Germany 2006 Episode 6
Dusseldorf/Amsterdam/Gelsenkirchen

Thursday 29th June (Kirsty)

Smokey and the Bandit!

Not a good night's sleep due to my beloved husband telling scary stories and banging on the side of 'Chez Payne' but we have another lazy day today to recover due to his chest infection which seems to be getting worse.

He really didn't look well this morning so he's been bullied into going to the chemist to see if we can get something to make him feel better... I obviously won't tell them that he's been overdoing it for three weeks on the trot now and never mind burning the candle at both ends and in the middle, there isn't even a candle left to burn!

I pop down to the camping shop to see if I can find something to incinerate on the barbeque later and I'm in luck and procure the last two packets of bratwursts in captivity. While I'm there I ask the women in the shop (who doubles as the receptionist, she just has to change her hat accordingly) where the chemist is and if it's within walking distance. She says there's a chemist in the next town about 6k away. I thank her and wander back happy with my barbeque booty.

Five minutes later she comes to our door and in broken English and steering wheel style sign language, tells us to come to the car and she'll get someone to drive us to the chemist. We follow her and get in a car with another woman who we presume will drop us in the nearest town. She actually drove us all the way to the chemist, waited for us outside and drove us back to the campsite; she didn't have any business in town, she just made a special trip for us! This is absolutely typical of the kindness that we have encountered here in Germany. People go out of their way to help. If you need directions they'll drive you there; if you need a taxi they'll plan your whole route for you, and if you need a chemist they'll take you there, wait for you and bring you back. It really is the friendliest country, in an uassuming gentle kind of way.

So Sick Boy has lots of medicine that we don't know what to do with as all the instructions are in German. I reckon he'll be safe enough just swallowing anything I put in front of him - I can't see them giving suppositories for a chest infection. I think they only give you those if your Van Nistelroys are playing up, so he's just going to take everything orally and hope for the best.

My sister Karen has been in touch again today. She's been printing off the diary for my Mum who would rather watch CSI than indulge in silver surfing and both of them have been complaining that this World Cup malarkey has played havoc with their televisual enjoyment of 'corrie' and 'stenders'. Fortunately my nephew Jacob loves his football so their household boasts fully filled-in wall charts and all games plus highlights are watched, though this has produced gems from Karen such as - "Aren't the England team all very different heights? They look a bit odd with their arms around each other during the National Anthem. Could the height differential be a key point as to why they don't seem to be able to kick the ball to each other?" You see, sometimes it takes a non-footballing person and outsider to come in and sort out all the problems!

Andy chipped in - "That's why he's called Peter Crouch."

If only my sister could have got in front of Sven before he made his final selection, I'm sure he could have picked a team that were all the same size - Mike Bassett eat yer heart out.

Various calls from 'The Boys' trying to send their pictures to Marko to get them on the website and they're also busy trying to get back out for the game on Saturday via Amsterdam. It's absolute bedlam and, as Andy says, trying to organise 'The Boys' is like herding cats. Though Colin told us yesterday that they were heading for Dusseldorf so we dutifully book our campsite in Dusseldorf. Gary and Ang are coming out and there's also a possibility of TomTom Bob putting in an appearance, so a Friday night in Amsterdam is planned which I'm really looking forward to as I love Amsterdam. Gary has also been on the England Fan Club hotline as we have received an e-mail that the FA have released a few more tickets, I couldn't even get an engaged tone from over here so Gary, armed with our membership numbers, gave it a go and did the eternal hanging on the phone for hours until he was told that we didn't have the special voucher needed to be on the priority list to buy them - ho hum, worth a try though and hats off to Gary for doing the infuriating hanging on the phone then battling with an automated system without losing his temper - or maybe he'd just calmed down by the time he spoke to me.

After a fantastically lazy day (with no sign of the one-legged murderous storm chaser, apart from a strange noise coming from the truck. Andy has taken some pictures of it in case they're needed for evidence) we set up one of the little throwaway barbeques outside 'Chez Payne' next to our beach towels - if you're now expecting a disastrous inferno yarn you'll be sadly disappointed as for once everything went according to plan. Apart from a couple of smokey beach towels and one burnt finger (mine!) we enjoyed a veritable feast of BBQ'd bratwurst, and so did a couple of other campers who came over to investigate the source of copius amounts of smoke (do barbeques always do that?).

We fall into bed full of Bratwurst. The locked door has been double-checked and, despite the heat, all the windows are closed and all hatches battened down - I think the storm chaser has been building a new piece of torture equipment in his truck all afternoon!

Sweet dreams!

PS. If you don't see anymore postings on the site you will find the camera with pictorial evidence hidden in my knicker drawer.

Thursday 29th June (Andy)

Allez Les Bleus and who paid Ghana off?

The second consecutive day of hanging around with no particular tasks to perform. It is actually feeling like a holiday, perish the thought! The weather is again fine, hot even, and it has been decided to 'attend the swimming pool'. For those that know me from school days, I absolutely detest anything to do with swimming. If we were meant to swim we would have scales and gills. The campsite we are on in Schellbronn (south-west Germany, west of Stuggart and on the edge of the Black Forest) has a municipal pool and gym. The gym seems packed all the time with keep fit nuts and middle-aged women doing a load of leaping around to hi energy techno 'music'. Dancing it is not, but it does sound very painful. Incidentally, Patto and Sport Billy had been regulars at the said gymnasium. Each morning they had checked in for a much needed full body massage. Patto claimed that he needed this to get him ready for another busy day; he just could not function without this muscle pep. Actions speak louder than words and the Magic Millars knew the wisdom of Patto's tactics.

After shelling out 3 Euros for the pleasure of entering the swimming pool area, I heard the klaxon broadcast that the pool area would be closing for an hour for maintenance. Kirst did her best to ride the surf in the swimming pool, claiming that some wave machine had been switched on just as she was settling in to a gentle breast stroke routine. I could hear a load of commotion and water splashing around, but I thought that was down to all the school kids splashing about like over energetic seal pups. Having endured the sun and the pool 'scene' for what felt like hours, I clock watched, praying for the time to tick on to kick-off time, 5pm. Eventually the hands conspired to get there, but boy is it boring sitting around doing very little. There was a nice bit of banter on e-mail from Dave, Grim, Doron, Sean, Mark and Roger, all mates who had climbed Kilimanjaro a couple of years back. Somehow we got onto the subject of Diana Spencer and all that she stood for. A divided set of thoughts and opinions spilt forth and it provided the much needed oil for those clock wheels. Never has one person drawn so much controversy. From 'hero of the people' to 'Hollywood-style icon' to 'plain attention-seeking nuisance', not one of us agreed on her true place in history. That is the beauty of free speech and the wonder of banter between mates.

So to the much anticipated Brazil vs Ghana game. Interesting to say the least. Brazil pulled the same trick three times to score their three goals. It was almost like a 5-a-side game, the way they sprung the offside trap three times, although one definitely did look offside. That was the second goal, netted by Adriano, just before half time and it effectively ended the match. Ronaldo showed he still had a master's touch to open the scoring, even if he is looking more like Buster Bloodvessel each time I see him.

What amazed me was how good Ghana's approach play was and how dire their finishing was. According to the stats Ghana had 21 shots (most of them off target) to Brazil's 13. If nothing else, it proves that Brazil's defence is definitely porous. What really bothered me about this game was that pretty much all of the Ghana team play for top European teams and they are not 'naïve Africans' in the old style. These boys are top pros, well coached and with great technique. How can you explain why their finishing was so atrocious? Is it sheer incompetence? Did you think Brazil looked casual and relaxed and then went ridiciulously over the top with their celebrations when they scored? Something smelt fishy about that game to me. Maybe the World Cup needs Brazil to be in it to the death, or maybe I am getting cynical. Anyway, well done Brazil (yawn), you are every neutral's favourite and still the bookies' favourite to lift the trophy in Berlin.

Talking of Berlin, you will hear the Berlin song every time a match starts to slow down. This is the German support in the ground, which for some games is considerable, who start this chant when they get bored with the game. A vocal alternative to the dreary 'Mexican Wave' which people still persist with when they get bored.Fair play to them, some of the support at the matches has been a tad flaccid and at least they are being creative. I wish I knew what the words were, and what they meant!

A quick wash and brush-up and we are ready for the pick of the games in round 2 in my view. A young Spanish team showing promise, versus an ageing French team who pundits think are past their best and have no 'desire'. I am firmly rooting for the French. I like the way the French play football. They have style and panache and plenty of skill. If I wasn't half Italian, the French would be my second team. I remember the brilliant European Champions of '84 (again we failed to qualify for that one) - Platini, Six, Bossis, Rochefort, Tigana - what players. For me they were like the Dutch of '74 and '78 and the Brazilians of '70. The team that won the World Cup in '98 started shakily, but grew and grew. The way they demolished Brazil had me leaping around my front room, and Zidane has always been one of my favourite footballers. Surviving from that team was Barthez (my least favourite player), Thuram, Henry, Viera, Zidane and Wiltord.

So the stage was set. The young pretenders vs the old guard. Spain impressed me throughout the tournament. Normally they are my dark horse tip and surely, alongside Holland, should have produced a World Cup winning side at least once in the competition's history? This time I decided that they would falter somewhere along the line and falter they did. They have some very good young players, David Villa, Fernando Torres, Xavi, Xabi Alonso, Cesc Fabregas and Barbara Streisand look-alike Sergio Ramos. If they can build on this squad and the obvious desire they had and bury the partisan squabbling, then they must have a good future and be an early front runner for Euro 2008.

For now though, all the talk of France being washed up seemed empty as they won through. I am a tad disappointed in Henry's dive which led to the free kick for the second French goal, even if there is history between him and Robert Puyol Plant. It will be interesting if Arsenal come across Barcelona in next season's European Cup, sorry 'Champions' League'.

Zidane scored a sublime third, looked as fit as I have ever seen him since '98 and their clash with Brazil bodes well. Those garcons of '98 will not fear the Samba boys and the likes of Ribery and Sagnol look like top class players. 'Allez les Bleus' and do us all a favour and put Niketown (copyright Monsieur Struthers) to the test. Give them a game at least, and pay us the respect of hitting the target when you get to within striking distance!

Thursday 29th June (2) (Kirsty)

Nightmare eyebags and gladrags!

Another gorgeous day and we've decided to hang around here for some R&R, plus it will give our livers a chance to return to a human-sized organ and not something the size of Bavaria.

We head down to the pool with towels under arms and settle ourselves under a tree. I decide to go and have a bit of a dip; Andy doesn't like getting wet so I potter down there and start to wade into an inviting looking pool. The damn thing was about as inviting as Siberia without a visa on a dark winter's day - talk about cold, it took your breath away. It dawned on me why loads of sweltering-looking adults were nowhere near the water and just a few intrepid kids were in up to their knees. But I'd come this far and didn't want to lose face and retreat in surrender (besides I'd paid 3 euros for the 'pleasure' of the pool, I was determined not to let it beat me). I slowly edged in trying to look casual to the surrounding sunbedded spectators; I wasn't successful - I ended up leaping around like a scalded cat and, just as I thought I'd got the better of it and had managed to get waist high in the icy depths, some comedian switched the giant wave machine on!

Huge great waves came pouring over me akin to the Guinness white horses ad and completely scuppered my chances of looking cool and casual as I spluttered about shouting curses with arms waving in the air. I imagine some bored bloke with little chance of job satisfaction, sitting in a hut somewhere laughing his head off while he waits for his next unsuspecting victim to make it half way in before unleashing the beast of a wave machine on them - no wonder the kids won't go in... it was scarier than 'Jaws'!

I made a sharp exit and scurried back to Andy and our towel arrangement. He asked if I'd had a nice swim. It was preferable to a poke in the eye with a sharp stick but I couldn't stretch to 'nice'. We sensibly retired to the bar to watch the football, safe on familiar ground - back where we belonged.

First up was Brazil vs Ghana and I think the Ghanaians had spent their training in Frankfurt when the English fans had been hoofing the ball in the air as high as it would go, obviously their tactics were to get as close to the goal as possible and then hoof it into the air as high as possible. If they were playing a version of football which meant getting into the danger area as much as possible without scoring then they'd be world champions. It's no surprise that the Brazilians won as the Ghanains couldn't finish but they didn't look half as daunting as everyone thinks they are, which could prove to be a phsycological advantage for France.

How would you feel if this pulled up next to you?

In between games we return to 'Chez Payne' just in time to witness a one-legged man pull up in a huge truck covered in aerials towing an equally large trailer behind him. I watched him jump down from the cab in his grubby wife beater and hop round to unhook his trailer; he then proceeded to 'burn it up' round the campsite, shouting to himself as he went. When his little camp rage incident was over he started the business of sorting out his trailer, which was no mean feat on one leg, and his shouting to himself and his van was not disimilar to Basil Fawlty giving his car 'a damn good thrashing' - we would have offered to help but he really didn't look approachable and was giving his vehicles as much stick as Andy had given that unruly hedge, so we thought we'd leave him with his violent thoughts.

Antennae at the ready, the storm chaser's in town...

We make it back down to the bar to watch Spain vs France and what a game it turned out to be. Good old Zidane in what is touted to be his last World Cup proved why he is a footballing genius with the winning goal; however another footballing genius and aguably one of the best, if not the best, striker in the world seemed to have taken a leaf out of the Grosso school of diving, which came as a surprise as I'd never had Thierry Henry down as a cheat. However that's football for you and as we watched we guessed Chloe must be 'having kittens' by now and good luck to her.

Andy was apoplectic to see a woman in a sparkly jacket on the Spanish bench who seemed to be getting involved in substitutions. I started to hope that they wouldn't put the camera on her any more as everytime there was a substitution it evoked a loud tirade from Andy in the form of "What the hell is the bint in the sparkly get-up doing there... get her out of there!" She's probably someone in a high-level position on the coaching team but the fact that she was a woman and on top of that she had the audacity to wear a sparkly jacket just sent him over the edge - he was outraged!

I managed to calm him down enough to get him back to 'Chez Payne' and on the way he pointed out an eerie glow coming from the one-legged man's truck. Andy has now decided that he's obviously a mass murdering storm chaser (ever since he's arrived we had the most horrendous downpours coupled with thunder and lightning) who will roam around the campsite at night preying on innocent motorhome dwellers. Once inside, Andy decided to scare the bejeesus out of me by knocking on the side of the van in the night; he found this hilarious but I had a terrible sleep interrupted by godawful nightmares about one-legged killers coming to saw 'Chez Payne' in half with a chainsaw before embarking on a murdering spree. My only consolation was that Andy slept nearest the door and would cop it first.

Thursday 29th June (2) (Andy)

God does not just save the Queen

Day 19. What a relief. Not only have we got through to the Quarter Finals, but we don't have to go anywhere. We can stay put for a few days and while away the hours. No need to meet anyone, no need to dash around searching for tickets (yet) and no need to do anything. Brilliant. This is probably the only day so far that there has been no real pressure to do anything.

Patto and the Magic Millars rattled our van and bid their farewells soon after 9am. Seemingly Patto and Sport Billy were travelling back in their motorhome to Frankfurt and then driving back to the Uk via Hull. TomTom Bob and Popeye were flying back from Frankfurt, I assume to Liverpool or Manchester, as they had to be in school for Tuesday. Somehow I reckon Sport Billy may return for the Portugal game...

I have contracted some mad chest infection, which I always get when I am run down, or have been burning the candle at all ends, so that is a right pain in the chest and is generally affecting my humour. So much so that laying down and sleeping becomes impossible; my back just becomes wrapped up in pain. So trying to catch up on sleep becomes nigh on impossible and you end up back to square one, namely pacing around waiting for the football to start. Today's offerings were my beloved Italians vs The Aussies and later the Swiss vs The Ukraine. Two good games in prospect, I reckoned.

This should help you with your chest infection

The Italy vs Australia was a mile away from the England vs Equador game in terms of pace and, I have to say, commitment. I fancied Australia to push Italy, but ultimately I felt Italy would win through. I even quipped to Kirsty early on that Totti would come on as a sub and score a last-minute winner. Little did I know how accurate that would be. The Italians showed their usual defensive guile but to be honest never really looked great up front. Serie A's scoring sensation, Luca Toni, has not really done much so far and he was substituted in any case. The hero against the Czechs, Matterazzi got sent off a few minutes into the second half and it looked as if a purposeful Aussie team may cause an upset. Indeed I felt Australia had the better game, certainly in the second half. But, for once, lady luck helped Italy out and gained some sort of revenge for the last time that they played a team managed by Gus Hiddink. This time Grosso managed to mug the ref and fall over Lucas Neil. A last minute pen and who should step up to take it other than Del Piero's replacement, Francesco Totti. He looked very nervous, but I did say to Kirst he would slam it high and hard. No danger. So the Prince scored and Italy got through with literally the last kick of the game. The Aussies were robbed, but I was thoroughly impressed by their quiet determination and sheer professionalism in defeat. I wonder how my beloved Azzuri would have taken it had the boot been on the other foot?

I reckon the current Australian team are at the end of the road now. A lot of players have come through together and are growing old and past their best together. Viduka has said he is out of international football now; Harry Kewell seems to have no balls for a fight (he missed the game through gout in his big toe) and Hiddink is off to manage the Russians. Hats off to Aussie though; as with everything they do sport-wise, they gave 100% all the time and reminded me of an English-style team, such was their effort and teamwork. Italy now look clear into the semi finals to my mind, where they could meet the Germans, and it is Italy that the Germans always respect more than anyone else, even Brazil. I would love England to play Italy in the final. We have never got the better of the Italians, yet.

Whilst watching the game, I could not but help laughing to myself as a couple of English lads came into the bar, one sporting a minor facial injury and the other speaking in the most outrageous mockney accent. Apparently, one of them had been arrested the day before, and they were intent on 'discreetly slipping that fact into the conversation by talking about it loudly'. Bless 'em. Fools that they may be, their brash approach did flounder somewhat when they asked me "Who is the Aussie goalkeeper?" Just before the penalty. I replied "Mark Schwarzer", to which the lad with the most ridiculous accent replied, "Is he any good?". Needless to say, they must have been embarrassed when I said he was the 'Boro keeper, as the other lad quipped, "He can't be no good if he plays for 'Boro". I didn't take the conversation any further for fear that they were fellow Hammers and I would have to get involved in a mutual back slapping session. I overheard them referring to nights out in Ilford, Manor Park and Romford! As it turned out, these lads were actually harmless enough, spending time in their motorhome, keeping it clean, listening to Led Zeppelin and using their bikes to cycle round the place. I think they had perhaps had too much to drink, got lairy and been a bit of German polizei fodder a day or so earlier in Stuggart. They will learn that these trips are about fun and laughter with your mates and meeting people from different cultures and walks of life. In short, enjoying yourselves at no one else's expense.

And so to the second game of the day. Koln was hosting the Swiss and the Ukrainians. Another mate, Stu, and his little lad Alfie were off to the game. What an experience for the little eight year old. His dad is a proper Chelsea fan. Saddled with a team of indifferent achievement for years, watching them get beaten at places like Hull away on a Tuesday night and get close to bankruptcy under the Bates regime, only to be plucked by a Russian Oligarch at the eleventh hour and propelled into the World super league. Not his or his son's fault that they can buy whoever they want, and have just done that with the German and Ukrainian captains! Anyway, it was nice to hear from them. I later found out that Roman Abramovich had signed Alfie's Chelsea shirt and welcomed him and Stu into his seating area. A nice touch.

One of the other English lads in the bar mentioned that he had received a text just after Totti's penalty from an Italian mate which said "God does not just save your Queen! He saves us!". I must admit that did tickle me.

Meanwhile, having not actually seen Ukraine play, I rather fancied the Swiss to edge the game, maybe by one goal. The Swiss had a mean defence and a decent-ish attack. Obviously the Ukrainians had the legend that was Shevchenko, but other than him and Rebrov (who was on the bench) I was not over familiar with any of the other players. The game was pretty tight with not many clear-cut chances, but pretty clean, I can't remember many yellow cards, for a change. Inevitably penalties ensued. Ukraine won the toss and elected to shoot first and the God that is Shevchenko stepped up to take the first penalty of the shoot-out. He missed, amazingly, and it just goes to show, you can be the World's deadliest striker, but the presure of penalties can get to the best of them. Sadly for the Swiss they managed to miss all three of their penalties (reminded me of West Ham). Rebrov, on as a substitute and looking as weak as he did for West Ham and Spurs, managed a textbook Germanic-style pen. So the Swiss were the first to suffer the dreaded penalty shoot-out exit. I am sure that they will not be the last. Ukraine vs Italy, as I said at the top of this page, the Italians will be very confident of a semi final place now, although I am sure their defence will pay plenty of respect to the ex AC Milan and now Chelsea hitman. I am sure he will instill fear in most Premiership defences before September is out also.

Tomorrow we will see if the Brazilians can continue to score and build their momentum.

Friday 30th June (Andy)

Cold Turkey

We awoke to a colossal electric storm and torrential rain. The weather had been on and off for a few days so it looked like it would be a day cooped up without football.

It was the first day since the 8th of June we actually have no football to watch. Disaster upon disaster, I have no idea what to do with my time. The old chest infection is getting worse and a combination of dearest Kirsty and mother hen Colin ringing me up time and again and advising that I really should go to the chemist, means that I actually do get to the Apotheke and buy a load of stuff, the like of which I have never seen before, let alone actually know what to do with it...

So today is a day to catch up on e-mails, continue some banter, read all I can about the World Cup news and pause for reflection, remembering some of the funny moments not covered thus far by either of us.

In no particular order, here is where Wednesday went:

I read through the FIFA official program and happened to come across the section about referees and the new directives. Interesting stuff. Graham Poll is one of only 3 full-time professional referees at this World Cup. From what I could make out, there are 9 from Europe, 5 from South America, 3 from North and Central America, 2 from Africa, 2 from Asia and 1 from Oceania. The refs from Asia (one from Japan and one from Singapore) are both professionals along with the Pollmeister.

Marco Rodriguez, the hopeless Mexican ref from our first match, is a 32-year-old sports teacher. Toru Kamikawa, who took the reins in our game against Trinidad and Tobago, was one of the three professionals and hailed from Japan. Massimo Busacca, who refereed our game against Sweden, is a 37-year-old Swiss businessman. Frank De Bleeckere, who was in the chair for our last game, is a 39-year-old Belgian sales manager. The tragic news that our forthcoming game against Portugal will be run by an Argentinian, Horacio Elizondo, is doubly worrying as he is also a sports teacher like the Mexican fool we had first up. Please let's hope he is fair and competent!

Further news on the refereeing front came in; namely the England team had been visited by two un-named refs so that they could have the new rules explained to them. Surely after four games this is a tad late? Rio also went on record to say that FIFA's directives on the use of yellow and red cards was 'over the top'. Expect Rio to pick up an early 'warning', as yellow cards are now referred to, on Saturday then.

We had a good e-mail banter between friends including a French friend Chloe about how everyone was happy that the French got through. They were always a dark horse for me, and I still would not be surprised to see them win it. The way the British media dismissed them as too old was somewhat premature I felt. Anyway, they will meet their match against the Brazilians so we will see.

On Sunday night, late on I got into a great conversation with a load of Germans. Amongst them was a slghtly boss-eyed man, ironically called Tommy. He was convinced that Germany would win the cup and that they "would kick our English asses out of Germany." After I had asked where he learnt such good American, he then went on to tell me that our football was boring and the sort of football Germany played ten years ago. Two things came to mind. When England won the Rugby World Cup in 2003 they hardly played an expansive game a la the French or The All Blacks. I can't remember anyone really caring that much when the goldware was brought home. The other thing that struck me was that ten years ago, Germany won Euro '96 in England. If Tommy thinks we are like Germany of ten years back, I will take that right now.

Sad news also about Gianluca Pessotto - ex Juve and Italian international and now 'sporting director' at club in crisis Juventus. He fell out of a window and got serious fractures. Apparently it was a suicide attempt. Del Piero and Zambrotta took a private jet to visit him in hospital along with Ciro Ferrara who is on the Italian coaching staff. You may remember him - big nose and wicked left elbow against the Brazilians or Dutch in '98 - I am not totally sure. All I remember is that it was a filthy foul and FIFA banned him from about 8 World Cup games - effectively a tournament plus one game. Trouble was, Ferrara was already 36! Having watched Pessotto many times for Juventus, I do hope he is OK. The change from professional footballer to administrator is probably a terrible step down.

Colin rang several times, mainly to work out how to e-mail the huge pictures that he had on his camera (they could not work out how to set the camera to take anything but 2MB pictures!) and to pester me, in a nice way, to get to the chemist. Colin also informed us that everyone was due to meet up in Dusseldorf on Friday and not Amsterdam as planned. Note carefully that the planned rendezvous was a town in the Ruhr valley beginning with 'D', more on that later.

Now, I don't think I have ranted about the WAGS enough. This came as a result of Kathryn mentioning on a mass e-mail that Mrs Beckham's pout had been particularly grotesque, after David scored his wonder goal. For those of you unfamiliar with the FLA (four letter acronymn) this stands for 'wives and girlfriends'. The first question is why are they actually out here. The second is who sanctioned all of this anyway. Do they pay their own way, or lean on their husbands/boyfriends or indeed expect the FA to cover their travel and accomodation. If they pay their own way, all well and good. All I want is clarity on this issue. What happened to the team going off to their camp and training, relaxing, playing cards and having an occasional beer or campari. Did the boys of '66 and beyond have their women in harem like baggage trains?

For all the criticism of Sven and David, most of it, to be honest, can swing. But I do reckon that these two, or rather their overbearing, publicity-seeking other halves, have conspired to allow the fences down and the boys granted permission to leave the barracks, so to speak. I reckon it is Vicky Sticky and Nancy Olivion that have called the tune and demanded to be here. Let's hope that they are kept away from the menfolk for at least 24 hours before the game against Portugal. Let's get back to the old school. (Cue calls of why has Payney brought his missus on tour from many quarters!).

All day long we started the phone calls to track down tickets. The FA are releasing another 1400 (wow) at noon, via Ticketmaster for Englandfans members, so we have Gary back in Thieftown on the case as we cannot get through from out here. A vain hope, but you have to try these things!

A couple more oddities. Lionel Scaloni, legendary right back of West Ham, was caught playing for one of the best teams in the World on Saturday night, Argentina. How?

Popeye Millar had been doing his bit for detente with 'Europeans'. As a gesture of enlightenment, Popeye thought it would be good to sing them some typically 'European' songs, with a lean towards Germany. Instead of picking 'The Model', 'Autobahn' or another 'song' requiring a full tonal range, he thought 'The Smurfs' and '99 Red Balloons' would be apt. Sadly, Patto's falsetto days were a distant memory, TomTom Bob's baritone was a little rusty and Sport Billy's tenor was only worth 6 quid, so the ensemble failed miserably. Perhaps they should have stuck to Kraftwerk?

Another classic was at the Trinidad and Tobago game, where two young kids were kicking a ball around in the ground. But it was not just any ball. No, this was the gold Adidas World Cup special - a smacking great 140 Euros a time. Anyway, these two were booting the ball around the stand and generally getting up to no good. Inevitably, the ball went over the edge of the stand and dropped down to the area between the lower tier and the pitch. The younger of the two then went bounding down the stairs to the front only to be confronted by some stewards. "I need to get my ball back, mister," he said before being stopped from leaping over the barrier and dropping down 15 feet. I said to Kirsty, "These two will be back at full time - just watch them." Lo and behold, as soon as the whistle went, they came down the steps like little dervishes and tried to leap the barrier. It was like a scene from Roadrunner. The kid tries to leap the barrier, in mid flight he is grabbed round the neck and held up by a puzzled steward. Oh yes, and one final touch, the lad had an England shirt with a hand-scrawled motto across the front - 'EFC forever'. Classic.

The wonders of GPRS abound out here and getting a signal is not always easy. A handy tip - if you are in a motorhome/camper van and your name is Kirsty - is to contort your back and squeeze out of the side window with your communication device so that the satellite can 'see her' and enable a signal. It does work, by the way.

During a time of quite brilliant highs, occasionally you hit a low. Today was the day I found out that a very dear friend of mine, who would normally have been out here with the lads, lost his father after a very short battle with cancer. It just goes to prove nothing is forever and it is always later than you think. Our thoughts go to him and his family. May he rest in peace.

Friday 30th June (2) (Andy)

D-Day

Today is the day that we 'D'ecided to go to 'D'usseldorf as that was the place we had all agreed to head to on Satur'D'ay after the last game. We were all supposed to be meeting in Amsterdam this coming Friday. However, as soon became clear, it was not Dusseldorf that we should head for, but 'D'ortmund.

So we cleared up, stowed all the kit away and bid farewell to the campingplatz at Schellbronn. One of the English lads who was over watching football stopped by. I did feel for him - he was travelling on a motorbike with his mate pillion and they were camping. He asked me if I had an iron, as he wanted to iron his shirt... he and his mate can't stand up in their tent, it has been raining on and off, and they had a 350km drive on their bike ahead of them and he is worrying about his shirt. It made our place feel like a suite at the Ritz!

Anyway we set Tom's controls for Dusseldorf and estimated a 3.5 hour drive. That of course was without the biggest traffic jam I have ever seen outside Karlsruhe and a huge electric storm north of Koln. Consequently, we ended up on the road for 6 hours. Kirsty was in the co-driver's seat all this time, but her phone was hot. She had Sport Billy on, trying to get tickets for the match from the Englandfans/Ticketmaster site, booking a hotel for Friday night in Amsterdam and booking a car to pick up from Dusseldorf and drop off in Amsterdam. We also had Robert on who was convinced he was travelling with John to Dusseldorf and not Dortmund.

Shaun clarified that Dusseldorf was in fact Dortmund. Shane told us he was flying into Dortmund tonight and e-mails from all and sundry managed to confuse things even further. I was glad I was driving, to be honest. In the end, I phoned my mate and arranged for 4 tickets for Sport Billy and Sportess Billy, Kirsty and I. The rest of the boys had been sucessful in getting tickets through the hotline; Shane had his anyway and that just left Robert. Our theory was that the Dutch could have tickets in Amsterdam tomorrow, as they would have bought these in advance, assuming that they would beat the Portuguese. We will test that theory on Friday.

So, after an exhausting drive we pulled up at a campsite in South Dusseldorf. I reckon we got the last slot as this place was rammed to the gunwales. It reminded me of a gyppo camp, there were that many people there, and as soon as we pulled in I saw a flag 'Norwich - Pride of England'. Unusual. A load of Toon lads at the bar, which was about two metres from our berth, saw our flag and decided to label us Mr & Mrs West Ham, much to my 'amusement'. Anyway, a quiet night, a fair few phone calls and e-mails to sort before we grabbed a beer at the lake's edge. We were at a place called Unterbacher See and very nice it is too. Tomorrow we are off to Amsterdam for the day and night and heading back to Gelsenkirchen Saturday morning. The adventure continues.

Friday 30th June (Kirsty)

K goes 200K

After having a day on the road on Thursday with Andy driving through the most appalling traffic jams known to man, he’s also had the worst storms to drive through too. Not sure how, but every time it’s my turn to drive it goes really smoothly with no problems at all, then when Payney gets behind the wheel all hell breaks loose!

Anyway, he held his nerve, kept calm (almost) and we eventually pitched up at the campsite I’d booked a few days before (I’ve decided to rename the campsite and it’s new moniker is ‘Campingplatz Sardina’ due to the amount of people, tents and caravans squeezed onto any spare piece of ground available. We ended up parking ‘Chez Payne’ with its nose literally edging into the bar). Now, just to clarify, when we spoke to Colin earlier in the week he said they were all flying into Amsterdam, staying the night there and then staying in Dusseldorf for the game. Consequently we sorted out Amsterdam and booked a campsite a mere 10k outside Dusseldorf; we then sat back and smiled smugly at our organisational abilities.

The Argentine may have lost but these boys are still smiling

However, as you’ve already heard ‘The Boys’ were actually not stopping in Amsterdam at all and staying in Dortmund not Dusseldorf! Amsterdam wasn’t a problem as we were meeting Gary, Ang and Tomtom Bob there and looking forward to it, but when we tried to change our campsite to the Dortmund area we were obviously too late and everything was booked up – never mind, we’ll have to sort something out. When I spoke to Shaun about this he was incredulous that we had taken any notice of Colin in the first place… turns out we would have got more sense if we’d have asked a pint of milk to explain osmosis!

Gary (Sport Billy with the professional tan) had very kindly organised everything from his end and all we had to do was pitch up at the Hertz office, pick up the Merc and head into Amsterdam to meet him and Ang and stay at the hotel he’d booked for us – isn’t it bliss when someone has it all under control. Both of them had spent the whole of the previous day ringing the FA hotline with mine and Andy’s England Fans membership numbers trying to get their hands on four of the paltry 1,400 tickets. I wasn’t quite sure how to break it to him but a call had come in from ‘The Boys’ saying that they had been successful in buying eight tickets in total at face value through the hotline number – it only turned out that Swampy had a magic, secret and special hotline number that they got through to and he’d only just remembered to pass it on… perhaps I won’t tell Gary and Ang just yet!

Ang always fancied a spot on Michael Bentine's Potty Time

Now I don’t want to diss ‘Chez Payne’as she’s been good to us as our little home for the past few weeks, however I couldn’t help but feel a guilty pleasure at enjoying driving the hired Mercedes we’d just picked up – I felt almost as if I was being unfaithful as I pointed out how much better it was to drive, especially on the autobahns.

I’m not quite sure what Andy was doing (I think he was tracking down appropriate music) as I was too intent on seeing whether I could get the car to go at 260 kilometres per hour as it boasted on the speedo – needless to say, I chickened out before finding out but had a great time in the process and we hit The Dam in double quick time.

Unfortunately it took about the same amount of time again to park the blasted thing, round and round and round the extremely narrow streets trying to avoid ‘out of it’ pedestrians who weaved about in the road, thousands of cyclists who, in their very large numbers, decided they could take on much larger vehicles and rule the road and then, just to keep you on your toes, they throw in a few trams using exactly the same stretches of road – eyes in the back of your head, on stalks with another couple of sets of extra eyes attached to them would have been quite handy.

TomTom Bob gets his flag up any time, any place, anywhere

When we arrived at the hotel to throw our bag in before hitting the town, I said to the chap on reception that I think the booking was in the name of Millar, to which he kindly pointed out that "my father" had taken care of everything and paid for the room, I replied "Good old Dad" with a smirk on my face while Andy fell about laughing (it’s worth bearing in mind that Gary is not far off Andy’s age). Andy was then itching to get to the bar to tell Gary and by the time we got there the story had turned into the receptionist thinking Gary was Andy’s Dad! (Which was just a bit too cruel so I admitted the truth.)

But it was good to be in Amsterdam! After meeting up with Gary and Ang and, as you can imagine, drinking, eating and laughing followed and a blissful daytime turned into a hectic and hilarious evening and Tomtom Bob and a couple of his mates joined us on our rampage through Amsterdam, sampling as many bars as possible along the way coupled with a bit of ‘window shopping’.

We had an early start in the morning. We needed to get on the road and head straight to Gelsenkirchen (or ‘girls in the kitchen’ as he of the professional tan calls it) to pick up our tickets, so we reluctantly retire to bed at about 4.30am – a little worse for wear, I recall!

Stop Press!

After receiving the very sad news about our friend’s father, we then received word from one of my closest friends Lu (one of the excellent speech givers at our wedding) who has given birth to little Arthur Ellwood; he came out at 7lbs 15ozs (after much persuasion!). Apparently he’s gorgeous and Steve was a rock throughout.

As one door sadly closes another opens and we welcome little Arthur into the world… crazy world that it is!

Saturday 1st July (Andy)

A change is as good as a rest

We decided to head out of Dusseldorf and hit Amsterdam for a Friday night out. The word on the street was that the big guns were all coming through town. No one will be missing the quarter final of the World Cup. So we caught a taxi into Dusseldorf nice and early (with a very nice chatty taxi driver) and swung by the Hertz shop. The bloke at the desk spoke 1800 words a minute, but our car was waiting for us with typical German efficiency. Oh yes, and it had to be a silver Mercedes just to keep in tune with the day.

Watch her - she's had a drink...

Kirsty put her boot down and we zipped into the Dam in double-quick time. What a relief to be back at road level and actually able to use the freedom of any speed you like, rather than trundling along in our camper at 60 mph top speed, giving three weeks notice to overtake even slower lorries. As we approached Amsterdam, the radio station played U2's "Where The Streets Have No Name" and the memory of U2 doing that live on the the last-but-one tour came flooding back... the digital wall rising red to Edge's classic riff. Emotional and fitting stuff. Then to round it off, as we hit Amsterdam proper, what should come on the radio by "Hocus Pocus" by Focus. All we needed now was "Radar Love" and we would have the full crazheee Dutch experience.

With a bit of parking tennis, we eventually got parked up for the day/night and met up with Sport Billy and Sportess Billy aka Ang. A nice few beers in the hot afternoon sun preceded an excellent Chinese banquet. Then we needed to get plotted up to watch the Germans play the Argies. Ang fancied The Three Sisters in the Liederplan, as she had used it a few times before. Problem is that Amsterdam has five different boozers called The Three Sisters so we inevitably ended up in the wrong one. No matter, we had a nice bar within easy range and the football was on the big screen. John and Robert had arrived, but because they were in transit to Dortmund, they needed to be away at 7pm so they decided to stay down the station end of town. Shaun, Steve, Colin, Al, Jack and Eddie (who had had enough of reading about my crock chest already) had arrived earlier but we had missed them on their way through. Kenny had got lost again, but had been spotted on a platform somewhere. Good to see Kenny sticking to form.

Meet Pablo & Juan from Guatemala

The Germany vs Argentina game went to form. The Germans got stuck into the Argentinians early and for all the skill that the Blues had, the German committment was uncompromising. A tight game all round, and the Germans showed just why they are so good at football. Not many teams would get back into the game if Argentina got a crucial goal, but the Germans did, proving their theory of '54 that the game lasts '90 minutes'. So extra time and the inevitable penalties followed by yet another exemplary display of how to take perfect penalties and Argentina were unceremoniously dumped out of the World Cup with Teutonic efficiency. We met a couple of lads from Guatemala, Juan and Pablo; they formed a line with Ang and instead of Juan Pablo Angel(a), we coined the illogical tryptych of Juan, Pablo Montoya. Why, I have no idea, but when you have had a few beers, logic leaps out of the window. Juan gave us a nice phrase as well, "It is better to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission." We all liked that one.

Amusingly, and somewhat predictably, the Argentinian players lost the plot at the end and decided to have a fight with officials and German players. Idiots. The Germans just laughed it off and waved 'the contenders' goodbye. I never thought I would be cheering Germany on at football, but when they got the equaliser and the final penalty was saved I was seen to be leaping around the bar. Amazing.

I got a load of texts - all anonymous of course, as my sim card in TomTom Bob's unlocked phone does not recognise any of my address book, but the best one was from Ralf, who said he would see us in Berlin.

Andy & Kirsty feeling a little cavalier

After the game, we had a lazy stroll up to Rembrandtplein and sought Ang's Three Sisters to watch the Italy vs Ukraine game. TomTom Bob was hitting town at 10pm with his mate John, another Evertonian, so we settled down for what I knew would be a cakewalk for the Italians.

As soon as Zambrotta netted a corker in the 6th minute, I just knew 'we' would win it. And so it was. Luca Toni at last came good and netted a brace; one looked maybe offside, but the Italians ran out easy 3-0 winners. TomTom Bob duly arrived and immediately spotted his Toon mate Nick and we drank until the early hours, I think.

The mood was upbeat all night; the general consensus was that England would win and win well. Personally I reckon it will be a very tight game, and we will either lose by the odd goal or, if England wake up, I reckon we could wallop them 3-0. Let's hope that we have a fit and the boys move up a gear. If we play with a high tempo, get stuck in and go for them, we can do it. Then we will be into the business end of the Championship and who knows? What will be will be.

Saturday 1st July (Kirsty)

Foot Meet Balls!

It’s the big day, the quarter final, two games away from a World Cup Final… blimey, doesn’t it make your heart beat faster!

We get an early start out of Amsterdam and amazingly after our late night we’re all ready to go at 9.00am as arranged. I offer to drive as I had such good fun on the autobahn the day before and away we go with our trusty TomTom pointed towards Gelsenkirchen - that’s the electronic satellite-guided TomTom, not TomTom Bob who uses divining rods to navigate and was sitting in the back. So, foot down and head towards the border with Gary telling me that I’m evil and made him drink… though I’m sure I would have remembered if I’d force fed him with a funnel like a prize Foie Gras producing goose!

We easily made it through the border because a female was driving (me), another female was clearly visible (Ang), we had German plates and there wasn’t an England shirt between us. Anyone falling into the opposite categories was getting pulled over and thoroughly checked at the border. We didn’t really have time for that, which meant that yet again I could point out to Andy why it was useful that I was here and in no way could he compare me to the footballers WAGS' - who are no use to man or beast.

Gelsenkirchen

We hit a bit of a blip when we got to Gelsenkirchen and realised that we didn’t know the address of the stadium and the TomTom needs an address to go on. There was much driving around and U-turning and I was delighted to hear the real TomTom Bob at one point live up to his reputation by pointing out an exit ‘back there that we should have taken’… I was starting to think the Millars were making it up.

Time was running out and we had people on the Internet back home trying to find a street address whilst Andy is getting more and more hot under the collar the longer it goes on (he’s really not at his best in cars as traffic annoys him, getting lost annoys him, pedestrians annoy him, lorries annoy him, roadworks annoy him, other drivers annoy him, road surfaces annoy him, bikes annoy him, weather annoys him… generally going places by car annoys him). Eventually, I can’t remember whose idea it is but we head into the centre of Gelsenkirchen for Andy and I to get out and the rest of them to take the car and drop their things at the hotel in Dortmund.

Gelsenkirchen is a small mining town – much too small to accommodate 80,000 – 100,000 English fans (depending on which newspaper you read) and a smattering of Portuguese; the place is ramma damma ding dong! Trying to locate Shane and Ronnie is like trying to find Shergar – a fruitless task - so we push our way through the crowds on yet another scorching hot day (there’s a surprise, England are playing so it must be the hottest day since medieval times). Yet again I’m not really sure how Andy does this, but the plan is for me to stay in one place, squashed into a corner at the main railway station surrounded by thousands of fans and he returns 10 minutes later with Shane and Ronnie in tow - really, how does that happen? Does he have a tracking device secreted under the skin of all friends and acquaintances? Anyway, with my mouth hanging open in awe (makes a change from hanging open in confusion) we then all escape to the outskirts and a quieter side street where we sit outside a bar with a handful of other ‘get away from it all’ fans and then, completely out of character for us, we get a round of beers in for breakfast! (They do say the first sign is denial.)

The atmosphere amongst the fans is a lot more tense this time and it’s not such a ‘street party’; the feeling is far more nervous and some of the fans are chanting rubbish and acting like idiots, but then there’s always a few. Otherwise the whole tournament has felt very peaceful and accepting of opposing fans; despite the media trying desperately to sniff out trouble, there really hasn’t been anything to write home about and in our experience out here, we haven’t seen one iota of trouble (there was a small scuffle between a woman and an Antipodean midget at the England vs Equador game but it soon blew over).

At this point, with all the fuss about WAGS, I feel it necessary to explain the offside rule in terms that they may understand (courtesy of Grim Struthers)

The offside rule explained for WAGS:

You're in a shoe shop, second in the queue for the till. Behind the shop assistant on the till is a pair of shoes which you have seen and which you must have. The female shopper in front of you has seen them also and is eyeing them with desire. Both of you have forgotten your purses. It would be rude to push in front of the first woman if you had no money to pay for the shoes. The shop assistant remains at the till waiting. Your friend is trying on another pair of shoes at the back of the shop and sees your dilemma. She prepares to throw her purse to you. If she does so, you can catch the purse, then walk round the other shopper and buy the shoes! At a pinch she could throw the purse ahead of the other shopper and "whilst it is in flight" you could nip around the other shopper, catch the purse and buy the shoes! BUT, you must always remember that until the purse has "actually been thrown", it would be plain wrong for you to be in front of the other shopper and you would be OFFSIDE! So simple when you know the answer!!

Romantic Colin, Eating Machine Shane and Roller Blading Ronnie!

Anyway, back to the matter in hand of trying to all be in the same place at the same time, drinking beer before the game… easier said than done! We do manage to locate Little Scouse aka Colin and the boys break the news to us on his behalf that Colin is now officially ‘off the market’ and has become engaged to Joanne, though to be honest he didn’t seem to appreciate our constant observations and celebrations of his romantic nature… the slushy old devil.

We consume a few beers and Shane and I embark on an ‘eat-off’, we both like our food and agree that twenty minutes is too long to go without a morsel of sustenance. Andy, despite usually liking a bit of healthy competition, won't join in on this pursuit as he always says "eatin’s cheatin". Whilst working my may through a large bowl of chips (Shane is already in the lead as he has two bowls of chips) Andy gets word that our tickets may be the wonderfully luxurious, decadent and jammy Sky Box tickets again. Well, I immediately stop eating the chips on account of now wanting to get straight to the ground to chow down on filet mignon washed down with a nice glass of Cristal champers!

First though we have the small matter of trying to meet our man with the tickets at the stadium which is ten to fifteen minutes outside town. It turns out that ‘girlsinthekitchen’ being such a small town has a total of thirty taxis and after trying the train (turned away by security as the platforms were too overcrowded), we then tracked down the buses but every bus had just about enough room left for a flea circus - though only if it was a very small family-run circus consisting of two average-sized flea parents and an only child.

Plan B was to wander around aimlessly next to the dual carriageway in the blazing heat! What happened next is a pure example of why Germany have been such a perfect host, full of generous-hearted people. As we stood looking lost, a gentleman in his fifties driving a VW Golf pulled up at a junction and asked us in German where we were heading for, when we told him we needed to get to the stadium he told us to jump in and he would take us there (well that's what we think he said, we couldn't really understand but we jumped in anyway as he looked friendly enough). So roller blading Ronnie jumps in the front and Shane, Andy and myself squeeze in the back, happy to be out of the sweltering heat and so thankful to the very kind man who was our absolute saviour - it was starting to feel like our lucky day!

By the way, someone e-mailed the other day and asked "If big Phil Scolari beats Sven for a third time... does he get to keep him?" it might be something for the powers that be to think about; it would help keep anyone overpaid and workshy on their toes. Though I'm not too sure what you'd do with an international footy coach once you've got one? It's all well and good thinking they'll look nice round the house but they rarely do - just ask Nancy!

Our next task was to locate the tickets, somewhere at the Marriott Hotel outside the ground, and also the Millars as Andy has organised four tickets for us, Gary and Ang. TomTom Bob was going to shop around outside the ground. The spanner in the works was that the entrance to the Marriott was blocked off and despite telling our ‘saviour’ that we could just walk up the drive he insisted on trying to find a shortcut and set off in search of the workman’s entrance. This proved tricky and he must have been driving us around for about half an hour already; we didn’t like to seem rude but time was running out and Andy was getting calls from his man with the tickets that he had people to see and places to be – the problem was that we had no idea where we were so we couldn’t get out; we had to just trust our impromptu cabby. And bless him, he did us proud and dropped us as close as possible. He even tried to drive round the barrier and get past the security bod but unfortunately the bod put himself between the car and where we wanted to be, but fair play to our man for trying. I tried to give the man some money but he wouldn’t hear a word of it (I eventually won and managed to thrust the notes into his hand as we said our goodbyes)... off he drove with Andy’s words of ‘Danke Shon Kaiser’ ringing in his ears.

The hotel is swamped, there’s absolutely no chance of a drink and the crowds are spilling outside into the car park. Andy leaves us in a huddle and goes off to locate his man. I’d like to just add at this point that the whole ticket process is always very cloak and dagger. Whenever we go to pick up tickets you’ll notice that neither I, nor anyone else for that matter, is ever present at the ‘hand over’. Every time I have gone along with Andy to get them, he always manages to give me the slip and I find myself hanging around a hotel reception looking suspicious while he goes off and does the deal. ‘Our man’ has turned into Charlie from Charlie’s Angels – I never actually get to see him but I know he’s there.

Andy returns from the secret squirrel club and tantalisingly flashes a corner of a ticket and a Sky Box pass in my direction – he’s such a tease. Though that’s another thing, you can never just get your tickets out in public especially when they’re going for premium prices like they are now. Apparently it’s not unusual to have your ticket snatched from your hand as you approach the turnstile and in these crowds you really don’t stand a chance of chasing the culprit.

We’ve just seen some ‘corporates’ wearing their tickets in a see through plastic sleeve around their necks, all sporting matching scarves and baseball caps emblazoned with their benefactors logo... we stare at them in amazement! I’m reliably informed that if they do that for the World Cup final they won’t get to see their allocated ‘freebie’ seats as the tickets will be long gone.

The next task is to track down Gary and Ang who are at the blue side of the stadium - the opposite side to red where we need to enter. The problem is that the mobile phone coverage is stretched to capacity. I don’t know how these things work (just about mastered the light switch), however what I do know is that when 50,000 people all try to use their mobiles at once, not everyone gets lucky;

Big Show-Off... and Xavier's playing up to the camera too!

Gary and I were the unlucky ones and couldn’t get in touch with each other in order to meet up, with valuable champagne drinking time going to waste! To kill time while we waited, Andy went up to Abel Xavier the ex-Portuguese and Boro player for a photo opportunity. This was really easy to do as he stood there waiting for people to notice him, looking ridiculous in rhinestone-covered denim all over (OK, maybe not rhinestone-covered but he might as well have been!) enormous shades and that strange gravity-defying blonde ‘fro - you definitely couldn’t call him Tranquillo Barnetta.

I wasn’t at all surprised to see him standing on his own waiting for people to recognise him and ask for photos, as we’d seen him previously when our friends and the brand new parents of little Arthur, Lu and Steve, had their wedding in the North East where Xavier did exactly the same in the hotel reception – he stood around looking extremely conspicuous and oddly dressed, waiting for people to sign autographs for.

Gary spots us and the look of relief on his face was so pure you could bottle it. The four of us head inside to find our Sky Box; they didn’t know about the Sky Box passes and their excitement on discovering is fantastic. We can all relax now we’re inside the ground looking forward to kick-off. Andy finally has a nickname – Andy ‘it’s sorted’ Payne - very fitting.

Me and Stan the Man Collymore - thoroughly nice bloke!

After a bit of a mix-up and finding the press in our box, we were relocated to the box next door which wasn’t a huge issue. We made ourselves comfortable and poured a drink. There were a few people already in the box and the host appeared to be a lovely guy called Tony. As we took our seats, in comes Stan Collymore and we assisted with the hanging of his flag with ‘Cannock’ written across it then headed inside to eat the largest scallops I have ever seen... they were like the oversized food in The Goodies, so big you needed two hands to eat them. I could have made a little bed out of the shell!

Kirk & his inflatable!

Whilst standing there deciding what to eat and drink next (well, you have to get your money’s worth, don’t you) in walks a familiar face. It was Dave who we met with Ian and Matt in the Sky Box at the Sweden game. It was really good to see him and we took up where we left off. I sidled over to Dave and out of the corner of my mouth whispered knowledgably that we must have the same ‘contact’, to which he agrees, but he doesn’t realise that I think it’s Charlie from Charlie’s Angels. Dave was with Kirk who was resplendent in his England shirt and hat, carrying a large inflatable Spitfire with the cross of St George down the side. I had seen people with far less innocuous inflatables having to hand them over to be confiscated but it turns out that Kirk speaks fluent German and had talked him and his plane in.

In the Sky Box just before kick-off

Dave and Kirk sat just in front of us and every time Dave got a drink for him and Kirk he got one for us too – all I can say is that Dave and Kirk appeared to be very fast drinkers and I struggled to keep up, though with three weeks of practice under my ever-expanding belt, I didn’t do too bad a job. One of their party hadn’t been able to make it and they still had his ticket and pass which they kindly passed on and I called Shane, who was nearest to us in the ground, to see if he wanted to come up.

He was at the bottom of the stairs waiting before I’d even had a chance to end the call, though fortunately for the others the gorgeous filet steak course had already been served so the Sky box scran was safe from the eating machine’s clutches.

Kick-off and for the first twenty minutes the ground was like a library with the occasional whistles, probably a combination of nerves and unimpressed fans wanting more. When Rooney was sent off, without the aid of constant TV replays and the commentary it was difficult to know what he was actually sent off for and we were presuming it was for pushing the cheating, underhand, snivelling, winker Ronaldo.

That's actual shirt he played for England in!

We didn’t realise that Rooney’s foot had introduced itself to Carvalho’s nethers (albeit by accident, upon inspection of the replay later). Suddenly at the injustice of it all England changed up a gear and played their best football of the tournament. Why couldn’t we come out and play with that much passion from the start when we had eleven men on the pitch? Can someone invent the ‘injustice injection’ that every player and coach is given before each game and then we can sit back and watch them battle valiantly and work their socks off in order to ‘right the wrong’.

Andy sharing the trappings with the masses

Throughout the game Stan Collymore had been the biggest England fan going and he positively encouraged the fans around the box (he’d been spotted early on and there must be a lot of pictures out there of Stan and his Cannock flag) to cheer on the lads. His enthusiasm was hugely infectious and on having a chat he came across as a genuinely nice bloke.

Stan went and changed into ‘THE’ England shirt ready for the inevitable penalties, though unfortunately it didn’t help us. The rest is history - for a moment I really thought we would win it. After all, it’s our turn. I looked back at Andy at one point who was sitting down not wanting to watch the penalties being taken, just shaking his head and saying that it was all over. I told him to "zip it" and don’t be so negative – alas, he was right all along.

We stayed in the ground for a long time afterwards. There were a fair few grown men sitting with their heads in their hands not wanting to leave just yet.

The tears have stopped but smiles are thin on the ground!

I cried a lot of tears which elicited hugs from Andy, Gary, Ang and Stan, but the tears still kept coming. A very dejected Stan said, “Never mind, it will be our turn in South Africa.” I wailed tearfully in the manner of a spoilt child: "But it was our turn NOW!”

Finally we hug goodbye to our new-found friends and shuffle out of the ground, trying to avoid celebrating Portuguese though the blighters seem to be everywhere. Funny how we hardly saw any before the game and now they’re all over the shop.

The run down on an evening of high jinks and japery is to follow shortly...

Sunday 2nd July (Kirsty)

We're Germans, Germans...

Some of you may have read about the German version of 'Jamming' heard in a bar in Dortmund, the night of the Brazil vs Japan match - well, you can listen to it in all its glory and watch the video here! We hope you like Germans too, we certainly found them a jolly good bunch of blokes!

Monday 3rd July (Andy)

The end of the line...

Morning all. It is Monday, the morning after the day after the evening before. We are now travelling back to Blighty and will send up our final diaries just as soon as we collect our thoughts.

It's the end of the line and the end of our odyssey. It's a lovely sunny day again, and 25 days on, it does seem like eons since we left Waterloo, our spirits buoyed and our anticipation high. That is life and the new regime starts today.

Back soon...