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So how come I didn’t know about this football thing before? It’s great. Or at least it is when you’re there. I still can’t imagine myself watching it on telly, but I’ve never felt so tense, excited, disappointed, elated and keyed up all at the same time as I did last night.

The stadium was packed. 65,000 people, screaming and yelling for one team or the other, and at times it was deafening. As the Portuguese span their green scarves around and around you could feel the rush of air as it whipped around your ears. As the four drummers at the very top of the structure (would you call that the gods?) banged their drums, the English chanted back at them, drowning out the far more tuneful Portuguese songs by dint of the fact there were 40,000 of us, and only 25,000 of all the other nationalities combined.

All around the terraces, on every level, English flags with the names of clubs from right around the country were draped over the sides, like bed-sheets hung out to dry on a multi-million euro line, and we were so close to the pitch that we could look up and see all of those above us and on the rows below, chanting and singing and waving their arms in the air.

The first English goal came almost too soon for us to notice, but it and each that followed was greeted by a deafening roar from the crowd, as the mass of people bounced up and down in joy or despair, and the drummers started on again with their banging, or the crowd lapsed into a staccato rendition of the theme from the Great Escape.

Of course, all of this is small beer to regular football goers, but to Mark and I, on our first game each, and Ashley on his third, it was still something novel. The 90 minutes of the match and the 30 minutes of extra time in which they battled to pick out a winner flew by. Before we knew it, the players were lining up to take penalty kicks at the goal in the hope of eliminating their opponents. Beckham’s naff attempt went flying off into the middle of nowhere and until about the fourth Portuguese attempt we were one goal behind. They levelled it off at four each and you could feel the tension in the air right around the stadium, like the heavy static buzz that precedes the start of a storm.

England missed another one, and then it was the turn of the Portuguese goalie to lob his boot at the ball. It sailed through the air, and so did out goalie, but they shot off in opposite directions and the ball slammed into the back of the net, sending the Portuguese crowd wild.

There was screaming and yelling and the blowing of whistles and it sounded for a moment like someone had opened the gates to hell. The high-pitch whine rose and rose until it felt like it would tear apart the skin of your ears, and then the green and red flags and scarves were back up in the air, being flapped around and sending a warm fast wind swirling around the banked stadium.

Me, in the sponsors’ village, reflected in Mark’s glasses

We turned around and hugged and shook hands with the Portuguese fans behind us, wishing them luck with the rest of the tournament as they thanked us for a good game, and then pootled back to the sponsors village where we’d eaten a dinner of sea bass and rabbit and duck (and there was I thinking football was all about beer and pies) to drink and talk about the game, and then get back into our coach for the slow drive to our hotel.

The streets were filled with singing, chanting and dancing fans waving flags in the air, hanging off lamp posts, running out from their houses and into the midst of the static traffic, or hanging precariously from the windows of their cars. When it was clear we were going nowhere fast they opened the doors of their vehicles and partied in the street, waving at us as most of us waved back.

One or two of our group, of course (the ones who couldn’t see beyond the fact we’d lost and appreciate the fact we’d all had a fantastic time) disparaged them, calling it pathetic and saying that they were behaving as though they’d won the whole tournament. I didn’t point out to them that if it was been us who had won we’d have been doing precisely the same thing. Hypocrites.

Anyhow, it was they who went to bed with depression when we got back, while the rest of us headed out into the streets to celebrate with the people of Lisbon.

I can’t help but feel glad that we lost. The party atmosphere was amazing, and if it hadn’t been a win for the home team nobody would be out celebrating. As it was, though, the main street that lead down through the centre of the city to the sea was crammed full of people; men, women and children draped in the national flag, or with their faces painted up in stripes of red and green.

The street was filled with several thousand celebrating fans

Every statue and light fitting was lost beneath a mass of people climbing up its facing. Footballs were being kicked high up above our heads and falling into the crowd, only to be picked up and kicked again so that they bounced up and down among the seething mass of people like lottery balls popping out of Lancelot. The braver elements lit flares and fireworks and held them up above their heads, waving them over the crowd so that the air was filled with white smoke, and all the while the only two police officers we saw just looked on from the sidelines.

There was no suggestion it might turn nasty, and it didn’t matter that we were apparently obviously English. The locals talked to us in our own language, sang with us, and carried us on down the road with them towards the station as a million people, seemingly co-ordinated by some invisible force, wandered on towards the square where, earlier in the day, the English flags that had been strung up around the stadium had been laced up to the lamp posts and fountains. Then, it had been an English enclave in the middle of the city, but now it had been reclaimed by the people of Lisbon. The English flags had gone and the fountains, on the edges of which the English fans bad been sitting earlier in the day were now filled with empty bottles and the near-naked bodies of the fitter fans, drenching each other as they jumped and danced in the water, celebrating their win.

Earlier in the day, the square had been full of English flags

We slowly made our way back up the hill towards the hotel some time around half two this morning, feeling thoroughly drained, and fell into our beds. I’ve had my fair share of press trips, but of them all, in the last seven years, this is the one that I will perhaps remember the most vividly. To spend a night like that with some of your best friends, and to finally understand what it is people see in the bizarre game of football in a beautiful city like Lisbon takes some beating.

Me liking Lisbon

This entry was posted on Friday, June 25th, 2004 at 11:59 pm and is filed under Europe, Journal, Picture story. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.