In marked contrast to some other countries, there is no absurd compartmentalisation between drinking alcohol, smoking, and watching sport on TV. ‘Here you are on a warm early summer day, attending a festival of football in a country with one of the best beer traditions in the world,’ the city seems to be saying. ‘So why would you deny yourself any of the attendant pleasures? Sit outside in the perfectly warm sun! Eat! Drink! Smoke! And cry as your team loses to us, as it inevitably will!’
The first match is Croatia v Albania. As I get to my hotel, I can hear cries and groans triggered by almost-goals, un-given fouls and hair-follicle off-sides. Later in the afternoon, while crossing the river, I have a good view from the bridge – the entire riverbank is a mela, a series of beer gardens, and two-storey-high screens. The home team is about to play Hungary, and people of all ages are out, wearing the tricolour-striped Mannschaft kit.
It’s all very jolly, except there’s serious police bandobast. Frankfurt’s finest are out in force, sporting full intergalactic combat gear. What are they worried about? ‘Maybe terror attack,’ says a friend. Germany win 2-0, and by 10 pm everything is kind of quiet. The polizei have gone, as have many fans. Walking back to my hotel I’m passed by five young men on electric scooters.
‘Piss off, myate, jus’ fakkin’ piss awwwff!’ Laughs one of them at another. I get the Scouse accent before identifying the kit with the three blue dachshundised lions.The following day the hotel breakfast is taken over by a peculiar red kit with white letters and lining. Hundreds of men, a few women, all polite and cheerful. I check the fixtures. Ah, today it’s England vs Denmark in Frankfurt.A few days later, I’m back in Berlin. Germany is playing again. Again the janta is out, fully dressed in the national kit, horns blaring, funny headgear. Again, the police in full gladiator gear walk about slowly and intently, Berlin thullas this time, even though the match is in another city.
I’ve decided to save my football-watching for the knockout stage. But I can’t help checking out scorelines on pavement screens. I notice that the Swiss are a goal up on the so-far-undefeated Germany. Ah, a lucky opener. No doubt the well-drilled Germans will mannschaft the Swiss mannschaft. Half an hour later, the match comes to a finish. The score is still 1-0. I can feel the despair and stilled-hubbub silence from the pavement tables.
Nearing home, I give in. The match is on in a doner shop, and I go in, get a beer, and settle down to watch the last 15 minutes. It’s Germany v Switzerland all right, except Germany is playing the role of Switzerland, and the Swiss are swamping the German defence with the metronomic regularity of a… oops, almost at the last minute it’s suddenly an undeserved 1-1!
Merwan, the Doner shop guy, is in despair, having just turned to take out a basket of freshly done French fries, secure in the knowledge that his Switzerland has secured a historic victory. Whatever the case, I know my non-watching days of this tournament will soon be over.
