Unquestionably, the finest football journalist in Britain today is Patrick Barclay of “The Times.” Not only did he once spend the first two paragraphs of a match report on Sheffield Wednesday versus Watford in the Wilkinson and Taylor eras, discussing Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting For Godot,” he also invoked the spirit of Voltaire when debating Vinnie Jones’s disciplinary problems on Sky TV with Brian Woolnough of “The Sun,” which is more than enough to garner hero worship from me. Perhaps the most apposite of Paddy’s aphorisms is his claim that his favourite ever tournament was Euro 1984, when Platini’s France ran riot, as the absence of British teams meant that he could enjoy the football without considering how events on and off the pitch would have to be refracted through the mirror of jaundiced jingoism. As Paddy is a native Dundonian, he has had many opportunities to enjoy international tournaments without his bravehearted countrymen spoiling things for him.
In the absence of Ireland, scandalously cheated of a place in the finals by Gallic chicanery, I watched World Cup 2010 with something akin to the disinterested eyes Barclay had in Paris 1984. While the People’s Democratic Republic of Korea were the team I picked out in the work sweepstake and provided politically compelling reasons to follow them, their 32nd place in the FIFA Merit Table tells its own story. Slovakia, where I lived for two years, were a more realistic option and their slaying of the loathsome Italians provided the tournament’s keynote game, though Dutch efficiency (had we ever heard that phrase prior to this tournament?) did for them in the last 16. Consequently I was able to watch each subsequent game on its merits until the final itself (and the third and fourth place play off that nobody admits to seeing but which is always top notch), by which time I was away on holiday.
Where did I go? Spain, allegedly. I flew to Bilbo (Bilbao) and stayed in Gasteiz (Vitoria) in Euskadi (the Basque Country). Having missed out on Newcastle’s UEFA Cup game at the San Mames because of work back in 1994, I decided to combine a break with research to find out for myself how this (as I was to discover) beautiful, idyllic, welcoming part of the world would respond to Spain’s appearance in the World Cup final.
I arrived on the Friday before the game and was immediately struck by the total absence of Spanish flags and football shirts in Bilbao, where all road and shop signs were in Euskerra (Basque) with Spanish in smaller letters underneath. Vitoria is slightly more Spanish, both culturally and ethnically, though the Basque University has its headquarters in this gorgeous, grand city. On the Saturday night, those watching the Uruguay v Germany bronze medal game in the marvellous Groucho Bar favoured the Latin Americans, presumably on account of a shared history of Castillian oppression, or possibly because new Germany are still universally mistrusted. After “Deutschland Uber Alles,” one customer turned to the barman and said, “now I feel like invading Poland.”
On the day of the final, I started to notice a few Spanish shirts, but they were exclusively on the backs of teenagers. I’m not sure if my eyes deceived me, but it appeared that an inordinate number of blokes were wearing orange as a subliminal message, including 6 holidaying Dutch students in Van Der Vaart and Sneijder replica tops. The first Spanish flag I saw was hanging outside the Town Hall in Vitoria’s main plaza where we chose to watch the game on a huge screen, near the monument to the Battle of Vitoria, when the British and Portuguese routed Napoleon in 1813 to end the Peninsula War and free Basques from the burden of having to speak French.
As kick off approached, the plaza filled up. Thousands of happy young people and a smattering of older blokes, many of whom were immigrants in the shirts of their native country; Colombia, Chile, Morocco, accompanied by their children who wore Spanish flags and tops, made up the crowd. This was not Francoism; this was a new Spain, similar to how the German team with Ozul, Podolski and Boateng had embraced and celebrated the multi-cultural, multi-ethnic composition of the country. To be honest the Spanish side hadn’t, but with 10 Catalans in the starting line up, what the hell?
The party atmosphere solemnised briefly as the National Anthems were played. ITV’s Peter Drury remarked that none of the Spanish players sang along with theirs; well, as “Marcha Real” is an instrumental, a situation necessary to avoid inflaming regional and linguistic sensitivities, they wouldn’t, would they? In contrast, Holland’s utterly bizarre “Het Wilhelmus,” which appears to share a tune with “Little Town of Bethlehem,” comprises 15 verses in which singers are required to pretend to be William of Orange and contains the line “den Konig van Hispanje heb ik altijd geeerd” (“the King of Spain I have always honoured”) was lustily belted out by the team with the same gusto they attacked Spanish shins for the next 2 hours. Post anthem, an incredible roar went up and it was game on.
Then, no football was played for 116 minutes until a palpably offside Iniesta scored and everything went crazy. Fireworks, screaming, tears; it was like being back in Belfast in the early 80s without the rain. Seriously, despite two deaths elsewhere in the country (one fell off a balcony, one drowned in a fountain), it was a genuine pleasure to behold; the naïve, innocent joy of the youthful fans, the blaring of car horns and the free beer in the pubs (provided by a barman in a snide Man Utd top with RONNEY on the back in one instance) made me feel honoured to be there. Spanish passion had won me over.
As the first World Cup I remember is 1974, I had gone with a residual affection for Holland, even if Cruyff himself had expressed a preference for Spain (based on a great respect for manager and Gordon Kaye lookalike Vincente Del Bosque, whom he described not an “un hombre” but “un senor”). However, such pro Dutch feelings soon evaporated as the crowd in the plaza greeted each despicable foul with baying choruses of “hijo da puta.” Particular scorn was poured on Howard Webb, who was regularly referred to as a “payaso del mierda” (“shitty clown”) as he failed to reduce the Netherlands to a 5 a side team. Post match Webb was the object of abuse from both sides, especially from a drunk and incoherent Louis Van Gaal who proved on Spanish TV, when being interviewed by former Liverpool and Brighton forward Michael Robinson who is the country’s main football pundit that he’d forgotten all the language and manners he’d learned while in charge at Barcelona. The abuse of Webb continued in the Spanish (and apparently Dutch) media for days afterwards. Frankly remembering the goal from Mark Viduka he disallowed in May 2009 that condemned Newcastle to a home defeat by Fulham and consequently relegation from the Premier League, I had no sympathy for Webb. Petty? Me!
One of the most heartwarming sights in the early hours of the morning was Puyol and Fabregas, at almost 2.30am South African time, sat in training kits enjoying bottles of San Miguel by the side of the pitch at Soccer City. The lads had earned it. They also had plenty more partying to do as Spanish TV followed their return in minute detail. Bizarrely for a British audience, it appeared that Pepe Reina isn’t simply a competent Premiership keeper or the Liverpool player most likely to score for Spain at this tournament; he is the non-playing court jester of the squad. While captain Iker Casillas, whose girlfriend is Spain’s second most important football pundit, dons the gloves and lifts the trophy, Pepe wears silly hats, does funny walks and daft impressions, as well as persuading Fabregas to wear a Barca shirt at the team’s reception on arrival back in Madrid. Not to mention asking Wimbledon champion Nadal; “what are you doing here? None of us hang around with you when you win.”
The wall-to-wall 48 hour TV coverage post final showed that new Spain has unquestionably come of age; wracked by economic crises and incompetently governed by a centre-right coalition (sound familiar?) the country may be, but 35 years after Franco’s death, this win can act as a unifying social force and a final exorcism of the past, even if 21 were arrested in Barcelona and 2 in Bilbao, where cars flying Basque flags drove through the town, for protesting against Spain’s victory, not to mention reports of foreigners supporting Spain being attacked in Donostie. In Vitoria, on the other hand, it was the Basque radicals who had to be quick on their toes to avoid a stiff talking to in casco viejo.
Next time, a mazy dribble through club football in Euskadi itself, featuring Darren Peacock, a QPR fan from Vitoria, Reading’s U17 women’s team and the mysterious opening hours of the Alaves Club shop.
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