#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.