These streets are our own

Hack went to Arsenal yesterday. And it felt like a refuge. Because his city was temporarily full of people shouting at each other.

It started early, when Hack went for his train at 9.30 at his local south London station. Mobbing the local caf were a sea of white faces, some wearing the flag of St George as cloaks, waiting for a train. One of them, who eyed Hack suspiciously, was even wearing a MAGA hat. Another one, in a suit jacket, jeans and polished shoes, with a posh umbrella, a large ring on his pinkie and a pin on his lapel that was part Chelsea badge and part poppy, was kissing goodbye to his wife. Grizzled face, slicked back hair, in his late 50s. You could tell he was handy in his day. “Be good” she said, giving him a knowing wink. Hack looked around at the place he’s called home for the last few years. At all the Union Jacks flying halfway up the lampposts. At the Chinese lady keeping her head down as she scurried away into the Co-op. And the lads coming out with their bags full of beer, and did not entirely recognise it. Or feel terribly comfortable in it. 

A man who used to own a tanning salon, doesn’t use his real name, has two convictions for assault, another one for stalking, another two for contempt of court, and once pleaded guilty to mortgage fraud, had summoned England’s “patriots” to a “free speech rally” in London. From what Hack saw, the free speech he was talking about seemed to be more about the freedom to be nasty and abusive to others without repercussion. But each to their own.

Hack may be as tall as Peter Crouch but is also as big a lanky streak of piss and even though he has the same colour skin, he did not feel entirely safe on his journey to Arsenal, as you never know what one stray look can spark sometimes, and it felt like a blessed relief when he emerged at Highbury and Islington station. What a world of difference. No flags on lampposts here. No tension. Skin tones of all shades, mixing happily, on their way to the game. Maybe football is a unifier after all.

They sing the chorus of a song at the Emirates which celebrates “the church, the mosque, a crack den, and the offie on the corner… the brasses from the brothel that pretends to be a sauna… the single mothers juggling a baby and a job… every single brother struggling that wound up in the dock.” And it’s spine-tingling and glorious. But while Hack got busy working, watching a fine team performance from the Spanish, Dutch, Swedish, Italian, English, and Danish boys in the Arsenal team, he was also reading how someone had spoken at the rally calling for a ban on mosques and temples and shrines. About how another spoke of some kind of “great replacement”. And how another called for the assassination of the PM. How they tore up flags they didn’t like on stage. And how someone had turned up with a sign saying: “Call centres: speak English.” And suddenly Noni Madueke’s wing play didn’t seem quite so gripping.

Afterwards, Hack made his way back past the Georgian, Ethiopian, and Brazilian restaurants side by side on the Holloway Road. Past the Korean street food place, the Vietnamese joint and the two Italian eateries. And wondered what state central London would be in when he made his way home. On a near deserted platform at Highbury and Islington, a little girl swung her feet off a bench and said to her mum: “This is nice and quiet.” If only the rest of the city had been the same. With six big football matches in the capital, including three London derbies, and a counter-march of “anti-fascist” protesters also going on, it was never likely to be too quiet.

But despite some of the “free-speech” lobby taking issue with the police trying to keep them away from the “lefties”, swinging a few punches, chucking a few bottles, and getting arrested, Hack did manage to make it back to his manor trouble-free and in one piece. He got off the train behind two teenage boys. One in a St George cloak. The other had gone for the Jack option. A school run mum Hack knows was there to greet them. “I’m very proud of you boys” she said. She seemed to be most proud of them for not getting arrested, but she did also say: “During the war we had 13-14 year olds signing up. Now they’re running the other way” as if these two young teens had just gone over the top at the Somme. Hack found it hard to understand this statement, but a random granny who happened to walk by seemed to agree, nodding her approval and saying: “Well done.” 

All very harmless. But for some reason Hack could hear Jeff Buckley in his head singing: “Beware the bottled thoughts of angry young men.” Well, they weren’t very bottled yesterday. And they weren’t all very young. But they were certainly angry. Sometimes Hack is tempted to get angry too. He got a little angry when the workman who’d come to do a job on his house confessed he will probably vote Reform at the next election “because of all the illegals”. Usually Hack asks such voters if they know how many people actually came to the UK illegally on small boats last year. They never do. But if you don’t know how many came, how can you think it was too many? Hack thought better of it this time though – partly because the former tanning salon owner wants you angry. His march was called Unite the Kingdom. But he really wants you united in anger. Because it’s what he feeds on. Hack thinks it’s probably not a good idea to feed people like that. You’ll end up with more than a tan. You don’t win by getting angry with them and fighting them. You win by making the more persuasive argument to the people tempted to follow them. By convincing them and bringing them with you. Hack got a glimpse of what winning looked like when he walked down Holloway Road. At people from all walks of life and backgrounds actually talking to each other. No punches thrown. No name-calling. Many of those who marched, and counter-marched yesterday, would probably get more enjoyment from a couple of hours in an Ethiopian restaurant in Islington than they would a couple of hours getting kettled by police on Whitehall. And it might do them some good.

Hack doesn’t think you unite a kingdom by marching on Westminster. But you don’t do it by ignoring people either, however many tanning salons they might have owned. You do it by listening and by persuading. By bringing people together. Not drawing battle lines. Cause the manor might be changing. But the people always last…

Rules, contraband and the POLIZEI

Queues – they snake now

NOW that we are deep into Euro 2024, it’s time for Hack to wonder – what can UEFA mess up next? They have messed up virtually everything they have tried so far in this tournament. And probably the only organisation that could have done a worse job of running it is Deutsche Bahn, because then none of the games would have kicked off on time, and when they did finally get going, they would keep stopping for no reason before finally finishing at least an hour later than they were supposed to. 

When it comes to UEFA, you only have to look at the colourful, shiny ID badges the media are all given when we arrive. They take your picture and whack it in a lanyard. Hack likes to look at them when he is queuing for hours to get into each stadium. A sea of profile pics of journalists with smiling, happy faces, full of enthusiasm and excitement at the feast of football they are about to enjoy. Before it was all crushed by the Double Team of Doom that is UEFA and Deutsche Bahn. To begin with, the lanyard. It has been carefully designed so that there is a little plastic divider running right through the bar code we all need to have scanned by security. So of course, the scanner can’t read it. Computer says no. Computer says no. Computer says no. Bearing in mind that at most venues you need to be scanned in and out just to go to the toilet at the media hub, you can imagine the sense of dread every time you approach the smiley volunteer with the scanner… Then there is the entry into the venues itself. Yes, the entire world media has to go through ONE security checkpoint. And not just us, reader. Oh no. That would be fair too easy. No. We have to queue up with the volunteers too! You can imagine the laughter erupting at the UEFA meeting where some wag dreamed up that little joke. There have been many complaints about the queuing. Some venues have responded by allowing volunteers to queue up elsewhere (Hack suspects this is for their own safety to get them away from a long line of irate hacks). Some have introduced fences so the queue can snake around them and not disappear over the horizon in one huge long line. Some have shrugged their shoulders and done nothing at all. This is known as the Deutsche Bahn solution.

Incidentally, Hack has not always found it easy getting into things in general on this trip. At his latest Airbnb for instance, he couldn’t get the key to work one night and not wanting to wake anyone up at 3am (remembers the curtain known as Martin and shudders…), he had to climb over a lawn mower and a bicycle, and in through his bedroom window. Even getting into the shower posed a brief issue when Hack forgot to take careful notice of the direction the shower head itself was pointing when he turned the tap on (the wrong way) and got a jet of cold water shot into his face. It certainly woke him up after he had passed out from the stress of his 3am window ledge exertion. Honestly, there were motion sensors going off and all sorts… 

But anyway, back to UEFA. Once you are passed the dreaded scanner, you are then required to have your bag scanned for things like bombs. Or contraband. There was quite a collection of contraband on show in there at Hack’s last game, including multiple deodorants (thanks UEFA, nothing like a stinking press room to cheer us all up), some shampoo (whoever brought that in cannot have been planning to do his or her hair in one of the filthy sinks in the media hub surely) and an unopened of bottle of expensive-looking wine! (nice try sunshine but you must have problems if you need a whole bottle to sit through France v Belgium). To be honest, Hack often feels like he could do with a drink when he enters the mixed zone after these games. If he’s allowed to, that is. Because booking a pass before the game and being accepted with a fresh green tick isn’t enough for UEFA to just let you in. Oh no. In Dortmund for instance, they moved the mixed zone because players were complaining it was too far for them to walk, and stuck it in… the car park! Only the space there is so small, because, well, cars need to drive past it, that the numbers of hacks had to be limited. Into not one but three “priority groups”. Guess which one Hack was in… Wrong. He wasn’t even in the third one. He had to “go and wait” until/if there was room. Considering the fact that it is usually midnight by this point and none of the few hand-picked players who have been forced to stop and talk to us actually want to stop and talk to us, this gets old quickly. But rules are rules. At least you know your train will be on time and you won’t have to climb through any windows…

Once you’re inside the stadium you are of course treated to the usual disgusting, over-priced food (see earlier blogs), served by a single person at one till because hey, you only had to queue for two hours to get into the venue, what’s another two hours to queue for a Twix? These helpfully close almost immediately after each game, so the one time everyone is inevitably hungry, they can’t get anything to eat. Hack came prepared this time and smuggled a half-eaten giant pretzel in through security. Take that suckers. Then, to find your seat, you have to walk halfway around the stadium, up a million flights of stairs (because there is never more than one lift) and navigate your way around a seating system where every desk is numbered. But if you’re sitting at, say, desk 25, and expect it to be, you know, next to 24, then think again mein freund, because it will almost certainly be next to desk 84 instead, and in another part of the stand entirely, requiring you to go back down another flight of stairs, fight your way through fans queuing for bratwurst, and back into the media tribune via a completely different (and wrongly signposted) entrance. At the France game, there wasn’t even room for everyone, and some of the poor buggers had to stand at the back. Behind one of those stretches of emergency tape like the ones police use when somebody’s been murdered, tied to two chairs. Hey, at least the wifi works. 

You wana move that chair back mate, you’re one inch away from tumbling down 3 million steps

This kind of thing, and the train chaos, really makes Euro 2024 stand out for Hack as one of worst organised tournaments he’s ever covered. In Russia, they had TVs on the trains so everyone could watch the games as they travelled. In Poland they had beer in the fridge in the media hub. In Germany they just have rules. And if you break any of the rules then my god will they complain about it. Most likely, you will forever be blacklisted and your name will be mud across the whole of the Fatherland. As you may have guessed, reader, Hack tries to break as many as possible, and his name is now worse than mud. Which he is quite happy with, actually, thank you very much. And let’s face it, at least Hack isn’t having to completely scrape the barrel for stories here, like other journos whose teams have gone home (Herald Scotland’s top story the other day stands out here, the headline being “Jude Bellingham’s deep affection for Rangers”).  

So it is with some trepidation that Hack approaches the quarter final stage. What will UEFA do next to foil him? What new rules can he break? What windows will there be to climb through? Hack is lucky he wasn’t arrested for breaking and entering after that one. His unusable key wouldn’t have proved he was staying there after all. But he has been stopped by the police. Staggering home shattered at a relatively early 2am from a match down an otherwise completely deserted suburban street, Hack’s journey was suddenly interrupted by a big black police van screeching to a stop on the pavement in front of him. “Polizei” they said. “I know” said Hack, wondering if they thought he was blind, or couldn’t read the word POLIZEI stamped on the van. Hey, they were just doing their job, probably suspected Hack of being a rule-breaker or something. But once they saw his ID read DAILY STAR, their eyes widened with respect and they withdrew and waved Hack on. Hack has to admit he was slightly disappointed as the female one was a bit of a hottie and her handcuffs looked terribly inviting. Onwards!

Turf wars, bikinis and lightning

Four nice-looking but useless seats all pointing the wrong way – UEFA in a nutshell

THINGS are looking up for Hack. After finally escaping the gloom and oppression of the talking curtain, he approached his new lodgings with some trepidation. Availability being somewhat limited this far into Euro 2024, Hack’s new place is much further from the centre of town, but still in a quiet suburban street. When Hack arrived, staggering along in the scorching heat dragging one bag and encumbered by another, he was met by the lovely Felicia, 24, who had been sunbathing in her bikini, in the garden. Keep your mucky thoughts to yourself, reader. Hack did. And was offered a nice cold drink and shown into a palatial house full of the natural light he had been denied for two weeks by the curtain. Here, Hack has a bigger room, his own bathroom, and the freedom to come and go without creeping around scared to wake anyone up after 9pm. Plus he had a fantastic steak in a local, family-run pub just down the road, served by a Scarlett Johansson lookalike and finished off with a generous measure of whiskey at a bargain price. 

Things at the tournament have been looking up too, as Georgia’s win over Portugal (which Hack watched with his steak) livened things up no end, injecting the best feel-good story so far and proving that even the smaller nations can have their day in the sun. It also really upset Ronaldo, who was later almost taken out by a spectator so eager to get close to him he jumped two-footed over a barrier and fell ten feet, disappearing from view, inches from the petulant poser. He’ll think twice before doing his SIUUUUU nonsense now without looking over his shoulder in case of flying bodies. That’s if he ever actually scores…

We have arrived at that time in the tournament when the losers are slinking away quietly. Scotland have been sent home to think again, and Albania have driven their convoys of honking, flag-waving cars back over the border, removing some of the colour and flavour (and eye candy in Albania’s case) from the competition. As a result, Dusseldorf is becoming swamped with Englishmen of two varieties – the ones who have been here since the start (sunburnt) and the ones who have just arrived (white as a sheet). Frankly, they are not as much as fun as those who came before. But at least they have largely behaved themselves so far. The arrival of the English in the city of Hack’s choice at a major finals is usually cause for dread, as the atmosphere tends to take a turn for the worse. But it hasn’t happened this time yet.

The most fighting Hack has seen up close so far took place in the media hub in Dortmund, where there are 12 different widescreen TVs, but they all have to show the same game. More UEFA genius at work right there… This became an issue for the end of the group stage when games were taking place simultaneously and Hack wanted to watch England running through treacle and impressing everyone with their inability to play football, and every screen was showing Denmark v Serbia instead. Hack managed to get a helpful volunteer to switch over, and promptly had an angry fellow hack march over to complain. Once it was established that said hack was Polish, and here for a TV company with no actual working interest in either game as his country had just been sent home with their tails between their legs bottom of Group D with one point from three games, Hack quickly put him in his place and he slunk off muttering (Editor’s note – Hack could just have streamed the England game on his laptop, but this wouldn’t have been anywhere near as much fun).

With all these fans from other countries going home, Hack wondered if everything would become a bit more German now. The strangest thing about Euro 2024 is that the Germans seem to disappear unless their team is playing. Maybe they’re all hiding behind a curtain like Martin. But it is a bit odd. Plenty of them were out in the sun taking part in far-right and counter-right protest marches today in nearby Essen, and obviously Hack is now surrounded by a sea of Germanity as he is in Dortmund to watch Der Mannschaft take on Denmark. But they really have been notable by their absence until this point. Go into any bar in this country and if the Germans aren’t playing you won’t see a single black, yellow and red towel on a seat before kick-off, or in fact, seemingly many actual Germans at all.

They could have done with a few towels halfway through the first half in Dortmund, when the heavens opened. Some of the thunder was so loud it sounded like gunfire, and lightning flashes lit up the sky as poor old Englishman Michael Oliver decided to head for the tunnel, taking the players with him. The deluge was so strong and sudden it took everyone by surprise and had Germans in the front few rows scurrying for cover. Two hardy shirtless Danes didn’t care though, dancing away under an absolute waterfall of rain showering down right on them from the dodgy roof. And then the rain stopped and the teams came back out and Denmark scored but it was ruled out by VAR for a toenail offside. But the drama still wasn’t done, and Oliver was sent to his screen to confirm a penalty for a fingertip handball nobody spotted in real time. Germany scored it and their players got absolutely pelted with beer cups by the Danes as they celebrated by the corner flag. They were never going to lose after that, but when they scored their second it was the press pack getting pelted with beer. Hack was lucky to avoid a direct hit just two seats to his right which completely took out the poor victim’s laptop. The only people unluckier than him were Danish…

An Ode to Albania – featuring maniacs, dirtbags and selfie hunters

“Stronger Together” – just don’t mention the Serbs

HACK has a confession to make. He has a soft spot for Albania. Is it ok to have a soft spot for Albania? They have been very naughty at this tournament, chanting about killing Serbs, sneaking in flares and pyro and lobbing beer cups on to the pitch (someone is going to have an accident on one of those). But there’s just something about them. They ride around town in convoys of cars with huge flags draped out the back, honking their horns. They wear cute little hats. They have the best gear at the Euros – seriously check out the training top with the head of an eagle on the back and front. Two of them even offered one of Hack’s colleagues not one but TWO free beers while he was recording a TV spot outside the stadium. And their lady folk were putting on a strong pre-match performance parading around in all their raven-haired loveliness before kick-off. So it was with a heavy heart that Hack bid them farewell when they were beaten by Spain. They’ve actually had a go on the pitch as well instead of just sitting back and waiting to die, and by god are they noisy.

Not quite as noisy as Turkey though. Hack’s ears were still ringing after the first time he saw them. Now he’s seen them twice. They were a bit more angry this time because they were crushed by Portugal – and they let everyone know it. Including the referee, who faced thunderous boos and whistles at the end of both halves. Maybe it was the heat. Germany has had such blazing sunshine for the last few days that Hack might as well be sunbathing in the Algarve (and is just as burnt as he would be doing it, despite being packed off with a bottle of factor 50 by trusty Mrs Hack). The best thing about this game was the young boy who ran on the pitch for a selfie with Ronaldo while the match was still in progress. Football’s chief poser did what he does best (honestly he’s an even bigger poser these days than he is diver) and obliged, and the young scab even managed to lead security a merry dance before being frog-marched off. One of them was severely hampered by continually dropping his walkie-talkie, and by this point they should have put the Benny Hill music on the tannoy. Spoilsport Roberto Martinez then ruined the mood by complaining that he was concerned for the safety of his players after four more pitch invaders tried their luck before the end of the game. 

To be honest, Hack’s enjoyment of the game had already been severely hampered by the guy from gol.mk sitting next to him in the press tribune. This fellow hack disgraced his profession by sticking his finger in his nose, ears and mouth for the whole 90 minutes, before wiping anything he found in these grotty orifices on his laptop, desk, sleeve and leg. It was so relentless that in preparation for this blog Hack made notes on his laptop screen including FILTHY JOURNO SPENDS ALL GAME PICKING NOSE AND THEN WIPING IT ON LAPTOP, hoping the dirtbag would notice. When he didn’t, Hack even put it in BOLD. Still no luck. Hack suspects the culprit is striding around Dortmund as we speak, still doing it, walking into lampposts. He deserves it.

In other news, Hack’s brief relationship with the curtain known as Martin has ended in divorce, and he is off to try his luck with Gabriela, who lives much further from the town centre but doesn’t seem to communicate by curtain, appears to allow daylight into her kitchen, and doesn’t insist everyone in the property is tucked up in bed by 9pm. More on this as we get it. 

For now, Hack is sitting in the media hub (post a disappointing €8.50 Goulash) – waiting for France v Poland to begin. He is surrounded by Polish TV types being incredibly noisy playing stuff on their mobile phones, screaming and shouting over a table football game and doing their makeup. No joke. One of them just brushed his long mane of blonde hair in a handheld mirror. He’s wearing pink trousers and has his shades on inside. Hack is unlikely to get on with this man. But at least he doesn’t have a finger up any of his holes just yet. Hack has a lot of time for the Polish, as you will see in previous posts on this blog. But he has only one thing to say to this chap, who is almost as big a poser as Ronaldo, and that is: “Two games. Zero points.”

Hack’s presence here does of course mean that he will be missing England’s third group game, where Gareth Southgate will be trying to prove he is still a sane football coach and not a total maniac after the string of unfathomably dreadful decisions he has made so far which have undone all his previous good work. On his way to this game, Hack and a colleague walked past someone even nuttier, if that is possible. A shirtless man bouncing a basketball down the main street, who was clearly on some kind of drugs and shouting a string of obscenities at everyone before shouting at Hack: “F*** YOU, C** ON MY CHEST!” Being a gentleman, and not that way inclined anyway, Hack of course did not oblige. But he was impressed with the man’s dribble. So maybe there is hope for Gareth after all.

The Red Wizard, flowers, and a nuclear war

“Food”

TODAY the curtain otherwise known as Martin had an announcement to make. Putin is about to nuke Europe. Hack kids you not, reader. According to the curtain, it’s the perfect moment as everyone is distracted with the Euros. Russian troops have disappeared from the Finnish border. And Putin has been “looking shifty” at his love-in with the North Korean tubster. Five cities will be bombed. Enough missiles will get through. Europe will be finished. And the tanks will roll in. Given that Hack was heading to Ukraine’s game in Dusseldorf, this was not welcome news. After all, the Arena doesn’t even have a roof.

Hack is tired today. Having been instructed by the curtain not to return until 4am from last night’s trek to watch England in Frankfurt, so as not to disturb the curtain’s sleep, Hack strong-armed a colleague into killing the hour between 2 and 3 in a local bar, and then walking back to Martin’s. Said colleague being only too happy to oblige, and knowing a handy bar only a stone’s throw away, two thirsty hacks entered a dimly-lit establishment frequented only it seems by a handful of men even older than they are. This was not just any bar. Every table was different, as if each one had been sourced from a jumble sale. There were two one-armed bandits complete with comfy chairs, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Vegas casino, against one wall, with an old man in each, happily shovelling money away. There was an old man playing patience at a rickety old corner table. And there was another old man, with a wispy white beard that made him look like a wizard, John Lennon specs, and a bright red suit, asleep on a battered, bright green sofa straight out of an American diner. This turned out to be the barman, who had to be woken up by one of the regulars whenever anyone, including said hacks, wanted a beer. To be fair, each one only cost two euros, so this was definitely Hack’s kind of bar. But it did mean that Hack only got about four hours’s sleep before waking back up for a spot of turd polishing.*

Also, as a result of those dire warnings of Nuclear Armageddon, Hack was a little later setting off for the game than he wished, and spent the whole of a very unpleasant tram journey with his face inches from a large Slovakian’s armpit, so busy was public transport at this time. Another soaking through security later and Hack was finally in the stadium, just in time to partake of a chicken curry in the media hub. Reader, it was not the best. And didn’t seem to contain any chicken. Food here has been hit and miss, it must be said. Well, media food anyway. Hack’s rancid canteen curry came in at €8.50 and was not on the large side. You can get various wurst on the concourses in the arenas, if you want to queue with the fans. But while these can be ok with a beer, and are probably superior to the fare on offer at most English football clubs, they do tend to taste a little like how you would imagine plastic to taste if it was sculpted into a sausage shape and stuck in a tiny bun, leaving you as empty as a eunuch’s underpants. This is a far cry from the world famous Chelsea media buffet with its selection of antipasto, cured fish, fancy salads, choice of two chef-served hot meals and at least 3 different desserts. Or even the roast joint, potatoes veg and gravy you commonly get at Spurs, followed by posh dessert and cheeseboard. Hack has been told there is a kind of Eldorado media hub somewhere in Dusseldorf that nobody at UEFA has told anyone about, somewhere in the centre of town, where hot and cold food is free and there is a fridge full of beer. Hack will now make it his mission to track down this paradise, sample its wares, and report back. The things Hack does for you, reader, honestly. Hold off on the missiles, Vlad, Hack is on a mission. 

By half time in Dusseldorf, Ukraine had managed to look even worse than England did last night, which is saying something when they don’t even have a player like Trent Alexander-Arnold, who is about as much use in an international midfield as an ashtray on a motorbike. With Trent in it, England’s midfield, when it exists at all, tends to advance no further than an asthmatic ant with some heavy shopping. Still, England have points on the board and will limp on into likely oblivion in the knockout stages (nuclear warheads willing). Will Ukraine? They made a fist of it in the second half, scoring their first goal of the tournament through Mykola Shaparenko. And then they miraculously went ahead through Roman Yaremchuk. It proved enough for victory. And gave us a heartwarming moment given the horrors being experienced across their wartorn country in recent months. It also absolutely delighted their colourful army of fans, many of whom seem to be beautiful ladies with flowers in their hair. Hack is all for it. It’s very fetching. If any of them show up later in his bar, the Red Wizard is unlikely to sleep through their visit. 

Bees, Sassenachs and a talking curtain

“Have you got a pen I can borrow please?” … “Sigh…” said the curtain

SORRY, what’s that you say? Hack can’t hear. First he spent 90 minutes stuck in a stadium full of thousands of Turks whistling at ear-splitting decibel levels. Then he sat through several thundering, Sassenach-trembling renditions of Flower of Scotland. Now he can’t hear a thing. This probably is not helping things at Hack’s Airbnb, where Martin is currently only talking to him from the other side of a curtain. He sighs a lot.

If only Martin enjoyed football. Despite his ears bleeding profusely, Hack thoroughly enjoyed Turkey v Georgia. What a game. What goals. What a racket! This one had it all. A torrential downpour. Fans raining punches down on each other before kick-off. A leaky roof. It was so wet they were out trying to sweep it away with brooms like the one Hack had to use whenever his porch flooded. Didn’t do much good there either. UEFA were handing out ponchos to the needy on the way into the stadium. But then they made everyone wait for 30 minutes out in the open in the queue for security at the mercy of the elements. One step forward, two steps back here in Germany. 

At least Hack is getting to see some football. He honestly wonders how much some visitors here do. For instance, Hack and a colleague found a quiet bar in Dusseldorf to enjoy England’s snoozefest opening game. Two England fans turned up just before kick-off and sat right in front of the screen. Hack says sat. Sway would be a better way to describe it. Both of them had obviously gone too hard too early and hadn’t allowed for what was obviously going to be a sleep-inducing performance. They were both snoring within 20 minutes. Which was possibly a little a harsh on Gareth Southgate and the boys, although by the end of the game Hack was tempted to join them in dozing off.  

Southgate may not be too popular with England fans but he isn’t very popular with fans of other countries either. Minding his own business on the U-Bahn, Hack was spotted by a Turkish fan who said: “Ahhh, English? When do they sack Southgate? He’s boring.” Hack had a similar conversation on the way to Cologne with a bunch of Scots who launched enough insults at the poor Englishman to make William Wallace proud. It was enough to make Hack hope they were among the 20 or so Scottish fans completely surrounded by Swiss in a small spot at one end of the stadium. When the Swiss equalised, a sea of red went bouncing up and down for a good few minutes all around them while those hardy 20 or so sat stony-faced and silent with their arms folded and their brows furrowed, muttering silent curses under the breaths. Nobody wants to get hit with a cow bell to the face after all. There was a Swiss journalist in the press box who looked like he was getting ready to deploy one at two technicians stood in front of him partially blocking his view. So enraged did he become at their inability to hear his loud requests to sit down that he started throwing things at them. He started with screwed up bits of paper and moved on to an article of clothing that appeared to be a fleece. Fearing he might be about to throw a shoe at them next, they sat down. 

The Scots have certainly been entertaining. Watching them all try to take a leak, drunk, in their kilts, in a stand-up urinal, was like watching a strange alien race conducting a social experiment. Or being in a zoo. And their banter has been good. As football chants go, one of Hack’s personal favourites was: “We’re gonna deep fry your Toblerone!” (They probably would). Sadly for the Scots, they still didn’t actually win. And the tram system completely broke down on the way out of the stadium, ditching the Tartan Army in no-man’s land, from where they had to walk back to the city. Hack had already made it on to a train back to Martin’s at this point. But the pictures of this exodus reminded Hack of the swarm of bees that needed rescuing from the Arena in Stuttgart by the fire brigade shortly before Germany’s match against Hungary. Whether the Scots buzz off early comes down to what they do in their final game now against the Hungarians. They’ll be singing about Proud Edward’s army again, for sure. But who will be left to think again?

House rules, flirty Jocks and the FIERY PIT OF HADES

Broken toilet sums up state of nation

OH Germany. What happened? Hack came here in 2006 and everything was wonderful. Now? Not so much… But more on that later. For now, let’s start at the beginning.

On Friday Hack set off via Eurostar for Euro2024 in Germany, for his first international tournament since Covid. It was the same day Scotland played the Germans, and by the time we reached Brussels they were everywhere. One particularly drunky one, fully decked out in Tartan kilt and sporran, was enjoying himself loudly bellowing at every lady he met on the train how beautiful they were, regardless of looks, age, or likelihood of them falling at his feet. Burly Kate, the strictly no-nonsense ticket inspector, was particularly unimpressed. “KATE! You are the most beautiful ticket inspector I’ve ever SEEEN!” He yelled enthusiastically. “I don’t care” she huffed, marching quickly on. What is it they say about that famous German sense of humour? Some of the Scots in Germany have been having fun singing “We hate England more than you” at the locals. “Scotland get battered, everywhere they go” ended up being more appropriate, after they were ripped to shreds by a ruthless display of German efficiency. Reader, it was about the only efficient thing Hack has seen here so far. 

The world’s media had already been warned about the trains. “You need to add an hour” is a common local comment. Taxis don’t seem to be much better as Hack’s couldn’t cope with any of the credit cards he used to try and pay for his fare to Martin the vegetarian’s.

Dear old Martin runs the cheapest Airbnb in town (Hack isn’t made of money you know). Limping around on a bad hip, he greeted Hack at his door illuminated dimly by only one small, half hidden lamp, and quickly confessed he doesn’t like football and didn’t know there was a tournament on. Not a promising start. His advert warned there were plenty of house rules. And Hack wasn’t allowed to even hear any of them until he had removed his shoes and promised not to set foot in any part of Martin’s flat without wearing a special pair of flip flops. 25 minutes later he had finished outlining the house rules. This included a demonstration of exactly how he wanted the toilet wiped down after each use and how he wanted Hack to scoop out any hair he might leave in the shower, plus a dizzying set of instructions for which of the three light switches to use in each room. The first word of his advert said “Vegetarian” and there is strictly no meat allowed on the premises. But the joke’s on you Martin because being the REBEL he is, Hack has already smuggled in a pack of beef jerky. As a local professor who has lived locally all his life, you would assume that Martin would at least know how to get around. Alas, he doesn’t use public transport of any kind, because despite being barely able to walk, he cycles everywhere. Martin also neither owns nor knows how to use a mobile phone, so keeping in contact could be challenging. Martin, as you may have guessed, is also living in the flat, and likes to draw a curtain across half of it for “privacy”. This has led Hack to have several awkward conversations with what for all intents and purposes has become a talking curtain. God knows what’s hiding behind there. It even extends outside the flat on to the balcony. Welcoming and nice as Martin is, he wakes up at 4 every morning, goes to bed at 9, and doesn’t like “revellers”. Strictly no revelling for Hack then.

When Hack was here in 2006, life was simple. Get to the stadium and a smiley volunteer would ferry you wherever you needed to go on a golf buggy. This time, there are no golf buggies, nothing is properly signposted, and while the volunteers still smile, they like to send you in completely the wrong direction – to one another in fact, on opposite sides of the stadium, as if they plotted pre-tournament to have some fun with the world’s poor unsuspecting media. Arrive at Gate 1. “You want the media centre? Hmm. Try gate 38”. A brisk 38-minute walk later across several major roads, some with disappearing pavements, at Gate 38. “You want the media centre? Hmm try gate 1”. In 2006, every media centre was full of freebies. You could even get a free massage. In 2024, there isn’t even a media centre. At least not in Dortmund, where the only media “work room” in the gaff is for photographers. “We have room for 50!” the smiley volunteer informed Hack impressively. Hack asked how many they were expecting. “Oh, at least 400!” Came the equally smiley reply. In 2006 you could work all day every day in the stadium of whichever city you were in. In 2024 you’re not even allowed in until “Matchday Minus One…”  

Dortmund is tonight’s venue for Italy v Albania. One of Hack’s first “media bookings.” These you have to apply for via the UEFA media website. Also known as THE FIERY PIT OF HADES WHERE TORTURED SOULS GO FOR ETERNAL TORMENT. Hack blanket bombed the bookings page weeks ago in a bid to go to as many games as possible, and as some bookings were in different cities on the same day, he has since had to cancel a couple (Hack didn’t like the sound of the “add an extra hour” on each train advice…). Sitting on the floor of a jam packed Dortmund station full of Albanians deleting  a booking for Sunday, Hack watched in horror as the FIERY PIT OF HADES appeared to delete ALL his media bookings, inform him he had NONE left for the rest of the tournament, and then crash. If it had been a volunteer, it would have been smiling. Hack certainly wasn’t. Thankfully it turned out to be a false alarm, but Hack can’t even log in to the PIT now without a horrible sense of dread engulfing his whole body. This is probably how Martin felt, hiding behind his curtain, when Hack gently warned him he wouldn’t be getting back from Dortmund until at least 2am. Although based on the hours Martin keeps, and the state of German trains, this might end up being just in time to join him for breakfast.

Hack does Naples. Featuring Unai Emery and angry horns

 

“Here, we have acoustic traffic lights,” said Hack’s taxi driver. “When they go green, everyone honks their horn.” And he’s right. This is the soundtrack to Naples. Not the gunfire from the latest Mafia-related violence or the siren song of Partenope, who tried to lure Odysseus to his death on the rocks of a nearby island with her seductive singing voice. But the sound of the angry horn. Which sounds a bit rude if you dwell on it too long.

 

Neapolitans can be pretty rude, to be fair. From the Napoli fans who lobbed missiles at the referee at half time with their side in trouble against Arsenal, to the local pickpocket who robbed a fellow Hack’s wallet in broad daylight.

 

So it’s a good job we had the ever-entertaining Unai Emery’s sparkling personality to cheer us up after sitting in traffic for what seemed like half a day. Yes, the Arsenal manager’s press conferences are becoming the most sought-after sick day on Fleet Street, with even the most experienced turd-polishers struggling at times to make his brief, dull, sleep-inducing gibberish sound vaguely interesting.

 

Poor old Unai. Even when provoked he struggles to find anything worthwhile to say. Another hack asked him once why everyone was talking about the likes of Klopp and Pochettino, and why no-one was talking about him, and whether he needed to work on his PR. Instead of launching into a nice rant about the indignity of it all, or defending himself with charm and wit, he pondered this conundrum for a while (after his interpreter had explained it to him), and replied: “We speak about me in my house.”

 

Thanks for that Unai.

 

But if Emery is enough to make a hack desperate for a line feel sick to his or her stomach, it’s not as sick as one of Hack’s colleagues felt on arrival in Naples. So poorly was said colleague, they barely made it into the hotel before emptying the contents of their stomach in the toilet. Hack managed to avoid such a fate. And he ate the shellfish.

 

Most of Naples resembles a building site. Construction work everywhere. But nothing actually going on. Like that coned-off bit of the motorway full of diggers and trucks with no-one in them that you always shuffle slowly past in a big queue back home. Hack’s taxi driver said they were building a new station. When will it be finished? “Oh, never,” he replied. “They’ve been trying to build it for about 20 years.” Which is about as long as an Emery press conference feels.

 

Anyway, Arsenal escaped with a rare away win, thanks to Alexandre Lacazette. No-one was stabbed or shot. And Hack somehow ended up flying home in Business Class, where he took full advantage of the free beer and whisky. Salute Naples, Salute Unai Emery. One day we will find out something interesting about you, even if we have to get our angry horns out to do it.

 

Please don’t throw stuff, we’re English

Mesut Ozil, Misery and Metallica in Minsk

SWIRLING snow. Sub-zero temperatures. And no sign of the sun. At all. It must be Belarus in February. Yes, Hack gets all the best trips.

No wonder Mesut Ozil couldn’t make it. He trained and everything. But bless him, he had been ill. Not as ill as Hack felt when his luggage didn’t arrive at Minsk airport though. Don’t ever lose your luggage on the way to Belarus comrades. There are FORMS.

Hack counted at least four, which all had to be filled out in painstaking detail, on threat of imprisonment, dismemberment or stern frowns if any mistakes were made. One of them even had to be filled out twice (“We don’t have Xerox” she said…).

It was almost like Hack’s driver knew, as the second track he put on once the car left the airport car park was Misery by the Beatles. “My football team is Barcelona. They have one very good player. Maybe you know?” Hmmm, Thomas Vermaelen? “What is your football team? Everton? I do NOT know this team. Where they from? Ahhh LIVERPOOL! the BEATLES! My father LOVES the Beatles!”

Cue 45 minutes of Beatlemania, Belarus style. Interspersed with some animated chat about how his son was one day going to be an Olympic champion swimmer. Hack’s driver (his name was Alexander), even started showing Hack pics of said child prodigy on his mobile. “This is him before swimming” (shot of slightly tubby teen with man boobs) “This AFTER” (shot of muscle-bound hunk – making Hack wonder what they put in the water in Belarussian pools).

Ozil could do with a few laps in one of those pools. He looks like a gust of wind might blow might him over. When you see him that is. Which you rarely do for Arsenal any more. For £350,000-a-week he does seem to spend a lot of time with his very expensive feet up. Maybe Unai Emery is jealous. Who knows?

A huge platter of pickled herring and a couple of Leffe Blondes later and Hack was feeling a little better about life, even if he couldn’t change his clothes or brush his fishy teeth as all of his clothes and toiletries were still in Warsaw.

Never fear, though. Alexander was on hand to drive him back to the airport the next day to collect the missing bag. Turns out Alexander is also in a band. Several power ballads he wrote for his wife and a ropey cover of Enter Sandman by Metallica later, and Hack was finally free to begin the search for “Lost Luggage.”

This involved asking at Information, who sent him to the wrong floor, and asking a Vladimir Putin lookalike in a pilot’s uniform, who led him through a dimly-lit corridor, around a corner, through another dimly-lit corridor, up some stairs, down some stairs, down some more stairs, through a building site, down an even more dimly-lit corridor (by which time Hack had started wondering if they were actually heading for the INTERROGATION CHAMBER) and eventually into a tiny room full of dishevelled, miserable-looking bags, one of which was Hacks.

Minsk is the third cleanest city in the world apparently. Behind Singapore and Tokyo. Whoever decided that had obviously never seen the Lost Luggage room in the airport, covered as it was in a thick layer of dust. Hack hopes Arsenal’s Europa League hopes don’t bite the dust here against BATE Borisov. If only because Petr Cech has spent so long saying he wants to end his career by winning a trophy this season that he’s going to look a bit silly if he has to come out of retirement for next summer’s Emirates Cup.

Somewhere down there is a lost bag

From Russia, with love

 

WHAT a difference two years makes. Back then they were torching cars and setting fire to rubbish in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower and fighting running battles with riot police down the Champs Elysee.

 

All smiles now though, aren’t they, the French? This time they won. And this time it was an even bigger prize. Hack actually saw it, the World Cup trophy, as Raphael Varane cradled it through the mixed zone lovingly like a fragile newborn babe. Just as well he did really as foul-machine Dejan Lovren was lurking about somewhere and probably would have broken it with an elbow or shoulder charge.

 

Can’t say they don’t deserve it really. Allez Les Bleus and all that. “It’s coming home” Olivier Giroud said, mocking us English island monkeys with our newly crushed dreams, the swine. But they were the best team. Not the prettiest. About as pretty as Gerard Depardieu after four bottles of red in fact. But the one with the least flaws.

 

The French have already departed, and Hack goes home tomorrow. Finally. It’s been a long slog. But a fabulous one nonetheless. It hasn’t been flawless, this World Cup. But compared to the paranoid, poorly policed hooligan-fest of Euro 2016 it has been a dream. And it ended with a final worthy of what many are calling the best World Cup ever.

 

Russia has certainly enjoyed it. “You can’t imagine how much Russia will miss all these days” one of the lovely volunteers told Hack. They won’t be the only ones. Thousands of people from all over the world got to see Russians for what they really are – unbelievably warm, welcoming people who want soooo badly to just be friends with us.

 

Hack has lost count of the amount of times local men have insisted on sharing a vodka with him. Most of them making their intentions clear with big hand gestures and drunken grins because they didn’t speak a word of English. One of them kept giving Hack manly hugs at the bar last night, and even kissed him ecstatically on the cheek at one point and shouted: “FRIENDS” (the one word of English Hack managed to teach him).

 

Some fans who came here genuinely did seem to believe there would be bears roaming the streets and racists on every corner. They’ve all left pleasantly surprised. Especially the German who was staying in Hack’s latest Airbnb before him, went out every night for two weeks, fell madly in love with a Russian girl and didn’t want to go home. He’ll be back. And so should everyone else to be fair. Russia is not exactly one of the world’s top tourist destinations. But it should be.

 

Hack didn’t think he could ever get a warmer welcome to another country than he did in Rio four years ago. Well. Sorry Rio (and Debora and Lucas and Raquel and all the other wonderful people Hack met there), but Moscow has blown you out of the water.

 

The sad thing is, Hack knows that once the dust settles and we’ve all gone, the party will be over. And because things are never quite what they seem here, the party may have been a bit of an illusion anyway. There’s a Peter the Great statue in Moscow that was actually meant to be Christopher Columbus. But the artist couldn’t flog it so he chopped off the head, turned it into old Pete, and donated it to the city instead. So in the cold light of day, all those hooligans we were told were shaving their heads and rubbing their vicious hands together at the prospect of hundreds of English turning up in Moscow can now return from Siberia, or wherever they were sent while the World Cup was on. The police can abandon the hands-off, softly-softly approach they were ordered to observe for the finals and go back to beating people with sticks and throwing them in the back of the van. And Putin can go back to being Big Bad Vlad and not the nice old baldy under the umbrella handing out medals.

 

Hack has been told many things by the people here. Some of them would like to change things. But the risks are great. A few years back there was a wave of protests, followed by a wave of arrests. The state remains a big and powerful thing. Yet every single person Hack has spoken to is on some level proud to be Russian. Because for them it’s the Russian people that defines them, not their government. It’s the warmth of their spirit, their hospitality, and their singing and dancing on the streets at 5 o’clock in the morning. Sadly, many of them also say they want to leave Russia. To live and work in another country.

 

So while this World Cup has been a massively good thing for Russia’s image (and how the big man must love that), it hasn’t been a fair reflection of the real Russia. A glimpse of what it could be perhaps. But not exactly reality. And yet… All these Russians. They’ve had a close-up look at the outside world these last few weeks. They’ve shattered the tired old stereotypes about Russians being a cold, hard, dangerous people, and they’ve made new friends. Millions of people in this country don’t even own a passport. Some of them might start applying for one now. And the ones that want to stay, who aren’t ready to give up on their country just yet and still want to help change things in their own small way, one day they might just be the ones running the show. Maybe that’s a pipe dream. But let’s clutch at that straw for a second. Because if they are, they will remember how beautiful Russia has been these last few weeks. And they might just make a difference.

 

 

Farewell Comrades