After a couple of glasses of perfectly chilled white wine at an Arts Festival on Sunday, (oh yes I can do posh during a football tournament) I half-jokingly said to my companions that I might try and make it to the world Cup semi-final.
I really should learn to not listen to myself.
Three hours, rather a lot of swearing and furious mouse clicking later, TLF was furnished with a match ticket and a Fan Visa. It was the small matter of transport that wouldn’t involve 3 not possible days off work that seemed to be missing.
TLF’s only hope was one of the companies which, for the equivalent of the GDP of a developing nation, will fly you to an international footballing destination and back in 24 hours.
On Monday afternoon they came up with the goods and TLF was a mouse click away from the trip of a lifetime, bankruptcy and a slightly despairing Mr TLF.
“Click here to confirm booking”
GULP
Click
DOUBLE GULP
“Confirmed”
TRIPLE GULP
“Eff me, I’m going to the World Cup!!!!”
Forty eight hours later I was in a Moscow based Japanese restaurant, eating pizza and random deep fried snacks, in the company of some lovely people. One of whom asked me, “St Albans City! Do you know Lee Wood
I’ll be honest I felt a bit of a fraud. Surrounded by people who have been following Ingurland for years and had seen most if not all of their Russia matches. But there was no war story snobbery here; we were in it together and a lone female following football in a foreign country seems to bring out the protective nature in any football fan.
And before you know it, well after the collection of my official fan ID, quite a lot of security checks and a few more beers the TLF had landed. Stood in the Luznikhi Stadium, pinching myself and slightly bewildered that I was really there. And ohhhhhhhh that opening goal. Beers were flung, strangers were hugged and ‘f@cking yes!” were the only words in my vocabulary for a good five minutes.
You all know how it panned out; missed chances in the first half, where I pummelled the shoulder of the man giant stood next to me in frustration. He was amused and as his arm felt like a block of iron, was I imagine undamaged. And then a Croatian revival in the second, which shows that our young, fearless and endearing team has more to learn.
Of course I was heartbroken, but was it worth it? Course it bloody was. When I wasn’t yawning on Thursday (we landed at 7.30am and it was straight off to work via a lift with one of my new footballing chums) I was smiling. The silliest, most expensive, brilliant thing I have ever done. I am a lucky TLF – lucky that Mr TLF just rolls his eyes and puts up with, lucky that I was in the position to have some savings to blow on the trip, lucky I have colleagues to cover for me and lucky that my boss is tolerant of my football obsession.
The weekend means a third place play-off and a final. I confess I cannot get excited about the former; even when Lord Gareth of Southgate plans to treat it with respect. Another England B v Belgium B per chance? Or will Kane and Lukaku want to try and battle it out for the golden boot? In the interests of domestic harmony TLF will be reacquainting herself with kulture, in an effort to ingratiate myself with Mr TLF. The game will be watched on catch up…
The final? TLF is torn; the lucky chicken will be going all out for Les Bleus and I do have the shirt. But a new name on the trophy might be a nice thing. Do you know what? I might just sit back, enjoy it and not worry about the result. Scary to think that we are almost done. Eke out that world cup feeling while you can.
Forever grateful Fox
Mr TLF calls this clutter.
TLF calls it memorabilia.