On Monday evening I depart for a three-and-a-half week stint in South Africa. It’s a trip that’s been in the making for almost four years. Considering how much I hate flying, a journey time of almost twenty-four hours, including a brief stopover in Kenya, could yet feel like the longest part.
I can’t complain. For a football fan, it’s the trip of a lifetime. On Wednesday evening I’m due to attend Germany v Ghana, and several knockout ties after that. If England were to win their group, I’d be present at their second round tie and possibly quarter-final. For better or worse, that looks increasingly unlikely. Oh well: Wayne Rooney probably wouldn’t appreciate my presence anyway.
I’m now in the final stages of preparation. I went to the doctors and asked for every jab I could have for free. I’ve had such a bizarre concoction of chemicals and viruses injected in to me that I’m half-expecting to metamorphose in to some artificially-enhanced superhero.
Sadly, there isn’t a jab for being macheted. I’ll be spending the majority of my time in Johannesburg, South Africa’s crime capital. When I mentioned this to a friend’s mother, she wished me a lovely stay, before helpfully remarking that a colleague of hers and her husband had been robbed at gunpoint. “Still, have a nice time”, she added.
I should be safe enough, staying with a well-off family in the suburbs characterised by the architecture of fear: high walls, electric fences, and infra-red sensors. Plus, I wear glasses. No hardened criminal will target a man wearing glasses. It’s simply not fair.
Tonight I have begun the lengthy and surprisingly stressful process of packing. I’ve checked my passport is still valid, I’ve washed my lucky pants, and I’ve backed up all electrical equipment in advance of inevitable theft.
There are still a few items which may or may not make the cut. It’s a bit like Capello’s thirty-man provisional squad. All this junk, laid out on my bed or stacked cautiously by the suitcase, waiting to hear if they’ll actually be on the plane. What about my astros? I have fantasies of being asked to play in a small-scale fan-filled version of the actual tournament in which I score the winning goal. Or should I go all-out and take my boots? At the rate England’s centre-halves are disappearing, I might just get a game.
I’m travelling with my brother Charlie and a good friend of ours, Adam, and will be doing my best to keep 3&In abreast of our adventures. That might take the form of blog posts, photos, video, audio – whatever I can cobble together once I assess the WIFI situation out there.
The tournament may have been going for over a week now, but my World Cup is about to begin in earnest. I can’t wait for kick-off.
