There are few taxis in Al Hofuf. Those that do appear tend to fire past you with a look of repulsion in their eyes. It was a Friday evening in the mid size desert oasis town and we were standing by the side of the road. Nabeel threw out an arm, and within seconds a white Toyota truck came to a halt next to us. The briefest of negotiations took place and we all climbed in.
The line that greeted us on Copacabana beach stretched so far that we didn’t even bother finding the end. Instead we nestled ourselves in front of the second screen. The crowd was still thin – but overwhelmingly Argentinian. A lone German stood proudly behind us in his speedos, a German flag fluttering gently beside him.
At a certain unspecified point I stopped hating German football, and – whisper it – started to quite like it. As an Englishman, albeit an Anglo-Franco one, we are bred with niggling feelings towards our noisy cousins across the sea.