#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!