Fortaleza, Sao Paulo, Belo Horizonte and beyond

Ten days, seven flights, five matches.  The highlight being a definite OG, an arguable hand ball and a penalty shootout. A nation thankful to a crossbar and a wooden post.  On the subject of wooden posts I will be writing a 'blog on the Brazil game shortly.

The most intensive part of my tour has now come to a close.  From Rio to Fortaleza to Sao Paulo.  Back to Rio (for 48 hours) onto Belo Horizonte (via one night in Sao Paulo) and another bleary eyed early return to the Copacabana and all that entails.

I dream about spending time with my wife in our little flat in Crystal Palace.  About curry, baths, red wine and cricket.  About having my first decent nights sleep in a month.  About crunchy vegetables and being able to order food without cheese.




My first stop was Fortaleza.  A place rich Brazilians go to holiday.  Three hours north of Rio de Janeiro we were surprised to find it's only six hours from Lisbon.  Information that made Stuart Pearce chew his food with quiet contemplation.  The next day he faced a three and half hour flight south to Sao Paulo with a three hour stopover just so he could then take an eleven hour flight to London.  He would become quite the expert when it came to the airspace just above Fortaleza. 

In fairness Pearce does most things with quiet contemplation. 


Sao Paulo was next on the itinerary.  A city so congested it boasts the world record for a traffic jam.  216 miles.  A city whose size is equal to London but has a population double the number.  A city without a natural centre that begins 15 minutes before you land then never seems to end.  A city famous for gastronomy, for football, for crime, for pollution, for high rise tower blocks and for being ridiculous in size.  It would take a lifetime to explore. 

It is also the most European of all the Brazilian cities with a bar culture, prominent middle-class, even London Pride on tap.  A perfect place to watch Brazil in action.


And then to Belo Horizonte.  Less than an hour away but as far removed from Sao Paulo as you get.  A population a tenth the number, plenty of green spaces with a country feel to it.  It was the unlikely setting of Brazil's first knockout match and also home to a hotel that boasts the world's weirdest view.  To the right an appealing park with people boating on the lake.  "Could be New Zealand or England," I mused. 


To the front of me.  A bloke having root canal.


And finally I got back to Rio de Janeiro which is starting to wind down. A couple of weeks ago the beachfront was a constantly moving/drinking mass of fans, flags and football shirts. With the teams reducing in number so the spectators follow suit. No longer are we being kept awake by Chile's red army, the strains of U-S-A or the marching Columbians and their bloody drums.  Actually, the Colombians are still here.


The end now in sight my mind turns towards home.  Although not before the small matter of France v Germany at the Maracana and 24 hours in Brasilia for Argentina v Belgium. 

Copacabana

Before I came to Brazil I had to sit through a five hour security briefing which left me so on edge I jumped out of my seat when a cleaner appeared at the window.  Murder, corruption, riots, pick-pockets, car-jacking, malaria and dangerous drivers.  For the second World Cup in a row it seemed I was heading into a war zone.  A week in and I'm still alive and while the dangers are clear and present the real risk to my health here is the food.

My diet has been terrible.  I'm averaging about a meal and a half a day.  I've eaten more processed meat in Rio than in the six months since I was last, um, in Rio.  Big Bob's Burgers.  Twice.  All you can eat pizza.  Steak(s) and chips.  Too much coffee.  Not enough water.  I haven't eaten a single vegetable and I've drunk beer every night.  It's a teenage boy's wet dream.

And it's not just the lack of food that leaves me light-headed.  Copacabana is a dizzying place. Western rules governing colour, creed and class need not apply here.  Poverty is not the sole preserve of the ethnic minority.  Religious fervour omnipresent but not overpowering.  Rich, poor, the young and the dying are all pieces of the same jigsaw. 

Beachside is populated by people who pound the pavement with intent.  This is an area where the locals strut their stuff.  And you do not have to be a perfect 10 to flaunt tings.  Massive backsides in tiger print Lycra jostle for position on the seafront. Old men go through energetic exercise routines in the morning sun as the traffic snakes by. Both sexes bathe in skimpy swimwear leaving little to the imagination no matter their size. 

Meanwhile across the street the homeless & the addicts congregate.  Doorways near million dollar apartments house drug addicts at night who then seek the shade of the trees during the day. 

All of this takes place under the same sun but against two backdrops.  To the East the waves crash in from the ocean in a typical beach scene.  Surfers, bathers, posers, beach footballers.  To the West a darker presence.  Mountainous favelas, at times shrouded in cloud, peer down onto the faded grandeur of the beachfront hotels.  A reminder of Rio's present day poverty and its long since departed 1930's heyday.

The sun goes down early and quickly here.  Bake on the beach at 5pm if you like but you will be in complete darkness by 6pm.  It's winter and the weather conditions can change in a blink of an eye.  It's not uncommon to see startled holidaymakers dashing through hotel lobbies wrapped in a towel wondering aloud where the rain had come from. 

Copacabana adopts a different feel when it turns dark.  Tourists are warned away from the beach at night but at times it seems this may just be so the locals can reclaim it for themselves.  Small children play beach football late into the evening, middle aged folk exercise, people sit, talk, smoke, relax.  Men holding hands roller skate past hawkers holding Brazil shirts with cocaine in their shorts. 

Away from the beachfront small bars open out onto the streets.  Cheap beer, live music, dangerous cocktails and prostitutes.  Lots of prostitutes. The congregation continues long into the night. It's so busy and the alcohol flows so freely that the area feels safe although this can change quickly.  A wrong turn or sobriety can suddenly make a 1.30am walk to pick up a presenter a hairy one.  The beggars approach or shout out aggressively as you pass.  This isn't the time nor the place for a romantic stroll.

It's a real eye-opener being here.  Pre-tournament fears over safety have been replaced by a marvelling of a country and a people that do not appear to be following the same rules that we live our lives by.  Make no mistake.  Whether you find yourself football-watching or people-watching there's no better place in the world to be right now.

Jimmy Carter

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, my final weekend in South Africa loomed and I was hopeful (yet not certain) of a place at the high table. The second biggest game in world football was taking place on the Sunday and while clearly it's no Championship play-off final I still yearned to be in attendance to watch El Classico Utd take on Sexy Football XI.

However my chances appeared to be 50/50 at best for despite furious behind-the-scene wranglings by Matt Smith we had only procured seven tickets between our ten-man party. Someone was destined to be disappointed.

Before that though we had an eagerly awaited group night out to attend. Our last Friday evening had long been set aside to celebrate a successful tour for talkSPORT, for South Africa and because life in general had been pretty good. It was also a chance for us all to say thank you and goodbye to Karin, Neil, Samantha and Candice, our South African family who'd made our stay in Johannesburg such a special one.

The evening started eventfully, but thankfully, the negative actions of one couldn't curtail the positive intentions of the few and once our group had been reduced we all settled down to enjoy each others company in the surrounds of a local Asian restaurant. Not that Pad Thai was on my menu. For, while the others tucked into various noodle dishes and chilli cocktails (weird) I opted for a giant 500g rib-eye steak. With Fe's unbeatable home cooked Chinese food just days away I thought I'd take advantage of ridiculously expensive cuts of meat at equally ridiculously cheap prices while I could.

A pleasant evening unfolded and before long we were making plans to go on. With the wine and cocktails flowing freely our group split (amicably, this time) between those who wanted to go on drinking and those who fancied a flutter at the nearby Montecasino. And after a wait for our taxi to arrive myself, Romford Pele, Jim Proudfoot, Antony & Samantha squeezed into our vehicle, offered Samantha the only available seatbelt, and directed the cabby to an establishment that had fast become our first port of call on an evening, the News Cafe in Sandton.

We didn't arrive until 1am and got stuck in. For the next four hours every round consisted of a double and a shot known as a Springbok. And an evening that started so ignominiously ended in a manner more befitting the celebratory mood we'd hoped for as we danced about, mucked around and chatted to anyone who’d listen.

From the little I remember from the evening there were several highlights. But perhaps the best was when Ray spotted Dutch legend Ronald Koeman, strode up to him with hand outstretched and cheerily said “Hello Roland” in a manner only those who watched Grange Hill in the 80’s can truly appreciate.

The other notable moment of the evening also involved a former World Cup footballer. (Well, did you really expect anything else?) Veteran of the 1998 World Cup, and certified madman, Edmundo repeatedly tried to gatecrash our group and we repeatedly tried to prevent him. He’d obviously decided that Samantha was the girl for him and spent a good two hours putting all his efforts into catching her attention.

However once he realised that conventional means weren’t going to work with a girl 19 years his junior (and in a relationship) he employed more unconventional means. His ‘alternative’ pick-up tactics included hair pulling and biting. It reminded me of my brothers pulling technique back in the day. In the end we took it in turns to pretend to be Samantha’s boyfriend and he got tired of talking to the back of our heads and buggered off.

It was still dark when we finally followed suit, but only just. With the clock approaching six in the morning we staggered out of our cab and said our goodnights. It had been a fitting end of tour night out.

The next day was a painful affair and one of the most testing of my career. I didn’t emerge until after midday and spent a couple of hours disconsolately pacing around the grounds and the pool in the afternoon sun. Ray said I reminded him of a polar bear at the zoo.

Jim appeared an hour or so later to announce that he couldn't remember ever drinking more in his life. And our VISA bills in the coming days would be testament to that fact.

A mid-afternoon kip was followed by a gentle production shift as beaten semi-finalists Germany v Uruguay turned the most derided match of the World Cup into one of its most exciting. But once I turned in for the night sleep was hard to come by and I’d watched complete re-runs of two matches before I finally managed to drift off.

After four hours sleep I woke up on my penultimate day in Johannesburg with a text telling me I was going to the final. Shortly after I found out I was to produce live from the match. Considering I had been a late call up and the last producer on the plane it was a proud moment to think that I would be the one to bring the final to the millions listening to talkSPORT.

And there was more good news as Matt had managed to obtain the three additional tickets which meant the whole talkSPORT crew would go to the (foot)ball. And despite all that was going on in life and in my head I set out from the Lodge determined that nothing would get in the way of making the most out of the occasion.

I arrived at Soccer City with plenty of time to go before kick off and after buying a couple of programmes I set our equipment up in the press box. I was producing a two hour build up show which was to incorporate the closing ceremony. I've never been to a closing ceremony before (nor an opening one for that matter) and I will remember to not be so quick to dismiss them in future.

It was bloody awesome. An overhead fly-by sent tremors through the stadium to signal the start. For a split second, as the lights dimmed, and unnannounced vibrations and noise rocked Soccer City I thought I was having a bit of a senior moment. But as the lasers started up and the dancers appeared in front of me I began to enjoy myself. And who wouldn't enjoy the sight of Shakira, fake elephants, crazy graphics, singers, fireworks and loud music?

But the best was still to come. Earlier on in the tour I'd started reading Nelson Mandela's biography. Coupled with the trips I'd had to the Hector Pieterson & Apartheid Museums it had provided me with an insight into life in South Africa that I'd never had the opportunity to glimpse before. Indeed when people ask what was the best thing about my trip my immediate response is to point at the opportunity to really learn about the country, its people and its history. And at the centre of all that is one man, and with very little warning, and accompanied by a roar that easily dwarfed any other in the World Cup, he suddenly appeared in front of everyone in the stadium.

It was a moment to rival any other as he was driven around the pitch all the while waving and smiling at the crowd. For once the press corp abandoned all professionalism and joined in the celebrations. Cameras flashed, people punched the air & hugged each other, the noise was incredible. Even though I was wearing three layers I'm sure you could still see my goosebumps. It was without doubt the standout moment of my tour.

All of this and the main event was still to come. Lucky old me! A match that promised so much. The mercurial midfield talents of Iniesta & Sneijder. Two undeniably talented teams but who are often European underdogs and without a World Cup trophy between them. Plenty of Premier League talent in van Persis & Fabregas. And two teams who are famous for playing attractive, attacking football in the right way.

Well so much for any of that. It was a horrible game. The first half as bad as any I can remember. The attitude of both sets of players was appalling and I felt sorry for Howard Webb who found himself slap bang in the middle of a 'damned if you do and damned if you don't' situation. But saying all this, if Ramos (twice) and Robben (twice) had taken guilt edged chances we'd have been talking about a classic World Cup final!

But they didn't and the only saving grace about the match (apart from the fact that I was there, rather than watching listlessly on the TV) was that Iniesta scored a good goal in open play and prevented Holland from winning the match on penalties. For that, and the ensuing scenes of celebration, I will forever be grateful.



And that was about that for the following evening was hometime. After the stresses and strains of my last weekend in Jo'Burg a ten hour flight home wasn't exactly top of my list of things to do. But despite an emotional farewell at the Lodge, there was no mistaking the feeling of my body and mind telling me it was time to go home. But as I sat in my cab on the way to the airport and stared out the window I knew I would one day return. I await news of England's next cricket tour to South Africa with interest.......

Wrong way street

In the build up to the World Cup hundreds of scaremongering articles were written and countless dire warnings made about the perils facing any traveller in South Africa. As fans back in Britain no doubt remark on the scores of empty seats at some of the games featuring the smaller nations the blame could and should be rested at the feet of such irresponsible and lazy journalism.

Forgetting, or choosing to ignore the fact that in the past 12 months the country has seen an IPL season, an England cricket tour and a British Lions rugby tour all pass without incident prospective football supporters were warned not to make the journey to a country which admittedly does boast one of the highest murder rates than any other on the planet and where car jacking is commonplace.

I haven't been here long, obviously wouldn't profess to having any experience of living within a township and certainly don't want to tempt online fate, but I would suggest that the biggest danger anyone faces in a car is at the hands of a taxi driver rather than a car jacker. For although they nearly always welcome you with a smile and blare out commentary of all the World Cup games in African they are the most reckless of breed.

The standard of driving here is terrifying. The roads are often gridlocked during rush hour and it leads to some impressively innovative ways of escaping traffic. Since being in South Africa I've been driven down the wrong side of the street on two separate occasions and seen the car I have been sitting in squeeze into and go through areas a rush hour tube traveller would turn his nose up at.

While the look of terror on the normally cocksure Darren Gough as he stared wild eyed through the windscreen as our driver spoke on the phone, the car weaving back and forth across four lanes of traffic on the way to the airport will long live in the memory. I wonder if that's what I look like when I fly?

As looks go it was right up there with the one that greeted me early in the morning at Heathrow when with my work colleagues all ordering a fry up I went for a double vodka and lemonade. Or the one that reverberated around the lodge living room when my erstwhile colleague Matt Smith announced he was only going to have fruit for breakfast.

It's also not uncommon for taxi drivers to reek of alcohol when you get in the car, and one car we picked up in Cape Town after the France game was in such bad state it could only go at 20k an hour up hills, stunk of burnt metal and by the time we reached our destination started to rattle ominously.

They say the biggest killer in Africa is malaria. That might be true but I'd say the humble cab driver is also right up there.

And on the seventh day God invented football

It took more than three hours to make the weary 80 kilometre drive back from Rustenburg to my home for the next month, The Lourie Lodge in north Johannesburg. Forty thousand English, American and South african fans all on the same single stretch of highway that connects the town where England played their first World Cup game and the largest city in the country. And it was well past two thirty in the morning before I was finally able to pull my duvet over my head, and with the sound of thirty thousand vuvuselas still ringing in my ears said goodnight to the most memorable week of my life.

It's difficult to know where to begin describing the past seven days. A passage of time that has seen me fly into one of the most violent cities in the world and seen nothing but multi-racial harmony and joy. Tried and failed to sit comfortably with a lifestyle that allows me at night to submerge myself in five star luxury following days spent surveying the destitution of the township. The only constant that unifies such disparate ways of life has been the unreserved welcome handed out to us all since we arrived.

It's been a week of firsts. First time in South Africa, first World Cup, even first class flights thanks to a certain Mr Gough. My trip has seen me basking on the dazzling waterfront of Cape Town, immersed within 200,000 Bafana Bafana fans parading through Sandton (Jo'Burg's brashest, flashest urban centre). I've eaten my first Afrikaan brai, sat in Nelson Mandela's chair, danced with locals in Rustenburg and held back tears in Soweto. And on Saturday night the seven days that have shook my world ended on the ultimate high as I watched England play the USA live in the biggest sporting tournament on the planet.





Cape Town, Soweto and the sumptious Lourie Lodge, a place so grandiose I've been warned not to put photos online for fear of raising Fe's expectation levels for our honeymoon (not that she ever reads my 'blog) will have to wait for another day. For today's post and Saturday's action was all about one thing, England.

The journey to the Rustenburg's Royal Bafokeng Stadium started on Thursday morning as due to last minute sponsorship commitments Goughie had to be in Cape Town for two days. I was drafted in to accompany him as we flew business class from Jo'Burg and stayed in the £330 a night Bay Hotel in the millionaire playground of Camps Bay.

Not that I got to exploit either experience as it doesn't really matter what class of flight you're on when you're still convinced it's about to plummet into the earth. The stewardesses would have to be pretty bloody attentive & the peanuts infused with a seriously strong sedative to ever make that an enjoyable state of mind to be in.

And even after my 68th flight ended in much the same way as the previous 67 by safely making it to land without any hint of mechanical failure or hijack by a screaming bomb-wielding banshee our tight schedule meant very little time to take in some more beautiful South African surroundings.



But let's fast forward two days and another early start on the Saturday morning. Well before the sun could rise and allow one last peek of the water I awoke with an unusually reasonable five hours sleep under my belt and both Goughy and I were in fine spirits as we left for the airport. For after working our bloody arses off since arriving in South Africa it was the day that had been shining like a beacon throughout the week.

Flight number 69 also passed without incident and was made memorable only because we met three famous BBC competitors who had to walk past our Business Class seats on the way to economy. "Send the red cross parcel" one of them muttered to Goughie. It's good to know our tv licence money isn't being wasted away.

We'd booked into an early flight so that we could get back in time to make the two hour trip to Rustenburg where England were playing. And it was a good decision as a tight turnaround time and lack of cabs meant we only had time to drop our bags back at the lodge where our hosts were waiting for us. They'd kindly agreed to drive us to the game and the good times were to start early as we were invited to join them at some friends who lived in Rustenburg.

A short car ride and a little snooze later and we were greeted by another amazing location with equally impressive views - not sure what Candice, the 17 year old daughter must have thought about having to sit next to me as I slouched comatose, head tilted to the skies and mouth wide open - at least I didn't dribble.





The outside views were stunning and the inside wasn't too shabby either boasting a fully stocked bar, ping pong table, huge TV & sound system and even a full sized snooker table. Ridiculous. I was also amused to hear that one of the brothers had bounced off the trampoline (picture above) aiming for the swimming pool only to overshoot and nearly fly over the fence. Oh man, I would love to have seen that.

Within minutes of arriving we had beers in our hands, footy had replaced rugby on the box and we were introduced to the meat we were about to eat. It was time for another first. The Afrikaan brai.



I've learned a lot about South African people since getting here. One is that they don't really understand football. They're keen to talk about it, they're totally enthused about having the World Cup here and they are eager to be educated. But it doesn't take long before you realise there's more for them to learn than just the off-side rule.

The other is that if they are proud of anything, and they have a lot to be proud about at the moment, it's of the quality and quantity of their meat. M*E*A*T. Yum. And for the next half an hour we were frequently reminded of the cost such slabs of cow, lamb and beef would be back in England.

Man, they love their meat here so much they even added it to the salad & pasta dishes that accompanied the giant sausages and paving stone sized steaks. Even the quiche was no more than lumps of chicken & bacon served up in a bit of pastry with an egg cracked over it. As Goughie declared in his strong Barnsley accent "I'm not usually into quiche, but this is the best one ever!" He wasn't wrong.



As starters go to the main event it was up there and the fun wasn't to end there. As before long we were back in the car and on the way to the game with full bellys and light heads.



Our Afrikaan host was also friendly with a local police chief. And they'd worked out safe passage through the local township so that we could park the car near to the ground. The stadium is actually owned by the local Bafokeng people who are the richest townsfolk in South africa due to their location on and around land rich with mining opportunities.

It provided us with another delightful twist to the day as we shared drinks, biltong and blows on the vuvusela with a couple of the families who live in the shadow of the stadium where England were about to play.









We were shown the quickest route to the game by a couple of local teenagers who left us once the stadium was clearly in sight. Sadly, though they were relatively lucky in that their township had money and a decent infrastructure it's unlikely any of those who lived here could dream of affording a ticket to the game.

As we strode to the ground with pulses racing and the sounds of songs and chants making themselves heard over the incessant droning of the vuvusela Goughie worryingly remarked he'd received a tweet that said a bomb had been discovered. We shrugged it off but we shared a few quizzical stares when two military helicopters suddenly swooped down on us.



But as soon as they arrived they were gone with nobody any wiser and we made our way into the ground. At this point we had to separate from our hosts and me and Goughie made our way to one of the beer tents to really get ourselves in the mood for our first England game.



The game wasn't for a couple of hours so we stood and chatted to the endless stream of England fans who wanted to come up and have a photo taken with Darren. He's completely unfazed by this and actually enjoys the banter. So it was pretty entertaining to be in this mix. We were also the beneficiaries of several free pints as punters fell over themselves to say they'd bought a beer for Goughie.

The American fans were also making themselves known. It's been widely reported that the Yanks have bought more tickets for this World Cup than any other nation outside of Africa. And they were here en masse. They were loud, excited and mostly in fancy dress. They also had a different mentality from the majority of working class English fans and this is something that would become a problem later in the game.

But still this was party time and we duly sunk a few beers each before making our way into the ground where we met up with the big boss at talkSPORT and some of the sales guys with their clients. The big boss is an Aussie and was loudly declaring he couldn't work out which team he wanted to lose more. I knew how he felt when I watched his side take on Germany last night.

Unlike in Europe it is perfectly acceptable to drink alcohol on the stands and as Goughie made his way to the bar I soaked up the atmosphere of my first ever World Cup England game. Thousands of fans mixing happily alongside each other waving red, white and blue flags as the two teams took to the field.



I sat down happily with my beers in seats about half a kilometre nearer the action than the ones I'd had for the France v Uruguay game and started to take in the action. But within moments I was back on my feet as Stevie G turned in a short range effort to get our World Cup campaign off with a bang.



And for a while it looked like it was going to be all too easy. But England's lifelong problem of not knowing what to do after going an early goal up struck. And I'm sure there were hundreds of Fulham fans with mixed feelings (and a winning betting slip in their back pocket) when Robert Green threw in a Clint Dempsey shot that was no more than a back pass.

It sparked the only unsavoury scenes of the game as pockets of USA fans chided the English fans sitting alongside them or behind them. All over the ground minor squirmishes either threatened to start or were carried through. The security guards having to haul off the offenders.

I could see that some of the Yanks just didn't understand the reaction. For them this was a game. What they now know if that for many English fans football is far more serious than that.

Half time came and went and old man Carragher made an appearance on the field. We had the possession but did we have the belief? Emile Heskey certainly didn't when he went one on one with Howard. While the USA fans held their heads in their hands when Altidore's chance cannoned off Green onto the post.







At the final whistle the differing reactions from the two sets of fans told its own story. For the USA this was possibly their greatest ever World Cup result. While the English supporters trooped off with a familar air of downbeat resignation.

As we made our way out the ground the American fans chanted, sang and posed in front of TV cameras. We reminded them that they hadn't even won. But a long campaign for both teams certainly awaits.

But I was determined not to let the dropped points spoil a memorable evening. One I may never ever repeat as I'll not be able to watch England in action again unless they get to the quarter-finals in Jo'Burg. And after that disjointed display I wouldn't bet on them making it that far. But the evening was still to end on a high.

For after meeting up with the owners of the Lodge we made our way to our cars back in the township. And upon our return we found some of the families were having a party all of their own. One of the buildings had a TV and they were blasting out tunes from a TV music channel. While outside a group of children and adults were dancing and mucking around. I didn't have to be asked twice whether I wanted to join them. Which was good because as far as I can remember I wasn't even asked once.







What a loser! Ha ha ha!!!!!

Fair play to the family & Goughie who patiently stood there waiting for me to cease my drunken dancing. In hindsight they were probably tired and with a long journey ahead the last thing they wanted was to wait around while I made a fool of myself. But any feelings of embarassment on my part immediately disappeared the morning after when I heard that one of the older African ladies had turned away from watching my high jinks to remark in broken english to everyone 'I love that white man'.

Climbing into the car I waved goodbye to new friends & far more talented dance partners before our vehicle began its crawl all the way back home. Dissecting the game with the others it became clear the trouble after the American goal had been mirrored across the ground. And also that maybe England didn't need to feel quite so disappointed considering the usual way we open World Cup campaigns and standard of the opposition.

And as darkness had fully enveloped the car and with fellow passengers starting to nod off alongside me I let my head rock back one more time, closed my eyes and let my mouth hang open all the way back to Johannesburg as another remarkable day approached its end.