World Cup Nonsense

[Nigel]

From our special Vienna correspondent ...

I'm returning rather late into this conversation, I'm afraid, having just departed the banks of the Blue Danube, where I managed to catch snippets of the Weltmeisterschaft (cue rather worryingly-implied linguistic overtones of world domination) within a variety of offbeat and well-supplied venues.


France v Switzlerland
The Austrians this week were displaying a mildly interested 'Was ist dieses Fussball-Spiel, eigentlich ?' kind of air, rather similar, I felt, to the one they adopted on the night of their famously contrived score-draw against Grossbrüdern Deutschland which enabled both teams to qualify for the final stages in another WM-vor-sehr-viele-Jahre and once upon a time.

The atmosphere in our hotel on Wednesday night was rather muted, despite the Live-und-Direkte Übertragung of WM-Fussball puzzlingly enriched by the presence of German comics in the studio (no need for Big Sam here). The disinterest all around me might well have had something to do with the match showing in the bar at Apéro time, featuring as it did my one-time Gastarbeit hosts and Austrian neighbours Switzerland playing out a memorably awful draw against the Franzosen. The game in its way probably counted as a victory for the yodellers, despite the frequent sight of Frei mysteriously melting like the eponymous chocolate cream in front of the French goal. There was barely a 'Hopp-Schwiiz' audible from the crowd, let alone a single cowbell, despite the holy-cheese-eating clockmaker monkeys' elegance during the qualifying stages.


Brazil open their campaign
Later on the same evening, it seemed hard to explain the very slow service during our meal, until it suddenly dawned on us that we had abandoned our beers in Stephansplatz at an untimely moment, sitting down to our [i]Knödel[/i] at the exact time when the Brazil game was kicking off. At last it became clear - our Italian waiters had become confused and mistakenly served our dinner onto the red-check tablecloths being worn by several of the drinkers outside the restaurant bar. It was only during a rare period of pressure against Brazil when these long-haired and rough-shaven types each in turn ripped off their shirts whilst falling to their knees in Goran-like pose, beating their chests and bellowing 'It is my destiny !' that I did belatedly recognise them as Croatia supporters.

Of course, I've never been one for shallow national stereotyping, as I'm sure by now you'll appreciate. And least of all, I've never really understood or even patronised that eternal weakness of Fernsehdirektors worldwide - namely of cutting pointlessly away from the action to show ravishing Brazilian supporters ululating wildly amidst their traditionally enchanting oscillations. Yet it still struck me as noteworthy yesterday that a remarkably sizeable section of the Austrian population gracing the Wiener-Altstadt did indeed miraculously seem to be sporting Brazil shirts, all the same.


Spain pain Ukraine...
After so much continental excitement, it was a relief to return to good old Blighty late yesterday evening, just in time to spend half an hour on our aircraft steps waiting for a bus to Heathrow's Terminal 4. How can airport authorities reasonably be so surprised by the arrival of incoming traffic which has been resolutely flying Londonwards for over 2 hours ? I was wondering whether such chaos would soon be suspended when our airports shortly come under Spanish control, when fortunately just before mañana a number 79 did duly arrive, just in time to get me home for Match of the Day.

Earlier in the trip I had air-tested on my poor colleague the draft of a piece I was planning to write here about the traditionally underachieving equipo español. But that article will never see the light of day, I fear, since when the free copy of the Daily Telegraph provided by BA arrived, it proved to carry an identically-worded report in their own sports pages.

That feature managed to keep us amused during our Europa-Überflug even more successfully than the transports of delight offered by the British Airways All-Day Deli service (since when did any self-respecting Delikatessen ever offer up cheese spread and tomato paste sandwiches, by the way? - but I digress). I wasn't finally sure whether the Torygraph's uncanny sharing of the viewpoints of everyone here on Spain's eternal disappointments was indeed the final proof of our qualifications as broadsheet-commentators-in-waiting, or merely a very sad confirmation of the lack of imagination of the English press in the absence of any new metatarsal x-ray bulletins to report. But I guess we'll have to defer to Mick on that one. And, more importantly, the Spanish team played brilliantly, after all.


England v Trinidad & Tobago
And, so, with my feet safely back under my Sussex desk, we come to thoughts of tonight's vital and testing game.

Let's hope that it's a cool evening. Because ...

I am an England fan, I come from Eng-er-land and I can sing: I'm for ever blowing bubbles ...

- if only for fortyfive minutes, until we fade and die like a bunch of dead-against-Paraguay parrots in the Frankfurt sun.

Adding to the pain of that truly diabolical second half on Saturday, I must say just how heart-rending it was for me to endure the double post-FA Cup Final torment of seeing not only Shaka Hislop playing a blinder for T&T against Sweden, but also the repeated nightmare of Steven Gerrard blasting the ball from 35 yards hopelessly and safely into row 34 against Paraguay (Oh Lord, why oh why not last month in Cardiff ?).

And now there is yet another painful prospect to await. Because at this stage I am duty-bound to confess real interest in tonight's game, at last revealing myself as being in the unique and unlikely position of already having seen Trinidad & Tobago's Wunderkind striker Jason Scotland play live. Und zwar ... I gained that pleasure during his quite stunningly virtuoso performance for St Johnstone at home on Boxing Day.

The Saints were unlucky to go down 2-1 in Perth that day, but Scotland himself was clearly the best player on the pitch, rampaging more or less unfettered towards goal throughout the afternoon, even against the high calibre of opposition presented by the mighty Raith Rovers. Against a top quality back four from the Scottish lower leagues he was able to create chances from all over the place, and I fear he must logically be seen as a huge threat to England later today. With Shaka in inspired form in goal for Trinidad and Tobago, and Gerrard off-target for us, I predict it's gonna be no walkover Abend fuer die plucky Engerlaender.

But enough of mitteleuropäischen Weltschmerzen, (and Schadenfreude for that matter). If perhaps you were beginning to wonder if all of this random rant and diatribe had indeed brought nothing more than a poor excuse to put those particular words into a single sentence, then you'd probably be right. Now that life-long ambition has finally been fulfilled, there can surely only be one way to wrap up this woeful WM-Zwischenbericht. So here we go, here we go, here we go.


And so at last it's true. Because for you, Tommy, now ze bore is over.