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.