#15 Ivory Coast - or, Sweden.

After a gap in the schedules and a top-notch lunch at The Eagle on City Road, I turn to the evening game. My team is Ivory Coast and I have a dilemma. The Evening Standard tips The Gold Coast in Brixton, where I've already been to watch Ghana – and a repeat visit, albeit for a different team, just doesn't feel right. So I follow Time Out's tip, which is for a pub that's usually Swedish but will – because Sven-Göran Eriksson now coaches the Ivorians – now be flying the flag for Ivory Coast.

At least, that's the theory.

Things start to look ominous as I walk past the the Swedish Church, which is flying the Swedish flag. It's a taste of Scandinavian things to come. Inevitably, the bar is entirely, 110%, utterly empty of Africans. Instead, there are all sorts of recognisably Swedish things. I'm talking tall blonde women, small blonde children, several flavours of Kopparberg cider, a photograph of Sven laminated into one of the tables, and a tall, strapping blonde barman called Hannes. Who has a Swedish scarf hung on the wall behind him. I'm pretty sure there's a small branch of Ikea at the back of the pub, it's that bad.

This man is not from Ivory Coast.

I'm staring my first failure in the face: not an Ivorian bar, no Ivorians to talk to. But frankly, after a good eight hours out and about, I just can't be arsed with going anywhere else. I decide to make the best of a bad hand by talking to the nearest Bloke at The Bar. He's not Ivorian, but neither is he Swedish. He's local. It turns he works for the Argentinian Embassy, which is pretty sweet because tomorrow is an Argentinian bank holiday – so he has a day off. Nice.

James is full of stories, but I can't write about any of them because if I did, Argentinian secret services would have to find me and kill me. That saves on typing, then.

The name's James, not Bond, but he did used to have hot young Swedish lodgers. No wonder he looks happy with himself.

#15 New Zealand in black and white

Sunday 20 June 3pm When Slovakia have finished getting beaten, I have to get moving for the second game of the day. I hitch a ride with Ben, a professional photographer who I've met a few times at different games, down to The Southerner near Aldwych. (He's on a mission to shoot fan portraits from the tournament – I'll link here if/when he puts something online!)

In a cunning reversal of their iconic rugby team, New Zealand's footballers are called the All Whites, which sounds a bit racialist to me and probably not the sort of thing that you want to be calling yourselves in South Africa, even if apartheid ended a long time ago really and we're all equal now, honest.

Whatever, they've taken the lead by the time we get there and the capacity crowd are in top form. Everything gets cheered. Replays of the goal are cheered. Replays of Italians diving are cheered. Or jeered. Shots of topless Kiwi men in the stands are cheered several times. The enthusiasm is only briefly dented by Italy's equaliser, but not permanently: soon, the excitement of holding the 2006 world champions to a draw takes over. When the final whistle comes, it's greeted as a victory and quite right too.

All black - and white - photo. Of New Zealanders. See what I've done there? Snarf.

Glen (in the middle, above) lives in crap glamorous new town, Hemel Hempstead. Quite unnervingly, he's got some sort of missionary zeal about Club Med ski holidays: we discuss this at length and he nearly - nearly - persuades me that it's worth looking into. I start off by assuming that such a holiday would be a horrific, Butlins-esque holiday concentration camp but come away thinking that actually, hey, it does sound like pretty decent value. And avoiding the stress of booking everything you want on holiday? Well, that's something everyone can appreciate. Glen, if you really don't work for Club Med, you're wasting yourself.

#14 - Slovakia

Sunday 20 June 12.30pm The fact that I was out at a house party for some time after last night's Cameroon game is no excuse not to trek up to West Hampstead to the Czech and Slovak Club, to watch Slovakia take on Paraguay. The club was founded by emigres after WWII. I meet a thirty-something guy who tells me he remembers visiting as a child, being surrounded by severe-looking old Czech men. It's easy to imagine them sat against the wood-panelled walls: clearly, not much has changed here in years.

There are no audible English voices in the bar, which is exactly the sort of thing I've been looking for. That includes the TV commentary. Despite the clear Slovakian presence, the atmosphere is more Sunday-lunch than crunch football match, with groups of friends catching up over a meal. I can only imagine that the halušky with sheep cheese and belly bacon is excellent – but it's a bit early for culinary adventuring, so I stick to a tasty little Pilsner Urquell.

By chance I get talking to a couple who tick off two of the countries I'm planning to watch during the day – result! Gaby is Slovakian, her boyfriend Jonathan is from New Zealand. Although Slovakia and New Zealand are in the same group, Gaby and Jonathan couldn't watch the game together and had to make do with texting each other - although even if it hadn't been a draw, it doesn't exactly look like they'd have ended up fighting.

At the end of the game I get talking to Adrian, who's doing something similar to me by visiting different national bars during the tournament. Only, sensibly, he's not trying to do every team: “I just don't care enough.” Wise man. Check out his blog, which is definitely worth a read. I particularly like the way he's looked up the word for “football” for every team he watches. Proper educational, that is.

#13 - Cameroon Get Unlucky

Saturday 19 June 7.30pm The evening that I dreamt up My World Cup Overfloweth, an old colleague and friend – who I hadn't heard from in over a year – messaged me on Facebook. I explained my plan and, seeing as she's the only Cameroonian I know, we agreed to meet for one of their games at a Dalston pub owned by her uncle.

So, come Saturday afternoon, I give Frances a bell to check if she's still up for the game. She laughs that she's nowhere near Dalston and won't be getting back there any time soon. Oh, good. I'm on my own. Again.

Still, there can be no excuses, so I head down to The Victoria on Queensbridge Road. It's by no means rammed, with the crowd split between the bar's main room and a back room with a large screen. I chat to a few of the guys. Dereck, who lived in Italy for a while before coming to the UK, tells me he's studying an MBA.

Sam, who's working at the bar, quite fancies having her photo taken if I'll email it to her. This seems like a fair deal, and besides, I don't often to get to photograph anything quite as awesomely colourful as her dress.

The screen in the back room cuts out early in the second half so we pile into the bar, huddled round a living-room size screen, to watch the remainder of the game. Having taken an early lead, Cameroon are guilty of squandering later chances. With Denmark back in the lead, it gets increasingly tense as Cameroon try desperately to find a way back into the match.

It ultimately ends in frustration as Cameroon become the first team to be dumped out of the tournament. Nothing against Denmark, but I rather wish the result had gone the other way. Game #13 for me - unlucky, Cameroon!

Oh dear oh dear

Wow, I'm very very behind with this blog.

Despite appearances, I'm doing my best to keep up with things. Monday was Switzerland and Spain, Tuesday was France, Nigeria and Greece, Germany was Wednesday, Thursday was Denmark and Friday was Portugal. Saturday was South Korea, Sunday was England (cough) and Argentina.

Only a couple of countries have eluded me so far. I'm pretty freakin' upset with the Italians, who I figured were a dead cert to get through to the next stages. They've let me down badly. I'm going to Italy for work this week and things had better go well, because right now I'm very very disappointed in the Italians as a nation. They'd best make nice when I visit.

The other country I've failed on are Honduras. One of the pubs tipped for watching Honduras was only included in the recommendations because it's close to Honduras Street. That's some quality journalism right there! Mind you, having done a bit of my own homework - including going back to Zoo Bar and Club, which came good for Uruguay - I have to admit that it's not easy to track down Hondurans in London. So no hard feelings, Honduras, but you're off the list.

The bottom line is that I'm not going to make the whole 32 countries, but on the plus side, there are only three teams left for me to get round to! The trouble is, they're all playing on Monday. The Netherlands take on Slovakia during the afternoon, so I'm relying on the men in orange to make it through. Unfortunately, Brazil and Chile are playing each other in the evening, but my ability to check out either of those countries is going to depend on an event that I'm running at work. Fingers crossed I can make it somewhere for the second half!

A marketing masterstroke?

Saturday 20 June The mid-afternoon game is Australia v Ghana, both of whom I’ve seen. I’m sorely tempted to head back to The Gold Coast at Brixton after last weekend’s party atmosphere, but I take the chance of an afternoon off to chill in town. This football-watching marlarky is kinda tiring, you know?

Window-shopping in the Denmark Street’s guitar shops, I spot this. Who’d have thought that they’d start making World-Cup themed instruments?

#12 - Japan

Saturday 20 June 12.30pm Bincho, a stylish yakitori restaurant (that’s a charcoal grill, I now know – check out the learning!) is the newspapers’ tip for Japan. The game is shown on a single screen in a downstairs room – visibility isn’t great, but it’s packed with Japanese fans and the atmosphere is excellent. Ten minutes of this game is more enjoyable than ninety of England’s abysmal showing the night before and there’s a real sense of fun, with particular laughter at a replay of one Japanese player hauling a Dutchman to the ground. The noise of the crowd is noticeably higher pitched than your average bellowing European crowd, but despite the excitement it takes a member of staff – popping down from the restaurant upstairs – to start a chant of “Nipp-on! Nipp-on!”

My first ‘victim’ is Megumi from Osaka. She’s been in the UK for five years but is thinking of heading back soon: visa issues limit her job options in the UK, so despite her experience as a graphic designer, she’s working in the restaurant. She’s shy about having her picture taken, so I take a shot of the rows of rice wine on the shelves above the bar. Bincho is giving out free sake every time Japan score for the duration of the tournament. I love this idea, apart from the fact that Japan are beaten 2-0 today. Seeing as it’s only lunchtime, I forego the sake and stick to the Asahi. (If you visit, just note that the bottled stuff is much better than the draught, disappointingly.)

Shortly before half time I get talking to a man who's obviously Western but is wearing a Japanese shirt. Why? Matt tells me that he travelled for a month in Japan a couple of years ago and fell in love with the place. “I’ve never felt so welcome anywhere in my entire life”, he say - which doesn’t reflect so well on Galway where he lived for a couple of years! He’s adopted Japan as his second team and, since “watching any sport with the Japanese is more fun”, he’s down at Bincho for the second time. He also tips me off about a Bermondsey pub which he promises me will be good for the Korean games - we swap details and agree to stay in touch.

#11 - Slovenia

Friday 19 June 3pm Much of what I’ve read about Slovenia has focused on the fact that it’s the smallest nation represented in the World Cup, so it seems unlikely that there can be that many Slovenians in London. I head to The Colonies near Victoria for the game against the USA. I miss kick-off but only because I remember to get a Father's Day card. Yes!

The pub doesn't look all that promising at first. It's every inch the London boozer, covered in St George’s Cross flags, and it turns out that the Slovenian link is largely commercial, thanks to the nearby Slovenian embassy. A clutch of marketing leaflets have been cunningly placed near the bar, extolling the virtues of Bled as a holiday destination - very attractive it looks too.

It’s not immediately obvious how many Slovenians have made it down for the afternoon kick-off. At first glance, there are a bigger number of Americans. It’s only when the Yankees start singing “When the Saints Go Marching In”, thereby provoking retaliatory chants of “Slovenia! Slovenia!” that it becomes clear that there's a good Slovenian crowd after all. They have the upper hand in the first half, leaving the Americans worried.

I spend much of the game chatting to Roger, who’s neither Slovenian nor American, but is in a celebratory mood having finished his osteopathy exams for the year. We get wired into a couple of bottles of Lasko, a sharp, citrusy beer which hits the mark perfectly.

At half time, with Slovenia sitting pretty at 2-0, I get speaking to Polona. She works for a large luxury hotel. As she says, this might sound glamorous, but it's anything but. The job, she says emphatically, “is shit”. Because it pays so badly, she hasn't been able to rent proper accommodation since being in London. She’s been living in a hostel for seven months.

Actually, the fact that the crowd is split makes for a great atmosphere. The game is a cracker, the advantage swinging back and forth, and with the Americans unlucky not to claim a win the Slovenian supporters seem pretty happy with the result.

But for the England fans who’ve been filtering in as the afternoon draws on, the main attraction is yet to come.

Or at least, that’s how it feels at the time: the less said about the “excitement” of that 0-0 draw with Algeria the better, eh?

#10 - Serbia, In Which I Meet a Pop Star

Friday 18 June 12.30pm Paya and Horse is London's first and, to my knowledge, only Serbian pub, so I feel it's worth taking Friday afternoon off to get to Battersea Park to watch them take on Germany. I have to admit, it looks like the sort of pub I'd usually avoid, housed as it is in a squat, bland modern brick building. But these are not usual circumstances.

If the red, white and blue flag in the window isn't enough of a clue, the Serbian influence is clear as soon as you walk in. The game is being shown via Serbian TV. It means that the only words I understand are the German players' names, but this actually adds to a sense of the exotic.

The Serbian influence extends to the home-made food on offer. Since every last one of the pub's menus have disappeared, I'm asked what I'd like to eat. I explain that I'm vegetarian.

They look at me a little sadly.

The hunt for the menu is called off.

I'll not be needing that, then.

Maybe unsurprisingly, the traditional Serbian nosh is largely meat-based. Sausages seem to be popular. But the chef rustles up a perfectly satisfying plate of grilled vegetables with hunks of cheese and bread, and I settle into the game.

The atmosphere is tense throughout, Serbia taking the lead and defending it to the end. The most touching sight is of two slightly scary men sharing a brief hug before they resuming their stock, more-macho-than-thou stances. A lovely moment.

(It's not out of focus. It's soft focus. Which suits the mood, don't you think?)

The game over, I interrupt a family meal to strike up a conversation with a man who turns out to be called - no, really - Slobodan. Born in what was then Yugoslavia, he's lived in the UK for 40 years and is only in London for the day, making the trip up from the south-west to watch the football game at Paya and Horse with his son and grandson.

So far, so good. But the best is yet to come. Slobodan is no ordinary Serb: he's a bit of a rock god. He was part of one of Yugoslavia's most popular 1960s pop groups, Elipse, who he promises I will be able to look up online.

I do just that, and it turns out there's a whole world of "yugobeat" and "yu rock" out there that I've been missing out on. The best English-language site I can find is here - reckon that's my man Slobodan top-right of the picture?

Whatever happens today...

...please, please don't let England lose and Germany win tonight.

I'm going to be in London's first German gastro-pub for their game this evening. I'm a pretty lackadaisical England fan at the best of times, but still, the contrast might be just a little galling. If I'm surrounded by misery this afternoon I want to be surrounded by misery all day long!

Oh, and somewhere along the way, I'll get round to updating on Switzerland, Spain, France, Nigeria and Greece. Tales of civil war refugees, Sky Sports reporters, "small world"-type coincidences and delicious local alcoholic beverages abound!

Halfway there!

Well, what do you know. Ten days into the tournament and I've ticked off my 16th team, which takes me to halfway!

I have to say, it feels pretty good. I've watched more football in ten days than in the previous ten months, and I have to say, I'm having a blast. But it's not all plain sailing. I've got big scheduling problems this week, as the tournament reaches the last games of the group stages. My chances of getting round all 32 teams look pretty non-existent, but whatever happens, I'm sticking with this until the end.

Of course, I'm falling behind with my write-ups as well. I visited London's first Serbian pub on Friday, followed by a Slovenian venue before (we'll skim over that England performance, shall we?) watching Japan and Cameroon on Saturday. Today, Sunday, has been Slovakia, New Zealand and Ivory Coast (sort of).

A big hello to everyone I met: Slobodan, Polona, Roger, Megumi, Matt, Dereck, Bernard, Sam, Brenda, Jonathan, Gaby, another Jonathan, Ben, Adrian, Geoff, Glen, Hannes, and James. Thanks for making it such a fun weekend.

You'll probably all get more of a mention here soon, one way or another!

A view from South America

A couple of my good friends, Simon and Erin, recently sold (almost) all their worldly possessions, turned their backs on Manchester and went travelling indefinitely. They've been in South America since March and sent me this photo from Asunción, the capital of Paraguay, where they were on Monday at the same time that I was hobnobbing with Paraguay's ambassador in London.

Simon says:

"This was the central square in Paraguay's capital Asunción at around 2pm. The roads were literally deserted - and this is the centre of the capital of the country. Usually crossing the street is a real nightmare - there are no traffic lights - so it was nice to be able to step out into the road safely. Everyone was huddled around street stalls that had set up little TVs or packing out the bars and cafés or at the central square watching on the big screen."

I've asked them to send me more goodness next week, as they'll be in Argentina for the final group game on Tuesday. But in the meantime, Simon's asked me to tell the Paraguayan ambassador that "he has an awesome country and if he wants to arrange to have us meet the president, than that's totally cool." Mr Ambassador, if you're reading, drop me a line.

In the meantime, read about their travels at the excellent Never Ending Voyage. Careful mind, you're likely to be very, very jealous.

#9 - Tequila, it Makes Me Happy. Or, Mexico.

Thursday 17 June 7.30pm I’m a little late for this one. Making my way to Barrio Central in Soho, I walk up a part of Berwick Street that I haven’t seen before, to discover – oh, happiness! – a Music and Video Exchange. When it comes to shopping for CDs, alphabetisation is the enemy of discovery, so the MVE system of sorting stock only by genre is a treat. There are few things as pleasing in life as finding a bargain in MVE (or Flashback, another favourite) and tonight I’m lucky enough to find one CD I’ve wanted for a while (Brand New’s ‘Daisy’), and one to take a punt on, the only album recorded by early grunge band Temple of the Dog.

The distraction means it’s an effort to squeeze into Barrio Central's small downstairs room, but I roll up my sleeves and muscle my way in. It isn’t overwhelmingly Mexican – probably only a quarter or a third of the crowd – but I get talking to the guy in a Mexican shirt stood next to me. Only thing is, he claims, after a pause, to be American.

Daniel explains that he’s from LA, but from a Mexican family. In the UK, he introduces himself as American - but in the US, “nobody is just American.” So he's Mexican-American and, tonight at least, the emphasis is on the Mexican. As he says, “where you’re born isn’t necessarily what’s in your blood, you know?”

Being born in England into a family hailing entirely from Northern Ireland – a place where questions of identity are more hotly-disputed than most – I know what he’s talking about.

After the game, I tell him the rule that I set myself at the start of the evening: no tequila unless I meet a proper Mexican. Now, the bar has an excellent selection of tequila, so there’s only ever going to be one reply from Daniel. “We’re getting shots, my friend!”

Some time later, we say our goodbyes and I wander happily home, humming La Cucuracha to myself. I’ve drunk tequila with a Mexican – one of my life’s ambitions is complete.

#8 - In which South Africa are Defeated and Friends Make an Announcement

Wednesday 16 June 7.30pm – Covent Garden's Bok Bar is a curious fish. The back section, opened up for tonight's crowd, is a soulless corridor finished in glossy wood. It jars with the main area, which is all traveller’s bar, and all the better for it. The roof is covered with currency notes signed by those who’ve passed through, but my favourite is the ticket for one of Metallica’s 2009 gigs at the O2 - which I was at - which I find stuck to a beam. Hell yeah! \m/

The South African mood is optimistic - to begin with - and there are plenty of English fans in the bar tonight cheering them on as well.

After kick off I’m particularly entertained by one girl who’s sat at the bar, chatting to friends - with her back to the TV. She turns out to be from Johannesburg and is travelling around Europe for a month.

This strikes me as an act of minor genius. You travel five thousand miles, put on your South African hoody, head out to a South African bar which is showing the big South Africa match – and then sit with your back to the screen. Ace.

The game itself goes slowly, horribly wrong for Bafana Bafana. A hint of desperation becomes audible in the cries of ‘come on South Africa!’

Tonight, for the first time, I'm watching a team for whom defeat probably means an early exit from the tournament. You might be able to shrug off losses in the first game, but it’s only going to get harder from here on in.



It ends up 3-0 to Uruguay, but this game will last in my memory for a completely unrelated reason. One of my closest friends shows up with his girlfriend at half time in order to announce that they’re engaged. She's made no secret of her opinion on the question of marriage for some time, so it's not entirely a surprise. But still - congratulations, Ben and Sally!

#7 - North Korea

Tuesday 15 June, 7.30pm - Tuesday is a long, long day. I start with a 6.37am train to sunny Northamptonshire, end up briefly back in the office before 5pm, write up a couple of games for this blog (it doesn't write itself, you know!) then trek to New Malden, waaaaay out in deep-south, far-west London.

Still, The Fountain is easy enough to find. It's covered in St George's cross flags, but its popularity with New Malden's Korean population is clear from the banner over the door.



Sam, the bar manager, tells me that I missed a hell of a party when South Korea played on Saturday, but sadly for me, there are precious few Koreans in attendance tonight. Not to be deterred, I get talking to a young couple, Dong Hwan Ko and Eunjung Kim, who are studying English. They're both South Koreans, which interests me. Despite the long-running dispute between their countries, not to mention the recent tension, they're still out supporting the North against Brazil. Why?

Their answer is perfect: that they like the North Korean people, it's only their government that they have a problem with.

Spoken in an English pub on a quiet Monday night, by two young people thousands of miles from a home that seems increasingly threatened by war, that sentiment is rather poignant.

#6 - Paraguay

I have the sense that Paraguay v Italy is going to be good when I walk into Nueva Costa Dorada and bump straight into a friend who's doing some promotional work for England’s 2018 World Cup bid (of which, more later).

I miss most of the first half because I get chatting to Miguel, who has no doubts that Paraguay can win. But, he warns me, “they have a hard game”, especially against those Italian “fakers”. For a seven year old, he's pretty well informed about the Italian history of diving.

In fact, Miguel turns out to be pretty knowledgeable about all sorts of things. Most importantly, I learn that football stickers retail these days at five for 50p, which seems very reasonable now that I'm old enough to earn a salary. In fact, if I hold off on the San Miguel, I could buy thirty stickers on the way home!

But, inevitably, the beer is impossible to resist. Mostly it's served alongside some excellent tapas. I love the fact that you can order your food by length, picking either half a metre or a full metre’s worth. Three guys in the Paraguayan colours, red and white, are enjoying theirs near the front. Only thing is, it turns out that they’re not Paraguayan shirts - and they’re not Paraguayan men. In fact, they’re members of the London Sunderland supporter’s club, out in solidarity for the only Sunderland players to make it to the World Cup: two Paraguayans.



Towards the end of the evening I have have a word with the Paraguayan Amabassador to the UK. Given that he's been decent enough to turn up, it only seems right that I indulge him for a few minutes. He says some very warm things about England’s 2018 bid, praising how expats of all kinds - such as the four or five hundred Paraguayans in the UK - can find venues in London to come together. Six games into my mission to find all the competing nations in London, I have to agree.

Secondly, he’s very impressed with preparations for the London Olympics and so he has no doubts about the UK's infrastructure for major events. If only he actually had voting power in FIFA, I’d be going home confident in the future of England’s bid.

As we shake hands goodnight, he wishes me good luck for the rest of the tournament – but, of course, not too much! The old wag. I’ll be sure to pass the good wishes on to Fabio and the boys next time we speak.

#5 - Australia

Sunday 13 June, 7.30pm – “So, do you have a cat’s chance in hell tonight?”

“No! But that’s no reason not to drink!”

Ah, Australians. I’ve only just met her, but Natalie is clearly a proper Australian. She's sporting a gold shirt, has the national flag draped over her shoulders, and is on the beers on a Sunday night. Game on!

I had followed a tip from an Australian friend and headed to The Prince of Teck in Earl’s Court, but it was empty - so I headed to Fulham Broadway, where I found Fever Pitch, a self-styled "World Cup pop-up bar". My doubts about whether it counts as properly Australian are overcome by an Aussie at the door, who assures me that it’s "as Australian as it gets". Who am I to argue?

The Socceroos open brightly with a clear-cut chance in the opening minutes, but that’s about the highlight of their night. Germany slowly but surely pummel them into submission, and - especially after my phenomenal time watching Ghana - the atmosphere is just a little flat.

I can say this for the Aussie crowd though: on the evidence so far, they're the best at singing their national anthem. Well done, chaps. As far as the football goes... better luck next time eh?

#4 Ghana!

Sunday 13th June – 3pm So, what's your favourite African country? I make it to The Gold Coast, Brixton, just a couple of minutes before kick-off. Judging by the queue at the door, they’re squeezing the last few people in. This turns out to be only half true. We’re definitely squeezed to get in, but they jam plenty more in afterwards.

Despite the crush, the game is an absolute riot to watch. Ghanian flags are distributed at the door and there are zuzuvelas and whistles aplenty.





One crowd of late arrivers spend the game singing and dancing. Cunningly avoiding the crush next to the bar probably means they sweat a little bit less than I do, which I can’t help feeling is against the spirit of things.

The ridiculous thing is that, an hour into the game, I consider myself pretty much all Ghanian. Wait, that’s me punching the air when Ghana get a penalty! The vibe is utterly infectious. The party that breaks out after Ghana’s goal just carries on after the final whistle, spilling onto the street.




The traffic is brought almost to a halt for a good half hour or more. Luckily, plenty of drivers are banging their horns with passengers hanging out of the windows, so nobody seems that bothered. One bus which pauses too long has its window-wipers adorned with the flag.







Mid-party, I get talking to a good group of fans, including Wadie, who has donned his girlfriend’s Ghana tracksuit top. He’s an... um... ardent admirer of the Ghanian ladyfolk. “Those white girls just don’t have enough junk in the trunk!”


So, it's Ghana one, rest of world nil. Best atmosphere yet, bar none. If I can I'll be back at The Gold Coast next weekend - only this time, getting in early to get some space!

*I have a stack more photos (as usual) - will try to get a Flickr or Picasa account set up when I have some time, if anyone's interested... any thoughts on what's best?

#3 Algeria

Sunday 13 June – 12.30pm I don’t know about you, but 12.30 on Sunday always feels much more like ‘morning’ than ‘afternoon’ to me. But I have to overcome my natural inertia if I’m going to get round all 32 nations, so I haul myself down to Finsbury Park to watch Algeria take on Slovenia.

Chanting and cheering is audible from several cafes along Blackstock Road, but most are full to the door or beyond. Hidden behind one enormous, billowing Algerian flag, I find one café with enough space for me to squeeze in. Grabbing a mint tea I settle in to enjoy the show.

By “show”, I’m not talking about the football: it’s all about the men – yes, all men – crowded around a small screen in the café’s back room. Expressive and animated, they are a joy to watch. Every half-chance is greeted by an Arabic tirade, arms aloft. Chants of “one two three, vive l’Algerie!” break out. In the excitement, one chap falls over. There’s the sound of breaking glass when one of their best chances goes begging.

Having watched England grind out a draw the previous evening, it’s my most enjoyable experience so far. Yassin, working behind the counter in his green tracksuit, promises me great photos after the game – if Algeria win. After the celebrations when they qualified for the World Cup in November, I can believe him.

But the group’s mood takes a turn for the worse when one of their players is sent off. It gets even more black when Slovenia score, some fans storming out in disgust. A few are good enough to pose for photos outside – but the celebration shots are going to have to wait.

Happily, they don’t have to wait too long for me – as I hop straight on the Victoria Line to Brixton to watch Ghana…

Monday night: Paraguay-Italy

Tonight I'm going to be at Nueva Costa Dorada, by Tottenham Court Road station, to watch Paraguay against the Italians. It was tipped by both the Evening Standard and Time Out, so fingers crossed it lives up to expectations.

Anyone fancy joining for tapas?

I should say that both the ES and Time Out got it spot on with their tip for Sunday. The Gold Coast in Brixton was absolutely jam-packed with Ghanaians for what turned out to be a complete party. By the way the celebrations spilled out on to the street after, you'd have thought they'd won the final, not just a group stage game.

Write-up - and photos - to come soon!

#1 Uruguay and #2 USA

Boom! Two days into the tournament and I've got two nations ticked off.

Friday afternoon is rushed at work and I'm kicking myself that I can't get to the nearby Bok Bar to see South Africa. I end up thinking back to my phone call with Enrique at the Uruguayan Embassy and decide that there is only one move to make. I trust Enrique. I feel like we connected. Enrique wouldn't lie to me. How could I disregard his advice?

So it's Zoo Bar and Club for game number one, Uruguay v France. Enrique hadn't lied and a good Uruguayan crowd was in, even if the uneventful game keeps them fairly subdued. The most exciting moment in the game is the boo raised for Thierry Henry's entrance: from Latinos and neutrals, but also, to my delight, from some fair-minded French viewers.

I come to regard these fine people as the Free French, upholding their proud nation's finest traditions against the Henry-cheering, cheat-condoning, ball-handling, Vichy French. That's right, Thierry. Fuck with the Irish at your peril, son.

Saturday promises much more, but pre-existing commitments mean that I miss the day's first two games, with my best efforts to find a Greek venue around Russell Square yielding only a taverna with no TV.

Later, I'm horrified when the Evening Standard's tip for watching the USA, the Hard Rock Cafe, tell me that while they'll be showing the game, the volume will be muted. Clearly, this is a complete non-starter: I'm looking for Americans who are actually watching the game, not just sucking down over-priced burgers and Bud.*

I end up back in the West End and, spotting a guy with a stars'n'stripes draped over his shoulders, follow him into Covent Garden's Jewel bar. He turns out to be Tyler from Kansas, halfway through a fortnight's holiday in London. He's doing what you'd expect any 18 year old American abroad to do, which is to hit the premium lager hard.

This innate grasp of Stella Artois gives the impression that he has a natural understanding of the English approach to football, despite having never kicked a ball in his life. My impression is only confirmed when he declares, "I want to fight someone!" - before the game kicks off, no less! What a natural. I have no doubt he'd do very well over here.

Anyway. The game starts at 19.30, but as kick off approaches it seems all too likely that the Americans will fail to show up until 19.41, before claiming they've won it...

(Sadly, I only read this joke when I get home after the game, but I feel sure that Jamie would see the funny side.)

Jamie is a New Yorker, in London for six months working for a bank. He's not one of life's sportsmen and doesn't look like brawling is ever going to be on his agenda for a night out. But, watching his first ever football game, he's proof of the pull that the World Cup still manages to exert on people who wouldn't normally give a toss about the game. Talking to him and Tyler makes me start to feel like this whole escapade is going to be worthwhile.

Whether I'll feel the same after three games on Sunday remains to be seen!

* No, I don't sully my mouth with any Budweiser tonight. Or ever.