Czech Republic 2-3 Turkey

Ouch. That, has got, to hurt. Four years ago I watched England play France in a pub in Sheffield (on TV, obviously – the game wasn’t actually being staged in The Big Tree, although that would’ve been awesome). England were winning, and even though Beckham had missed a penalty, victory was assured. The crowing had begun – unlucky Thierry!

Then Zidane scored a freekick in what felt like the last minute. Then, in the last, last last minute, Gerrard decided to gift Henry a chance to win a penalty, which he did, which Zidane converted. My mum picked us up from the pub and I don’t think my dad and I said a single word for the rest of the day.

So I know how it feels. But as gutting as that was, this was one of the bigger footballing chokes I’ve witnessed. Even worse was that I watched in a Czech pub/club full of extremely passionate Czechs – and a surprising amount of English, as it happens.

Well, I say a pub/club, but the Czech and Slovak Club in West Hampstead is more like someone’s house. We walked up and down a few times before we even spotted it, and even then it was only because a bloke with red Czech shirt on happened to be going in through the front gate. There was a sign on the front door – Sorry, We’re Full – but undaunted, we entered.

Surreal. A “restaurant” area had candles and paintings straight from Castle Dracula, there was one large room that actually looked like a pub room, one the looked like a school classroom, a swankier, smaller room with a bar, and a neat smoking area outside. Having slightly misjudged our bus journey from Finchley, we arrived at about half seven and so seating was out of the question, so were resigned instead to peering around the doorway to the “classroom” – which, as it happened, was the position of choice for the English contingent in attendance. A lovely bunch they were too. One of them was a kindred spirit – attempting the same Europub mission as me, and we were able to trade a few tips and venues. He previously had a 100% record as well – sorry fellas.

The Czech Pilsner was slightly disappointing – a bit flavourless and at the now-standard £3. But like a “proper” football pub, they had staff queuing up the pints while one bloke handled the orders, meaning that you handed over your coinage and received beer immediately. Great stuff.

On beer more generally – the Czechs really don’t take good care of the stuff! When Koller opened the scoring with a typically powerful header, booze went flying. Before the game, one fella stood up for the national anthem and in doing so spilled his freshly-poured pint all over himself and his friends. Another guy strolled outside on the phone absently sloshing the contents of his mug all over the shop. And criminally, I set my three-quarter drunk pint down for all of thirty seconds and when I went for another sip, I found my hand grasping thin air. Bastards! I was still drinking that!

The atmosphere was the best of the tournament so far, even before Koller scored. The Czech fans had a nice variety of songs, although the standard one did sound an awful lot like they were chanting “Turkey” – “Cher-KIE” I assume being the native pronunciation of their country. One bloke, who had magnificently intricate facial hair to go with his Mohawk and tattoos, was particularly vociferous – and not a little pished. He was also chief instigator of a mental mosh-pit of a celebration following the opening goal.

Turkey were rotten in that first half, but as with the game against the Swiss, they were a different side in the second, getting the ball wide and penning the Czechs back. Nonetheless, the lead was doubled with a fine finish, and should have been tripled when a great counter-attack led to a deflected shot against the post.

At this point, the Czech fans were hugging in justified confidence. An English bloke was having his photo taken with Mr Mohawk and his giant Czech flag, which precipitated this exchange:

English: “Cheers!” *clinks glasses*
Czech: “Cheers.”
E: “In Czech?”
C: “Huh?”
E: “In Czech?” *clinks glass again*
C: “Cheers?”
E: “Yeah – in Czech?”
C: “Cheers.”
E: “Cheers?”
C: “Cheers!”

Ah, the international language of beer.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Turkey were back in the game. A beautifully worked opening ended with the ball being placed in precisely the only place that Petr Cech couldn’t reach it – after we’d been discussing how the Chelsea keeper is rarely beaten.

Now the pressure was on. I remarked that there was no way that the Czechs could keep defending so deep – ten men within forty yards of the goal, but nobody pressing the full backs hard enough to prevent the crosses coming in. And eventually one did come in, Cech stretched and stretched but it slipped through his fingers and dropped for Nihat to tap in. The Turkish striker was almost celebrating before he’d kicked the ball, he couldn’t believe it.

Silence in the club, total silence. The four English (me, Alex, two guys) turned to each other with the same expression on our faces. Imagine you’ve just knocked over an extremely old, extremely expensive vase in a public place. That was the face we were all pulling. Yeesh.

But before we’d digested that, Turkey came forward again, the ball was slipped perfectly through to Nihat, who scored with the most sublime curling finish you’ll see, an absolute cracker clipping in off the underside of the bar (yay!).

No silence this time. Mohawk went bonkers, hurling his stool aside, shoving past us into the smoking area and smashing his pint glass against the floor before kicking the shit out a bin and a table. I was beginning to fear for my safety (never mind Alex’s) at this point and one of the chaps we’d been chatting to had taken refuge in the space between the door and the wall. Wise.

But then suddenly a cry went up – even in Czech it was obvious that they were calling “penalty!” The Czechs had poured forward and Volkan, the Turkish keeper, had been sent off. We had no idea what for – we couldn’t see a bloody thing. But if he’d been sent off, it must surely be a penalty.

But no – he’d flattened Jan Koller (good effort lad!) after the ball had drifted past the post. Red card, but with play dead, no penalty. More disappointment, more anger. The final whistle went, we said a friendly farewell to the two English chaps (see you in De Heims?) and slunk out, trying to look upset.

Safety reached, I covered my mouth and muttered to the missus, “bloody rate game!”

Mohawk was kicking seven bells out of a bin further up the road. Superb drama, a terrific game, a surreal place and another evening that makes me feel glad that I’m doing what I’m doing. And, as much fun as it was, glad I’m not Czech tonight.