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.
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!
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.
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?
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.
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".
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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?
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.
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.
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.
A journalist is interviewing Slovenia coach Matjaž Kek and asks him “Do you like your mother?”. “No,” he responds. “My mother left our family when I was a small child to live with another man.” “Do you like your father?” the journalist asks. “No,” Kek says. “My father was always away, travelling for business, and left me with a childminder.” “Then who do you like?” “I like the Croatian national football team,” he says. “They always stay at home.” I informed the Slovenian reveller in the Lepa Žoga sports bar that as Croatia’s record for qualification in major tournaments is fairly respectable, I will be from here on in commandeering this joke for use against Scotland. Although I’ll probably have to throw in a few swears to make it appeal to the English.
The joke teller in question was just one of a ridiculously large amount of ultra-friendly Slovenians I came across during my brief stay in Ljubljana. It would seem that the second a Ljubljanan native hears a foreign accent or language being spoken in their proximity, their immediate reaction is to turn around with a smile and say “Hey, where are you guys from?”, even if they are something of a nervous wreck as they watch their football side play essentially the biggest game in their history. They tend to get even friendlier when they realise you’re not American, before inviting you and all six of your hostel buddies back to their small flat for more beers and conversation.
It was, of course, a day when anti-American sentiment was stronger than normal. Most Slovenians possessed a fervent desire to slay the ‘capitalist dogs’, so it was with great delight that we invited two Americans we met from the impressive Hostel Celica to the distinctly un-touristy Lepa Žoga on the outskirts of town. Translation: Beautiful Ball - a sports bar so keen on sport, you can watch the match while having a pee:
Justin and Christina cunningly joined for the second half only, fist-pumpingly shouting "Yeah!" in that way only Americans can when Landon Donovan smashed in USA’s first goal. They were also savvy enough to keep their mouth shut when an equaliser was scored, although every Slovenian afterwards said that there wouldn't have been any hint of trouble had they chosen to celebrate. I like to think that Justina chose not to make a noise out of courtesy for the dejected Slovenes rather than out of fear - not all Americans are culturally insensitive loudmouths of course, and even the most bitter US hating Slovenians we spoke to were more than happy to accept this. Perhaps the pair just didn’t care about soccerball.
But continuing the theme of sense of occasion and atmosphere increasing with each country I visit, Ljubljana surpassed Bratislava for raucous and passionate support:
The national anthem, Zdravljica - ‘The Toast’ - which you can see being belted out in the first video is yet another reason to love Slovenia, as France Prešeren, the drunken poet who composed it, breaks the mould of war-hungry national anthems by pining for a positive and harmonious world: God‘s blessing on all nations who long and work for that bright day / When our Earth‘s habitation no war, no strife shall hold its sway / Who long to see, that all men free / No more shall foes, but neighbours be. Don’t ask me why it rhymes so perfectly in English.
The chant which followed Valter Birsa’s beautiful first half effort is Fdor ne skače, ni Slovenc: who doesn’t jump, is not a Slovenian. The one guy you can see not jumping, in case you’re wondering, is indeed not a Slovenian but an Englishman, Ryan, who I was fortunate enough to meet at the hostel. Perhaps he was worried for next week.
The grief vulture cameraman side of myself did not make an appearance this time; partly because of a reluctance to rub the draw-that-felt-like-defeat in the host’s faces by photographing their misery up close, but mainly because the disappointment wasn’t quite as compelling as it had been in the Slovak capital. People were sad, of course, to have seen such an impressive lead thrown away, but most were realistic enough to accept that a draw was a more than respectable result. And although they didn’t say as much, I’m sure they all acknowledged that they were in fact quite fortunate to draw, considering there was absolutely nothing wrong whatsoever with Maurice Edu’s 86th minute ‘goal’.
Slovenia is a nation of just two million inhabitants: this makes results like this, as well as qualification for World Cup 2002 and Euro 2000, and many of their other sporting achievements - including relative success in handball, basketball and several Olympic events - quite staggering. And you can see why - one thing that is instantly noticeable when you walk through Ljubljana is the complete and utter lack of the overweight. As well as their country and their guests, Slovenians know how to take care of themselves.
And yet they sure know how to party as well. I won’t go into detail of the frankly brilliant nights out Ljubljana can provide, but I’ll just confirm that it strikes an incredible balance between casual liberalism, safety, originality, variety and low prices. The most disappointing aspect of the Americans coming from behind was the denial of a true party atmosphere in the town afterwards - horns were still being honked and flags were still being waved with immense pride, but you just knew that it would be multiplied by a thousand had they held on. Judging by the performance of England a few hours later, a 90 minutes which frankly left me pining to be a Slovenian, you most definitely can not rule out those who are in the city being treated to such a spectacle on the 23rd.
“We do not have a lot of people, but we always play with the heart” was a sentence I heard at numerous times. Reflected in four words, “Small County, Big Balls” - a slogan on the t-shirt of a waiter who served me a surprise beer from my wonderful host for the day, Sara - these are the types of claim that inhabitants of nearly every nation on the planet makes, but I believe in Slovenia I have found a country which goes some way to justifying it. Although I obviously haven’t been so enwrapped in love for the Little Dragons that I want them to achieve the draw/win they will so desperately crave against England to ensure qualification to the second round, nothing would please me more than seeing Algeria defeat the US in order to see them through.
I initially stated that my aim was to see how the World Cup was enjoyed in other countries, but now it would seem that I am conducting some form of comparative study on how different nationalities deal with bitter disappointment and heartbreak. I am pleased, nonetheless, to see Greece and Serbia recover from my presence to win their following matches.
Watching Italy vs. New Zealand in the lively student town of Bologna now already seems to represent something of a last chance saloon in terms of ridding my back of the Curse Monkey. If the outright impossible happens and Winston Reid et al contrive to defeat the great Azzurri, then the Swiss, Germans and Dutch can all write off at least one of their forthcoming fixtures. To reiterate the gulf between the two nations, Italy are the first true footballing powerhouse on my itinerary, and the current world champions; New Zealand have players from Plymouth Argyle and investment banking.
Who do I recognise? The names Criscito, Maggio, Bocchetti and Bonucci, to my shame, mean very little to me. Which is surprising, as they make up a majority of this year’s famously cynical/negative/wily/sitting on a lead Azzurri defence. Those who deride the Italians for picking too many old timers may wish to look at the three teams who have a higher average age in their squad: Australia, Brazil and England.
Jarek’s Prophetic Vision New Zealand and Slovakia will fail to pose the same problems as Paraguay, and they’ll advance. However, a shock defeat to Denmark awaits in the Second Round.
Jarek’s Prophetic Match Vision Screw it. Perceptions of Italian negativity and the idea of a traveller’s curse will be thrown out the window with a 5-0 Azzurri smashing. Take that, Winston Reid.
Although fans of the teams who I have followed thus far clearly won’t feel the same way, today I felt a very fortunate man. In terms of a venue to get the thoughts of a range of World Cup followers, Bratislava blew Belgrade and Salonika out the water with a cosmopolitan showing of football fans, each with a fresh and unique insight into the tournament.
But first, the Slovaks. Those poor Slovaks. If you truly believe in the curse of the World Cup Traveller (the list of believers is no doubt growing), then you’ll consider yourself vindicated by the following footage. Whipping out my camera in the 92nd minute, I pressed record for what I believed would be my first taste of celebratory footage. Instead, watching screen-in-screen in horror, I got this:
Vintage sucker punch. In an attempt to quell the disappoint, corporate associates of the ‘Fan Fest’ Coca Cola thought it appropriate to immediately follow the gut-wrenching goal with a right good knees up, featuring some of the most laboured dancing one has ever witnessed. The fact that 90% of the crowd had dispersed, leaving a trail of discarded give-away Coke cans in their wake, didn’t seem to deter them, although they were able to persuade one old timer to get his groove on.
Ultimately though, as bad as I felt for the Slovakians, New Zealand’s late and frankly undeserved equaliser at least made for some good footage, and some classic ‘gutted fan’ shots - this particular one was taken some ten minutes after the game had actually finished:
There were other undeniable positives to take from the day as well: 1) I actually witnessed the ‘home’ team scoring a goal;
2) In the Kia Fan Fest, outside a recently built shopping centre on the banks of the Danube, I found somewhere which truly had a real World Cup atmosphere, as the locals revelled in their first ever World Cup appearance as an independent nation; and 3) As well as a whole host of frustrated angry people, I also found my first group of happy football fans on my travels, in the form of five jubilant Kiwis.
Their thoughts on the match? “We’re just delighted to be here. I’m over the moon, I can’t believe it. We probably didn’t deserve it to be honest with you, but we’ve got our first ever World Cup point and it feels amazing.” And what a lovely bunch of lads they were - and my, were they happy to see the World Cup trophy itself when I bumped into them again outside a bar in the old town.
But it was two Slovakians in particular that I was incredibly disappointed for when the Kiwi goal hit. Wandering around the fan park at the start of the second half, seeking semi-fluent English speakers, I was fortunate enough to come across Vlastimil Danicek - or Vlasto to his friends - and his patriotically decorated son, David. The writing over his body, in case you can‘t decipher, are names of Slovakian players - in particular, I am a fan of the little-voweled Skrtel across the forehead. Like the New Zealanders, Vlasto just appeared delighted to be watching Slovakia at a World Cup match. He was of course well aware, as knowledgeable as he was about the game, that this game presented their biggest opportunity for three points, and he feared the threat of Paraguay and Italy. He had nothing but praise for the side and their coach Vladimir Weiss for getting this far, stating that with Martin Skrtel at the back, Marek Hamsik in the middle and Robert Vittek up front the team was at its strongest it had ever been since its split from the Czechs.
He had much praise for the English game as well, revealing that he had a bet on England to reach the semi finals (a bet I told him I wouldn’t have taken myself) sharing his belief that they were one of the strongest teams at the tournament. It has truly surprised me how highly England seem to be regarded on the continent, and in all honesty I’m not sharing their confidence yet. Vlasto acknowledged that on the very early evidence, Germany look the team to beat.
He asked which Premier League side I follow, and when I told him Aston Villa, he was quick to remind me of when Slovakian side MSK Zilina came to Villa Park and beat us 2-1. Brilliant - I can’t escape piss taking for Villa results even when in Slovakia. Vlasto and David were among the few fans still at the fan park some 15 minutes after kick off, as the grief vultures (and I include myself in that) shoved recording equipment into disappointed faces. I caught up with him briefly and he didn’t seem able to offer too much outside of a sad shrug. Poor David was being interviewed by local news channel TA3.
However, earlier I mentioned how fortunate I personally was. Aside from the kind and interesting nature of Vlastimil, the excellent photos and videos I was able to record and the presence of delighted New Zealanders, there was more. As I sat down outside The Dubliner - the first but surely not the last ‘Irish’ bar on my travels - to have some dinner and watch the second half of the Portugal - Ivory Coast game, a large group of multi-nationals perched themselves on the table directly in front. “I am sorry for this,” said one, as he feared he blocked my view to the screen. “I am Portuguese, and this is Portugal playing.” Of all the luck! One of the few sets of European fans that I wasn’t expecting to get the thoughts of and in come a group of them to sit right next to me during a Portugal game. What next? A group of North Koreans to come into the hostel bar this evening?
Unsurprisingly, their assessment was that individually Portugal’s players have the potential to go far, but they had absolutely no time for Carlos Queiroz. “As a number two he is good,” Miguel told me. “But as a number one, no good. Especially when dealing with 94 million Euro superstars. He does not have this ability.” An uninspiring 0-0, in which Portugal offered little threat bar a long range effort from Cristiano Ronaldo, appeared to prove their point. I mentioned the prospect of José Mourinho one day managing the national team to them, and they gave the impression that the Portuguese are just waiting for the day. Unfortunately they’ll have to wait a little while longer, although they’re delighted that the country’s two biggest stars-cum-egotists are now united at Real Madrid.
Their friends, by the way, were a combination of Greek, English and one American. The Yank’s insight? “Miguel, you’ve got to step it up a bit! I’m not seeing a lot of offence here.” Miguel didn't look amused.
Then there was the icing on the cake for the amateur photographer in me - I was finally able to begin to fill my much requested quota of attractive girls wearing national shirts, something demanded by a sizeable group of male friends of mine. Here you are lads:
In reality, there were far too many fantastic photos and videos to include in this blog, so feel free to view the rest in my Facebook group.
And finally, here is a collation of the various Robert Green related piss takes from the nations of the world, all of which were uttered within around 60 seconds of meeting these people - Miguel from Portugal: “You need to watch that goalkeeper of yours.” Vlasto from Slovakia: “We can lend you a goalkeeper if you like. Yours nearly made me throw my betting slip away.” New Zealander from New Zealand, after I told him I didn’t fancy playing them in the latter rounds: “I’m up for it. I hear the tactic is just to kick the ball straight at the goalkeeper.” Cheers lads. I’m just thankful that I didn’t end up speaking to the American - he probably would have advised that our goal defence roster is in a bad period right now, and coach Capello needs to give them a shake-up in the locker room. Or something.
Ljubljana is the next stop, a city I’m told is as beautiful and lively as it is miniscule. I am incredibly excited about the prospect, not only for footballing reasons, but additionally because I’m informed by my already incredibly helpful host Sara that the people there are known as ‘Zabarji’, or ‘Frog people’. This already forges a deep connection with my own heritage - my surname Zaba means frog in Polish also, and it‘s not a common name there either. Allegedly frog shaped litter bins await, surely creating more exciting photo oportunities.
Remember the last time? I do, a first round appearance in South Korea in 2002. Can’t say I recall their three defeats all too much, but I do remember star player Zlatko Zahovic being ordered home. Justifiably, to be fair, as he supposedly told coach Srecko Katanec: “You’re a prick of a coach and you were a prick of a player. I could buy you, your house and your family.” Who do I recognise? If the entire squad were to walk into the hostel bar now, none of them. On paper, I know captain Robert Koren and absolutely nobody else. Jarek’s Prophetic Vision Victory over Algeria will unfortunately be followed with two defeats to the USA and England. Jarek’s Prophetic Match Vision Team USA to come from behind to win 2-1. Slovenians and me to drink away the dissapointment.
Well you can’t win ‘em all. Of course, it is most definitely preferable to win some of them, and if you can’t do that, then it’d still be nice to score once in a while. It is of course too early to begin to speak seriously of a curse, but if New Zealand defeat Slovakia then one must really begin to worry. “My dad just sent me a message,” I said to Harry, my Hull City supporting carriage companion as far as Budapest. “He says if Slovakia lose, then I am officially a curse and shouldn’t be allowed in Slovenia, Italy, Switzerland and so forth.” “You’re not to be allowed back in England either,” he replied. Fair point.
Serbia weren’t terrible, but it’s fair to say that they were most definitely silly. Although my prophecy of a Serb victory wasn’t to be, my inclination that they could screw themselves over somewhere down the line turned out to be spot on. From the wholly unsurprising, although perhaps slightly harsh, two yellow cards for Aleksandar Lukovic for petty challenges, to the drastically idiotic handball from Zdravko Kuzmanovic, this was a game Serbia could well have won if they had kept their discipline. It would appear that whether they fall under the name of Yugoslavia, Serbia & Montenegro or just plain old Serbia, they will remain susceptible to the same shortcomings. My impeccable host, Snezana, offered an insight as to why: “It is a national characteristic of Serbia to not acknowledge when we make mistakes,” she said. “So we just make them again.” Her point was seemingly proven by a media whom she says described the team’s performance as merely unlucky.
Kuzmanovic, a player I still bear a resentment towards due to a hefty price tag and subsequent underwhelming performances on a Football Manager game of mine, appeared initially to go against the grain, appealing for forgiveness from his team-mates as well he should. But then again, he also said it was an attempt to head the ball, which if true must surely raise a massive question mark over his heading technique. Although it’s fair to say Serbia weren’t exactly coasting until that point, they did offer a mild threat and could easily have nicked it, if not then a far from disastrous point was likely. Now, a result against Germany, trouncers of the Aussies, is essential and the Serbs I spoke with weren’t exactly confident.
The Serbs I spoke to were all women, mind, but don’t let that put you off - they certainly seemed to have a bit more in their football locker than the average girl down the pub who asks you which way England are shooting after the 65th minute. They named Spain, Brazil, Germany, Italy, France, Holland and Argentina as likely winners of the tournament, which seemed about right to me. They even didn’t disappoint when I asked if they knew of Savo Milosevic: he is apparently from Snezana’s area of origin, along with Nemanja Vidic and coach Radomir Antic, a man who once relegated Manchester City and brought David Pleat much joy. The girls weren’t, however, familiar with his farewell game for the national team, which in typical Savo style involved two penalty misses and two goals.
The venue for watching the match was on the Ada Ciganlija (Gypsy Island) on the banks of the Danube, a delightful collection of bars, food stalls and sports facilities creating something of a beach-like feel some 370km away from any coastline. The atmosphere most definitely surpassed that of Thessaloniki, as those around eagerly dried themselves off from their dip in the river - quite the departure from the Thames Embankment - to take their seat before some of the many outdoor screens broadcasting the match. It was an occasion of frustration as I detected the place seemed genuinely ready to explode with joy the second the ball crossed the Ghanaian line. There wasn’t a hint of the supposed violent intimidation Serb football followers are often associated with, and the sending off and penalty decisions were largely greeted with disappointed tut-tutting rather than an angry volley of referee-directed abuse. I got the sense that the Serbs were used to this kind of showpiece collapse.
But there were certainly encouraging signs, and perhaps the last word on the Beli Orlovi (White Eagles) should be given to Snezana’s friend Marija, who seemed most positive of all about the performance: “Well I am proud of them,” she declared. “They were running for the whole time. That is an excellent thing.” True say.
So onwards and geographically upwards to Slovakia it is, where a pummelling of the Kiwis is the order of the day. Well, that and a portion of halušky, the exquisite sounding national dish of dumplings topped with sheep’s cheese and bacon. I am confident of victory, though New Zealand’s problems are said to be with scoring goals rather than at the back so perhaps a cricket score shouldn’t be a minimum expectation. There should be absolutely no doubt whatsoever about the prospect of an atmospheric and excited Bratislava, with this being Slovakia’s first appearance at any major trophy as an independent nation - though most certainly not that the first time a team made up of Slovakians has entered a tournament. Nine of the 1976 Czechoslovakia European Championship final team were in fact from Slovakia, and yet their achievements would unofficially in most people’s eyes be attributed to the Czechs, merely because their bit of the name comes first. It would be interesting to see if that bothered the Slovaks, and whether that made finishing above the Czech Republic in qualification all the sweeter.
As for New Zealand, I mean them no disrespect when I wish for a heavy defeat, and frankly even though I’ll be in Bologna at the time, I really wouldn’t object to seeing them sneaking a victory over Italy - if not just to see the out of control hand gesticulations of the shell-shocked Azzurri faithful. I’m also interested in their pre-match ritual once out the tunnel - I’m aware that the nickname ‘All Whites’ is a reference to their shirt colour as opposed to their skin colour, but I still can’t help but imagine a white man’s version of the Haka being pulled out pre-match to scare the bejeezus out of the opposition. Perhaps an eleven man synchronised Peter Crouch style robot, or a full rendition of the hokey cokey would sufficiently sh*t the Slovakians up.
Tournament odds 300/1 Remember the last time? No, not even with Czecho in front of their name. The final time Czechoslovakia appeared in the World Cup was in Italia ‘90 - the squad consisted of 11 Slovakians, including current coach Vladimir Weiss, and reached the quarter finals. Who do I recognise? I like Martin Skrtel. Slightly because he is a bit of no-nonsense stopper centre half, but mainly because he has a six letter name with only one vowel. Top notch. Manchester City’s livewire wide man, Vladimir Weiss III, wins this year’s World Cup Nepotism Award, as son of Vladimir Weiss II (Vladimir Weiss I made three appearances for Czechoslovakia in the 1960’s). Marek Hamsik is supposedly a bit tasty, so now is the time to show it.
Jarek’s Prophetic Vision One win, one loss, one draw. Qualification depends on how many goals they and Paraguay score past New Zealand - and I fancy them to get at least one more.
Jarek’s Prophetic Match Vision New Zealand to frustrate for the first hour of the game, but a mini-collapse to ensue once Slovakia break through. 3-0.
