O) Germany v South Korea... from Munich

Someone must have shuffled the streets of Brock while I was out
drinking all day because I had great difficulty finding the train
station that had introduced me to the town. A town of so few people and
yet so many beers.

I awaited my overnight journey to Munchen with a drunken smile. I
looked forward to a good sleep in a sleeper carriage couchette, but on
boarding found that a woman who had earlier obliged with a photograph
had now attached herself to me. I sensed that I had become her
protector, her non threatening male, at that late hour.

The eldest brother to four, the elder cousin to a lot more, an
uncoordinated eager sportsman, I am a born protector and defender. It
is a role that I relish. I resolved that I would sit in the seated
section that night to defend the damsel from distress until it came her
time to detrain. I did not make myself comfortable or loosen my shoes,
but, concerned first for my duty, sat upright in my seat. Then, of
course, I went straight to sleep.

When a conductor woke me in the morning, the woman was gone. Possibly
dead. Probably maimed. Probably by the same person who had spent the
whole night kicking me in the head and draining my body of
fluids.

But then I remembered my little pub crawl from the day/night before.
The woman had probably left to escape my snoring or stinking or the
searing heat that radiated from my body.

I checked my pack. Firstly, to see if it was still there. Secondly, to
make sure I had not vomited in it. A dreadful mistake I once made to my
greatest regret. It is the equivalent of not only throwing up in one's
bed, but also one's wardrobe, drawers, bathroom, kitchen and bookshelf
only to have to carry the whole lot around on one's back.

At first, I could not find the thing and, thinking it stolen, I hoped I
had puked in it. But then, I realised it was just that I could no
longer move my neck properly to look. When I eventually I found it, I
was relieved to confirm that it contained no vomit. Save for the
remnants of the past episode of course.

I was arriving at Munchen Central Station for the fifth and filthiest
time since my journey began. It felt like a sort of homecoming. Except
that for me there would be no home. And certainly no coming. No shower,
no shave and no extra rest.

Germany kicked off against South Korea in a few short hours. There was
much work to be done.

I managed to cash in my tickets for Istanbul, grateful to be in clean
and orderly Germany. Die Bahn, its railways, have been my saviour in
sanity and salubrious trains and train stations. I, on the other hand,
was a beast straight from the depths of a pig stein. It is a marvel the
way drinking can so attract dirt. And equally, the way dirt can so
repel a German. I suspected they gave me a refund just to get me out of
their spotless ticket office and out on to the street with the other
drunks and bums. It mattered not. I was well used to trading off pride
for results and on the way out dropped a few coins to my brothers of
the same shameless creed.

I forced my weary legs to force my weary body all around town arriving
at what I judged to be the best destination shortly before the start of
the match. It was a theatre hall where there was to be a big screen,
trestles, beers and thousands of Germans.

I arrived at the main gate to a disheartening scene. Many milled
around, but it was clear that the security guards were not letting any
more people in. Never fear. I had been in the same position before and
did not doubt for a moment that I could talk my way in.

I tried to pull my usual journalist line waving around an old
ABCTales.com business card and hoping they would believe my name was
'Emily Dubberly'. I never even had a chance to find out. They would not
listen. The gates were staying shut.

I was outraged! They may not care about me or even Emily, but what of
the public's right to know?

This was bullshit! I had come a long way for this! All the way from
Madrid to Bruck and back! With a few minutes until kick off, it was
time to resort to more brutal methods.

I sprinted around the compound studying it for a weakness. There were
guards everywhere. A few with Alsatians, I felt sure. The hall's towers
imposed like gun turrets. This was going to be tough. Then, I spied a
possibility! I slid some forty feet down a muddy hill and into a
depression to keep out of sight. I watched and waited, timing my run by
the pace of the guards. Then, I made one final dash and threw my battle
worn body over the fence. I was in! Without doubt, the first time that
a 'Jucha' has ever scaled a barbed wire fence to get closer to the
Germans.

I tried to straighten myself up, smearing around the mud and the blood,
and then slipped into the safety of the back of the hall.

There was no time to waste. The German anthem was groaning, so I went
straight for a beer. A 'Halle'. They charged me a deposit for the
glass, so I made sure to steal it for a special cousin who is in the
habit of collecting such things.

I turned to the throng and was lamenting my poor perspective when I
spied an opportunity passing by. A camera crew, heavily laden with
gear, was cutting a path through the crowd. Keeping my notebook raised
high and my beer down low, I joined their caravan trying to look every
bit on the job that I was.

I followed them all the way to the stage and then up on to it. While my
new camera crew set up, I turned around to raise my beer to the
crowd.

It was horrifying.

There were thousands more than the thousands I had thought. Individual
faces were hard to make out in the black mass, seething with strange
life like the dark depths of the ocean. Only the flags gave colour,
emerging from the pit to sail silently above the murky noise of the
crowd.

I moved about with great care on the stage, not wanting to be, but by
nature most likely to be, the one to kick out a cord. If there was a
fire, we would surely all perish. If Germany were to lose, a fire might
be only thing to save us all. I shook my head muttering to myself. They
really should not be letting any more in.

Kick off to a roar. The crowd were over eager. They chanted and cheered
for every German possession. This was fortunate really, because they
did not have a lot else to cheer for. Ordinary German attacks brought
booming applause. South Korea's better efforts, attracted long drawn
out boos.

It was an aggressive environment. At one stage, someone came up to me
and abused me because the camera crew's lights were shining into the
eyes of the crowd. I informed them that the lights were not my
department and turned back to my notes.

In time, the flatness of the game sapped the energy from the room. A
few German corner kicks inspired some good hand waggling and a late
push towards South Korea's goal was cheered on by the crowd, but ended
as it started. Nothing.

Half time. The lights did not come up for some time and so I sat in the
dark assessing my options. I felt I had none. I had planned to go to
another venue for the second half, but could not imagine negotiating my
way through the fearsome crowd. Then a camera went striding to the back
of the room and I hitched another ride out.

I had lost a lot of half time time and bolted out of the gates pleased,
but somehow not surprised, to see that someone had called a taxi for
me. I piled in.

"Muller Street please driver."

I had noticed on my previous visits to Munchen that I seemed to attract
a lot of attention around town. A certain kind of attention, if you
know what I mean.

I was off to the 'Forum'. 'Forum' with a flower for an 'o'. That's
right... a gay bar.

This was more like it. An older, balder, prettier crowd. Sexy, stylish,
sculptured boys and girls. Football regalia was well hung from the
walls, dangling about with a good number of balls. Large glass windows
allowed the sun to stream into the gorgeously clean bar, full of fresh,
fine faces.

As I studied them and they me, I grew conscious of my appearance.
Stinking of yesterday's beer, muddied and bloodied, I wished I had made
more of an effort. Still, I guess there is always someone who goes for
the scruffy and rugged look. I just hoped that they would not be too
scruffy and rugged.

I ordered a beer. A 'Hacker Pschorr' that came in a curvaceous glass
and with a complimentary pat on the arse.

The crowd of a hundred or more cheered as the game resumed. They could
certainly manage some noise of their own. They were given good reason
to, with an early German attack only just being deflected away. Some
injuries soon followed and were greeted with great concern. The
sweethearts.

As the game developed, so did the concern of the crowd. Hands part
covered faces, mouths hung open, eyes winced in waiting. A South Korean
penalty made matters worse, but ended with no goal and great sighs of
relief.

The accidental dacking of a South Korean player gave the room reason
the laugh and reposition for views. And not long after they received
real reason to relax. Germany managed a goal.

Girls cheered and thumped tables. Boys squealed with delight and made
fast little hand claps. There was more a sense of relief than
celebration. Perhaps Japan's sun would continue to rise for
Germany.

I watched a little longer, but as the game neared its end I decided to
take a chance. Much as I disliked the hall's atmosphere, I wanted to
see the reaction there at the final whistle. I judged it to be a
kilometre or two away. Maybe if I ran like hell...

I sprinted the streets, wheezing and hurting from all the booze still
swirling around my head and my gut. I should never have had that last
glass of red wine. I very nearly caused a major car accident along the
way. If understood German, I surely would have blushed.

I arrived at the hall, doubled over in pain, looking up just in time
for the final whistle and some Germanic joy. Though, their joy was not
all that joyful. The mood was more emphatic than ecstatic. There was no
running or dancing. A little jumping on tables and a lot of flag
waving, but not much else. There was much talk of the final, but they
did not want to jinx it by overreacting.

I paced out with the crowd and started heading to Leopold and Ludwig
Streets, the traditional celebratory ares of Munchen. I could have
caused a dozen accidents on the way there and no one would have cared.
People drove around madly, honking their horns, telling everyone what
everyone already knew.

I knew when I had reached the main arena by the broken glass underfoot.
Thousand streamed in to wave their flags. Khaki police gathered to
shout orders through loudspeakers and prevent the crowds from marching
through town. Heaven forbid they should celebrate in the commercial
district and upset the oblivious American tourists. Best to keep the
hooligans hemmed in the residential areas.

Someone set up some huge speakers and played crap Euro rock and the
crowd bounced around awkwardly as one does to music lacking in rhythm
or beat. The crowd sang along in the world's scariest language, barely
apt for talking let alone singing.

They were all so happy and their happiness was infectious. While I did
not dare to join in the bottle stomping for fear that it would be my
leg that would crush, I did sit in the gutter a very long time drinking
a few 'Helles'. I kept trying to leave, but was conscious that this
would be my second to last match in my long month of madness. It was an
emotional moment for the crowd, but one for me too. I have never much
minded which teams ultimately won or lost, but it was nice to be around
some winners for a change. I was exhausted and many miles from my
hostel, but chose to walk all the way just to savour the mood of
Munchen for as long as possible. And the mood? It was good. It really
was good.

It now seems that for the first time in my venture, I am destined to
remain in the one country for two consecutive games. With the final
approaching, there can be no other choice.

On to Berlin...