At the time of writing, I am on a train away from Catalonia towards the city of Valencia for Spain’s quarter final tonight. I’ll of course try and find a bar with Argentineans and/or Germans this afternoon, and from there I will make the 24 hour mammoth train journey back to Amsterdam for Holland’s semi final against Uruguay. Wesley Sneijder may not know it but he may well have just saved this trip from culminating in a two week holiday in Spain. Not that I have anything against Spain, but the itchy-footed traveller in me salutes him.

Spanish thief turns Curse into Crime Crisis

It was inevitable, I guess. As soon as the football side of things perk up - four wins in a row now - the logistical side of things comes crashing around with me, with one swift pinch of my wallet at a crowded bus stop on the outskirts of Madrid. If you were to put together some sort of chart, scaling the best and worst individual moments on this trip for having absolutely no Euros to my name, then I’d have to say waiting for a bus on the outskirts of blazing hot not-so-English-speaking metro strike-suffering Madrid with just my heavy luggage for company with little to no knowledge of the area would probably fall somewhere near the worst side of the chart.

However what does not kill you must only make you stronger. As my five hour trek through the streets of Madrid with no water or food didn’t kill me, it reasons to be that I must now be stronger. Using Western Union wire transfers and helpful people’s bank accounts, I retain a steely determination not to end up coming back to England early like those other 24 losers (I include you in that, Fabio). I’m reluctant to promise I can stay out here until the final - most things one books, i.e. accommodation, involve some sort of card being needed - but I’ll certainly give it a shot. In any case, the amount of European teams potentially in the final has now dwindled down to three. I’m already in one of them, and will stay for the Paraguay quarter final on Saturday - although I may be in Barcelona for logistical purposes, not exactly Spanish nationalist country.

Eventually collapsing onto my hostel bed at around 21:00 local time last night, I of course can’t tell you too much about how the victory of Portugal was enjoyed in the Spanish capital. I did venture out for the second half, but no further than a tapas bar on the very same street. Busy enough, but not exactly an overwhelming atmosphere. Nonetheless, I spoke with Miguel about La Roja. Surprisingly he had little confidence in Spain winning the competition, stating that he thought Brazil and Argentina were much stronger; I tried reasoning with him the overwhelming power of their bench alone, but he had his doubts over Vincent del Bosque and the defence. Like everyone who I’ve met since the game vs. Algeria, he had a keen sense of disappointment over not just England, but Wayne Rooney in particular. As for Joan Capdevilla's bizarre piece of play acting to get Ricardo Costa sent off (the most blatant 'simulation' ever?), he merely said: "I think this is a problem with the mentality of Spanish people." I told him we had much experience of the the Portuguese doing this sort of thing so struggled to have all that much sympathy.

Following the full time whistle, I was probably treated to my loudest session of car honking I’ve seen, perhaps rivalled only by Germany (Amsterdam was more bike belling). I would have loved to have ventured out further and sampled the atmosphere, but I hope you understand that following the wallet debacle I really wasn’t up to it.

The five days previous probably didn’t help my energy levels either. My first experience in Amsterdam was naturally an enjoyable one - and with two Holland wins, one can’t really complain. The Cameroon game was of course something of a dead rubber, so although the town was still decked in orange there wasn’t exactly a huge sense of occasion. I spoke at length with an appropriately oranged up man named Stefan (left) during the second half, who essentially gushed over the qualities of Arjen Robben, benched for this particular game. Like so many locals who seem to make the right calls with substitutes, Stefan said “We need to see some Robben” - he was then brought on and smashed a shot from the edge of the area onto the post, which was tapped in by Klaas Jan Huntelaar, winning the game for Holland.

The Slovakia game of course invoked more passion, although there was still a general expectation that a win would be relatively comfortable - and so it proved to be. Once again making friends in the second half (you may have noticed this has been a tradition of mine right from the very start), I spoke with Ramon, Ron and Rob. That link will take you to the normal picture, but I much prefer this one, where Ron shows off the qualities of probably the only orange t-shirt he owns:


Rob shared with me the genuine belief among Dutch fans this time - “There is a sense,” he said. “that we can beat Brazil and Argentina. We don’t usually think we can beat these teams.” Getting in the fourth round of Amstels in very quick succession, Ron told me that, like a fair few I have met so far, he wasn’t generally a huge football fan but loved the atmosphere and occasion of a World Cup. Glancing round the incredibly colourful scenes of Amsterdam, you could see what he meant.

Just after the second goal had gone in, Ron turned to me and said: “This is why I love football. If you got this sort of thing with curling, then I would love curling.” Never has someone so succinctly summarised what drove me into doing this trip.

I have to say, however, that these weren’t even my favourite strangers in Amsterdam. Some way into my conversation with Rob, a Hispanic gentleman turned around and offered a quick ‘Cheers’. He was a Mexican by the name of Omar (draped in Holland flag), with his friend Marcos, and between them offered the most stereotypical Mexican voices one can possibly imagine. “Everything you know about Mexico,” he said. “Comes from Guadalajara.” They also knew football and told me they shared England's pain, as Mexico were too wronged by a bad linesman decision. I reminded him that, like England, Mexico were also wronged by comical defending. It's them you can see doing a little dance with each other following Holland’s 2nd goal, and it’s Omar you can see here looking, frankly, awesome:


And the camera continues to have evil powers. It’s not worth uploading, but once more I pressed record to film celebrations of the victory. Before I knew it, I was hearing the Dutch words for ‘Penalty to Slovakia’ behind me. Magic.

And on Slovakia, Bratislava is of course denied another giant-killing, but I think the ousting and embarrassing of the world champions should be prize enough for Vlasto and co. I was staggered to hear the Italy score, and of course delighted for the Slovakians - not just because it would have given those Coca Cola girls something to really dance about, but also because my Norwegian co-football tourists Christer and Emir were in Bratislava that day. There are no longer any curses to speak of. Except, perhaps, the curse of the stolen wallet.

Let the victories commence!

And with one wonderful strike from Mesut Özil the curse was lifted. Germany had won 1-0 and were safely into the 2nd Round as group winners. It had taken eight matches and twelve days, but now I had finally seen fans celebrate - and I got exactly what I wanted. Hoards of supporters draped in colours, loud and proud, crowded round a big screen at a biergarten, immediately followed by cars with miniature flags attached to them roaring round Munich city centre honking horns long into the night.

Of course what the lift of The Curse actually means is that England are no doubt set for some vintage World Cup heartbreak. The match is of course massive, not least for the brilliant yet bizarre group of people I encountered in Kilian’s Irish Pub / Ned Kelly’s Australian Bar (a curious half and half mix) in Frauenplatz while watching England’s must-win match against Slovenia. I expected many things from Munich and many of them I got - huge plates of food, massive jugs of beer, cute girls with Germany flags painted on their cheeks - but there was a host of surprises as well. The entire first verse of God Save the Queen being sang by distinctly heavy German accents was definitely one of them.

Another was getting the dubious pleasure of watching the game on the BBC: in fact, as I was served a pint of Strongbow by an Aussie, while Mark Lawrenson whined on in the background, surrounded by bald blokes in England shirts called Dave, it felt like I’d never left London. But for the most part I avoided the Big Daves and Small Pauls - I certainly haven’t missed that guy in the pub who feels the need to shout ‘FACK OFF’ every time the referee gives a free kick against England - and instead spoke to a Ralf, a Daniel and a Ludwig:


Daniel spoke with a heavy Munich accent, a follower of 1860 München, but wore a classic white Euro ‘96 era England shirt. Ralf, similarly, was clearly a German but had 4 Gerrard on the back of the red away strip. Ludwig went for the new home strip.

I quickly established Daniel’s story - his father was English (his surname was Hayes), so his support for the Three Lions was somewhat understandable. Ralf had studied for a year in Newcastle and had fallen in love with English people, English culture and most of all English football - a healthy enough reason but perhaps slightly less understandable when you realise how far he took his support. Ludwig was an England supporter simply because the others told him he was.

What I struggled to understand, in particular, was their willingness to translate this support into absolute preference to England over Germany. “Who would you support if we played Germany in the next round?” I asked Daniel. “England, every single time.” A few moments later, Ralf burst into one of his favourite chants: “England Five! / Germany One! / Michael Owen is number one!” I barely hear that chant in England. And before you knew it, they were singing our national anthem better than we ever do and the whole pub joined in. I guess you could make an argument for the Queen being as much theirs as she is ours.

We were, of course, all delighted with Jermain Defoe’s first half strike (as a pre-tournament defender of Emile Heskey I think I, along with Fabio, now have to accept defeat), particularly as we felt that it not only secured qualification but also declared us champions of Group C. And then the news came through that those damn Capitalist Dogs had scored in the dying seconds of their match against Algeria. So wrapped up I was in Anglo-German interconnections, I had completely forgotten what this must have meant to our opponents until I got home late that night and received a message from my Norwegian friends. For Christor and Emir, the curse lived on in Slovenia - not only a 1-0 defeat but utter heartbreak as the Little Dragons crashed out. Sara informs me grown men were crying in Lepa Žoga - as I considered just how incredibly gutting USA‘s goal must have been, I very nearly shed a tear also.

But there are two sides to every story. The Yanks had a perfectly good goal disallowed at 2-2 vs the Slovenians, and I’m told the same fate befell them vs Algeria, so realistically justice was done by Landon Donovan’s late strike. That’s certainly how Paul Kochniuk and Julian Boyce felt, two extremely friendly and very delighted Americans I met outside Ned Kelly’s following the full time whistle. Defeat of Ghana would mean another World Cup quarter final appearance for the US, a worthy achievement for sure.

The Park Café biergarten on Sophianstrasse was the location for the Germany - Ghana match, and it was truly packed to the rafters:


The venue had been suggested to me by a friend of a friend, Philip Elam (to my shame I didn’t get a picture of him) who, along with English companions, quickly derided me for accidentally picking up a litre of Rothaus Radler instead of the Rothaus Pils. “Typical Villa fan,” said Coventry City supporting Philip. “Drinking his shandy.” It was a confusing bar system, alright guys?

The atmosphere was distinctly tense - although the Germans make a routine of being absurdly confident of victory in every match they play, they weren’t used to the prospect of elimination being a reality only three games into a tournament. And you never know, perhaps a few of them had read the blog and knew I was knocking about in the country somewhere, ready to scupper their World Cup hopes.

But it wasn’t to be, and in the 60th minute the place erupted:



Although I didn’t fancy meeting the Germans over Ghana much, I revelled in the relief of experiencing a winning atmosphere. Wandering the streets of Munich afterwards, I approached anyone in German colours I could find - surprise surprise, they all spoke near perfect English - and asked them if they thought they would beat us in Round Two. Each and every one, without a moments hesitation, said ‘yes.’ These Germans don’t do doubt, they don’t do lack of confidence and they most definitely don’t do losing. Here’s to a massive shock to their system on Sunday.

The final group game on my schedule is, essentially, a dead rubber with Holland through and Cameroon out. However, as my stay in Amsterdam is to be extended for a full weekend and beyond, the likelihood is I will also see their second round match also. I have my orange on and look forward to experiencing Dutch hospitality, as well as not getting a train for a few days. Heej!

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Holland

Tournament odds 9/1

Remember the last time? Actually, not too much. Got through 'Group of Death' with relative ease then lost in a farcical ecounter with Portugal.

Who do I recognise? Their attacking talent is of course among the finest in the world, with van Persie, Sneijder, van der Vaart, Robben and, er, Dirk Kuyt enough to strike the fear of God into any defence. Their back line is less familiar.

Jarek’s Prophetic Vision Assuming England don’t, I really really want Holland to win this tournament. However, I’d bet on a semi final exit.

Jarek’s Prophetic Match Vision Holland to play apathetically and lose 2-1 - thus presenting me with a second round dilemma on whether to stick around or go to Spain.

“C'est une catastrophe! C'est une catastrophe!”

I may not speak perfect French, but the commentators’ words were clear. If you ask me, however, they didn’t go far enough. A few of the locals I spoke to described it as the worst World Cup campaign the French had ever had; I personally think it might be the worst World Cup campaign anyone has ever had.

First of all, let’s get one thing clear: the only ‘curse’ that had an influence upon this result was the curse the Fédération Française de Football bestowed upon themselves by hiring, and then persisting with, stubborn comical purveyor of astrology Raymond Domenech. He may not be the only guilty party in this farce, but he is certainly the cause without being entirely responsible for the effect.

When those of you back in England deride Capello for a pair of disappointing performances, consider how much worse it could be. Here is just a small selection of the coverage Les Bleus received from the front pages of their newspapers this morning:



I am hoping to get a French speaker to interpret the small print for me, but the bigguns need no translation. The beauty of an undignified France failure is that so many of the excessive words used are so understandable to the English: catastrophe, l’humiliation, tragi-comédie, lamentablement éliminés, désastre, and my personal favourite - encore, bravo!

Unfortunately my plan to call the The Curse’s bluff didn’t quite work out. I thought I’d outwitted it once for all: my location was to be The Dubliners in Strasbourg, a genuine Irish bar run by actual Dubliners, so its website claimed. My thinking was that if Les Bleus were to perform the impossible and get out the group stages, then the locals would turn from grumpy French into jubilant French and surely party long into the night, despite being well aware that it was a charade. If the much more likely happened, and the French crashed out, then the jolly friendly loving-de-craic Irish running the place would surely celebrate excessively the exit of their play-off enemies, the horrible cheating hand of Frog merchants that they were.

As it happened, there were two problems with this theory. For one, the guys behind the bar were a combination of Scottish and French and thus weren’t quite as over the moon with France’s demise as I’d hoped. For two, the one Irishman I did encounter - the owner of the place, Paul - was undeniably odd. Striking a conversation with him was a bit like trying to dance with a horse - somewhat impossible, definitely pointless and not a lot of fun.

“So you‘re the owner of this place?” “Yeah.” “You must be enjoying this then?” “Oh… yeah.” “You see I’m writing about how the World Cup is being enjoyed in different countries, and for France I thought it’d be fun to come to an Irish place.” “Oh, OK.” “Do you feel the same sense of bitterness as your people back home towards the French?” “Not really.” “France have been terrible haven’t they?” “Yeah.” … “So, it was nice meeting you .” “OK.”

Furthermore, the French weren’t really the grumpy bastards one might have hoped. In football terms, they had probably reached the stage where they were happy to be active participants in the ‘tragi-comédie’, laughing and joking with every misplaced pass, conceded goal or nonsensical red card.

Of course not all saw the funny side. An old gentleman wandered through the bar, and muttered a comment at the screen. Yannick, a friendly youth who along with his fellow Strasbourgian brother Jilles talked me through the match, explained: “Everyone in France has an opinion. Even people who don’t like football walk past and say something. That man just said: ‘They should hang themselves.’”

Jilles spoke in glowing terms of Arsène Wenger, a Strasbourg local himself and a student of economics at the university. “He is the best French manager there is and a hero round here,” he said. “Sadly I don’t think he will ever come to manage France. I hope the last thing he does before he retires is comes to manage RC Strasbourg.” Strasbourg this season got relegated to the French 3rd Division, so Jilles may just have to remain living in hope.

But for France, a new future with Laurent Blanc awaits. “We just want to get this over with,” Jilles said of the 2010 World Cup campaign. “Blanc will be good but anyone would look good following Domenech. We just need to start again - new manager, new players, new everything.” There would be no place for Nicolas Anelka, he assured me, and probably not William Gallas either. Patrice Evra might just get a second chance.

With ten minutes to go, with the levels of shoulder shrugging on and off the pitch in Bloemfontein reaching meteoric levels, came the last bit of irony as I ordered one more Guinness. “Four Euro,” said my Scottish bartender, a pleasant €1.20 reduction: “It’s happy hour.“ Not in France it wasn’t.

Now, as I chew on by far the most sour sweets I have ever purchased on an incredibly fast and clean train roaring through the German countryside, I head to Munich. I was delighted to see Serbia beat the German side last Friday, not only because I was pleased for the Serbs but additionally because it makes today’s fixture against Ghana absolutely massive. With a point separating Ghana, Germany and Serbia, I’m still trying to calculate all the various permeations of the evening, but one thing I do know is that if the Germans win then they go through. But which is stronger? The Traveller’s Curse or the Never Write Off The Germans effect?

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Germany

Tournament odds 14/1
Remember the last time? As a Pole, it’s tough to forget Oliver Neuville’s 91st minute winner in Dortmund, following some heroic goalkeeping from Artur Boruc. What followed was entertaining: Mad Jens Lehmann’s penalty shoot-out defeat of the Argentineans in the Quarter Final and then the subsequent denial of a penalty shoot-out by Messrs Grosso and Del Piero.

Who do I recognise? Although not packed with household names, there’s still a lot of familiar names and faces. Stolen Poles Miroslav Klose and Lukas Podolski cause much irritation to me and my father by consistently being absolutely rubbish all year round but still scoring goals at major tournaments.

Jarek’s Prophetic Vision I fear a Germany - England Second Round match is on the horizon. If such a thing happens, I can’t exactly say it’s not going to be a Germany win on penalties can I? I can see them making the final, but losing to a more technically proficient team ala 2002 and 2008.

Jarek’s Prophetic Match Vision The atmosphere will be tense building up to the game but everyone will soon relax once one of Podolski or Klose nets in the first 15 minutes. 2-1 to Ze Germans.

Red Mist + Swiss Miss = Curse No.6

So we’ve had the distinctly underwhelming performance; the last kick of the game equaliser; the throwing away of a two goal lead; and the embarrassing dropped points against complete minnows. I was starting to think that there couldn’t be any new or original way to document World Cup disappointment.

I’d forgotten all about the Screwed by Officials Defeat. Saudi Arabia’s Khalil Al-Ghamdi managed to take what was a fairly intriguing clash, and swiftly destroyed any chances of it being enjoyable - particularly if you were watching it at the heaving PurPur Bar in Zürich as I was. I have to say, the Swiss truly surprised me. Whereas I knew the Slovenians and Slovakians would be colourful and loud, I’d expected the Swiss to be more reserved, perhaps even plain-clothed. Not to be.

I was in fact a little late getting to a bar - a combination of a late opening hostel reception and another bar that was in fact too busy to let me in - so just after 4pm I wandered down Seefeldstrasse in Zürich looking for somewhere else with a bit of atmosphere. The streets themselves were utterly deserted. Everyone in Switzerland, it would appear, was watching this game somewhere - with the exception of me and a few others draped in red who had been turned away from overcrowded establishments.

Fortunately, the PurPur Bar was just round the corner and lacked the overzealous bouncers of the Razzia Seefeld, and won the prize for the most cramped of all places I’ve visited thus far. Every screen, outside and in, had a large group of excited Swiss followers, still revelling in the party atmosphere which had followed defeat of the Spanish.

I’ve actually gone full circle with The Curse now - whereas once it would get me down, now I am actually revelling in the power that some unspoken force has given me. Just by pressing the record button on my camera, I can influence occurrences thousands of miles away:

1) Initially standing up to film the boisterous Swiss chanting, I instead pressed record and caused Mark González’s winning goal for Chile:



You'll notice an unusually large amount of girlish screams as that occured - my Swiss companion, David, informs me that there was an unusually large amount of females frequenting the bar that day. Incidentally, the focus on the three incredibly beautiful women at the end of the video, once I've sat down, was a fortunate accident.

2) When the ball broke perfectly to Eren Derdiyok in stoppage time, the PurPur was ready to explode, convinced as they were that he was going to score. I, and my camera, had other ideas:



Feeling something of a sense of guilt - I genuinely believe the ref wouldn't have been such an utter dick had I not been in Switzerland - I avoided chewing the ear of too many Swiss. David, the chap you can see holding his head quite a lot in the foreground of those videos, was one of the few - but the conversation didn’t sway too much from what you might expect: pleased to meet you, this ref is an idiot, beating Spain was great, Hitzfeld is the man, Frei is a hero, are you really that cursed?

Here he is on the furthest right, mit freunden - admirably most of which managed a smile considering it was taken only a minute or two after the game was over:

I was incredibly tired for the rest of my time in Zürich (drunken exploits in Bologna probably catching up with me), so in the end I decided to neglect my other remaining idea - to visit FIFA headquarters on the outskirts of town. Knowing it would have just been an inaccessible underground bunker of kickbacks and corruption, closed for the summer holidays anyway, I came to the conclusion that any visit would have been reduced to me spitting on the ground and shaking my fist a lot.

On the positive side, I have dropped my pre-conceptions of the Swiss: conservatively dressed bean counters with sensible haircuts who make little noise they ain’t.

The mad run of four countries in four days reaches number two - France. Just glancing through the BBC’s World Cup pages, here are a few quotes about the state of the French football side right now:

"It's a disgrace," said Blues supporter Patrick Pailhes. "I can hardly bear to watch them. "It's unbelievable that football players - and such well paid football players - can go on strike like this. "I am really hoping that we lose to South Africa, then we can finally say goodbye to the tournament. We need a new coach, a new group of players - a fresh start."

…

French President Nicolas Sarkozy has condemned the scenes as "unacceptable".

His advisor Henri Guaino said it was "distressing". "It's no longer football; it's no longer sport," he said. "In fact, it's no longer a team".

…

In an interview on Europe 1 the philosopher Alain Finkielkraut compared the players to youths rioting in ghettos. "We now have proof that the France team is not a team at all, but a gang of hooligans that knows only the morals of the mafia," he said.

…

France coach Raymond Domenech has said some of his players may refuse to face South Africa because of Nicolas Anelka's expulsion from the squad. The Chelsea striker was sent home for verbally abusing Domenech during last week's 2-0 defeat by Mexico. When asked whether some of his squad may not play on Tuesday, the coach said: "It is a possibility."

…

"The government has had to intervene as the reputation at France is at stake in this case," said sports minister Roselyne Bachelot. "I told the players they had tarnished the image of France," she commented. "It is a morale disaster for French football. "I told them they could no longer be heroes for our children. They have destroyed the dreams of their countrymen, their friends and supporters."

…

French sports paper L'Equipe wrote: "A rebellion? No, a caprice. A strike? No, cowardliness. Don't deceive yourself. The republican solidarity that our players showed the world yesterday is an illusion. "Evra has once and for all shown that he has muddled up the role of captain with that of a gang leader. "Domenech, by lending a hand to this masquerade and reading out himself the players' statement, has missed his final opportunity to show some style and courage."

Newspaper Le Figaro added: "It is collective suicide... the French team has heaped ridicule on itself in front of the whole world at Knysna. "It was almost hallucinatory. This is a psychodrama that will go down in the history of the World Cup. The French team has been reduced to ashes."

The worse it gets, the more happy I am that I’m going. For one, it ought to be interesting enough, so long as I can find someone willing to speak in English to me about it. For another, The Curse could surely not make this situation worse. Surely?

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France

Tournament odds 20/1

Remember the last time? Yes I do remember Zinedine Zidane head butting his way out of football once and for all, even if FIFA don’t let people show it on TV anymore.

Who do I recognise? Almost every one of the sulky shoulder-shrugging strike-mongering disgraces. The sight of Henry crashing out will no doubt please the population of the Emerald Isle.

Jarek’s Prophetic Vision Something tells me they’re not going to qualify from the group stages. Call it a hunch.

Jarek’s Prophetic Match Vision If France manage to win this game by the required number of goals - and christ knows how that could possibly be happen with a team that disrespects its coach that much - than you can be guaranteed that Uruguay and Mexico will play out a draw, in some sort of Denmark-Sweden style shenanigans.

Super maledizione: when two curses combine, there are no impossible results

You will have to excuse my disgraceful language, but sometimes you just have to swear and I genuinely believe only three words could possibly come close to reflecting the day I have just had: What The Fuck.

I don’t mean: What the Fuck, how can one drink so much with a pair of Norwegians and still make it onto a 07.30 train feeling more or less OK?

I don’t even mean: What the Fuck, how is this quite blatantly real curse so strong that it can prevent the world champions from defeating a team whose squad features four amateur and two unattached players on the greatest stage of them all?

What I mean is: What the Fuck - how can so many coincidences be true without some form of divine intervention? That’s right - my day was so weird, it has actually made me revalue my atheism.

And the same was true of my Norwegian companions. I first spotted Christer Husstøl returning to his seat from the bar at the Clauricane, in the rain-soaked city of Bologna. Struggling to locate English speaking Azzurri fans, I approached him for two reasons: 1) He was wearing an Italy shirt; 2) He looked relatively young looking, therefore increasing the chances of him speaking my native tongue.

As it happened, him and his friend Emir Puzic had just recently bought the (fake) Italy tops and were as Italian as I was, but they had met some genuine Ities minutes earlier who spoke very good English indeed. A little more on them later.

But first, the following is a rough overview of the conversation myself had Christer had, minus the regular cries ‘I don’t believe it!’, once I‘d explained the premise of my trip:

Christer: Ah, you are doing the same thing as us.
Me: Oh really? That’s incredible, where have you been?
Christer: We are sort of working from west to east - we have done France, England, Spain and Holland.
Me: Ah, I am working from east to west. Greece, Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia.
Christer: Yes but the problem is we are cursed - France played terribly against Uruguay, England couldn’t beat USA and then Spain lost to Switzerland.
Me: At least you have one win - I saw Greece and Serbia lose, and Slovakia and Slovenia throw away leads … Well anyway, this will sure make for interesting reading on my blog.
Christer: Ah, so you are writing a blog about it too … Where are you staying?
Me: It’s called something like Hotel Giorgino [sic], near the station
Christer: Just across the bridge?
Me: Yes. Does your key look like this?
Christer: Yes … Where in England are you from?
Me: London, but I am from the West Midlands originally.
Christer: The West Midlands… Are you an Aston Villa fan?
Me: Yes.
Christer: Me too. I have goosebumps right now.

So we were doing the exact same trip, writing the exact same blog, descended on the exact same bar in the exact same rain-soaked city, were staying at the exact same hotel, supported the exact same football team and brought with us the exact same curse. And just as we’d established all these facts, minnows of the tournament New Zealand scored from a set piece against the current holders Italy. I honestly believe it warrants utterance once more: What The Fuck. Putting it into writing only highlights the absurdity of it all further; I am still, some twelve hours later, shaking my head in disbelief.

Between us, we had watched eight games, including those of three of the tournaments big hitters, and had witnessed one solitary victory - Christor and Emir were fortunate enough to be in Rotterdam for Holland’s 2-0 defeat of the Danish last Monday. I then started to look back on our combined matches: Xabi Alonso rattling the crossbar, Robert Green’s woeful attempt at keeping goal, Zdravko Kuzmanovic’s moment of handball idiocy, Winston Reid’s last gasp header, Slovenia’s capitulation from a healthy lead, Raymond Domenech’s persistent presence as France’s head coach - these things all happened because of us. There could be no doubt about it. It was too coincidental. And just as I came to this conclusion, Riccardo Montolivo struck the ball from distance and the ball rebounded off the inside of the post. Had us three chosen to stay at home this summer, Italy would have had a 2-1 lead.

Of course I’ve barely mentioned the match here, but what is there to say? Italy were doomed to failure the second we stepped into the country. Once more, I felt bad for the fun and friendly locals; the three Italians that Christor and Emir introduced me to - Marco, Corrado and Luca - were all to happy to discuss the game with me and the Norwegians, bought me a Guinness (Irish bar, obviously) and provided me with footage of the most fun thing about Italy - seeing the natives sing their fantastic national anthem, Il Canto degli Italiani, even if they didn‘t appear to know quite all the words:




Their thoughts generally were that Lippi perhaps shouldn’t have made a u-turn following post-World Cup winning retirement, that they didn’t have a great chance of winning this years tournament and that Fabio Cannavaro was well well past it (Cannavaro recently signed for Dubai club Al Ahli, stating perhaps a little disingenously "I have achieved my dream by playing for a big club like Al Ahli"). They said Capello good, England not so good, and they didn’t have an answer as to why Italy are able to produce so many incredible managers (Lippi, Capello, Sacchi, Trappatoni, Ancelotti etc). “We just do,” they said.

The tiniest bit of conciliation of the whole affair, other than meeting five fantastic people, was that Chris Wood’s effort with seven minutes to go sailed wide of the post and thus Italy at least ‘held on’ for a draw - even if their equaliser did appear to come through a somewhat dubious penalty, the offence being no worse than is committed around a hundred times per Serie A match. Nonetheless the locals enjoyed it, convinced, as were we, that it would be the first of a few and that Italy would go on to win convincingly:



Marco, Luca and Corrado appeared to be unable to offer little more than a melancholy shrug at the full time whistle - an extremely familiar sight by now.

Continuing the theme of bumping into unexpected nationals, a group of typically Carnaval Brazilians lined the streets of Bologna to celebrate their victory over the Ivory Coast. Most were sure they were going to win the World Cup - one, I presume either completely drunk or just taking the piss, said it would be England.

The cursed journey goes on. So sorry Switzerland fans, you are not going to win today, and nor will Germany defeat Ghana or Holland defeat Cameroon. Additionally, I feel bad for the Slovakians as Christer and Emir’s presence will ensure that Italy manage to win their first game of the tournament against them. Although I love them so dearly, I don’t feel as bad for the Slovenians as thankfully the same ought to be true for England on Wednesday.

Initially reluctant, as it is in Norwegian and allegedly is too informal, I eventually persuaded Christer and Emir to allow me to put a link up to their blog. Being the gents that they are, they promised to compose the next one in English detailing how they met me - and you can read it here. Here we are all are, plus Italian photo jumpers, at the Clauricane:

I’d like to offer my utmost thanks to Christor and Emir for some wonderful company, taking me to a fantastic restaurant and picking a beautiful wine, speaking impeccable English and generally being brilliant people. Here’s to a miserable Zürich and Maribor, guys.

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Switzerland

Tournament odds 250/1

Remember the last time? I have been desperately trying to wipe away the horrific memory of their Second Round vs Ukraine in 2006, in which after 120 goalless soulless minutes they eventually lost on penalties (managing to score absolutely none of them), but sadly it remains locked away in the part of my brain I call World Cup memories. Less of that please this time round lads.

Who do I recognise? When I flicked through my World Soccer Magazine World Cup guide, I thought I recognised Ludovic Magnin, but it turns out that’s just because he looks like Villa centre half James Collins. Alexander Frei continues to lead the line, as he seems to have done forever, while Everton’s Philippe Senderos is an important feature of their back line. Mario Eggimann possibly has the best name at the tournament.

Jarek’s Prophetic Vision Victory over Spain kind of threw my Switzerland predictions out the window, but of course they will lose to Chile, recovering to beat Honduras in their final group game. They’ll go out in the second round, probably to Portugal, probably on penalties.

Jarek’s Prophetic Match Vision This was one of the few matches on my hit list I had actually predicted to lose before the tournament started. 1-0 to Chile: Switzerland will hit the woodwork fourteen times, have eight shots cleared off the line, lose four players to injury and the nation will possibly go bankrupt as a result. At least I have Chile in the work sweepstake.