World Cup - Day One

My expectations for the long journey to South Africa were low. These expectations were met and with enough change left over for a solid kick to the nuts. It started with a battle through rush hour on the tube, which is horrifying in the best of cases, but with a back pack the size and weight of a small planet it was an ordeal I shall be seeking counselling for.

When we arrived at Gatwick, gushing sweat and already exhausted, we were questioned by police, who were preventing the hooligan element from travelling. This seemed reassuring, but on further thought I wondered if other countries were going to the same lengths. If not, I suspected we could be left as the only viable punching bags for foreign firms. My plan in the event of violence is to cry and plead so much that any potential attacker will be too disgusted to hit me.

Trouble with the journey continued as Charlie's bag was incorrectly labelled as someone else's when checked in. Having discovered this and informed the airline just before boarding, the entire plane had to be unloaded, much to the vocalised annoyance of everyone but Charlie. We were told to watch the unloading from the boarding gate window and shout when we saw his brand new, unnecessarily expensive bag. Shout he most certainly did, as his bag sailed past the others being delicately unloaded by conveyor belt, having been thrown out of the open bay door of the plane, and smashed onto the concrete several meters below, tearing the solid metal handle and rendering it near impossible to carry around. As you would expect, we were nothing but sympathetic.

Once we'd picked ourselves off the ground and stopped laughing, were able to board and begin the 13 hour flight via Libya. On reflection, I have no idea how I survived the experience. I have resolved to never fly any airline that I can't pronounce again. First issue was that my monitor wasn't working. To be fair they were quick to reboot all the screens, which as well as fixing mine, broke Charlie's previously working one. Excellent. To compound his misery, Charlie was next to a heavily snoring man who was inexplicably wearing two pairs of trousers and a watch the size of a hubcap. It was only when the turbulance started in earnest that I understood the need for the extra trousers.

Getting off the plane in Libya was like stepping face first into the flame of a blowtorch. I've never experienced a wind factor that actually increases the heat. Security in the airport was clearly taken seriously as we were all carefully ushered through a metal detector that was quite obviously turned off. So by the time we boarded the second plane several hours later, we were emitting visible stink lines as the sweat began to ferment in our clothes. I verbalised the possibility of shitting ourselves in an effort to improve the smell.

The second leg of the journey was no better than the first. The food would have been an insult to vermin, the service would have been considered too abrupt for Auschwitz, but worst by far was the utter lack of alcohol. We assumed the airline must have been Islamic, and this was confirmed as the already terrible films available were further worsened by the electronic blurring of any on screen cleavage. It's amazing just how crap you truly see a film for when no longer distracted by Megan Fox's jiggling tits.

I can never sleep on planes but none the less tried fooling my body with a neck pillow and blindfold. My body was having none of it though, insisting it wasn't going to play ball in the best of conditions, so certainly not while sober. After a while though I felt myself lolling into a state that while not sleep, at least had it comfortably on the horizon and in which I could happily drift along. Then BOOM, the lights went on full blast like a punch in the face. My instinctive thought was some form of emergency. It's 2am, we aren't due to land for 3 hours, there must be something wrong with the aircraft, fuck I'm going to die and I've not even made it to the World Cup. I've not made enough of a mark on humanity to die, I'm too young, by god, I still have that expensive Cuban cigar I've not smoked, this is unfair on so many levels.

The emergency, as it turns out, was a choice of luke warm soft drinks. Because who doesn't like to be woken with a spot light at 2am for a nice warm pepsi?

Finally arriving in the very early hours we were met by a country poised to ease the mechanics of the world's greatest competition and the administration of the hundreds of thousands of visiting fans. Namely, power cuts, broken ticket dispensing machines and a two hour wait for the hire car. When we finally got sorted and arrived at the hostel we were near comatosed and nobody had spoken or looked at each other for hours. Only a total lack of energy prevented the tangible hatred from spilling into a fist fight. Even better, we could afford only a two hour sleep before we had to climb back into the car and drive two and a half hours to the first game.

Best not discuss the game itself, but the atmosphere and stadium were incredible in the cool South African evening. Unfortunately, any positives were quickly forgotten as any organisation or preparation from the authorities in aiding the 45,000fans to escape the small city utterly failed to materialise. It took 6 hours to get to the car and drive back, by which point we'd had 2 hours sleep in as many days and were, to put it mildly, fucking furious. This will only get better...