K) Sweden v Senegal... from Stockholm

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...