Approaching the door of my towering chain hostel on the fringe of central Munich, a sign hiring out bicycles caught my attention. Reasonably priced, I thought. A searing heat surged into the tip of my exposed big toe and I came to an abrupt halt. I looked down to discover I had just walked into a concrete step. It stung deep, causing waves of improbably acute pain to course through me. Crumbling in half, I whined gently and concentrated on not swearing, before eventually exhaling. For several moments I stood still, petrified by the level of pain which could be sourced from a toe. I was perversely pleased to find that the cosmetic damage matched the pain. Blood trickled from beneath the corner of nail and onto my sandal, forming a dark red sticky puddle its rubber sole. My toe grew numb and the nail quickly began to darken.
Despite there being people present, sitting at tables of a bar outside the hostel, nobody appeared to notice. I whined a bit more, negotiated the step and walked gingerly into the lobby.
I was given another room which, as in Nuremberg, was quite probably the furthest distance away from the reception. I grazed my injured toe on one of the many steps up to the fourth floor and bleated in expectation of a pain which didn’t quite transpire, then felt foolish. Five-minutes battling with my roomcard and feeling stupid led me to conclude that it definitely didn’t work, so I beckoned a cleaner from down the corridor to help me.
It wasn’t the best half hour ever. If I’d been arriving in Munich for an England World Cup Semi Final, none of this would have happened.
*
Before the game I found a pleasant public riverside spot near the centre of Munich. People sat on the grass enjoying the early evening sunshine and relaxing with a beer or some food, and friends. It felt novel, being able to sit down somewhere pretty and not feel obliged to spend money on refreshments. People Watching was rich. A larger middle-aged lady was topless and blomonche-like; an old man taking a dip in the surprisingly healthy coloured water – in contrast to Berlin’s river – looked like a prune, stretched and skinny, what little flesh he had sagging from his torso; other younger, attractive people were more aesthetically pleasing, but less interesting viewing. I dozed, listening to Ray LaMontagne on my iPod, feeling my toe tingle and throb.
The Germany-Italy Semi Final was played in Dortmund, not far from Bochum and Gelsenkirchen in the north-west of the county, where I had travelled from. I watched the first 90 minutes on a large screen, hoisted high up in a crammed beer hall. It was the quarter of Munich where several such beer halls seemed to be located, although I'd stumbled across it completely by chance. Several revellers cast fleeting, suspicious eyes over the 3 Lions crest of my old England T-shirt.
Amidst the excitable partisan bustle, hooting and clinking of the beer hall – a long conglomeration of open bars and restaurants – I was growing quietly angry by the amount of refereeing decisions which were going Germany’s way: the bookings they didn’t receive but which I felt they merited. Michael Ballack’s recklessly outstretched leg which took out a full-flight Mauro Camoranesi; Jens Lehmann’s errant punch which connected only with an Italian forward. Neither were given yellow cards. Italy looked the better, more inventive team, especially in the first half, and despite my setting I wanted them to win.
No goals arrived inside ninety minutes so I walked over to the main Marienplatz square for the extra-time period. A large crowd sat and stood beneath a modestly sized screen outside a bar on a warm midsummer evening. Bottles of beer were sold from a crate on the floor.
Italy scored two well-deserved and beautifully crafted late goals towards the end of the second period of extra-time, sparing yet more penalties. Pockets of Italians rejoiced, the vast majority of natives experienced that familiar sagging. They were understandably crushed and the atmosphere in the square drooped. This was supposed to be their tournament, the one they hosted and owned and played well in; the one which meant the German flag could be freely and openly waved again, a justifiable united patriotism.
But now that was all over and I was pleased Italy won. While chatting briefly with an Italian fan outside the bar a local girl approached. On discovering our allegiances she was only half joking in her dismissiveness, turning her nose up and quickly walking away.
An amiable France fan then joined us, sympathetically and equally briefly. The Italian left. Only now was this old England T-shirt paying dividends for speaking to people; people who otherwise wouldn’t have spoken to me. I wished the Frenchman bon chance, we shook hands and he disappeared down the steps to the S-Bahn.
Another group approached: English, no colours – about half dozen of them enjoying a laddish holiday. We had a decent football chat in the square and, after I explained my situation, they invited me to tag along in their search of a decent club. We were directed a few stops up the S-Bahn line to a segregated bar/club area with an oddly temporary caravan park feel.
There weren’t many people around; it was too early at 11.30pm or the Germans were sick with defeat and not feeling like partying. Or both. Led by our main spokesman, a small, confident, geezery but likeable black guy whose name I’ve forgotten but we’ll call James, took the responsibility of asking people where was best. Especially any passing girl. One, who was appended to a quiet couple, gladly advised us. She was German, confident, a little nutty and drunk, but fun and she spoke great English. She totally contradicted my earlier pontifications about German roboticness, straightness. As with many, she wasn't immediately striking, but once your eyes settled there was a definite appeal: thick curly blonde hair, an open approachable face. I don’t recall precisely what I contributed to the consultation – a few lame jokey interjections perhaps – but after she advised us of two places to try, she made a point of saying she liked me because I was typical English. She asked my name and I asked hers: Jen (she abbreviated for me from something less pronouncable). She offered me her cheeks to kiss, one at a time, which I did. And we parted.
After finding our first choice was apparently “members night” only - we went onto our second choice. Jen and her couple friends were already sitting at the bar as we entered. She enthusiastically threw her arms around me when I entered with our group: “you came!” We bought drinks and the boys gave me raised eyebrows. The place was dead; she was the only single girl in there and chatted with an old man at the bar for a time.
I willed him to fuck off.
They chatted for ages.
The unmistakable opening bars to the Baddiel, Skinner and Lightning Seeds’ 3 Lions England football song were played, and she leaped down from her barstool to join us in arms-over-shoulders/ round-waist-dancing. We chatted for a while afterwards and she was all over me. Was she touchy-feely with everyone, or did she want me to make a move? Was she giving signals? The other boys were now giving me how-the-fuck-did-you-do-that? glances and unbelieving shakes of the head. I wasn’t even close to the best looking of the group. We hugged as she clung onto me but I never made a move and we didn’t kiss.
She went back to the bar and her friends, leaving me still quietly confident. “I think you’ve pulled mate,” one of the guys advised.
James went to join her at the bar, started chatting, pulled up a stool. Hello? He’d just been talking to me about his girlfriend of three years. Seemed the faithful sort, although I had only known him for an hour. I had no right claiming any ownership of her but still I felt disgruntled. Evidently so, as the other boys noticed me glancing at them. I overheard one of them saying, “well he never actually pulled her,” and he was right. I hadn’t. Bollocks. It wasn’t my style to battle, go over swinging my bollocks above my head to prove how much worthier I was. Nor was diving straight in, which was maybe what I should have done. She put an arm on his shoulder to lean into his ear.
Bastard. I couldn’t watch this. It was still otherwise empty in there. Perhaps it was all innocent and they were just chatting and she was clearly very physical, but... If it wasn’t I couldn’t bear to see them actually...
She laughed, he laughed.
Terrific. They were getting on great.
I shook hands with the other boys and left, passing behind the backs of the happy fucking couple. I despondently walked away, through the weird complex and back to the station, defeated again, out on penalties in the quarter-final to an equally capable competitor after not playing especially well.
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