Brazil 2 Wales 0
(Played at White Hart Lane)
When the BBC announced that Wales would be playing Brazil it sounded good and that I should get straight on the phone to the FAW to get tickets. When it was announced that it was to be on my 30th birthday and in London nothing was going to stop me, apart from a sell out or the onset of rickets. After a few weeks of waiting patiently it was revealed upon the internet the tickets had to be purchased direct from Tottenham. Not a problem I thought as the Llandudno Jet Set has friends in high places, all very hush hush you understand. These "contacts" would "sort it out" according to Gaz.
Unfortunately our contact was on holiday and obviously unable to provide said tickets. After phoning the FAW ticket office a number for the Spurs ticket line was provided. As Gaz is a rabid Arsenal fan he wasn't willing to besmirch his Credit Card Bill with the name of Tottenham so it was left up to yours truly to book the tickets. The train tickets and accommodation were also booked. Gaz had booked his before me but I'm not one to be rushed and all in all I had saved £35 by doing it my way, being a gentleman I didn't remind Gaz.
I woke up on the 5th and I can honestly say that the world doesn't feel much different now that I was thirty, I found it more of a strain accepting that I was 28 for some reason. I was due in Junction to get the 9:00 train via a short pause in Crewe. I arrived in Euston unburdened by existential angst and I found Gaz, Jodie and Emily waiting. I was then presented with a nice card by Jodie. Plans for a birthday drink were shelved until later as I was anxious to find my palatial accommodationn near King's Cross.
Having deposited my bag in my room in the Hostel, via directions from the over-friendly Aussie on the desk, I decided to go forth and explore. As I wasn't a first time visitor to this haven of wonder I thought that some leftfield attractions might suit. I decided against going to see Karl Marx's grave as it seemed a tad ghoulish. I plumped for a visit to Marx's writing place in the British Library and also some football grounds, you can tell a lot about a place from the location of its Football grounds.
I first went to Fulham's ground, which is situated in a pleasant riverside location. The area seemed too clean to play host to a football club and Craven Cottage at first appears hidden; the front offices look like a row of houses. In general it seems like a pleasant little place. The heat was affecting me by the time I got there, which incidentally took longer than I had been told outside the local station. Now for Chelsea, just a stop away on the underground. This area also seemed so unsuited to football, it was even more prosperous.
Chelsea's ground seems like any other building, proving I think that the possession of money doesn't always coincide with the possesion of taste or an aesthetic sensibility. I had misjudged the time and so I had to rush to meet Gaz via the hostel and skip my date with Karl.
The temperature was stifling, especailly in the underground. Here is a travel tip; if at any time you are on the underground and very hot find a gap where the wind from the trains escapes and you get a lovely cooling draft. I had to meet Gaz in the Gunners pub by Highbury. I thought that this would also gave me a chance to look at both the old and new grounds. First stop had to be the pub though as I was parched.
Highbury's grandeur is still evident even though the entrances are borded up and the seats have been removed. It seems that they used to take time and effort over the design of stadia once upon a time, in complete contrast to Stamford Bridge. My route to the Gunners gave me a chance to look at this monument to the legacy of Herbert Chapman and to me it seems a big shame that Highbury would no longer be used for football. Upon arriving at the Gunners I noticed that there was no sign of Gaz, never mind a drink to slake my thirst instead. 
The pub was a shrine to everything Arsenal and very nice, (I've always had a soft spot for Arsenal, even after '89) and definitely preferable to the usual locations in which you watch "footy" with the lads. Still no Gaz after 15 minutes, eventually arriving after a phone call 5 minutes later. There was no time to see Arsenal's new home so after a couple more drinks it was off to Spurs via Finsbury Park.
When we arrived Gaz the guide was keen to point out that we were around the corner from Abu Hamza's mosque. Whilst figuring out the way to a cash machine we were approached by somebody familar asking us the way to Spurs, it was an actor from Coronation Street. Yet more evidence that the title Jet Set is rightfully used. We had to board another stifling train, one which staggered its journey with frequent unannounced stops as well. If we thought that this was bad then nothing could prepare us for the next train.
At Seven Sisters the train pulled up and a mad rush ensued, if you can call craming yourself into an already packed carriage rushing on. I just made it on to the train before the doors closed. I had about 6 square inches of space and sweaty armpits for company, cue the humour. There's surely no better way to spend an evening than being squashed in a sweaty train carriage with Chelsea fans cracking racist jokes about Tottenham fans. Disembarking brought the relief of fresh, cooling air
As we approached the ground it looked like we wouldn't be able to get in straight away as there was a massive queue outside. It turned out that they were all collecting their tickets and by the time we got around to our turnstiles it was queue-free. By the look of the White Hart Lane's surroundings we had finally found a true "football" area.
Whilst looking for our seats I chanced upon a face from Bangor, Pete. He'd had the same problems on public transport that we had. After finding our seats dissapointment hit me; our seats would give midgets DVT. I should rephrase that, not our seats, my seat. Considering that it was my 30th birthday and I have longer legs you may have thought that some people would have done the decent thing and swapped, not my friend though, now rechristened Jack. And another thing, there was no place for my flag.
The anticipation was building in my mind as the anthems were sang heartily.
By the time the game had started the Welsh end was full, unlike the rest of the ground, bloody Anglo-Saxons. As the first half progressed it seemed that Wales' team was far from over-awed by the situation and took the game to Brazil. Bellamy and Earnshaw looked sharp as did the midfield, Brazil created a few chances also. Ronaldinho came within spitting distance of us and had to endure some good-natured booing. 
Personally I don't buy into all of the hype about Brazil, I've always preferred Argentina. The "Joga Bonito" circus show brought to us by the good people from Nike hasn't helped. While it's nice to see these touchs during a game the purpose of that Nike campaign seems to be to encourage players to try and humiliate your opponent, something which players I play against in Llandudno attemopt to imitate. Why not come to Llandudno, where people try to appear on Soccer A.M. forgetting that there are no cameras watching them. It's the fact that Nike are somehow looking to take the credit for making Brazil play like that chiefly annoys.
After a second fruitless wait for refreshment I felt the need to move before I developed some kind of injury. I moved into the area where the Brazil fans should be, Honestly the security was so lax I could have planted a dirty bomb. Whilst I was there I noticed some Sao Paulo fans unsuccessfully encouraging a Policeman to hold their flag. You may have thought that after last summer Brazilians would be slightly wary of our police, but that's the power of football. The game started and Wales didn't really come close to my end. A nasty elbow flattened Duffy and my booing of that and shouting "hoof" as Brazil cleared didn't go down well with the London scallies so I left for the familiarity of the DVT end.
While there I had further evidence to show that this Nike idea doesn't give a totally accurate picture of Brazilian football, for all of thier reputation I didn't expect the Brazilians to be this big, even Ronaldinho. Strength plays a part but that doesn't look too good for advertisers. Wales looked good until the substitutions happened, cue Gaz's consternation about international friendlies. With Wales looking relatively small and inexperienced Brazil stroked it about and scored twice conversly Wales also nearly scored. 
After Brazil scored I noticed that a Brazilian kept leaning over and taunting us, what he said was inaudible but you could get the jist from his hand gestures. Was there any need for that? He was probably after revenge from 1991 when Deano scored to beat them. I left in quite good spirits, Wales had played well in the last two games and it was big old Brazil after all. I saw that idiot from above on the way out but took solice from the way nature had made him.
Now for the return to Central London. We feared a repeat on the underground so the bus it would have to be. One pulled up but we were too late. The next pulled up and we were too far away from the doors to get in until some enterprising Brazilians prised the middle doors apart, a free bus ride what a bonus!!! On the way to town we had an interesting chat with two Liverpool season tickets holders. We both got off at Finsbury Park desperate for refreshment.
The first bar we went to made the proud boast that bottle of Magners were only £4 there, what you save with one hand, fate takes out of the other. Another drink followed at Baker Street and then we were off on our separate ways. I tried to wring the last life out of my Birthday by visiting the nightclub in the youth Hostel, when this was accomplished it was off to bed to bring an end to a very interesting day.
Melting in London
