Cherrypicked stories

Iceland

while gardening in the blindness of my mind I come upon a memory of you as my hands in the soil would find a shard of greenhouse glass and what once...

For the Cause Take up the broken scissor blade for the cause, Join the lonely and the brave, make your skin flawed Because that's what you believe,...

Tonight at noon, when we meet in the midnight hour

Work Diary, 6/26/02 Last night, I watched a program on television in which a male lizard essentially raped a female lizard who wasn't interested in...

A mis-match made in heaven.

diary again

more diary wittering

Lush swathes of sound Ripple, roll from the piano. I realise I'm swaying. H's home for the weekend. The air becomes a jungle, Unfamiliar, exotic...

My record leading up to Spain was abysmal. From thirteen games I had three wins, four draws and five miserable losses. If I were a team that I managed and coached, I would have gone on strike, resigned and sacked myself by now. I yearned to see some dancing in the streets. With a strong team and a country full of Spaniards, I believed that Spain might provide the remedy. I dearly hoped they would reach at least the quarter finals for which I hoped to make Madrid. They did and I did. Just. Italy's railways conspired to make me miss all the best trains. A final flick under the chin in my direction on my departure. I had to get creative and concocted a path from Milano to Madrid via Paris where I deposited Deb. "Goodbye, I love you" I said. "Love you too. Pick me up something nice. Remember its my birthday soon!" "Of course I remember!" Of course I did not. "The thirtieth of June" she said reading my mind. "2002?" "Well, yes... its the same every year." "Um... okay, sure!" The thirtieth of June 2002! The same day as the World Cup Final! Never mind. I smiled and waved. Surely, by then I will have mastered being in two places at once. After all, I have been practicing so hard all of my life. I tried and tried to get a ticket to Madrid, but all of Spain had been shut down by strikes. I could only get a ticket to Irun, a little nowhere town just over the border, but Madrid may have well been on the moon. I decided to go to Irun and take my chances after that with a bus, hitching, walking... anything. I had a little time to spare before my train to Irun, which I found quite unsettling. My habit of running for transport is so well ingrained that I find myself running for buses even when I am not running late, just in case I just miss one. When I die, I am sure my personal heaven or hell will entail forever running to catch something, the only difference being whether I always arrive just in time to make it or to watch it pull away. I decided to line up at the information desk once more to see if anything had changed with Spain's strike situation. With about fifteen minutes left before my train to Irun departed, I discovered that they had managed to arrange for one direct train to Madrid that night. If I could get a ticket on that train, I could forget about Irun. If I could not get a ticket, but also missed my train to Irun, I could forget about Madrid. Game on. Running time! I ran to and talked my way through a queue only to find that it was the wrong one! Five minutes squandered, less than ten minutes left. Still enough time to risk break for make. I repeated the process, but this time my sweating was begging was in the right place and with only two or three minutes to spare I secured my prize! The train to Irun pulled away with one more empty seat, one less so on the train to Madrid that night. I boarded the train and was locked down in a cell with three other gents for what was to be a twelve hour journey, but which grew to twenty four. Unapologetic conductors advised us that two trains had crashed on the track and we should be very grateful that ours did not make a third. It could be arranged. Our cell grew tense. The guy from Sierra Leone took exception to the American. The Asian guy, whose only words were a request to use my phone (politely declined), took exception to me. I took exception to all the taking of exception by everyone except for the American guy who just talked and talked to everyone without exception. When we were finally released, I found a room in a 'hostal' near the Palace Mayor. This was where I expected the locals to gather to celebrate if they were to win. I then searched the city for hours for the best place to watch the game, ending my search exactly where it began: at a little taberna called La Maja, almost right next door to my hostal. La Maja advertised 'Espana v Corea' on a chalkboard and the barman, Cristo, wore Spain's colours in anticipation of the big game. The walls carried regalia of bullfights, the bar was busy with bottles and tapas and there were no tourists about. There were barely any customers at all in fact despite, or I suspected because of, the pushy pressed and pleated owner grabbing at all passers by and getting stuck into his workers. He stood obnoxiously adding to, rather than helping to clean up, the generous pile of cigarette butts that lay heaped on the floor. He was well tolerated by Cristo who seemed to me to have quite a sense of humour, or at least so his short blonde dyed hair and lamp chops indicated. I drained a couple of 'San Miguels' and then, feeling inspired by Cristo, went home to shave. Shaving is no small exercise for me. Its an all over job. I have adopted the common bald man's technique of shaving off all of the little hair I have left. A kind of reverse psychology, a bluff if you like. When I did have hair, I knew it to be thick. One day the stupid stuff will think I do not really want it and will return to my head. And when it does, I will wear it in such ridiculous styles it will rue the day it ever left me. The last laugh will be mine! After a long time of shaving and slicing my head (from throwing it back when evil laughter overcame me), I retired to blot my cuts on my pillow and mess up my bed. I rose early and discovered plenty of bars and cafeterias open early. It was not so much a case of deciding where to watch the game as choosing where not to watch it. Of course I already knew where I would not be not watching it. La Maja of course. The drums beat loudly outside La Maja, but on my arrival I found the place to be empty. Across the way, one of Madrid's many Irish bars had set up a big screen and was drawing in the youngsters by the hundreds. It was for La Fontana de Oro that the drums beat that morning. Cristo sat alone, ever so proudly wearing the same shirt from the night before. He recognised me and beckoned me over. Call me a softie, a pushover, all heart if you will, but I walked straight past the Irish bar and into La Maja, sat down and ordered a beer to enjoy kick off with old Cristo. He had become my new friend, but was always my barman first. He still made me pay. We watched in complete silence. Cristo, the game and I, him. He rested his meaty elbows on the counter, lightly tugging on one lamp chop, smoking and ashing onto the floor, still filthy from the night, or perhaps week or even month before. It started a most passionate game, one to be fought hard by both sides. The attacks were courageous, the defence inspired. A leaping kick by a Spanish player that would have made for a spectacular goal brought a huge roar from La Fontana de Oro. I knew I could not just ignore the place the whole game. It had the biggest gathering of people in the area, even if it was in an Irish pub. What an odd and misplaced celebration must have occurred there when Spain so recently brought about Ireland's demise. I took my leave from La Maja when another customer wondered in. La Fontana de Oro was bursting with a crowd, quite young and excited, dressed up and face painted. They were a disorganised rabble and could not keep together a chant, some taking to body painting each other or even sleeping instead of watching the match. Cristo would not have stood for such nonsense. There was a game to be watched and so I bought an overpriced Guinness and settled in for some watching. An indiscretion by Spain gave South Korea an early penalty. The room held a collective breath of bar fumes, released in a gust when the penalty brought naught. Another South Korean attack followed, but it was defended too well in what seemed to me to be a great goalkeeper's game. For me, the highlight of the match was when South Korea's goalie leapt with a stretch to catch the ball, stopping what seemed to be a sure goal, just landing on the safe side of the line. Defence ruled supreme throughout the first half and it ended with the scores tied at nil-all. I went for my usual half time wander. I checked out 'Bar Cadiz', basically a butcher with beer, the television competing for space with what were once something's legs. I was in 'Nueva Galicia Cafeteria' when the second half started. A group of old men played cards while watching the game, but when Spain had a goal disallowed, no one moved or flinched or so much as muttered. This was no good. Quiet character I could handle, hell I just watched kick off with Cristo, but I sought some sort of reaction. I moved on, leaving them to what must have been one hell of a card game. Like so many others, I found myself drawn back to La Fontana de Oro, perhaps beckoned by the drums that beat from within. I tried to settle back into the match, but was distracted for a moment when a chest painted fellow thrust me a set of keys. I took them bemused only to slowly deduce now held the keys to his hostal room and it seemed to his heart. The offer was touching, but I fancied no more and after I returned him his keys and he my hand, it was back to the game. A magnificent match of back and forth was playing out. Great corner kicks followed great defence followed great attacks again and again. Spain's goalkeeper continued to give the crowd reason to keep breathing and cheering and even inspired them to a rare shared set of "Ole's". The two sides closed out the half with the bravery of two bullfighters brave enough to fight each other instead of an unwilling animal. And like any bullfight neither side looked the winner. The scores were still tied at nil-all. I felt it best that I watch the rest of the game in a Spanish bar instead of an Irish one that just happened to be in Spain. I soaked up the peace of the quiet crowd in 'El Club 3 Bar' and admired the decor in 'Restaurant Cerveceria' with a bull's head on every wall. I knew where I wanted to be and made my way back to La Maja and back to old Cristo. Extra time commenced and Cristo looked ill. There was energy, rough play and frustration and one mighty close Spanish shot at goal, bouncing off the post in a manner hauntingly similar to Sweden's late miss in their recent big match. After two full halves of extra time played out there was still no score. People rushed in from La Fontana de Oro to use the toilet. Cristo did not care. The boss strutted in, also wearing exactly the same outfit from the night before. (These men made me feel positively hygenic!) Again, Cristo did not flinch, but sat slumped and stared at the screen. It was penalty time and we watched undivided. For me, it was my first time. I knew the general idea. Five shots at goal. Five shots at losing it all. South Korea went first and drilled it into the back of the net. I was surprised and disappointed, but this was clearly the norm as the teams went one for one to make it three all. South Korea's turn again and sure enough in the net. Then came Spain's final moment for this great World Cup... a miss. South Korea made sure of their last. There was nothing. Silent agony. I twirled to take one last photo of Cristo, but I just caught myself in the face of his despair. I lowered my camera and left, head down, stomach turning with shame. I felt like I had just eaten a tub of popcorn at a funeral and then thrown up in the grave. I respectfully observed a sad procession exit the Irish pub and enter the streets. Some sat and wept. Most just disappeared. I took a long lonely walk around the Palace Royal. It was empty save for a few tourists and together we longed for the Spaniards and the celebrations we needed to fill the emptiness within. I left Madrid at about siesta o'clock, a quiet time, though I had no doubt it was quieter than usual. I faced a long train ride out of Madrid and it was made no easier in the face of bitter defeat. Four in a row now. Four times watching a nation crash out of the Cup. No good. The next journey will be to a nation that I have been watching from afar, but which has well earned my closer inspection and inspired me to make my longest journey yet. May it also bring my biggest reward. Perhaps in Turkey they will dance in the streets...

another diary effort

Staccato rain on tarpaulin spitting the half covered dead as this windless night slips towards dawn for they were lovers in Van Damien's land where...

Something spooky ...

Woken up about 7.45 by Mum running into the kitchen (which is under my bedroom) yelling jubilantly "WE GOT ONE!" Dad replies "One what?" "A GOAL...

Of moths and men

Life in a virtual world

An alternative Valentine's Day poem.

A diary

My train dragged me into Stockholm well after midnight, the witching hour, the hour which it was supposed to get me there. I was content, but terribly tired and struggling not to fall asleep on the train. I did not know where the train went after Stockholm, but as the crow flies it would have just gone plowing straight into the ocean. I did not see any crows flying about, so that was probably what happened to them too. And if there was one place I did not want to wake up, it was in an ocean full of crows. For once, I had done a little research and located a hostel to stay at. It was the biggest and most central in Stockholm. I looked forward to a good night's sleep, maybe even sleeping in, and getting out to watch the game in the afternoon. I felt hungry and fatigued, but my spirits were high. I studied the map at the train station and set off giggling to myself at street names the likes of Kungsholms Hamnplan, Oxtrogsg and Slojdg. I decided I liked Stockholm already. I found the hostel and buzzed getting ready to give my best Australian 'G'day!'. No response for a while and then a recorded message: 'all beds taken for the night'. I had not even considered the possibility! I had no back up plan and it was just not one of those times that I could implement the excellent strategy of staying up all night. I was in trouble. Suddenly, Stockholm did not seem like such a great place. I thought about just trying to catch a train to somewhere, anywhere, but then I remembered all those crows and (confirming the sky to be clear) decided I would be better off on the streets. I started wandering around looking for hostels or hotels, but all had no vacancies and gave no response. I had yearned for sleep a lot over the past week or so, but had always been in control of it at least in some measure. It was me who set my timetable. I booked my tickets and I picked my games. I knew my limits and I had pushed myself to them, leaving very little room for this kind of error. I felt very, very vulnerable. I was a walking victim, but at least I was still walking. If that was to continue, my body needed propping up fast. I felt weak from lack of food. I had been living off cheese salad baguettes, vegetarianism precluding most real European food. I knew I was low on protein and was ever on the search for nuts and legumes. I had taken to guzzling warm soy milk by the carton, oh what a treat, but the opportunity so rarely arose. Eating had become a purely pragmatic pursuit, the great joys of eating thus excreting and of course having sex had long been stripped from me. I half hoped that something would drop dead around me so I could snaffle it up, but had a sneaking suspicion any such things were viewing me in the same grizzly light. I started on my emergency rations. A box of dry cereal handed to me in a promotion. It was like pouring down a full bag of sugar. Though, artificial stimulants were definitely called for and I sought out some caffeine from a late night snack bar. Then, another fatal moment in poor preparation. I realised I had no local currency, the Swedes sharing the Brit's fear of the Euro and still wanting to play with their own little notes. How very quaint. The snack bar yielded no coffee, but proved to be a minor boon as I secured directions to another hostel. I hiked there and buzzed. "Sorry, no more beds" said the voice, but at least a real person and a chance to talk my way in. "I'm desperate, I'll take anything, I'll sleep on the floor!" There. That should about double the price. "Come on up, I'll see what I can do." Upstairs, we played a funny little game of ambiguity as to whether there was a free bed or not. The overweight, sack scratching, man sat at the counter smoking, ashing without aim, enjoying his little dick and his little power game. It was there that his job satisfaction lay. Surprise, surprise, he found me a bed and not one to be shared with him, which was nice. He had satisfied himself at his job on that day. I groped around in the dark dorm room trying to find my bed, assuming the role of the arsehole who comes in at two in the morning and makes far too much noise. Coughs rose up to say "Yes, I'm here and you've woken me up". Little did they know what I was just about to find out... I would be doing it all again very soon. The game was first thing in the morning! My schedule showed that I had things mixed up and, once again, eight hours sleep became four. A cold rain drizzled down from a dark crowless sky on that summer morning in Stockholm, the day of the game. I had made my way to the teeheely named 'Anders Limp Bar', near the nasty hostel from the night before, and was heartened to see a great number of Swedes forming an orderly queue. They looked exquisite. A beautiful people even at that cruel hour and every one of them proudly sporting the most stunning colours of the international football rainbow. I had solved my financial crisis by finding a 'Bankomat' and, not yet having come to terms with the Swedish Crown, withdrew a ridiculous amount of money. I was loaded and could have bought the bastard hostel next door. A little too loaded in fact and feeling vulnerable once more. I need not have worried because by the time I left Sweden it was all but gone. Little power games proved popular during my visit to Stockholm, the bouncers leaving us queuing until about ten minutes before kick off. I mingled with the crowd, scoring a Sweden hat and some 'snooze' off a funny little fellow who was rolling around holding his belly and saying that he wanted to puke. I soon found out why. 'Snooze' is a type of tobacco in a small sort of tea bag. One puts it under one's lip and then does one's best not to throw up. After a good dose of 'snooze' and a pull on a dubious smoke doing the rounds, my empty belly burned of tobacco. There was only one thing for it and once inside I immediately rushed for an ice cold 'Pripps Bla'. It was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. My stomach nearly exploded. I had no time for the petty objections it wanted to bring up. Sweden's anthem was playing, the game set to begin. "Stand up! Take off your hat! That's the Swedish national anthem!" I complied, trying to look dignified, holding my hat to my palpitating heart. "Now sit down! Put it back on! That's Senegal's." The Swedes are a madly patriotic bunch and had had a bad sporting year. Bjorn Borg got married, but that was about it. All their dreams now lay in the hands of their fine football team. The match began and I joined the locals sitting in silence staring at TVs scattered around the little front room. Sweden went out on attack early and a near goal inspired a great round of Scandinavian 'oooooooohs'. Senegal hit back. It started out one hell of a rough game, something that continued throughout. Having been brought up on a diet of Aussie Rules Football, I was suitably impressed. Someone might actually get hurt. For real! It was about time, I thought to myself smiling and sipping my beer. The locals did not seem to be enjoying the match so much as abiding it like a disagreeable operation to remove a troubling Senegal. Then, ten minutes in, their team produced a goal! The room cheered and relaxed. Unintelligible chants rose up. They were happy now. I judged by the numbers that there was more to the place and found a section outside where the real action was. Hundreds sat at trestles, golden and blue, watching a lovely big screen. It was like a beer-fest, but with prettier colours (and faces). And then I saw it! My heart skipped a beat and went down to my stomach to say what it saw. A table full of food! I approached and cowering with uncharacteristic hesitation checked whether it was alright for me to eat. It was, the food was included in the ticket price and I shoveled with glee. Bread, cheese, hash browns and baked beans. Baked beans! Oh God, precious protein. I could not help but feel embarrassed by the way I ate like a deprived animal, but I could not help that either. It was a revealing sensation to be so miserably hungry and then at once to finally have food. It was really quite humbling and struck me as something I should consider more often as I watched Senegal doing Africa so proud. And they did. Towards the end of the half, they scored a goal of their own. The scores were now tied. The half ended with the Swedes feeling flat and disappointed. Baked beaned with renewed vigour, I decided to go for a run to another bar. I was hustling towards it when I happened across a large group of people standing outside smoking and toeing the gutter. I knew at once what it was. Unmistakably a cinema and what else but a radio station promotion. 'Rock Klassiker' presenting the game to its most valued of listeners. I slipped in quietly, the way anyone can during the half time break of most any show. Finding a free seat, that is always the hard part and I spent quite a long time slinking about the cinema until I could settle down with my 'extra mammoth bigger than Abba' sized coke to watch the show. The second half started and the thousand odd punters displayed the sort of vocal enthusiasm of any crowd feeling safe in the dark. They laughed and clapped at a Senegalese taking a blow to the groin like the mostly teenaged crowd that they were watching some bad Hollywood flick. It really was an exciting game, fantastically rough with some of the most tantalising play, the adolescent crowd prematurely ejaculating again and again. Full time came with the scores still tied. I was secretly pleased because - and this really demonstrates what a fool's errand I am on - I honestly expected penalties. I moved to the front of the screen to soak up the reactions. I felt like a schmuck when the players ran on. Oh, of course, extra time. The mood was unspeakably tense. The players twisted and turned, weaving a saga so gripping one could not bare to look and yet never looked away. There was a moment when but a taste of victory swept across everyone's tongues escaping just in time for them all to scream out in pain. A near Sweden goal which bounced off the post. The crowd was in agony, some cast themselves on the floor, begging for mercy from the torture on the screen. And, soon enough, they were put out of their misery. Senegal scored. Senegal won. Stunned silence. Some sat. Others left. Just watching them all made me feel sick. It was the saddest thing I had seen on my tour to date, the gloriously painted Swedes filing out in dismay. Their hearts had been stolen, or rather won, from them. I joined the shuffle out, looking no one in the eye. I felt grossly voyeuristic in the face of such pain. It was a sad day for Sweden and I was not altogether unhappy to leave. After seven countries in seven days, my schedule showed a free day. And what better way to spend it than travelling all the way down to Italy again to watch their next big game...

my desire's for aubergine but it's your kitchen, we settle on the blues - my shade more intense than you'd have chosen for yourself mine's a high hot...

wherever, whatever,

Orange is not a colour I feel completely comfortable with. I think of garishness, of supermarkets and fast food chains. I feel attacked by marketing...

As he prepares to meet the woman of his dreams Tam Goth suffers a crisis of confidence

No wrong or right way...

bulb story he didn't much like the look of the 60-watt bulb beginning to glow above her head. it smacked of haloes and obligations, of some divine...

an anti-fable

Things are really starting to get interesting. Unintentionally, I have been conducting my own little experiment in sleep deprivation. I have had less than twelve hours sleep over the last three days. It is beginning to show. Today, I missed my stop on a train. I knew it was time to get off, I just could not seem to get everything together in time to detrain. I stood at the door as the train pulled away from Berlin's Zoological Gardens, desperately looking for a passing monkey to call to my aid. Damned German efficiency! If I was still in Italy, I might have had a few minutes grace. It was probably for the best. I really felt like a nice early morning run. Lost. At the wrong station. Desperately doubling back. An excruciating journey on the local train network returned me just in time to catch my connection, releasing me from the self-chastisement I had gripped myself in. I have also lost some of my things, or had them stolen, or given them away. I will never know which. Nothing crucial I think, but it has helped the paranoia to set in. I have found myself sitting extra close to, or far away from, train guards, depending on the swings of my moods. It no longer matters which country I am in. Everything is foreign anyway because I live in some sort of dream world where even English is barely intelligible. I have been slavishly trying to follow the path I sketched out a few days ago, checking everything thrice, thrice, thrice. Nine times sometimes. I have lost all sense of time, the batteries in all my electronic devices having run dry. I feel like I am stuck in some sick solo game with no beginning or end. Earlier today, I watched a child, so happy and confident, speaking the language, getting back rubs from his mother. Awestruck, I was so alien and alone, I felt as if I never had one of my own. There is of course only one way to deal with sorrows. Drown them! Vodka the best medicine, ask any Pole, and I planned to get down to some drowning just as soon as I crossed the border. I was en route to Sczczecin. It was a town I knew nothing about, but it was the only Polish place I could get to in time for the game. I watched the landscape change as I headed further and further east. Pine trees grew into forests, gathering together to watch over the grey farm land. The train took me over the border and closer to the moment I had been dreading. Polish passport control. Despite having a Polish heritage and being raised with its traditions, I needed a visa to enter Poland. I had secured a forty-eight hour transit visa for my visit. Everything was legitimate, or at least substantially so, because I was not really in transit, rather just coming and going. A little visa mismatch designed to save a few pounds. It gave me reason to fear the questions, or more so my answers... "Yes, I'm coming into Poland to drink vodka and watch football only to turn around and leave the same way I came in straight after the match." It just does not wash. An armed green officer descended upon me. In my panic, I could not remember the Polish greeting taught to me by my Babcia (my grandmother) in happier, well rested, times. I offered a wan smile as the officer perused my passport. "Where are you going?" That was one I could handle. "Szczecin" I mangled "where the train stops." Here it comes. The dreaded 'Why?'. I lacked the moral fibre to know whether to, or indeed how to, lie. "Because you only have two days." "Yes" I agreed. Two days. If one had only two days in Poland: Warsaw, or Krakow perhaps, but Szczecin? Please. I knew I would not buy it. And then, the magic stamp came out. A click! I was in! I arrived in Szczecin with no language, no map, no money and no idea. No worries. I had over an hour until kick off and a thirst for vodka to pull me through. Szczecin presented one of my most significant challenges yet. No one could speak English, or at least no one would speak English. What I thought were universal gesticulations for football, television and booze also gained me no ground. The Polish people were simply not very forthcoming, but I knew to expect that. Centuries of being picked on by one's neighbours does not give one a rosy outlook on visitors. For a time, I feared that I would have another Venice on my hands as there seemed to be plenty of alcohol about, but nothing to suggest any interest in football. Signage was no help, with the term 'bar' used to mean anything that served alcohol, which meant pretty much everything. I struggled my way into what seemed to be central Sczczecin. The streets were truly bustling and I attracted a great many long stares hauling my backpack through the cosmopolitan city. I found endless underground premises, each of which had the seediness of a good football watching dive, but sold benign objects such as stationery, flowers or toys. I took one hell of a long shot and sidled into a church only to confirm that, yes, Polish people are as religious as reputed and, no, they do not like to watch football in church. It would have been a spectacular find if they did. I bet they do in Argentina. Eventually, I developed some fallback options: a near empty restaurant with disposable tablecloths and a soulless Irish bar that was part of a chain. Neither inspired me, so I pushed on and bought some milk, or what I believed to be milk, along the way. I gulped from the 'milk' and nearly puked on the spot! It was lumpy and putrid. Although, something told me it was one of those weird dairy products that is supposed to be terribly good for you, so I drunk the whole lot, retching up and down gulps. It was truly horrid, but had a pleasing after taste in that I was pleased after I stopped tasting it. Now, I really needed a vodka. I had about fifteen minutes until game time when a boisterous group of young men in immaculate suits caught my ear and my eye. They were heading to 'the Rocker Club'. I spied a World Cup poster on its door and my hopes ran wild as I took the stairs underground. The lights were so dim that I could only barely see. Yet there was so much to see. About a hundred Poles sat in plush overly comfortable booths that looked like they had soaked up quite a few liver-lifetimes of drink. Others sat at wooden tables in the centre of the room. All were watching a mighty big screen. I approached the bar, cleared my throat loudly, and ordered with true Polish pride... "One vodka please!" "No vodka." Matter of fact from the barman. "No vodka?!" Terribly, visibly, disappointed. "Oh... okay... perhaps a beer then?" I felt I needed a stiff drink to recover from the shock of finding the only licensed room, probably one of the only rooms, in Poland with no vodka in it. Nevertheless, I settled into a back booth with my cold pint of 'Tyskie' only to be promptly kicked out. Reserved for some higher class of customer I gathered moving off to a side table. It was more humble and really better suited to me, or at least so someone thought. The game was about to start when a small group approached me and asked me which team I thought would win. "Poland" I declared proudly raising my glass with that Canadianesque keenness to dispel any misapprehension that I was American. Once more, louder, for the whole room's benefit... "Poland!" "Polska!" came the reply. "Oh, yes, Polksa" I said quietly, eyes down to my beer. The game started, yet the talking did not subside, especially from the suit gang that sat behind me, talking and jeering, yelling at all the wrong moments. Amazing, the way a suit really brings out the sound of one's voice. Suddenly, there came a moment for all Poles to yell. Their team... oh screw it I'm claiming them... OUR team scored a goal! I leapt up from my chair as did everyone else, even the plush-seated suits. The dark room was lit up by the rarity of beaming Poles. There was a short lived chant in the vein of "Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole", but with the word "Polska". I joined in with gusto, keen to try out my 'Polskas'. The chant was only short lived because the Americans quickly replied with a goal of their own. This brought us all back down for a moment until we saw that the goal had been disallowed. We all celebrated again and had barely settled down when Poland itself scored again! Two nil! My body found a final store of adrenalin. I was bursting with joy. The pain of the last few days completely dissipated. The train journeys, the lack of sleep, the devastation of finding no vodka, all fell away. There was a festival atmosphere in the room now. The Poles dropped their guards and I became everyone's friend. Women rushed over to me, speaking so rapidly, I could hear the tears on their tongues. The little Polish I had learned as a child came trickling back. "Dobrze! Dobrze!" I cried. It was all so very good. The US responded well, dominating the game, but producing very few scares. There is a certain confidence that comes with being two goals up within five minutes. It showed in the room and in the team who produced an attack so titillating and near that I spilt my beer on my trousers, much to the delight of all onlookers. I poured a little more on. We were all having such fun. Half time arrived with Poland still up by two goals. I went over to the bar, noticing that the room had now grown to contain many more back corner lurkers. Hundreds now. There was no way I was leaving. It might be a bad omen, I thought to myself in the common manner of punters with a misplaced sense of personal relevance. As I returned to my seat, I noticed the guy who kicked me out of my booth now shared it with his mates. A minor scam I sensed, but surely I was due for a few and this was one I could wear. I smiled at him. He simply raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the wet patch on my trousers. I left it at that. I spent the rest of the break flirting with some young girls who had skipped class to watch the game and drink beer through straws. Yes, even without sleeping, showering or shaving for days, you have still got it Mr Jucha, you have still got it. At least with Szczecinian schoolgirls anyway. I tucked into my new beer. A 'Lech'! The second half started with a yellow card being given against a Polish player for, it seemed, taking such a poor dive. It was received by the room with laughter. We did not care. We were going to win this game. I took a quick toilet break. On hearing rumbling outside, I rushed out still hitching up my damp strides to witness another fine goal! We were now up three-nil! The rapture was brief with the US quickly responding to make it three-one. Most pretended not to notice. One of the schoolgirls mentioned to me that Poland's goalkeeper lived near Szczecin. He was very popular, but she did not like his long hair. "Really, is that so?" I asked giving a Freudian stroke to my stubbles on top before excusing myself to again fetch a Lech. The game was drawing to a close and I felt wonderful. The three goals. The three pints. The three hours sleep. I felt at home in Poland. My Poland. My Polska! The final whistle blew. I was ready to celebrate a fine Polish victory, but then a very curious thing happened. Everyone just stood up and left. The room was cleared within seconds. No goodbyes. No do widzenias. Nothing. I had turned the full circle from being alone, to sharing togetherness, to being alone again. Except, I no longer felt alone. I was feeling very together and strode to the train station to move on to Denmark. And I only fell over once...

I retired late in Ljubljana facing an early start ahead, but I simply could not sleep. Poland played on my mind. I felt uneasy about my sudden decision to skip the Pole's game against the US and go to Italy instead. I have been a little coy about my World Cup allegiances. While an Australian by birth, I am one of a first generation. My parents are European. I am half Dutch, a quarter Ukrainian and the last quarter, Polish. I grew up celebrating Wigilia over Christmas, eating borsch and pierogi. I even know how to order pancakes ('nalesniki') for breakfast ('sniadanie'). That's about it, but it comes up more often than you would think. In my mind, I knew Italy presented the game of interest, but in my heart dwelled a sad little Pole. There was only one thing to do. Try and do it all! I stayed up half of the night studying timetables and maps, plotting routes around Europe. With my mind and body already starved of rest, I cut my sleep from eight hours to four. I wanted a way. Finally, I eurekad a route which I believed would allow me to travel to Italy, double back some way and then traverse the thousand odd kilometres to Poland with time to watch both games! I slept with delirious satisfaction. If I had had the energy to dream, I would have dreamed of Poland thumping the US out of the Cup in a monumental battle of old East versus THE West. A few days earlier, I met the most offensive Californian who believed it was proper to nuke half the world. He belittled all around him including me and my World Cup adventure, telling me to get to Japan and Korea like everyone else. It only served to galvanise my passion and I wish he had given me his card so I could defame the man now (though I imagine he his doing quite a nice job of it himself). I rose predawn as I had planned to discuss my scheme with the bemused train station staff. No amount of explanation appeased and I felt more and more like a doped up drug runner making convoluted reservations to Italy, Poland and beyond. We agreed my schedule should work, or at least could work, providing that I was a machine. My journey would entail trips on ten separate trains over the course of some thirty six hours. It would require an average of three to four hours per leg and up to twenty minutes between each to find my connections. My tightest changeover would be but a few minutes long. That, my dear American, is why I think my World Cup experience really is something special. I was chugging through Trieste on my way to watch the match in Venezia. It would be quick and dirty, with just enough time to take in the match and then leave. I endured my journey alongside a Slovenian who walked and talked with the swagger of a proud self made man. I passed the time listening and nodding, very nearly missing the sheer beauty of Trieste passing me by. And now, I feel so proud to say, I know the directions to a whorehouse in every major city of Europe! Not bad for a bloke with a body so knackered he can barely hold himself, let alone get anything, up. After we said our farewells and shook hands and I gave mine a good wash, I placed my backpack on the seat opposite, seeking the quietest of company. It was not to be. Three Italian ladies trundled in and my be-seated backpack attracted their playful aggression. I made room for all three. Actually, given that they all had thighs for ankles and God knows what for thighs, there was only room for the one, but they all squeezed in anyway. They gabbed with great gusto, thinking their secrets safe with me. Little did they know that Italy is the country in which I am most qualified to operate having had a full semester of Italian back in grade three. I stealthily learned that they were two daughters and Ma. I would soon be swiping their recipes and brands of hair dye, but it was time for Venezia. Time for the match. For the benefit of the hopelessly naive, they don't have trains running into the waterways of Venezia, but rather keep the train station out on some desolate land, much as is the case for most every town. I was so deeply disappointed. I stood barefoot at the station, trousers rolled up for some wading, wondering where I'd gone wrong. Perhaps I had taken a wrong train, but no, the departure board was already counting down the minutes until my next departure. It was indeed Venezia. It may have been Venezia, but I'd be damned if I could work out where all the Venezians had gone. There were a great many licensed premises, ristorantes and pizzerias, canopied cafes, booze in most every shop window, but nowhere seemed to have a gathering of more than a handful of people. Even the whorehouse looked bare. With not even five minutes until kick off, I felt at the lowest ebb of my adventure. As so frequently happens, I just tried to do too much. I felt I had sold Italy and probably Poland both short and took to punishing myself with a full backpack run. I was rewarded with everything: a jazz bar, cocktail bar, party bar, an everything all in one bar, or so the sign said. With the match due to start, it was indeed everything, or rather the only thing, for me. A bit of a group had gathered inside the ill-defined premises. It attracted quite an array of patrons, all classes, colours and genders well represented. Most were sitting and enjoying food, drink and a smoke. All happy, except for one woman sitting with her back to the game, complaining it seemed, but refusing to leave all the same. I was heartened to see a few in Italy's colours and also to see that beer was on tap. I managed to get stuck into one just before kick off, backpack still on my back. The game had an exciting opening and the room was quietly attentive, showing their disconnection, shared history not there. Then, not far into the game, we had something to celebrate together: a great early goal! There was arm waving and yelling. Mad gesticulations not quite enough for a few slapping wildly on walls. All were so pleased, but from pleasure grew pain. That funny little flag went up for that funny little rule. The one they call off side because it so pisses sides off. No goal. One of the blue shirted teens put his hand on his heart, his mouth open, his face reddening. And then they came! Tears! Without hesitation, he shed genuine tears. The game had barely begun and this poor delicate soul was crying, making no attempt to hide the agony he felt on behalf of the room. As the half progressed, Italy was barely worth watching and I found myself focussed on this tearful lad. It was like sand in his face when Mexico secured a goal! He uttered never a word. Always looked straight at the screen. Coffee, short black and untouched. Moving only to draw smoky comfort. Ever more slumping and sliding down in his chair. And, of course, quietly shedding the occasional tear. It may not have been the most active of rooms, but it looked as if this young man carried the suffering of all of his country. Italy seemed to be on the road to a loss as the first half wound up. I left the bar in search of another closer to the station. Even on the streets, there seemed resignation in the air. It was a little unsettling and messed with my mind. If Italy were to win, there was little point in having killed myself to be there, but given I had done so, I hardly wanted to see them lose. A conundrum I contemplated as half time counted down. I located another bar almost opposite the station. A few grey haired gents sat before an old screen. Their faces were long and forlorn. No signs of tears, but I still thought them aged versions of the young lad in the bar down the road. I felt like I had done something wrong walking in and ordering a beer. I might as well have been speaking Spanish for all the death stares. Feeling so conspicuous and trying not to be, I hid in the back. The shoddy game continued and the old men consoled themselves with many litros of wine. Italy created a few chances for itself, but the match was very much Mexico's. I concluded it was set to be a disappointing conclusion to a disappointing day. I had one eye on the clock, my train's departure remarkably well aligned to the time left in the match. Things looked hopeless and so I ducked across the road to check my train's platform. I was gone less than a minute, but returned to discover I had missed Italy's equalising goal! Things were different now. I was everyone's friend. We all laughed at my misfortune which nicely capped off a day of misplacement. The game was winding down now. Both sides happy with a draw, they used up the clock and I dashed for my train. Italy? I am afraid it was all a bit of a non event for me. Just desserts perhaps. I would very much like to return and expect that I will, but next time I'll make sure I'm right in the middle of Roma! In the meantime, I must continue my train journeys, having just discovered that a booking error means that I have no couchette, but rather a chair, for the night. Nevertheless, exhausted, I am sure I will sleep well, safe in the knowledge that tomorrow I will be in Poland...

Here was my chance to cross gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn't yet scored.cored.