Poland 1-1 Austria

POLSKA! You fickle mistress. A quarter-final place was in your hands, particularly with Germany getting done over by Slaven Bilic’s boys, and then an English referee did the Germans a favour by giving Austria a last-minute penalty. Now the Poles have to hope for two minor miracles for qualification – victory over Croatia (unlikely) and Austria beating Germany (no chance).

On that penalty, then; it was weak but it served the defender right. Commentators and pundits alike bang on about how “if a referee just gave a penalty, shirt-pulling in the box would stop instantly”. Well, fair play Howard Webb then. Particularly as he’d stopped the freekick from which the incident occurred, in order to warn the defenders to stop pissing about.

The only real shame – apart from the fact I was supporting Polska for the night – was that Artur Boruc had had such a magnificent game in goal that he deserved a clean sheet and thus the win. The Austrians ran rings around Poland in the first half, with Boruc making at least four crucial saves – most from point-blank range, including one rather impressively with his crotch. Yet just while we were pondering what had to be done to beat the keeper, Poland scored, out of absolutely nothing and from an offside position. Go go go!

Back in Ahir’s I was, with my mate in tow (making his Europub debut, won’t be his last appearance though I’m sure). Arriving good and early as I did on Sunday, it became immediately apparent that the Poles were not out in force as against Germany. In fact, I reckon there were less than half of the red and white hordes that packed it out for that game. Surely they hadn’t given up already? Losing to Germany might hurt more than for most other countries, but it’s hardly a disgrace.

Anyway, despite the poor-ish turnout, the opening was as much of a farce in the pub as it was on the pitch. We were watching it on a TV showing BBC, whereas the back room was showing a Polish channel – complete with sound which drowned out the Beeb’s commentary. It became obvious that the Polish channel was about five seconds behind by the echo of ooooohs and aaaahs from the other room when something happened.

So Guerrero bundles the ball in, and we and the ten or so Poles in the room cheer. A few seconds later, an almighty roar erupts from behind us and a slightly-dangerous looking bloke runs in screaming “POLSKAAAAAA” as though he was trying to self-perform a Heimlich manoeuvre.

Drawn by this circles-of-Hell warcry, three blokes in Poland shirts run in from outside, clearly having stubbed out their fags post-haste. There was a deliciously brilliant couple of seconds as these guys ran to the TV, craned their necks to get a view, and eventually deciphered what had happened. Cue renewed celebrations, every bit as mad as the bloke behind us.

Unfortunately, that was about as good as it got despite some good chances in the second half. Guerrero seemed hell-bent on proving his Brazilian heritage with some neat skill…but not much end product.

We did have some very nice, very strong Tyskie beer. I don’t mind paying £3 for a drink when I feel there’s a bit of substance to it.

So, I’m coming to the end of my first week of this experiment (Friday is a designated rest day, as may be Saturday with the evening game not particularly inspiring). It has been pointed out to me that I seem to be following the losers – not quite true; played four, won one, lost two. But the notable thing is that I’ve been “supporting” the lesser lights so far, Sweden, Switzerland and Poland (twice).

Difficult to explain. The first Polish attendance was purely because I couldn’t be arsed to go all the way to Old Street on my own, and presumably I wouldn’t have backed the Poles last night either. In an alternate universe I’d have gone to the Bavarian Beerhouse, watched Germany win, then gone back for last night’s game and supported Austria. Sweden is close to work (the pub, not the country), and the Swiss bar/restaurant sounded more intriguing than some Turkish bar. But maybe it just comes down to the old adage that “the Brits love an underdog”.

But next week – and particularly as the tournament progresses to the quarters – I’m going to get stuck in with the big boys. Especially the Dutch, after what I’ve just seen, but more on that in another post.

And most importantly, I’ve drummed up a nice bit of interest in this whole escapade so far. In four expeditions I’ve had a total of six different people tagging along, almost all of whom have now got a taste and basically said “let me know when you’re next doing it”. I certainly will. I do feel like I need a few days off after a week of being out drinking every night and getting up early for work the next day, but Monday beckons. Other plans rule me out on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday week… so all the more reason to get on it for the other days. Beautiful.

Switzerland 1-2 Turkey

Trust the Swiss. No, not to balls it up in a most English fashion (conceding a late, deflected goal that didn’t really make much of a difference anyway, but acts as a massive kick in the tits, after your striker has missed a couple of open goals). But instead to get this Europub experience so absolutely, perfectly, magnificently right, that I wonder if this is going to be as good as it gets.Ok, so the Swiss lost. But wow! That was great. From the moment I entered St Moritz club off Oxford Street, I practically grinned for about two hours. It was great! I already said that, didn’t I? Worth repeating.

I enjoyed the Holland v Italy game the other night, but for me, this was the game of the tournament so far. It was fantastic. Mainly because a must-win European Championship group game was basically reduced to a Barnet v Rushden kick-and-rush pissabout in the rain, where the ball had to be smacked with ten times as much velocity to carry it about one tenth of the distance as normal. It was terrific, it was a mudbath, it was water polo, it was goals and saves and tackles and yellow cards and mistakes and more goals and it was magnificent. It was everything football should be.

And I felt part of the crowd for the first time, properly. For one night I was an honorary Swiss. When the goal went in we were on our feet cheering and applauding. When Tranquillo Barnetta – definitively the best named footballer in the world today – surged past three players, dragging the ball through several inches of surface water, we were on our feet with the rest of the pub to get a better view.

The whole experience was aided by the tremendous suitability of the venue. My options beforehand – aided by the missus’ brother’s extensive research – were a Swiss restaurant, a Swiss wine bar, or – no joke – a Swiss church, all of which were showing the game. The restaurant seemed first port of call, but I was slightly concerned – this wasn’t actually a posh restaurant that just happened to be showing the game, was it? Were we going to turn up and be asked if we wanted a table for two?

No, we were not. St Moritz restaurant is connected to St Moritz club, which is through a side door, down some stairs, down some more stairs, until eventually we were in some sort of batcave with a bar. Swiss bunting, posters (cheaper than framed photos I suppose) of Swiss mountain ranges, a decently sized telly that fit perfectly with the crammed surrounds, and Swiss TV! I was in Switzerland not so long ago and it was just like being back there.

Including the beer (Appenzeller), which was crisp, refreshing, and once again, expensive. Bloody hell but the “local” booze is costly. But more friendly, friendly people, including a barmaid who was amused no end by my request for “something Swiss”, and a little bemused when I told her that I was English but supporting the Swiss for one night only. Her look said, quite clearly, “why?”

Bratwurst for my drinking buddy came with a serviette in the style of a Swiss flag. The Swiss fans were once again mild-mannered (barely a swearword in earshot when Turkey scored) but the most passionate I’ve encountered so far. At times it seemed as though people weren’t actually watching the game – until it looked as though something was about to develop on the pitch, at which point you realised everyone was not only watching, but extremely excited by what was going on.

And the game was terrific. I can confidently predict, mere hours after the game, that there will not be a time when I don’t find the Swiss goal hilarious. I mean come on; bloke goes round the keeper, absolutely twats it across the goalmouth to his team-mate, who calmly watches the ball bob to a halt in the puddle on the goal-line, before ramming it home. Even then it barely made it, getting half-stuck again on its way in. It was like kicking a beachball around in the surf.

But Switzerland needed to win, with an almost inevitable defeat to Portugal to follow. And after Turkey equalised, and the rain stopped and the pitch dried out, it became increasingly clear that the Swiss had missed their opportunity. The Turks were playing the football and creating the pressure, even though it was Switzerland that created the best chance with a thrilling three-on-one break that forced the impressive Volkan into yet another excellent save.

And as the match ticked towards injury time, it was almost academic that Turkey should nick it, but nick it they did and in doing so gave them a very good chance of getting through – and setting up a tasty winner-takes-all last game against the Czechs.

So a hilariously brilliant game, in the worst conditions I have ever seen, ended in Swiss disappointment. On those conditions; incredible. How the pitch held together I’ve no idea – possibly that was the problem, instead of mud it was as though they were playing in low tide. But it dried out remarkably quickly once the downpour stopped. Seriously though; not even our sadistic PE teacher would have had us out in that. But what fun – how awesome it would be to see the final played in that kind of weather.

At one point, when Senderos slid (and slid and slid) into a crunching but ultimately successful tackle, the commentator slipped out of his native tongue and into English to proudly announce “made in Great Britain!” Pure brilliance.

Go on the Swiss, beat the Portuguese in your final game and sign off with a shout. You might have lost again but for one night I was honoured to shrug off my neutral tag and get behind the most neutral nation of all. Bring on Polska v Austria.

Sweden 2-0 Greece

Round two of this pub tour looked set to be corker; the sun was shining, the Swedish pub is just round the corner, Spain v Russia had whet the appetite something lovely, and the workday was over. But upon arriving at said venue, we spotted the signs: “Tickets for Sweden v Greece – SOLD OUT”.

Tickets? Sold? Out? Eh?

Yes, as I’m sure to learn over the coming weeks, entry to some of the more popular venues are on a ticket-only basis. So, if you want to watch a match at the Harcourt, get ‘em in advance. So much for the beauty of spontaneity.

The Northerner in me baulks at the idea of paying for the privelege to pay for something (ie, beers) at the best of times. Surely if I’m in your pub, I’m going to be spending money anyway? Ah well. I can actually understand the Harcourt’s point of view on this one as it is a comparatively tiny place, and the measure is probably in place to stop it becoming dangerously rammed (as well as to make more money). But it’ll be interesting to see what approach some of the bigger venues on my list put in place.

Which leaves me with a bit of a dilemma – do I plan ahead? At the moment I’m looking no further than tomorrow (venue and companions lined up), in fact I couldn’t even tell you what the games are on Friday, and I kinda like that approach. But if I want to get the full experience, will it be worth sniffing around future venues and seeing if there is a ticketing restriction in place, and attempt to procure some of these tickets for myself and noble colleagues? Or do what I did last night, and operate on the principle that there will always be people like me who, having turned up expecting to watch/support whoever with a load of people of similar POV, mooch off to a designated over-spill pub and have a similar experience with slightly more space and slightly cheaper beer?

Huh. I’ll probably lean towards the latter, and maybe get a bit of a foresight involved when the tournament reaches its latter stages. This experiment is still in its infancy anyway, so it’s a learning process and I’m sure I’ll have a better idea of what to do when I’ve seen a few more matches.

Anyway, we did get a token drink in at the Harcourt – a lovely pint of Kopparberg, a very sweet (and expensive!) cider – before moving on. In soaking up the rays (or the shade, at least) in the beer garden, we missed pretty much the whole second half of the Spain game, but a 4-1 scoreline speaks for itself. Apart from anything else, I’m absolutely delighted that we’ve finally had a game where both teams have scored – even if it was a consolation in a thrashing. It looked for a while like defensive football would out – grab the lead, defend and win to nil. From the highlights and first half it looked as though both sides made a good go of it. I’ve pulled Spain in the office sweepstake so here’s hoping this is a portent for things to come…

Disappointed to leave the Harcourt, which seemed to be just getting into the swing of things with lots of yellow and blue and a BBQ on the go, but not surprised in the slightest when the barbloke pointed us in the direction of the nearby Thornbury Castle. The Thornbury is a thoroughly awesome pub which I can’t praise much more highly than saying that I would be proud to have it as “my local”. Friendly staff, good food, plenty of seating. The only odd thing was the bloke outside showing us an extreeeeme close-up of where he’d had plastic surgery on his forehead after someone had wrapped a baseball bat round his head. It clearly hadn’t affected his ability to spark conversation: “I know a rape victim, right…”

With Swedish barstaff, more Kopparberg, more blue and yellow and no little face painting, the only things missing were meatballs on the menu and someone struggling to assemble a flat-pack table in the corner. One of my fellow Euro Challenge contestants had an omelette – that’s not very Swedish, is it? A large portion of their evening was spent chatting up some Danish girls, of all things, but it got even weirder when one of us asked three blokes in Sweden shirts if they were er, from Sweden.

“Nope,” they replied, in London accents.

Er…okay. WTF?

“Oh, we’re just supporting Sweden.”
“Why’s that then?”
“Well, England didn’t qualify, did they?”
True that.
“It’s because of the Swedish women, isn’t it?”
“….yes.”

Quality goal by Ibrahimovic, who continues to stand up for men with large proboscises everywhere (I’m assured that means “nose”, nothing else). Missed the second due to a call of nature – the only goal I’ve not seen yet from the entire tournament. On to Switzerland v Turkey tonight, anticipating a few fireworks given that the last time they met, this happened… 

Netherlands 3-0 Italy

Part of the point of this exercise – besides enjoying myself on a primitive, pub-going football-loving level – is to dispel a bit of the jingoism that usually goes with watching an international tournament in this country, and embrace the diversity that makes this good city what it is.

 

But having said that, it’s going to be bloody hard to support the Italians if they’re going to continue to throw themselves around as they did tonight. Granted, Van Nistelrooy had a good attempt to trip himself over his own feet on the edge of the area, but the Italians have mastered the art of the flop. In fairness, they have expanded their repertoire – the 2008 model including the “fall over and grab the opponent’s shirt while you go in an attempt to make it look like they’ve wrestled you to the ground” manoeuvre. Nice. Kudos to the referee who was wise to pretty much all of it.

 

And what a goal by Sneijder.

 

I’m feeling the Dutch buzz – hard not to after their first-half performance in particular – and looking forward to a visit to a Dutch pub in the near future. Already have my eye on one but it’s so well known that there’s no need to plug it here – if any more people find out about it, I might not get in.

 

What’s going on with Camoranesi? He looks like he has a small water vole – or worse – growing underneath his chin. Horrendous.

 

And so we turn to the early sparring between BBC and ITV coverage of the tournament. The Beeb seem to have merrily spunked my license fee on a jolly for all – and I do mean all – and sundry, on a tournament that most English fans are largely ambivalent towards. Difficult in those circumstances to justify such a large presence.

 

Lineker, Hansen, Shearer (hmm…) – justified. Martin O’Neill, who unlike all the other members of the Old Boys Club in their matching cornflower blue shirts, refuses to toe the party line to such hilarious extent that he seems hell-bent on arguing just for the sake of it – fully justified. Euro 2008 had barely begun and he’d already pounced on Alan Hansen like a rabid wolverine after the Scot suggested that we can all get behind Ronaldo, Torres et al.

 

But CBBC no-mark Jake Humphries? Garth Crooks, a man with such a poor grasp of the English language you wonder why your license fee is being used to pay him? Jacqui Oatley? Oh well, I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves, you bastards.

 

But anyway. My cynicism towards the BBC is nothing compared to my outright loathing of ITV and all connected with them. I’m sure this will be a recurring theme throughout this blog but Clive Tyldesley’s endless Anglo-promotion by tying everything possible to an English context is simply lamentable. Van Bronkhurst? Once played in England you know. Italian coach Donadoni? Once managed by none other than Fabio Cappello. Even Wesley Sneijder – Wesley Sneijder! – wears the number 23 shirt at Real Madrid, which apparently some English bloke did once too. You’d never have guessed.

 

The only thing worse than this constant harping back to England (we get it! We’re not there! We’re not going to turn off in the event that we forget that England still exists as a footballing nation) is their dreadful cross-promotion. The BBC is as bad as this, in ITV’s defence, but it’s still inexcusable.

 

When Tyldesley somewhat bizarrely described Ambrosini changing his boots as “changing tyres”, it was a small mercy – and a surprise – that he didn’t then segue into a plug for Lewis Hamilton’s latest racing travails… exclusively live on ITV.

Germany 2 – 0 Poland

And we’re off! Euro 2008 may have started yesterday, but I started today, damn you, with the first of hopefully many visits to “international” pubs to watch the games.

Intending to go to the Bavarian Beerhouse in Old Street to support the Germans, I instead found myself alone at the tube station watching a crew of Polish fans head into Finchley. “Hmm,” says I. “Let’s follow these instead.” Possibly I realised that supporting the Germans was going to be a far more difficult task than previously believed. So I ended up at Ahir Lorenzos, just outside Finchley Central tube and just five minutes walk from my home. And one text message later and I’d convinced the missus to come along too, easy.

The match itself was annoyingly like the previous 3 – predictable and not very engaging. But as a first step out into multicultural football supporting, it was a good one – novel and actually very enjoyable not being around pissed, sunburned England fans. Instead the Poles were quite a reticent bunch (about 100 of them turned up; Finchley has a large Polish population), not getting particularly excited or disappointed in a way that English fans tend to do at the first misplaced pass. When Podolski scored Germany’s first, the reaction wasn’t a smashing of glasses and an outpouring of expletives, but 90% of the pub buggering off outside for a fag.

Some impressive face paint and scarves on display (the red Polska t-shirts were brilliant, I may invest) and overall a friendly atmosphere. The barmaid made me pronounce the beer before she’d sell it to me (Zywiec) and a nice couple offered us some of their Polish bar snacks (tasty). Bit pissed off at having to pay £1.50 to sit and watch it (they tried to pass it off with complementary soup) but even then, that’s about half a pint down here so no big deal. Although some of the Polish fans were none too pleased at the unexpected charge too.

Good noise outside during half-time was never replicated inside in the second half, and you could tell that unlike English fans, the Poles really didn’t expect much from the game. The staff had managed to rig up one of the TVs to a Polish channel covering the game, so we had the authentic Polish commentary blaring over the sound system, but the Beeb on the telly in front of us. I don’t know if there is a Polish equivalent of Garth Crooks, but if so, may God have mercy on their souls.

And so the Germans scored again, Podolski justifying my pre-tourney tip as an outside bet for the Golden Boot. Some fans left, everyone else looked a bit non-plussed, and the match petered out to a routine win without much of a murmur. There was a moment of excitement for some when Poland had the ball in the net, but the offside flag had long since been up.

From a footballing point of view, the Germans looked good but not infallible. Portugal were impressive last night but Germany look a better unit rather than a collection of brilliant attackers as Ronaldo et al do. Ballack is superb at the hub and the front three of Podolski, Klose and Gomez combined well – although Gomez made a mockery of all this £20m pricetag talk with a dreadful miss and some rotten touches. Lahm is one of the best full-backs in the tournament and whilst Lehmann is occasionally dodgy for Arsenal (and couldn’t get in their team in 07/08 ) he’s imperious for his country. Overall you can see why they’re the favourites to lift the trophy.

Given the convenience of the bar, the friendliness of the fans, and the refreshing taste of the beer, here’s hoping Polska go through and I get a few more visits in. I do believe it’s actually a Moroccan bar, but they’re clearly not burning any bridges – they’ve got at least 10 massive flags of different finalists outside, plus loads of posters up all around Finchley Central, advertising Poland’s games. Definitely a good call to remain closer to home rather than venture into town on me lonesome.

Bavarian Beerhouse, your time will come, especially as I’m sure that Germany will be playing plenty more games over the coming weeks. And the Erdinger is calling…

A day off tomorrow (Holland v Italy from the comfort of my home) then back on the trail following Sweden in a pub that’s wonderfully close to work. Hopefully a few more people will join me this time… you know who you are!

Closer please

Less than two weeks to the big kick off.

List of venues compiled.

Beers being cooled.

Coming soon…

A select group attempt clamber aboard a selection of bandwagons and support teams that have qualified for Euro 2008, in a variety of nationally-themed drinking establishments around London.

Nationally-themed beers and food will also be consumed.