The journey back to the West

We arrived into Warsaw for the second time on our travels slightly worse for ware, given the dent we made into the Vodka the previous night. Both Hutch and I were slow moving onto the hostel, arriving in an unfamiliar station, we managed to get across Warsaw to Centrally Station, before walking to our Hostel. Check in wasn't for a couple of hours, but Hutch was struggling and my stomach was grumbling. It wasn't hunger, as I soon found out a few minutes later; a well timed dash to bathroom saving me. The cheap street food bought of the ladies at the station not productive for my bowel. Hutch didn't eat much, but still suffered.

This was our last day at any of the Euro 2012 venues, and we didn't have tickets. We had previously both agreed to try and get tickets through the black market for this game.

I was more positive about our day, trying to drag Hutch up and out, given he had been sleeping during the day. Food was probably the solution, so feasted like kings with a couple of cold meat starters, we had a four person mixed grill between us, soothed down with Polish grog!

After the food, both of us were more spritely, we cruised towards the stadium, discussing our price for the tickets. Both agreed: Not much above face value.

We left the stadium station, greated by a few touts, our conversations and haggling were not getting us to our desired price. Sod it. I'd done this touting stuff a few times. We still had hours before kick off; we'll play the number game. We walked towards the ground, again meeting the occasional tout. We started talking to one, and got fairly good price. It wasn't the ideal price, but lady luck was on our side. A chap approached us "I have two tickets, face value,". Hutch and I looked at each other. It was the best deal yet... we chatted with the guy a bit further "We got more tickets than needed, we just want to recouperate the money we paid!", Hutch and I decided to trust our new friend, and ambled to the nearest cash machine (which wasn't near, it took nearly half an hour to get to the nearest one...) to pay our debt. Once the cash was handed over, Dominic, a German, invited us to join his friends for a beer, afterall, we would be sat next to them for the game.

We settled down in the shadow of the stadium to some Tyskie, talking of the sterotypes we had of the German's and vice versa, talking about the tournament, the chances of the remaining teams and swapping slang terms (they knew all our swear words) that are used in our languages.

The game approached as the beers were drained, our German friends bought us the last beer. This is what the tournament was about, meeting new people, we'd helped them recover their ticket, we had tickets with a beer thrown in for the price.

We walked off to the Stadium, all slightly tipsy, getting a portugese guy to take a photo of our newly formed group, admiring the stadium, then entering into the stunning arena. A gorgeous stadium, with uniquely designed roof and lovely structure for stands of the stadium.

The game started brightly, the Czech's probing forward dangerously. Gebre Selassie was a menace down the right, pushing hard from the full back position, a solid performance from this unknown from the Czech Gambrinus Liga. Alas, The Portuguese then jumped into life, a certain Cristiano Ronaldo providing the sparks, Joao Moutinho interrupting the Czech and feeding the three pronged attack. Ronaldo twice panged the post; once after swivelling and swerving through the Czech defence and crashing a fierce shot upon, then with a trademark zinging freekick, leaving Cech stranded, saved only by the woodwork. The game was sealed with 11 minutes.  Nani fed Joao Moutinho, who crossed deep back across goal. Ronaldo sprinted towards the ball from a deep position before powering the ball past Cech, the first time he'd done so since the Champions League Final in Moscow in 2008.

We stayed and took the statutory photo's of this gorgeous stadium, before heading back into town. We contemplated going out, but I was still feeling rough, Hutch not much better, so we went for a couple of beers in the district near our Hostel. We had an early start the following day.

We awoke from our 8 hour restful slumber and departed for the station. We were leaving the Euro 2012 zone for the first time in two weeks, but alas, we were heading to Berlin, on the day that Germany were due to play Greece, a lucky addition to our trip.

Our train was uneventful to Berlin, a distinct lack of football fans on the train. We arrived into Berlin Haupbahnhof mid afternoon. We checked into our hostel in the hip Prenzlauer Berg of Berlin, then headed for the Brandenberg gate. Apart from it being a historic monument, it was also the place for the vast Fan Zone that was set up by the German authorities to give the fans at home a chance to support their national hero's. I'm not sure anything is done like this in England, probably because a mass brawl would ensue...


In the fan zone a great beer was found, Duckmeister, and after we consumed a couple, the game was under way. I didn't envisage the Greeks putting up much of a fight, but they kept the Germans out, including a rightly disallowed goal, until the 39th minute. Captain Philip Lahm pulled through and drilled the ball past the hapless Greek keeper.

Somehow ten minutes after half time the Greeks got an equaliser. Samaras bundled the ball over the line. But this was short lived. On 61 minutes, Khedira put the German's into a lead. Klose soon added another; the Samaras goal seemed to have sparked the German machine into life. New Dortmund signing Marco Reus added a 4th, meaning the Germans had got 3 in 15 lightening minutes. The Greeks got a late consolation goal through a penalty, but the German's were through.

We shuffled away from the Brandenberg, before going to party. Our destination the iconic electronic techno club, Tresor. We had a couple of beers, before heading into the club, dancing to some grimy industrial techno till the early hours. We departed in daylight, swaying back to the hostel before hitting the final stop of the tour; Amsterdam!

Our early train to Amsterdam was supplemented with some slumber. The previous two hours insignificant to our body's need. We had a quick change en route to ensure our arrival in Amsterdam Centraal, and not Amsterdam Suid. I know my way around Amsterdam and had previously stayed at our abode for the night. However, Hutch was peckish. I knew a noodle place, so we hit that, before getting stung in a typically Western style for 26 euro's...

Our last night was to be christened with the last supper. I had always wanted to go to a smart restaurant in Nieuwmarkt, In De Waag, where Rembrant's The Anatomy Lesson was painted. After a gorgeous tenderloin steak, we headed over for Amsterdam's best milkshake at the smart Hill Street Blue's coffeeshop. The Spain France again had already started whilst we were eating dinner. Former Liverpool midfielder Xabi Alonso put them 1-0 up with a firm header. The drab game went on and on, before France's hopes of reaching the semi's went up in smoke, like our surroundings in the coffeeshop. A penalty awarded, which Alonso despatched to secure Spain a semi final clash with the Iberian peninsula Portuguese.

We reviewed, joked and laughed about the previous 24 days. Our adventure drawing to a close; this was the final night.We went out and Amsterdam was not hustling like normal. Superclub Melkweg, Dead. Paradiso, minimal. We cruised a few late bars, before deciding to call it a day at 4:00am.

We arose the next morning, the weather for the third time in 24 days, was producing rain. We checked out. I headed off to find an internet cafe in the pouring rain to print our boarding cards, then we departed, for the last time, to the airport.

The mood between us was sombre, slighly depressed. This was the end of our adventure. 24 days on the road. We didn't feel the irony or coincidence of the rain as we tried, and failed, to find food in Einhoven, our departure airport.

The tube of the Ryanair Boeing 737 opened into sunshine some where over the North Sea. A silver lining perhaps to the end of the journey. More like a mercury poising lining...

I dropped my bags in Nottingham, and trudged up the road to the pub. The roads eerily empty, like a scene out of 28 Days Later, England that night were atypical of the national team. A bore draw, lacking invention. The attacking substitution of Jordan Henderson being laughed at by the other people supporting other teams throughout the tournament. 0-0, the first of Euro 2012. Then Penalties. The faint optimism in the pub... "Maybe this time", "I can see us doing this", "Joe Hart to save, then score the winner". I wasn't fussed. But I couldn't see England changing the habit of a lifetime. Nine kicks later, I was right. England were down and out. Just like Hutch and I. Tournament Over.

Two Litres of Vodka and a Diplomat of UN

We were woken the morning after the Denmark v Portugal game by our chinese couple room mates (the guy cried upon seeing Ronaldo the night before at the game) the following morning, by their incesant packing which took around 3 hours. This also included a partial photoshoot of them in their Euro 2012 gear. Make of that what you will.

We were due to move hostels in L'viv for economical purposes, and the Hostel manager, Bogdan, allowed us to leave later as it was our first chance to regroup some lost energy for our long stint of travelling.

We departed for our new Hostel, named Shevchenko (not after the footballer, but a historical figure). We were told of free washing facilities, and upon despatching our smouldering clothes went for lunch.

Our lunch consisted of a three course meal at L'viv's top restaurant, including Cavier for starter, I had quail with Raspberry and pear sauce, Hutch had a fancy chicken and Bacon stuffed with cheese and herbs. We both had a side of garlic potatoes. Dessert for me was a glorious Plum and double cream wrapped in a super soft sponge of honey flavour. Hutch had a fantastic chocolate gateux that was richer than Abramovic. With our customary local ale, it came to a massive £15 a head! Absolute bargain!!!

As we began to digest our luxurious lunch, we hung our washing out, then headed downstairs to be greated by a mob of locals, a couple of travelling Danish youngsters and a Portuguese guy, all nailing vodka. All quite tipsey. We were invited to join the inner sanctum with the locals topping our glass every time it hit empty. Before long we were merry and the bottle empty. We hit town for the football, meeting a Pole and a German couple, getting back onto Vodka.

The Danes challenged us to that well known Danish game of "Who's going to be sick first" (not Lego surprisingly!). Hutch and I were certain of the Danes, the Danes reciprocated, laying the loser to us English. As we continued our drinking on the table, within a minute of our new game, I noticed the younger of the Danes with his head over the ground. "Are you being sick?" I chirped as Hutch departed his conversation and turned and faced us. "Err, no, err, you know, itsch juscht the wadded before de schick...". Cue laughted and a heated debate as to whether this counted or not. Fortunately for us, and less fortunate for the Danes, we were crowned champions of the "Who's going to be sick first" game!

We continued drinking and watched the evenings games, I rember little, but the football showed the Republic of Ireland, full of free agents and Championship players, to be exactly that against a strong European and World champions Spain, whilst Croatia proved a force to be reckoned with by clasping a draw against the Italians. The Irish were out, the Croats needing a win against Spain, or a result from the Irish against Italy and a draw for them against Spain.

The next afternoon when we rose, was difficult. I hadn't felt this bad all trip, Hutch not too much better. We struggled through some sweaty meat, toured around L'viv a bit before deciding against the fanzone for the England game, having watched a sturdy Ukrainane performance turn to a 2-0 loss to the French. We found a swish bar showing the football, and settled down. Not long into the game, a few locals, wanting Sweden to win, invited us to their table as the Swedes equalized! We obliged and subsequently started the nicities. We soon discovered that one was a local TV presenter, proved by the occasional interruption from locals to say hi, and the Ukrainian Diplomat for the UN, with photos of him at the UN HQ in New York. We kept on drinking whilst the game swung into Sweden's favour, receiving jeers from other around us. Although I'm not an England supporter, it is difficult to explain I don't care and the subsequent answers to the questions of why. I just nod and smile. As Theo equalized with some luck from citeh reject Issakson, we ordered a Shisha pipe and carried on drinking with our new friends. I nipped to the toilet as Welbeck sealed the comeback (still haven't seen the goal), with grunts from the surrounding fans. England's victory was probably deserved, Sweden were only good from set pieces and held a weird midfield that was probed like a drug smuggler at customs.

Our friends were now more stociois than us, and after the UN guy passed out, they left. We noticed he'd left his iPhone. As good Samaritans, and no way of contacting them, we held onto it, before partying away into the small hours with some newly acquired Danish friends from the fallout and commotion of the UN dude passing out.

The following morning, with the iPhone dead, Hutch purchased a charger. Within a second of power coming on, we had a call. Hutch answered and it was Julian, the UN guy! We arranged a meet, and along with reimbursement of the cost of the charger, we were given a massive 2 litre deluxe bottle of Ukrainian Vodka! Win!

We slowly ambled through the rest of the day, changing hostel for the final time in L'viv, taking in more sights, before going for a beer at last nights venue. The Danes we met the previous night were there, and we slowly drank and ate through the rest of the day, hitting the first of the double headers in the group games, with the flacid Group A. The Danes had put a few Euro's on the games, which made it more interesting. We could only see the Russia game. The first half was timid, before Greece took the lead before half time following some poor defensive work. The game finished 1-0 as did the Czech vs Poland game, meaning my early tournament dark horses, Russia were out, along with host Poland, with a weak Greece and resurgent Czech team the teams to progress. The Danes lost a lot of money, which put a dampener on the last night in L'viv.

We headed to our new abode, full of ignorant and loud Germans, peaceful and timid Danes and had a terrible nights sleep. We regretably arose the next day and headed out. Our aim, was literally that. Fire some guns!

Our Hostel recommended a place, we went and had a safety lesson in Ukrainian, before deciding on our arsenal. We went for an AK-47, an optical 7.62mm sniper and a 9mm revolver. The total for our session was £15 each. I beat hutch with the AK and revolver, he won with the Sniper. I'll take that!

We then climbed the City hall, admiring the views across L'viv. It's lovely town was shouldered by some dour Soviet grey flats and factory buildings. L'viv wasn't touched by the wars, and so its history is clear to see from this vantage point, as capitalist constructed builds were a layer further out. The evening left us with the Group of Death to finalize. We had to leave slightly early to catch a train to Kiev, but were able to see the Danes take the lead with Krone-Dehli, only for Podolski the German Pole, to equalize. In the other game we heard the Dutch had taken the lead, but Ronaldo was finally finding form bagging a brace. I asked a good friend Lfec to text me the updates as we departed for the station in haste.

Upon arrive I received two pieces of bad news. Germany and Portugal qualified, with the oranje Dutch and Danes out, but also our train to Kiev was delayed by two hours, apparently this always happens (why not change the timetable??). Even more infuriating having left the football early.

We finally boarded the sleeper train, sharing for the first time, with a Ukrainian woman and a grouchy non descript Eastern European. We snoozed whilst our train zipped across to Kiev.

L'viv is an awesome city, had loads going on away from the football and has a smooth nightlife that is chatty and for us Western Europeans, bloody cheap. If you can ever muster your way over, do so. It has providied us with many a laugh, great local company and above all retains a good clash of east meets west. Go. Now.

From Russia with L'viv

Having left Przemysl and hitting the Ukrainian border, we were staunchly checked by the Polish guard before they departed the train, and we chugged along for a few hundread metres. Next thing to follow was something of a media circus with the Ukrainian border patrol jumping on board. All well dressed and seemingly chirpy (Our Ukrainian can order two beers and a please and thank you...) chat from the guard, as they went about the business of checking passports, we then noticed other guards taking photo's, whilst the border patrol posed with passports, looking intensely, yet caringly onto our documents. The Soviet Union was a staunch advocate and emphatic power with propagander plays, and for a former Soviet state hosting a major event, there seemed to be a focus here on looking like a friendly host and showing a care free border crossing experience allowing people into the Ukraine.

The truth, having spent weeks planning this trip, was that working out a time and cost effective way to travel between these co host countries was farsical to say the least! The cohesion between them not apparent. We have still yet to find a way between the two capitals; Warsaw and Kiev.

Upon finally hitting L'viv, our host for the next 4 nights and first port of call in the Ukraine, we were greated by yet more media circus. Camera's pointing in our direction, and requests of interviews being laid down. We allowed the travelling Danes and Portugese to pick up the limelight, whilst we headed beyond the shadows of the train station and into glorious weather towards the tram stop to venture into town.


The 1940's tram approached and as we boarded, we realised that if we thought Poland were not ready, then the Ukrainans may have forgotten their duty as host all together. Signage in the roman alphabet was sparse and volunteers were no more beyond the station. We coped and within twenty minutes had hit downtown L'viv and found our accomodation! We downed bags and stumbled across a local restaurant. After some finger jabbing, jesturing and random translation we order the local delicacy Borsch (a local soup) for Hutch and Tripe in a cream and mushroom sauce for me (I hate mushrooms, but the translation was lost!). When in Rome and all that! As was standard practice by now, we shared the food we'd ordered to allow both of us a  taste of the local cusine. The food was suprisingly nice, despite the mushrooms, although Hutch still can't believe he ate tripe...

So, part of the reason for this travelling is to see some live football; we had tickets for Denmark Vs Portugal in L'viv. So after consuming the local cusine (and pints), headed towards the Arena L'viv. We borded a bus (there is no tram to the new stadium, that was plauged by construction problems throughout!) and after a 25 minute journey arrived... but there was still another 15 minutes of walking.

We had to collect our tickets in what I can only describe as a chaotic and badly organised queue. Once collected we headed into the ground. The stadium is a modest sized 35,000 capacity, and was constructed in a fairly hastily fashion. The surrounding areas were still unfinished, but the main compound was complete. The stadium itself is quite unique in it's style and for a new build has character.

If the stadium was impressive, the game was better. Although the first twenty minutes were fairly bland (I was fearing I could witness the first goalless draw of the tournament) the game opened up with Pepe's firm header from a corner. Suddenly the game jolted from it's slumber and action was abound. The otherwise useless Helder Postiga soon doubled the advantage after some good wing play and a drilled cross by Nani left Postiga with little to do. Portugal seemed in crusie control.

Just as the half was coming to a close, the Danes took advantage as the Portuguese were caught napping. The fancy named Krone-Dehli managed to unselfishly nod a loose cross back across goal for Bendtner to head into an almost unguarded net. Game on!

The second half started and again was cagey. Portugal had the better of the play, but failed to make anything count. Cristiano Ronaldo disappointed with a one on one, which was punished minutes later as Bendtner again nodded in to draw things level. Ronaldo was angry; he knew his poor finishing had potentially cost his team. He raised his game another notch, although his petulance earned him a booking. With just three minutes remaining, Portugal would be almost out of contention. Cue substitute Silvestre Varela to steel the show with a composed half stike past the flailing Andersen. Ronaldo looked relieved; the Danes devastated on the final whistle.

Once the game had finished, we took a while leaving, spending time walking around the insides of the stadium. Considering the tickets had cost 70 Euro each, we were treated with little respect when trying to take photo's, being ushered out quite quickly. I found this hugely frustrating, given that the previous stadiums were fortresses to get near; but when you pay up, you are urged to get out again quickly! This all smells of corporate UEFA, I'm sure the corporate dignitaries, those that turned up, were still inside, drinking complimentary champagne... Our journey back to the centre was a wierd one. It involved walking about 20 mins to the motorway, though a field with something that could be a path upon completion, and waiting for a bus, before rushing on in no particular order, in fact, walking alongside the bus until it stopped, then dashing on!

That evening came to a rather sharp close after watching the Netherlands capitulate to Germany and the previous days treck between the hosts. The Netherlands needed a small mirical to qualify now, whilst the German's, baring a minor mathematical miracle, were through. Both Denmark and Portugal needed the other to lose and for them to win. The Group of Death indeed!

So, the first day in the Ukraine, we saw an eventful game, but also the second of the co-hosts ability to, erm host. My impression is all the political unrest hasn't helped the Ukraine, a country that has phenomenal wealth with it's Oilgarchs, and extreme povety that is slowly getting over the early 90's economical hangover following the much maligned Soviet divorce. The stadium looked good, but it's location, and supporting infrastructure is weak. The city is awesome, but it's ability to house those unfamiliar with the Cyrillic alphabet isn't good. It reminds me of the situation with Moscow's for the European Cup in 2008. 

Celebrity Big Pizza

Awaking the next day to an oversized Ukrainian in your room is quite scary, Hutch and I decided to get ready and get out to the Stadium in Wroclaw, walk through the old town and then settle on a spot to watch the days games in the fan zone.

We first had to drop our bags at the station, as we had a night train to Gdansk and didn't want to drag our bags around all-day, and Sas the Ukrainian was going to come too as he was in need of a train to Frankfurt, before buying a car and driving to Donets'k. I didn't ask too many questions on why...

So on getting to the station I was translating from French to English, for this train info. After finding out it was going to be €150, Sas then decided to inform me he could get a lift from Wroclaw to Frankfurt, for €35 with some friends. If we'd got this information earlier, I'd have told him not to bother with the trains and saved 45 mins. Now bagless, we headed for lunch, the translation issues were still here, so we just ordered for Sas on the basic info we could get. He eneded up, like Hutch, with Pigs Trotter, me, a steak!

Now full of assorted cuts of animal body, we headed towards the stadium. The trams were smart and efficient, and there were plenty of them heading out.

Upon approach, the stadium looked good and trim. We wanted to get close to this masterpeice, but the security perimetter didn't allow us to within 200 metres, we checked by walking the perimetter, but in doing so discovered this stadium wasn't quite finished. Fence posts still jutted with no fence attached, instead temporary measures in place. The footpaths had kerbs, still awaiting their tarmac surface. Although not core to the stadium, still functional requirements I'm sure. One thing going through our mind was would this ever get completed post tournament? Who would care? What would be the point? League attendances in Poland are low, and can't see this tournament driving them up to fill these gorgeous, half completed stadiums.

Another thought, UEFA, the money machine and masters of expoliting most opportunities for more of the fans money, had potentially missed something here, we weren't the only people looking, holding the outter security fences wanting to get closer. Surely a €10 organised stadium tour on none match days would reap a sum, but also satisfy those that couldn't get tickets because the slightly empty corporate sections had been sold off for millions in lucrative deal?

We watched the evenings football, stunned by the Dutch defeat. Our thoughts, including Sas was that the Dutch didn't play as a team. The world cup finalists from two years ago weren't so cohesive as then. Robben too selfish, van Persie not his usual self. The only positive was the mastering strokes of Sneijder and apart from the goal, an otherwise solid defence. The Danes had a game plan, not negative, more containment and counter attack, which they did to great aplomb. Poulsen looked cool and competent on the ball, Krohn-Dehli's goal composed.

Before the last game, we grabbed some food, an extra large flavoursome traditional Polish casserole for less than 3 quid.

The Germany Portugal game was interesting for Hutch and I, we would be in L'viv to see Denmark Portugal in a few days time, so a first chance to see the stadium. Another big game seemed to pass Ronaldo by, Nani looked out of his depth. The Germans were, as ever, well drilled and fresh. Gomez is not a favourite of mine, he reminds me of a poor mans Andy Cole; he gets into positions, but needs 5 chances to get a goal. He most certainly could have stopped the Rubble machine Chelsea from buying that Champions League. He took his goal well to his credit, and the Germans played out the game well.

We trundled off to get our train, swapped contact details with our Ukrainian friend and boarded to depart. We joked about the potential of the electric cables coming down, before setting down in our new and fresh, ready for the Euro's carrige and we were impressed. Despite this, also slightly upset, we wanted an ageing communist peice of engineering, with an occasional malfuction, not the modem IKEA spec.

Rolling into Gdansk after a good night sleep, we wondered the old town for several hours. A gorgeous centre, with a nice baroque variation on Wroclaw. In distance ahead, remnants of WWII were still presnet. Bridges and building not reconstructed. Although done due to to a lack of budget, and not for dramatic effect, we both thought it added to the character of the city.

Our home for the night was a campsite in the shadow of the Gdansk Arena. We decided to get out there early and see if we could get tickets. Upon approaching the stadium, its beauty befell upon us, a gorgeous amber coloured bowl glistening on the blue sky. Amber because the Baltic coast, where Gdansk is situated, is known for large amounts of Amber along the shores.

Once we found our pitch, with a few hundred Spanish; excitement came when one Spanish woman returned to the camp, ecstatic because she now had a ticket, fellow Spaniards whooped for her joy.

We meandered back to the stadium. The completion was worse than Wroclaw, whole roads half completed, a bridge with only the rebar complete, awaiting the pours of concrete. Our campsite was on a dirt track, this was actually a main thoroughfair from the nearby train station. We enquired for tickets. €275, €200, special deal €500 for a pair. I wanted to go, but not that badly. It wasn't United.

We settled for a beer, only to see Joe Calzaghe the boxer, sat next to us. He was in his Italy top(half Italian, half Welsh, like tthe Welsh will ever qualify, well actually with the stupid 24 team Euro's to start in 2016, who knows...), a brief nod of acknowledgement was all that was required and we left him to his beer as we chatted over ours.

We were getting hungry, our morning pastries now digested. We saw a sign: Pizza. We'd yet to have any non traditional food, but the stadium was on the outskirts and food was rare.

We entered, it was a pub, that served pizza, the sign to allure the Italians no doubt. The waitresses attractive and the menu... WHAT... a 24" pizza! A meat feast was ordered. A whopping 452 square inches of pizza. Compared to 113 on a 12". We had to break to finish but finish we did. Even the waitress was impressed. But this pub had more to it; cheap beer, pool and a football table. After three games of pool and table football, the pizza and pints, we'd spent less £15. Bargain! Best pub so far!

We searched for tickets briefly again, the touts profiteering to the decrepid Spanish economy, reports that some had paid as high as €400... had we not just lent these fools €110bn?

We returned to the campsite to watch the football in the shadow of the awesome arena. A good atmosphere ensued. A scrapy game, which I feel the ref failed to discourage. Italy looked good, controlling the game at times. The decision to remove Balotelli was justified with his petulance showing, whereas De Natale showed he is class. The decision to remove Cassano was bad, Italy didn't look the same after and there only looked to be one winner. Somehow it ended a draw. If I'd paid more than €30 for that game I'd be disappointed.

Next up, the Irish, or was it? The Spanish wanted to see Alonso mess up the F1 with his one stop strategy before Englishman Hamilton took the prize, so would I in heindsight
, but this was the Euro's, Hutch and I fought a verbal battle on principle that we should watch the football with pointing and gesturing. We won.

Unlike the Irish. A poor incepid performance that looked like Mick McCarthy might still be incharge. Weak, unorganised; Trapatoni the tactician must not be happy. The Croats solid and technical. I fancy their chances for an upset in this group!

So football done, we decided to head to the stadium, to see it lit up. What a gorgeous site. We managed to get a little closer than one ought to due to 'a technicallity' with the building site, but as I hope you see, it was worth it.

So, bed, then to Warsaw in the morning! I write this enroute to Warsaw, so look out for the next update, which I think will be tomorrow with an England performance to write up...