E) Belgium v Tunisia... from Brussels

The game was beginning in less than twenty four hours. I sat waiting
obediently for what was proving to be a most disagreeable means of
transport. I'm comfortable enough sitting in a plane. I don't mind
flying. What really bothers me is sitting in a plane and not flying.
Or, even worse, neither sitting in a plane nor flying, but lounging in
a departure lounge from where no one departs. It seems to be the
biggest part of flying. Not flying.

I suppose some unexpected delays are to be expected. We eventually took
off and after our host, Pierre, worked his camp continental charm, I
sat back, relaxed and enjoyed the flight.

I quietly contemplated that which awaited. I had arranged to stay with
the parents of an old work mate, now friend. (Thank you so much Emily
Roche.) It seemed fitting to be staying with people I did not know in a
country I knew nothing about. I must confess that all I heard of
Belgium was that it was terribly boring, but had very good beer.
Incongruous though the two notions seem.

I had come to Belgium to watch their team play Tunisia. It was not
supposed to be much of a match, with Belgium so strong and the press
describing Tunisia as, well, boring. Feeling desperate for distraction
from imagined boredom ahead, I buzzed for Pierre, just to watch the man
mince.

Touch down in Brussels. I could feel that the challenge was truly set
to begin. Bumbling my way onto the coach to Midi Station had seemed
hard enough, but was nothing compared with the challenges that awaited.
I had greatly underestimated barriers de linguistic.

I had arranged to call my hosts from the station to come pick me up.
Making a phone call. It is something so fundamental, I would have never
thought it a hurdle. But in Belgium, it was. For about an hour or more,
I fed coins into phones. While they sat chirping in French, I punched
numbers and groaned. I fought so hard to master them, those bastardised
versions Bell's great invention. I felt beaten by nothing. Slumped in
frustration, I felt so very small, begging and cursing that damned box
on the wall. Then, an elderly gent staggered over and adopted my pose.
He eyed up a phone and loosening his trousers gave it a well aimed
splashing and me a satisfied smile. I felt so tempted to join him, but
no.

Instead, I queued for information and, feeling the full schmuck that I
was, sought detailed instructions on how to make one measly call. They
took pity on me and finally the ordeal was over and I was in my new
temporary home. I was spectacularly wined and dined by my fine hosts,
retiring late and feeling almost too full of hospitality to face the
game that lay ahead.

I awoke early the next morning and headed to central Brussels. 'The
Grand Place' was said to be where the action was. The area was crawling
was tourists. I'd been told to expect little passion from the Belgians
and I felt I might need the visitors to give me a show.

As I weaved through the narrow streets, my nervousness grew. Did I have
the schedule wrong, or was I the only one for whom the game mattered? I
had been led to expect 'boring', but did not expect 'nothing' and yet
nothing presented. I picked up my stride, now in my usual pre-match
jog. I tightened my gaze, searching for some love of the game. Then, I
saw them. Viking horns in black, red and gold! They cared! They really
did care! Perhaps I would find a game after all.

I followed the Viking past the enticingly named 'Drug Opera'. It was a
gruesome venue which looked like a tripped over Trump had spilt glitz
through the room. 'Christian's Bar' gave the same presentation, though
without all the patrons. I was moving away, when suddenly a flag caught
my eye. 'Tavern Jupiter' said the sign. I ducked through the flag that
hung from the door and was greeted by about a dozen locals all grinning
and crammed with backs to the wall. A necessity, as the tavern was no
bigger than a caravan with a bar barely six feet in length. We eyed
each other with mutual amusement. The laughs rose up as I ambled into
the room. I smiled with deep satisfaction, dropped my bag, ordered a
pint and took my place against the wall.

The television was perched atop an old wood finished pinball machine.
Faded photos competed with stapled butterflies for space on the wall
which also displayed a picture of Belgium's national team. From
1992.

I felt a little conspicuous scribbling at the back of the room (mere
metres from the front), but the Belgians cared not. The game was soon
to start.

Kick off and all was quiet. They watched the game in silent
appreciation. As did I them.

The game made me nervous. I had not worked out which team was which and
did not want to risk the faux par of supporting Tunisia. The room was
good-natured, but its low profile and size made it feel the sort of
place that could in an instant disappear with me along with it. This
was possibly the fate of more than a few lost butterflies who merely
stopped for directions only to find themselves stuck up to the
wall.

At this juncture, I was offered a snack from a plate of sausage which I
was sadly forced to decline by my dietary dictations. The kind
gentleman merely sighed and stared up at the wall, looking straight at
a butterfly which I could have sworn gave a twitch. Perhaps
vegetarianism is a policy I may have to reconsider.

The silence was broken by an early Belgian goal! The room burst into a
cheer and all tried to stand, restricted by tiny tables and no space in
the room. There was shared joy in the moment. There was not the
rapturous hysteria of a room of unknowns, but the warmth of good
friends sharing in a success. All smiled and joked and though I
understood naught, the mood was infectious and I coyly giggled and
laughed.

Sadly, shortly thereafter, Tunisia scored causing the room a deep pain.
It slowly subsided and when another foreigner walked into the room only
to immediately turn back out, we all shared a laugh and a butterfly
twitched.

The mood was subdued and casual, but surely not boring. Rather, it was
warm and relaxed. The tavern had nothing but time. Nothing could move
these folks away from their pews or rush them through their half-pints
of Belgian's best brews.

Sadly, the clock stood not still. As the half drew to a close and a
Tunisian was stretchered off to not even a cheer, the barmaid took
orders for more food and more beer. I drained my pint knowing that I
would soon move on, much as it pained me to do so. I had to see how
other Belgians were enjoying the match, but I knew that none could be
so&;#8230; so&;#8230; perfect.

I jogged lightly to 'Lop Lop', an international pub, with a mixed crowd
to match. There were finely groomed 'suits' whom looked like they could
have owned all of London. There were face painted fanatics, with drinks
by the jug. I saw a number of students and I think a few foreigners. We
all gathered together to wait for the match to resume.

An air horn announced the start of the half. The multi-accented
waitresses toted great trays of beers negotiating the bodies strewn on
the staircase - my own included. The place provided some action and
with some close Belgian goals, the locals released their crossed arms
to give a good cheer.

Indeed, Belgium dominated the half. The room was aroused, though only
semi so it seemed. There was a certain flaccidity. A flatness. A droop.
I mean, these boys knew how to drink and tie a half-windsor, but the
ruckus was restrained and the cheers intermittent. There was never a
chant, yet so much that deserved it. I really wanted a goal, just to
see what they could do.

It was never to be. The game petered out and ended in a flat draw. I
missed out on the opportunity of seeing the Belgians at their best. As
they downed their drinks and all filed out, 'I Will Survive' blasted
from the stereo and indeed Belgium would. The locals were nonplussed,
but their team had made it through. Their campaign would continue. I
might be in Belgium again and I knew where I would drink. 'Tavern
Jupiter'. It is probably one of a hundred, but still one of a kind and
that's exactly where I headed to while away the day until it was time
to move on. On to Slovenia&;#8230;