Three and in – not just another football blog

Hello guys.  Or, as the Saffers would cheerfully say, “Howzit oaks”.  (Grammar fans: be not alarmed.  Although ‘Howzit’ would appear to constitute a compressed question, it has come to lose that linguistic inflection.  See: ‘Wassup’ (US) for similar.)

After 24 hours of travel, 23 of which were accompanied by a screaming child, I am back in England, ready to share with you my findings from my African sojourn.

It’s perfectly safe.  Sort of.
“The media over-exaggerate the danger,” we were told.  “It’s perfectly safe.”

“Just be sure to never leave your house on foot.  Or get out of the car.  I wouldn’t leave the windows open, either.  And lock the doors.”

Turns out it is perfectly safe, as long as you’re surrounded at all times by concrete, metal, and probably some kind of electrified security system.

In that respect, it’s one of the most claustrophobic places I’ve ever been.  I live in London, where the expense of public transport and my inability to drive mean I walk or cycle everywhere.  I’m sure I would have been just fine had I done the same in Johannesburg, but there is such a deep-rooted and understandable climate of fear that even the suggestion seemed preposterous.

Everything has its price
And almost everything is negotiable.  It’s like a meeting with Harry Redknapp: you’re never quite sure what the total cost of anything is going to be, and where on Earth that money might end up.

Example: my fellow travellers and I booked a private tour of Soweto for 450 Rand.  It looked a good deal – until, that is, we realised the tour would consist of largely of being taken round the tour guide’s various local friends, being strongly encouraged to tip them for having a look at their street.  Final cost: 800 Rand.

They have politically incorrect chocolate
If there was one nation where a chocolate bar suggestive of a possible racial hierarchy would be inappropriate, it’s South Africa.

And yet, against all odds, I give you Cadbury’s Top Deck:

They love their ‘soccer’
Prior to the World Cup, football was regarded as a ‘black sport’.  A white face at an Orlando Pirates game was a rarity.  Despite that, the English Premier League has long been popular across race, social class, and background.  Nearly everyone we met had a favourite English side, with Man United and Liverpool dominating.

The only shame is that the World Cup fever will not translate in to a boom for South African soccer.  A lovely woman I met at a braai (an Afrikaans word for ‘barbecue’ that the South Africans use in one of their many attempts to differentiate themselves from Aussies) exemplified the prevailing attitude among white South Africans:

“I was never in to soccer before but I’ve enjoyed the World Cup so much that I’m going to watch all the Premier League games when the new season starts.”

They have a Big Five, not a Big Four
In England we obsess about the Big Four of United, Chelsea, Liverpool and Arsenal.  In South Africa they’re positively nonchalant about the presence of their Big Five: Rhino, Leopard, Elephant, Lion and Buffalo.  I saw the latter three on a mind-blowing trip to the Kruger National Park.  When a 17ft giraffe wonders out across the road in front of you it’s all you can do to stop humming the Jurassic Park theme music.

The roles of Man City and Spurs are played by the cheetah and wild dog – pushing for entry in to the Big Five but not quite taken seriously enough.

It’s a nation in recovery
Although the country is clearly in an infinitely better position than twenty years ago, the ghost of Apartheid still haunts South Africa.  It’s a rainbow nation, but it’s predominantly a black and white rainbow, with distinct bands of colour and little room for blurring.  The unified joy with which the World Cup was greeted will play a role in increasing national morale, but the cost of the world class stadiums still outweigh the investment in basic housing for the country’s poorest people.

They are extraordinarily warm people
In spite of any underlying socio-political problems, about which I concede I’m not remotely qualified to talk with any authority, the people of South Africa welcomed fans from across the world with warmth, generosity and excitement.  This is not a country who are used to having such diverse groups in such huge numbers descend upon them – they appreciated the fans, and did all they could to make their stay as much fun as possible.  Almost to a man, they asked, “Will you come back?”  They wanted to change the perception of their country, and I think they managed it.  There’ve been better World Cups, but there can’t have been many better hosts.

Service stations have proven fertile ground for meeting renowned football folk at this World Cup. On our way to England v Germany we met former Aston Villa centre-half Martin Laursen and ‘Sir’ Les Ferdinand, still awaiting conviction for impersonating a Knight of the Realm.

On the six hour drive from Johannesburg to Durban to attend our fourth different stadium for our fifth game, we topped even that by stumbling in to Bafana Bafana’s opening day hero: Siphiwe Tshabalala.

As we stopped to get some petrol, we noticed a small crowd gathering around a gigantic pair of sunglasses, behind which there appeared to a tiny man. And not just any tiny man. This was Tshabalala: scorer of a scorcher of a left-footed strike that defied the otherwise problematic aerodynamics of the Jabulani to breathe hope, life, and expectancy in to the tournament. Plus, he had a funny name. A hero was born.

Tshabalala was also on the way to the game, accompanied by another Kaiser Chiefs player. He handed a child a pair of Bafana shorts, prompting tears of joy. He high-fived and posed and pretended to be a rapper, and then, as quick as he had arrived, he was gone. I had grabbed a few seconds of his starlight. And when it’s only due to last fifteen minutes, a few seconds has to go down as a significant percentage.

There follow a few other photos from the day.

Other than cult figures of African football, there isn’t a huge amount to see on the six hour drive down to Durban. It’s a distressing feeling when you realise you’re desperate for the loo and look out the window to see this:

Not a Little Chef in sight. Still, this is a stadium well worth the trip.

It’s Wembley-esque arch heralds your arrival at an arena which matches Joburg’s Soccer City for aesthetic excellence.

The only disappointment is the distance between the fans and the pitch at either end of the stadium – one of the inevitable downsides of making provisions for athletics tracks and the like.

What makes a stadium, more than the architecture, are the fans.

Some can’t help but look stupid.

And some can’t help but be stupid.

But they all make up a bigger, brighter picture.

Most of the locals and neutrals seemed to be siding with Spain, and so went home happy.

The match itself was a little under-whelming: Germany’s defensive unit was impressive but unable to understand the sheer weight of Spanish pressure. It sets up an exciting final which will crown a new Champion. I’m as yet unsure where I’ll be watching, but barring a miracle, it won’t be in the stadium.

Start praying now.

Last night I was one of many neutrals who joined forces to support the final African nation left in the competition: Ghana. The colour and excitement of Bafana-Bafana returned to Johannesburg’s Soccer City in the guise of ‘Baghana-Baghana’.

Sadly, Asamoah Gyan failed to convert a crucial extra-time penalty, and the 90,000-strong crowd were denied the happy ending they craved. Diego Forlan and Uruguay, whose dastardly antics did for South Africa, became undisputed ‘baddies’ of the tournament by triumphing in a dramatic penalty shoot-out.

It was still a hell of an occasion. Hopefully the photos below give something of a flavour.

Let me begin by offering my apologies for my radio silence – I’ve been watching an altogether different kind of game for the past few days in the Kruger national park. Since I last blogged I’ve been to Ghana v USA and, crushingly, England v Germany.

The first of those matches was undoubtedly the more fun experience – below you can see a few pics of the game – before, during, and after.

It’s no exaggeration to say that it feels like the whole of Africa are behind Ghana now. I’ll be at Soccer City tomorrow night cheering them on. It’ll be my third Ghana game of the tournament – I’m an honorary Ghanaian.

Out here in Johannesburg, you come across fans from all nations. In the past couple of days we’ve met grumpy Argentinians, dancing Ghanaians, drunk Englishmen and boisterous Germans.

They all have their qualities. Ascribing them a single adjectival epithet doesn’t do them justice. There is variety, colour, and most of all, warmth. Sitting down to write this I’m conscious of not wanting to come across like R-Kelly, singing a song about how football can bring about World Peace. It can’t. Only Bono can do that. But there is a definite harmony among fans that is something to behold.

Thus far, one group of fans have impressed me enormously: the Mexicans. They’re here in droves. They sing, they dance, they challenge Argentines to impromptu kick-up competitions. They happily chat away to you in Spanish whilst you nod blankly and mutter “Si, si”. They dress in outlandish costumes and embrace national stereotypes by sporting sombreros, meaning they have to stand about two feet apart at all times. And their team play some cracking football. What’s not to like?

In about an hour I set off to Rustenburg to watch Ghana face the US. As predicted, all the South African fans have rallied behind the one remaining African side. Bafana Bafana and the Black Stars are, for as long as Ghana’s run continues, one. If they can overcome the USA today, the locals will embrace the opportunity to continue the party. My colours are pinned firmly to a Ghanian mast.

An England game is usually an emotional rollercoaster – even moreso when you have tickets riding on it. I knew I’d see the winners of England’s group in the second round, and whilst I’m not the most fanatical England fan, when you come halfway round the world it’s good to see your own team.

All was going well: England needed to win by a greater margin than America to top the group. Jermain Defoe’s early goal had given England a slender lead, but America were missing an enormous top hat-full of chances against Algeria. England had several opportunities to extend the lead: Frank Lampard fired a great chance over, Defoe failed to make contact from six yards, and Wayne Rooney struck a post when played onside in front of goal. And yet, America still could not score. The full-time whistle blew, and we celebrated. England were through, and due to finish top. We’d see them in Rustenburg.

The big screen flickered, and suddenly the picture switched to a group of American players, diving on the floor in celebration. Landon Donovan had scored with a stoppage time equaliser. The dream, briefly, was over.

As consolation prizes go, heading to Soccer City to watch Germany vs Ghana is up there. There was a hell of an atmosphere, with fans celebrating and partying together:

I can’t understate how friendly everyone has been.  The South Africans are incredibly welcoming, and there is a bond between football fans here of all nations.  There is a mutual understanding between nations about how much saving and scheming it takes to get here, and all everybody wants is to join a great big football party.

The game was pretty entertaining for the first hour.  Then Ghana seemed to get wind of Australia’s 2-0 lead over Serbia, and were content to play out the remaining minutes to qualify in second.  Still, Soccer City is an extraordinary stadium, and it was fantastic to attend my first World Cup game.

That meant our tickets would be valid for USA vs Ghana – a chance to see the one remaining African nation in the knockout stages.  I’m not one to complain, but there was a tinge of frustration at missing out on the chance to watch England.

Until about 2am this morning, that is.  After hours of searching online and calling in favours from the great, the good, and the decidedly dodgy, we suddenly became aware that there were tickets available.  From FIFA.  I still have no idea why.  I don’t care.

The next few days hold USA v Ghana and England v Germany.  I’ve had worse weekends.

Day 2

Waiting for the flight from Nairobi to Johannesburg to take off was a bit like being on a World Cup-themed version of “It’s A Small World”, as they played Wavin Flag and a psuedo-African tune by Columbian songstress Shakira on a 40-minute loop.

That was nothing compared to the noise that greeted us on our arrival in Jo’burg.  I had nothing to declare save my embarrassment at England’s performances thus far, so skipped through customs to arrivals.  Emerging from the bureaucratic corridors and queues in to the wider world, my ears suddenly found themselves under assault.  I had heard my first vuvuzela.

An individual vuvuzela is louder than either your TV or the imitations on sale in Tescos would lead you to believe.  Several hundred vuvuzelas are, for want of a better phrase, very very loud.  I’m not, however, about to complain.  After the first ten minutes the throbbing of your eardrums passes, and in the lulls you begin to miss their enthusiastic drone.

And drone enthusiastically they did as we arrived to watch South Africa take on France in a suburban fan park.  After a warm-up performance by a man I’m thus far only able to identify as the South African Craig David, the game was underway.  Yoann Gourcuff’s sending off and each of the South Africa goals was greeted with a chorus of vuvuzelas, cheering, and zulu mining songs.  I clapped, Englishly.

At half-time there was a genuine sense of optimism.  Uruguay were leading Mexico 1-0 – another goal for them and another for South Africa would see Bafana Bafana qualify.  Sadly, it was not to be.  Florent Malouda’s goal made qualification logistically daunting, whilst missed opportunities for Mphela and Tshabalala dampened hope.

Still, they’ve plenty to be proud of.  They’ve been fantastic hosts, and there’s no shame in ending the group stage with four points.  And they beat France.  A chaotic France led by Raymond Domenech, but France nonetheless.

After a 20-hour journey which permitted a maximum of two hours sleep, we opted for a quiet night in watching Yakubu emulate Chris Iwelumo, on a far bigger and more humiliating stage.  Last night’s results mean that this weekend I’ll be at the mouth-watering Argentina vs Mexico.

Today we’ll be watching England in a bar before heading to Germany v Ghana.  A lot of South Africans have pointed out the irony of three Englishmen arriving the day before our team is due to go home.  I hope the fun of our trip could survive England’s potential departure – the rumour of starts for Defoe and Milner do not exactly fill me with optimism, despite Man City’s willingness to make Milner the world’s first billion-pound player.

Come On England.  Save me the embarrassment of having to explain your exit to the natives, just as I’ve already had to justify the continued existence of Emile Heskey.

Day 1 | 11.43pm UK-Time

Sitting on the first leg of my flight to the World Cup, I can’t help but feel I’ve already won. Our party of three proved triumphant in that most heated of battles: the aeroplane seating lottery. Yes, I’m sitting by the emergency exits. Not only will I be the first out the door if something goes horribly wrong, but until it does I can enjoy the luxury of extra legroom.

It’s been a while since I travelled outside of Europe, so my aviation experiences have, for several years now, been confined to the torturous Ryanair. The luminous interior, incessant noise and confined space makes flying with them feel like having an MRI scan. In the Hadron Collider.

So when the stewardess on this Air Kenya flight started bringing me free food and drink I panicked. Surely it was going to cost me an arm, leg, or other valued appendage? But no, it’s all included. If I’d known I would’ve gone mental and ordered everything.

There is a screen in front of me which shows a real-time graphical representation of the plane’s progress. For some three hours now, I’ve watched this pixellated plane plod across the globe. As flight sim games go, it’s not exactly Rogue Squadron. Moments of drama have been few and far between: an early scare when the little plane on the screen appeared to be pointing the wrong way soon passed. Since then it’s been plain sailing. Flying, even.

I mentioned Kenya: between the hours of 4-7am UK-time we’ll be hanging out in Nairobi airport. A security guard back in London sternly informed me that the airport has a 24-hour bar which is renowned for serving excellent sausage-rolls. I find the ubiquity of the sausage-roll surprising and reassuring all at once.

There seem to be quite a few football fans on the flight. A Football Intelligence officer casually checked my details in the departure lounge, and I’ve seen a few England shirts dotted around the plane. We’re sat across from an America-based German (he’s not Jurgen Klinsmann, before you ask), who is anticipating a possible conflict of interest in the second round. To my left are two men, one Kenyan and one English, who appear to have struck up a friendship after discussing the finer points of the evolution from ‘Championship Manager’ to ‘Football Manager’.

The little plane on the screen blips onwards. Cairo is to the East, and to the West there’s Ouagadougou. All those letters, comparatively few scrabble points.

Time for a nap before Nairobi.

Day 2 | 05.24 UK-Time

Nairobi airport is full of screaming children and a hundred identical duty free shops. Much like Heathrow airport, then.

Our sausage roll quest ended in disappointment when we realised we neither knew what the Kenyan currency was, nor had any.

We bumped in to some travelling England fans who fitted enough stereotypes to terrify me to my very core. The leader of their pack fixed me with a glare so unflinching I was convinced he was going to thump me – glasses or no glasses. Turns out he was quite a harmless, affable sort of bloke.

A flight to Johannesburg and a trip to watch South Africa take on France in a fan park await. Thus far, I have had no sleep. It’s going to be a long, but hopefully memorable day.

It was all going so well.  I’d found my passport, packed my bags, and decided which football shirt to wear on the flight over (South Korea 2002, if you’re interested).  I’d just spent 45 minutes on the phone to a man who was more interested in talking to me about Sam Allardyce’s refusal to play Nikola Kalinic than selling me the travel insurance I’d asked for.  But I’d sorted it. And then, it happened.

Putting the phone down, I went to get up from the sofa, and collapsed in what I’ll exaggeratedly call ‘agony’.  With just hours until my flight, I suddenly knew Rio Ferdinand’s pain: my World Cup dreams were in danger of slipping away from me at the last possible hour.

All sorts of thoughts rushed through my mind: Could I cope with twelve hours cooped up in economy class?  If not, who would be the beneficiary of my ill-fortune – my ‘Michael Dawson’, if you will?

As it is, a hot bath and more ibuprofen than I should probably take have allowed me to pass a last-minute fitness test.  I’m on the plane.  Twenty hours or so until touchdown in Johannesburg, via breakfast in Nairobi.  See you on the other side.

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.