Euro 2008

[Sweder]

I promised myself I wouldn't post whilst under the influence - but man, this was some crazy night in the garden of good and evil weed. The City of the Dam'd's usual kalaidescope of colours fused into a blinding flourescent orange tonight as the Dutch came out in force to back their boys. It's nights like these that not only remind Englishmen of what they're missing but make you realise that the Netherlands, with all their disparate, paradoxical juggling of colours, creeds and lifestyles, is a place fuelled by bon homie, good pharmaceuticals and lustrous passion.

The first half of Holland v France, a tense affair helped by a stunning header from Dirk Kuyt and one in which Les Bleus rallied to rain attack waves on the inspired Vvan der Sar's goal, found me parked in a hostilry a few hundred metres from the Amsterdam RAI. As gametime approached Thomas, the Austrian Liebherr engineer with whom I'd worried and worked all day, and I were joined on our pavement perch by a gaggle of semi-stoned, liberally attired women of various indeterminate age. We were quizzed on our origins and subsequently welcomed as honorary Oranges.

When the first Dutch goal went screaming into Coupet's net I noticed a new (to me) pheonomenon. When it's your team that scores, when it really matters, there's a minute moment lost in time from when you see the goal scored to when you react, an interlude when disbelief momentarily supresses celebration. It's best summed up as a sharp intake of breath, time standing still. It certainly happened this evening. Unbound by national allegience, immune to the organic pessimism which strikes the committed fan, I saw the goal even as the Liverpool striker streched his neck to hammer the ball into the onion bag, rising from my seat and bellowing at the screen. As I did so I realised for a split second that I was alone; the raucous pub crowd had frozen, not daring to believe the evidence of their own eyes. The spell broke a heartbeat later, the unEarthly cacophony of screams, howls, hooters and cheers filling the air.

I had to bail at halftime. I'd arranged to meet my crew, arrived hot-wing from Birmingham this evening, to outline a few things for the morning. I grabbed a cab to my hotel, dumped my files and set off across the Red Light District towards Centraal Station and the Blarney Stone public house. Strolling through deserted cobbled canal-side streets I marvelled at the eerie scene; this could be a set from Day of the Triffids - there were even a few unusual plants to be seen. Barely a soul stirred. Most of the infamous windows, picked out by their red lamps, were vacant. Not daft these ladies; besides, most of them were probably crammed into the bars with the rest of the populace. If you can't fleece 'em . . .

As the second half goals rained in to drown spirited French resistance huge cheers rang out, muffled explosions of joy echoing through the city. An hour later I hurried home through streets packed with cavorting Cloggies draped in orange, the colour steeped in history now hijacked as a modern metaphor for multiculturalism, the city in delerium, a few unsteady steps from full-blown madness. Hooting revellers swarmed the crowded towpaths, many more cycle-mounted, barely a lantern in sight, weaving through the madding crowd. It's a crazy melting pot, Amsterdam; recreational drugs, alcohol, prostitution redressed as tourism - full-on head-on-ism. Filled with Gothic splendour, cramped cobbled streets brimming with wonderful art, modern and historic. Rattling trams and endless streams of sit-up-and-beg bicycles compete in the rush through urban arteries day and night, bringing the place to vibrant, impossible life, a helter-skelter heartbeat that just won't quit. The bike park at Centraal Station numbers bespoked residents in the tens of thousands. How could you possibly remember which one, never mind where, was yours?

Goodness knows how much we'll all get done on Saturday. Any locals expected to perform any kind of co ordinated task may wilt horribly but then I'd have to say fair play to them; we're only jealous. Hup Holland!