It was dogshit.
Sau Paulo was cold and wet, the stadium was fucking miles from anywhere and not finished – the hangover was taking its time to fade and we were surrounded by geordies. The crowd full of Admiral retro shirts and Sergio Tachini tracky tops making the temporary cold stand open to the freezing elements feel timeless. All we wanted was a win, I had lowered my expectations so very far - I had tried to detach my enjoyment from the result but as the game neared I couldn’t help but link everything positive and happy and wonderful in the world to getting a result. There wasn't.
There was a goal at least, 30 seconds of jumping and shouting and hugging and love for the entire universe prompting a few minutes of optimism and happiness soon to be undone by Suarez, who else...?
The journey home involved getting a train to find our taxis and dinner at a restaurant with a tree in it - gin and wine – a cork in our neighbouring tables salad lightened the mood briefly and we got stuck in…soon after we found ourselves at a nightclub where many of the very beautiful patrons would have sex with you for money if you wanted them to, some of them more than one at a time I am told.
I couldn’t help thinking that for that moment, for that entire day, and maybe for many years, I had been looking for pleasure in the entirely wrong place.
Russia 2018? No fucking way.