Subscribe now

For the past two weeks, the stupidest people on the internet have been trying to claim that the World Cup was fixed for Argentina. As a result, I’ve decided to tell the story of a game I saw that actually was fixed, that I attended completely by chance.

In July 2023, I was on a trip around the Balkans watching football, taking in the varied culture of the region, accidentally ordering the biggest mozzarella sticks in history, and wondering if I was brave enough to jump off the famous bridge in Mostar, Bosnia (I wasn’t).

The trip was supposed to end in Greece, however the country was suffering from severe wildfires at the time, and not even the best hotel air-con in the world could help if everything was on fire.

As a result, the trip pivoted to end in Podgorica in Montenegro. Of course, I found a football match. I always find a football match. Arsenal Tivat were playing in the first round of qualifying in the Europa Conference League, with their opposition being FC Alashkert of Armenia. If you were wondering, their name has nothing to do with the English Arsenal, instead coming from a nearby naval repair base. With their stadium not meeting the requirements to host a UEFA fixture, they were instead playing about 80km away in Podgorica. Perfect!

Even as someone who loves to attend a niche football match, this was really niche. When I asked the woman working on reception in the hotel if I would be able to get tickets for the match or it would be already sold out, she laughed for about 15 minutes, before telling me there was a strong chance I might be the only person in the stadium.

Anyone who uses the groundhopping app Futbology knows that this wouldn’t be true, as no matter where in the world you go, you’ll always find a middle aged German man who is the 3rd biggest supporter of Energie Cottbus who already checked in to the game at 9am.

Out of interest, I looked up the other Futbology users who were there, and the crowd was made up of supporters of Llantwit Major AFC, Molde FK, St Pauli, Sporting Charleroi, Hamburg x2 and Fortuna Koln.

Podgorica has one stadium which is right in the middle of the old town, a lovely walk and in close proximity to the various bars and restaurants the city has to offer. It also has a stadium in the middle of nowhere, which involves driving for miles through the kind of landscape which resembles something you’d see on a Netflix documentary about where a murder victim was left undiscovered for 19 years. I think you already know which of the two stadiums the game was played at.

After convincing a taxi driver that I was going to a football match rather than covering up a crime, I arrived to a very sparse looking crowd. A quick online search tells me that the attendance was 479, which sounds plausible if you include all the staff, substitutes, and various bugs that happened to fly through the stadium during the game.

Despite the fact that two days ago I had no intention of being at this game and didn’t know either team existed, my expectations were high. Montenegro would be the 53rd country I had seen a game in, and there was everything to play for due to the first leg finishing 1-1. I was expecting to see a close game, likely resulting in a home victory.

I’m still not quite sure what I saw, but it definitely wasn’t that.

Tivat being in the Conference League at all was a bit of a fairytale, as they had qualified in their first ever season in the top flight - having spent most of their history in the lower leagues, and being in the regional leagues as recently as 2018. The tie vs. Alashkert was their first ever game in Europe, and as it would turn out, probably their last.

I didn’t know this at the time, but before kick off there were massive sums of money being placed on the match, with the game attracting a level of attention far beyond what you would expect for such an early round tie between sides from Montenegro and Armenia.

From the evidence released by UEFA, the bets were not being placed on who would win or lose, but instead the number of goals that would be scored in each half. It should also be said that Alashkert appear to have had nothing to do with the scandal, with none of their players or staff punished.

One of the common bets that was being placed was 2 or more goals in the first half, and after 39 minutes it was 0-0. Alashkert then score two of the worst goals you’ve ever seen, with the goalkeeper effectively jumping out of the way of the ball, and defenders slowing down to make sure they don’t catch up with the attacker. If you need any more proof of Alashkert not being involved with the fix, their players look absolutely baffled at how bad the defending is.

Even as someone who knew basically nothing about the standard of football in Montenegro, the goals were so bad that it was impossible to put them down to Arsenal simply being rubbish. In sadly long lost WhatsApp messages, I remember texting my dad that it felt like I was either watching a fixed game, or the home team had all been spiked with LSD before kick off.

The second half was even worse, as these supposedly Conference League level players defended in a way that wouldn’t be acceptable in the 7th tier of Welsh football.

Clearly, the scoreline hadn’t reached the level required going into stoppage time, as two more terrible goals were conceded to make the final score 6-1.

If you don’t watch the full video, make sure you at least watch the fifth goal, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen

If the first few goals hadn’t been clear enough, by full time it was blatantly clear that Arsenal had lost on purpose. A betting scandal was the obvious answer, although I also wondered if perhaps they had realised they didn’t have the money for an extended European adventure, and made sure they lost ASAP to save on flights, hotels and other logistics that come with European football.

It was no shock when I saw the news two years later that UEFA had concluded the game was fixed, with Arsenal banned from European football for 10 years, and bans for life for one player and one club official. Two other players also received 10 year bans, and a fine of half a million Euros was imposed. The only surprise was that it had taken so long to reach this conclusion - as I had already known the game was fixed by the 75th minute.

Having had low expectations, it turned out to be an absolutely hilarious day out, with entrance and three pints costing less than €10, with the added bonus of not being on fire in Greece.

If you’re wondering how the sides have got on since then, Alashkert lost the next round on penalties, and haven’t yet returned to Europe, while Tivat are now a relegation battler, having finished 7th, 8th, and 7th (out of 10) in the seasons since their feeble attempt at getting away with corruption.

So no, the World Cup isn’t fixed, but I saw a game that was, and it was really funny.

Subscribe now

Subscribe now for free by selecting ‘No Pledge’, unless you really want to give me money!

In January 2000, I sat in front of the TV watching Manchester United’s legendary treble winning side get absolutely humped by Vasco da Gama, and suddenly I had a favourite Brazilian team.

This was before social media introduced us to superstar players the instant they broke through, and there was far less football available to watch on TV, especially matches from outside of Europe. This meant I had never seen the two men who bagged the goals, Romario and Edmundo (who had five different spells at Vasco and the elite footballer nickname of ‘The Animal’) play before apart from at the 1998 World Cup, and was blown away by both the talent and skill of the Brazilian team, but also the crazy atmosphere in the stands at Maracana.

If you have a read of the ‘controversies’ section of Edmundo’s Wikipedia page, it tells you everything you need to know that “getting a chimpanzee called Pedrinho drunk on beer and whiskey” isn’t even close to the biggest scandal during his career.

While Edmundo is far from being a great role model, Vasco as a club certainly is.

Vasco is said to have the most diverse fanbase in Brazilian football, and this definitely felt true from my visit to the stadium earlier this year. In terms of the shirts you would see walking around Rio, it’s pretty undeniable that Flamengo is the biggest in the city. However, having watched both Flamengo and Vasco play live, the first thing that comes to mind is this meme:

Flamengo was brilliant, but if I lived in Rio (and I would really like to do that if anyone is offering), I would be Vasco.

Football is religion in Brazil, and when you go to a match you can see people of every type of background and social class. But it wasn’t always that way, and Vasco played a monumental part in destroying the racial boundaries that dogged the sport in the early 1920’s. At this time, football was seen as a sport purely for rich white people. Vasco rejected this, and fielded a starting XI in the 1923 championship that featured six black, three white, and two mixed-race players.

These players were not just of different races from the other teams, but also different classes - featuring players who were dockworkers, taxi drivers, painters and more.

Vasco won 12 and drew 1 of their 14 games, winning the league by six points (in an era where you only got 2 points for a win), becoming champions for the very first time and humiliating the other elitist clubs. Their victory was even more impressive as it was their first season in the top flight, having won promotion from the second division the year before.

The fallout was immediate, with the other clubs demanding that Vasco remove a total of 12 players from their ranks, all of them black. While race was not the reason given for removing these players, it couldn’t have been much more obvious that this was the real reason for the other clubs’ opposition to them.

Vasco refused, with the president José Augusto Prestes stating “it would not be dignified or human to sacrifice those who have given us so many victories.” As a result, there were two Brazilian championships played in 1924, with all the other big clubs breaking away to form their own league - which Vasco refused to be part of. Instead they remained part of the original league, where they won all 16 matches - scoring 46 goals and only conceding 9.

Despite being the only of the big clubs to play in this particular league, such was the popularity of Vasco that the attendances for their matches were far greater. The refusal of Vasco to back down meant that the proposed rules that would exclude black players were dropped, and a unified league championship was once again held in 1926, with Vasco missing out on the title by a single point.

The leadership of Vasco saw Santos introduce black players in that season, and by the 1930’s a cultural revolution swept through Brazilian football, as both Flamengo and Botafogo would no longer choose players by race, but by ability.

When you think about the players such as Pele, Garrincha and later Ronaldo and Rivaldo that made Brazilian football iconic around the world, all of this can be traced back by Vasco’s refusal to back down.

There is so much more that could be said about Vasco’s history and social identity, but the main thing you need to know is they’re cool as fuck, I like them, and so should you.

When I landed in Rio, my Uber driver barely spoke a word of English, and I barely spoke a word of Portuguese. Speaking in my broken Spanish, we established that he was a Vasco supporter, and we communicated for the entire 25 minute ride by naming Vasco players such as Juninho Pernambucano, Coutinho, Bebeto, and of course, the two legends who helped topple Manchester United. An absolutely peak Uber experience, and if I could have given 6 stars, I would.

So, to the game itself, and it felt like it was going to be a good one. The opposition were Olimpia, the biggest club in Paraguay and also one of only two clubs from Paraguay I could name (for the 3 of you interested, the other one is Sportivo Luqueño, who I only know because they play in the same colours as my team and are nicknamed ‘the pig’) if asked.

Sadly it was in the Copa Sudamericana rather than the Libertadores, with Vasco currently quite some distance from their golden eras in the 20’s and 90’s. Still, the two positives of this were that the game would be played at their true spiritual home of São Januário (some bigger games such as derbies or Libertadores games are played at Maracana), and tickets would be easier to come by.

Something I didn’t know was that one of the symbols of Vasco was a pirate, something which ended up costing me a great deal in the club shop, as I bought just about everything they had which featured a pirate on it.

Another thing I didn’t know is that the most delicious thing you can eat in the entire world isn’t found at a Michelin Star restaurant, it’s ‘Queijo Coalho’ from a barbecue outside of a Brazilian football stadium. I ordered another one about 30 seconds after finishing my first one, and gave serious thought as to if I could make a living from running a YouTube channel reviewing fried cheese on a stick in Brazil. Being a vegetarian can be quite tricky in Brazil, but while these exist you’ll never be sad.

This wasn’t my first match in Brazil, so the facial recognition system for tickets wasn’t completely new, but it still felt very weird. For the past few years Brazil’s top clubs have replaced paper, and even digital tickets with simply looking into a camera to enter the stadium. Maybe if you do it every week it feels normal, but I hate it and it was pretty much the only aspect of Brazilian football I didn’t like.

Having successfully forfeited my right to privacy I was through security, where I made my third excellent discovery of the evening. If pirates and cheese wasn’t enough, every Vasco game featured an hour of samba before the match, with popular Brazilian songs reworked to feature Vasco related lyrics. I genuinely believe that both Brazilians and Argentinians enjoy being alive way more than we do in Europe, and this sheer happiness at existing was clear to be seen as they danced away the minutes before kick off.

My Portuguese is way worse than my Spanish, so it wasn’t as easy to understand exactly what was being sung, but it definitely felt like there was a high level of variety in Vasco’s chants. Diego Maradona once famously said that San Lorenzo had the most creative supporters in the world. It could well be true, but Vasco won’t be far off.

I had got chatting with a Vasco supporter who was clearly confused why a gringo was there by himself to watch the game, and he warned me that the coach was not playing the strongest team, with an ongoing relegation battle taking priority. He was concerned I might have come all this way to see Vasco get battered, but the outcome turned out to be quite the opposite.

It was as if I was transported back to 2000, when Vasco looked like the best team in the world as they banished the likes of Giggs, Stam and Keane from the tournament. After creating a wave of chances, they finally took the lead about 5 minutes before half time.

I had learned from my new friend that Vasco have a chant they sing after each goal, and all he told me was “it’s really long”. There’s no career for him in marketing, because he completely undersold it.

The chant is amazing, and there isn’t a single voice within the stadium that doesn’t join in. As with most chants, it doesn’t sound as good when translated, but here’s a rough translation anyway:

Atenção, Vascaínos! (Uh!)

Quem é o time de terra e mar? (Vasco!)

Quem é o time de terra e mar? (Vasco!)

Casaca! (Casaca!)

Casaca, casaca, casaca!

A turma é boa! É mesmo da fuzarca!

No contra-ataque! (No contra-ataque!)

No contra-ataque, contra-ataque, contra-ataque!

O Vasco é gol! O Vasco é gol, é gol, é gol!

(Or the classic ending):

Na terra, no mar!

Vasco da Gama é quem vai ganhar!

Vasco! Vasco! Vasco!

—-

Attention, Vasco fans! (Uh!)

Who is the team of land and sea? (Vasco!)

Who is the team of land and sea? (Vasco!)

Casaca! (Casaca!)

Casaca, casaca, casaca!

The team is good! It’s really a party!

On the counter-attack! (On the counter-attack!)

On the counter-attack, counter-attack, counter-attack!

On land, on sea!

Vasco da Gama is the one who will win!

Vasco! Vasco! Vasco!

“On land, on sea” refers to the fact that Vasco started as a rowing club (the most popular sport at the time) before they played football, which is also true of Botafogo and Flamengo, with only Fluminense of the big four in Rio starting out with football.

It’s truly awe-inspiring to see, and it lasts so long that you’re almost dry again from the almighty beer showers that take place after each goal. It makes sense that the supporters are proud of both their football and rowing sides, because so much beer gets hurled into the air after a goal that having to row home has got to be a serious possibility for anyone in the first few rows of the stands.

Everything about this day was great, but the moment was still to come. With the post-Vasco goal song now firmly added into the list of football traditions I would tell people you simply have to see, I was desperate to see it again. I got my wish in the 51st minute when Vasco made it 2-0, with the stadium once again erupting into flying beer and synchronised chanting. Before the song could even finish, Vasco scored again.

It was a moment of pure magic, as the crowd went crazy then started the song from the beginning without missing a beat. The beer shower was even wilder this time, as people making their way back from the bar to replace the last beer they had launched into the Rio sky were faced with the dilemma what to do with the new one. Would they try to save it from the chaos, or just launch it again?

Most went with the latter.

There were no further goals, but the comprehensive 3-0 win ended up being enough to send Vasco through to the knockout stages. My visit to the Maracana was awesome and iconic, but São Januário was better.

Hate racism, love Vasco da Gama and cheese on a stick.

Unless Chris Gunter Jr scores a last-minute winner against Brazil in the World Cup final, or Owain Glyndwr comes back to life, scores a hat-trick at Wembley then declares independence at full time, we’ve probably already experienced the greatest night in the history of Welsh football.

You already know what night I’m talking about, but I’m going to say it anyway. Wales 3 - Belgium 1. Cymru 3 - Gwlad Belg 1. Whatever language you say it in, it still feels damn good to hear. It’s a result that is literally a part of me forever, with the score, date, and the stadium tattooed onto my arm.

10 years ago today, Wales shocked the footballing world.

Before I tell that story, we have to mention Paris.

After a magnificent victory over Russia in Toulouse, our stay in France had been extended.

Thanks to the rule change that made it possible for 3rd place teams to get through, I had been cautiously optimistic that we’d make this stage, and had thankfully booked a few extra days off work. What I definitely hadn’t booked was transport to and accommodation in Paris, which is where the group winners would head next.

With the majority of affordable places to stay booked up by expectant England fans (haha), I ended up in a place called ‘Ideal Hotel’. It did not live up to the name.

My room was up 7 flights of stairs, and had a layer of dust that made me suspect the last person to stay there might have been one of the Welsh players who had been part of the team last time we qualified in 1958. The bed was so uncomfortable it probably broke the Geneva Convention, and the shower was, unfathomably, located in reception.

I arrived at the same time as an Icelandic fan who took one look around the reception and left to go somewhere else. Unfortunately, my budget was already stretched thin, and I had no option but to stay.

Our opponents for the Last 16 were Northern Ireland, with the media drooling at the prospect of a ‘British Derby’, despite the vast majority of our fanbase holding views on Britain that probably mean they’re on some sort of watchlist.

There was an added pressure though, in that this was the first match at the tournament where I truly felt like we were favourites to win. Having gone into the tournament just hoping to see us score a goal, I was now in a position where I would genuinely be disappointed if we didn’t make the quarter-finals. Football is mad, eh.

I had already purchased my tickets before the tournament began, buying the option which secured me a ticket to every game that Wales played, even if we reached the final. I’d like to say I don’t know why I had even bothered selecting that option, but it was because I had paid for them after spending a Wednesday night at my favourite Amsterdam nightclub, a place where the walls were covered in tinfoil and questionable moral choices were made. This nightclub was knocked down in 2019 after being found guilty of massive tax fraud, and it ranks as one of the most tragic moments of my life.

Still, it meant my ticket was sorted, and when a spare came my way I could offer it to my dad. He had travelled back to Wales after the opening game, but after taking roughly 10 seconds to convince him he should travel back to France, he was on a Eurostar to Paris that was so expensive my eventual inheritance is now probably 50p and a signed picture of Sam Vokes.

Reunited, we spent the morning of the game having a couple of beers around Paris, before heading to PSG’s wonderful home ground. There were definitely more Wales fans in attendance than there were Northern Irish, but there was still a great number of them singing the song of the summer “Will Grigg’s on fire”. If I recall rightly, he didn’t even play a single minute at the tournament.

The 90 minutes that followed were some of the worst ever played in the history of football, and neither side could really have complained if the head of UEFA stepped in after 60 minutes and said we were both disqualified for crimes against the beautiful game.

Thankfully that didn’t happen, and on 75 minutes the stalest of stalemates was finally broken. At this moment in time, no Welsh player had ever scored a winning goal in a knockout match at a tournament…and that wouldn’t change, as the latest biggest goal in Welsh history was scored by Northern Ireland defender Gareth McAuley.

In fairness he didn’t have much choice - as a superb cross from Gareth Bale was going to be tapped into an empty net by Hal Robson-Kanu if he didn’t do something to try and intervene. If Hal was a little bit sad that night that he didn’t get to have his big moment, he wouldn’t be feeling like that for long…

Deep into injury time, Northern Ireland won a corner, with even the goalkeeper going up (and immediately elbowing Joe Allen in the face) for one last stressful moment in a 90 minutes that had been full of them. Of all people, it was Gareth Bale who headed it clear. The final whistle blew, and the Welsh team of 2016 transcended from heroes into immortals. For the first time ever, we had won a knockout game at a major tournament!

It was party time in the stands, as the Wales fans sang and danced to “Will Grigg’s on fire” as the opposition fans trooped out of the stadium.

Once we eventually left, we would be treated to a moment that was almost as good as the winning goal. With thousands of Welsh fans in the mood to celebrate, there was a shortage of pubs near the ground for people to squeeze into. Some entrepreneurial locals were making the most of this by selling beers in shopping carts, something which was apparently illegal, as they were being stopped by the police. One French policeman shouted “FREE BEER!”, deciding to give away the supply he had seized from one unlucky seller.

I had never ran so fast in my life. Nobody who had ever seen me play football would describe me as ‘pacy’, but in that moment I would have beaten Mbappe over 100 metres. I reached the shopping cart full of treasure in time, able to grab as many cans as I could carry before various other sprinting Welsh fans arrived.

With the cans close to being finished, we heard that the Eiffel Tower had been lit up in Welsh colours. That was something we couldn’t miss, and we decided to see it in style by jumping in a ‘cycle taxi’. A price of 15 Euro was agreed, and we enjoyed the last of our beers as we made our way along to river to one of Europe’s most iconic sights, lit up in Welsh red. We got out and savoured the moment, with not even the revelation that the price was apparently 15 Euros each spoiling the moment.

We later found out that it was actually red in honour of Poland who had also won that day, but honestly, who gives a fuck?

It was quite a night at the bars near the Eiffel Tower, with the lasting memory being two guys trying to drive a flatbed truck down a street packed with Welsh fans, only for it to be swarmed by people who had drunk enough to forget that falling off a moving truck really hurts. 50 odd Welsh blokes dancing on top of a truck should have been the maddest thing I’ve seen in a while, but in this glorious summer, it didn’t even make top 10.

“Don’t take me home” was the anthem of the night, and apart from my dad who had to get the train in the morning, we really weren’t going home.

It was Lille next, and as we would discover the following night, Belgium would again be the opposition. Not only would we be taking on the best team in Europe and the 2nd best team in the world according to FIFA’s rankings, but we would be doing so at a stadium that was just a 30 minute drive from the Belgium border. They had battered Hungary 4-0 in the previous round, and everything pointed to this game being a moment of “Right Wales, you’ve had your fun - but the big boys are here now”.

This was as close as it comes to having an away game at a major tournament without facing the hosts. The capacity of the stadium was just over 50,000, and roughly 40,000 of those were expectant Belgium fans. The Wales following now was mostly reduced to overly optimistic idiots like me who had purchased the tournament tickets, or people who had been lucky after hours in the resale queue. Whatever price they had paid to get there (and in my case, however angry they had made their boss by telling them they weren’t coming back yet) it was about to be worth it.

1st July, 2016.

Our Welsh heroes stepped out into a cauldron of noise, with the Belgium supporters hugely confident that they were finally about to lift a trophy. 10 years later, and they’re still being made ‘dark horses’ before every tournament, before an inevitable loss to someone like Tajikistan in the second round.

Most of their fans had been very friendly and easy to get on with, but one had told us it was going to be 5-0 Belgium by half time. Sadly, we didn’t see him again after the game.

For a while, it looked as though his prediction might come true. Belgium were all over us in the first 15 minutes, and went 1-0 up through an absolute screamer from Nainggolan. As that goal went in, I just sighed and accepted that the journey was over, hoping that we didn’t go out with a battering. Even if we did, it had already been the greatest summer ever.

It was about to get better.

After going 1-0 down, Wales were absolutely brilliant. Despite trailing, we were playing the Belgians off the park. A team that contained Eden Hazard, Kevin De Bruyne and Romelu Lukaku was getting mugged off by Chris Gunter, Neil Taylor and Hal Robson-Kanu.

In the 32nd minute, it happened.

Aaron Ramsey whipped in a corner, Ashley Williams got his head to it, and it was 1-1. I had never celebrated a goal like that before in my life. The on field celebration to this goal is iconic, with Williams sprinting to the dugout to get mobbed by the entire squad. I didn’t see a second of it, because I was upside down about four rows of seats away from where I had started, just screaming and screaming. The tournament had started with us going 1-0 down to Andorra in qualifying after a few minutes, and now we were here.

You know what’s coming.

At this point of my life I had spent years following Wales all over Europe, singing about Hal Robson-Kanu in dodgy pubs and crowded streets a long way from home. He was a cult figure, one who always gave his best for Wales no matter what. Even his biggest fan (which was probably me) would admit he wasn’t blessed with 10% of the talent of the star men Bale and Ramsey, but it didn’t matter.

For 10 seconds on that night that defied belief, Hal Robson-Kanu turned into Messi, Maradona, Pele, Ronaldo, George Best and Johan Cruyff all combined into one.

It’s a goal I can see in my head without even having to watch it. The video of it has 720k views on YouTube at the time of writing, and I think there’s a good chance I’m responsible for at least 10% of those.

A long ball forward finds Aaron Ramsey perfectly, who chips a perfect pass into the box at the feet of Hal. He’s surrounded by four defenders, but Neil Taylor is unmarked with a free shot at goal. Pass it to Neil Hal, pass it!

Oh my god.

He pulls out a Cruyff turn so good that the move is now called ‘The Robson-Kanu’ in Wales, and smashes the ball past arguably the best goalkeeper in the world.

I don’t even know what I did for the next minute, but at the end of it, my phone was broken and so was my brain. We were 2-1 up in a quarter final, and Hal Robson-Kanu had just scored a goal that would be nominated for the Puskas Award. Every miserable work day since then where I’ve been stuck listening to someone go on about OKR’s, KPI’s or WTF’s, I can happily zone out and think back to that moment. If you’ve worked with me since then, there’s at least an 80% chance I’ve been thinking about Euro 2016 when we were talking. Sorry.

There were 35 minutes left when Hal scored his goal from heaven, and I spent every one of those minutes waiting for it all to go wrong. Surely this wasn’t actually going to happen? This never happens, not to Wales. Right?

Wrong.

85 minutes played, and we’re so close. So, so close. If we lost now it would be worse than the 5-0 defeat it felt like we were going to receive after 15 minutes, and despite being the least religious man in the world, I was making all sorts of imaginary deals with God in the stands. Just win this game and I’ll never ask for anything else in my life. Just please let us hang on, and I’ll stop going to tinfoil covered nightclubs until 4am when I’ve got work the next day (I didn’t).

Chris Gunter has the ball on the right hand side, and everyone is screaming at him to run it to the corner and waste another few minutes. Manager Chris Coleman even utters the immortal words “Don’t cross that fucking ball, Christopher!”

He does cross it, and Sam Vokes flies through the dark Lille sky like a salmon, heading the ball into the net and sealing the greatest moment in Welsh football history.

There’s very nearly a pitch invasion, with the Welsh crowd surging forward in a way you usually only see with Gremio’s iconic avalanche celebration. I’m in a different postcode to where I was five seconds earlier, jumping on anyone I recognise and battering my shins off pretty much every seat in the stadium. My phone is already broken, but now it’s checking itself in to therapy for the trauma it’s been through. Even when I dreamed about what Euro 2016 would be like for weeks before the tournament started, I could never have come up with something like this.

Belgium don’t have time to come back, and they know it. Their fans begin to leave, as the outnumbered but never outsung Welsh fans enjoy a moment literally beyond our wildest dreams.

A miraculous comeback to 3-3 never comes, and we’ve won. We’re in a semi-final. If Wales win their next two matches, they are champions of Europe. I felt like I was floating on a cloud for the next few hours. I saw friends who had stood next to me when we had lost 6-1 to Serbia, and now I was standing next to them after making the last four at the Euros.

The locals had very much been supporting to Wales, and there was another surreal moment in a summer filled with them as we arrived back to the city centre on the Metro. As we walk off the train, we’re given a guard of honour by cheering locals, that lasted all the way through the station. Such was the reception that you’d think the key goals were scored by me and my mate George, and this was probably the moment that the true magnitude of what we as a nation had achieved sunk in.

It was a heavy night in Lille, to the extent that I woke up the next morning in the wrong hotel 125 miles away in Paris.

Wales 3 - Belgium 1 did not just change Welsh football, I truly believe it changed Wales. Support for Welsh independence has surged since then, and this year we finally got a Plaid Cymru government in the Senedd. Are Gareth Bale, Aaron Ramsey, Hal Robson-Kanu, and Sam Vokes the reason this happened? I’m not saying they are, but I’m also not saying they aren’t.

It wasn’t just my life that this summer changed. I had had 2 tickets to France v Ireland in the Last 16 that I was unable to use due to Wales progressing. I decided to give them free of charge to my friend Jess, who invited along a guy she had met recently. A few years later, I spoke at their wedding.

We didn’t win the Euros, a 2-0 defeat in the semi-final to Portugal a few days later finally bringing the adventure of a lifetime to an end. I went home, and eventually got the courage to check my bank account. I had 7 Euros left in my life savings, and it was worth it. I finally went back to work, and had 9,000 unread emails. That was less worth it.

I got my first tattoo, taken from the headline of the main French sports newspaper the next day. Quelle Folie ! it reads - What madness!

Here’s a photo of it at the next Euros as we beat Turkey in Azerbaijan, in what was once again effectively an away game at a major tournament. We also went to the World Cup, becoming the nation with the longest ever wait between appearances at the biggest show in football. We stunk the place up in all 3 games, but at least we were there.

None of this would have happened without that summer in France.

Quelle Folie, indeed.

While the World Cup is dominating the football world, there’s another tournament on my mind. The greatest summer in Welsh football history was 10 years ago. In addition to this making me feel about 3000 years old, seeing the reminders of those magical days in Bordeaux, Toulouse, Paris, and Lille has transported me back to those days (and nights) that I’ll remember forever.

For a long time, watching Wales was tough. There was Jari Litmanen taking us to pieces for Finland at the Millennium Stadium, despite the fact he was well into his 40’s and pretty much didn’t leave the centre circle all game. A 5-1 home defeat to Slovakia where we were lucky to get one, numerous defeats to countries that didn’t even exist when I went to my first Wales game, and the ultimate pain for most Welsh football fans my age - the Russia playoff.

I had long given up on Wales ever making a tournament. But then Gareth Bale and Aaron Ramsey came along, and everything changed.

We headed into Euro 2016 qualifying with real optimism. The expanded tournament format meant that Belgium being in our group didn’t mean it was all over before it even began as it would have done in the past, and the lineup of Andorra, Bosnia, Cyprus, and Occupied Palestine meant that for the first time since 2003, there was hope.

That hope lasted exactly six minutes, as we went 1-0 down in Andorra. We did come back to win, but only thanks to a retaken Gareth Bale free kick with less than 10 minutes remaining. “Well, we’re definitely not qualifying” I said to my dad at full time.

A month later we drew 0-0 at home to Bosnia and beat Cyprus 2-1, good results on paper, but still not enough to truly believe that 58 years of hurt were about to come to an end.

Then in Brussels, we started to believe. Wales put in a fantastic defensive performance at Heysel, drawing 0-0 in front of thousands of delirious fans who were starting to dare to dream. Bosnia had lost 3-0 in Haifa, meaning the unexpected point of our own had the table looking very positive indeed.

Our next fixture was in Haifa, as Wales put on one of the very best away performances I’d ever seen to win 3-0, with goals from the Bale and Ramsey duo. Now, we really believed, although I was still more on the “How are we going to f*ck this up” side of the scale, rather than the “Oh my god, we’re actually going to do it” end.

12th June 2015, and the doubt faded away. Wales beat Belgium 1-0 at home, with a goal from Bale after 25 minutes. It was one of the most agonising matches I’ve ever watched, and it feels like I spent the entire 65 minutes after we took the lead checking the Cardiff City Stadium clock, cursing that only 30 seconds had passed since the last time I checked, when it had felt like it must have been at least 10 minutes.

We held on. Wales took 3 points, and the Red Wall shook with a mixture of joy and disbelief. With very forgiving fixtures left, it would have taken the most spectacular collapse in our history not to make it now.

The three month wait for the next international break felt agonising. Beat Cyprus away and our other group opponents at home a few days later, and it would be a done deal.

We were made to wait in Cyprus, in a game that will mostly be remembered for being one of the drunkest away ends in Wales Away history (who thought a 21:45 kick off was a good idea?) and an iconic half time dance to Zorba the Greek. With eight minutes to go, Gareth Bale saved the day. Of course he did, he always did.

I went to jump on the back of my friend George, who simultaneously went to jump on me. I tumbled down the concrete Nicosia stairs and my knee exploded. I’m not sure how many ligaments there are in a knee, but I’m pretty sure this goal broke all of them. I forgive you, Gareth.

I couldn’t walk properly for a few weeks after this, which meant I wasn’t too disappointed when a 0-0 draw at home three days later prevented the deal from being sealed. When you’ve waited your entire life for a tournament, you can wait another month.

Five weeks later, Wales went to Zenica, and I was just about able to walk again. We lost 2-0, but a win for Cyprus elsewhere meant that it didn’t matter, and we had qualified. I cried, I hugged every single person in the away end, I watched my former boss and his brother smoke the biggest cigar I’ve ever seen in my life.

We took the bus back to Sarajevo, and decided that we’d head to the very first pub we saw and stay there until they kicked us out. This pub turned out to be the Elvis Presley fan club bar of Bosnia, where myself and roughly 15 other Wales fans were told “You drink, we open. You stop drink, we close”. The challenge was accepted, and we left at about 7am the next morning. This time, I didn’t have a knee injury to blame for why I had forgotten how to walk.

I checked out of my unslept in hotel room, and got ready to book flights for an international tournament for the very first time. The party was rounded off with a 2-0 home win over Andorra a few days later, and then the wait was on.

Drawn against Slovakia, England, and Russia - I wasn’t too confident about making it out of the group. I decided to book the time off work until the day after the Last 16 just in case, and also picked up a few tickets to other matches to ensure I made the most of my first major tournament. Little did I know, the butterfly effect of spending so much time on the ticket sale portal would lead to a marriage and the birth of a child (neither of which were mine).

After convincing my dad to join me for the opening game in Bordeaux (it was a difficult process that took about 5 seconds), the wait was finally over. I wore a full Wales kit including the socks to my last day in work before the trip, and had a very simple hope for the three matches to come - score a goal. If I saw Wales score a goal at a major tournament, I’d be happy. If we won a game, I’d never ask for anything ever again, and we could lose every other match for the rest of my life 5-0 for all I cared. We did a bit better than that.

On a perfect sunny day in Bordeaux, thousands upon thousands of Welsh fans got to support their team at a tournament for the first time. Supporting whoever England are playing is really fun, but this was next level. The stadium holds 42,000, and there must have been 35,000 Welsh fans in the ground. Everywhere you looked was a sea of red, with a small group of Slovakian fans and French locals, most of whom had quickly adopted the Welsh.

For years I had dreamed of the first anthem at a tournament, and it didn’t disappoint. Millions of people around the world heard the Welsh anthem for the first time, and the term “ambassadors in bucket hats” was born. While English fans often spent their time at tournaments ridding the world of plastic furniture one chair at a time, our supporters were on their best behaviour, mingling with the locals. I had built this anthem up in my head to a level that would be almost impossible to reach, and somehow it surpassed it.

I was stood next to a Wales fan living in Derby, I’d never met him before and have never met him since, but we’ll both remember each other until the day we die, as we both screamed the anthem in a way that would have Simon Cowell begging for mercy, before both hugging each other in floods of tears. Wherever you are, Wales Derby Anthem Man - I hope you’re doing well!

Into the game itself, and after so many decades of waiting, it almost went to shit inside three minutes. Hamsik of Slovakia left half of our team in the dust, only for Ben Davies to deny him from one of the goals of the tournament with a block on the line. Had that ball gone in, we would probably have been packing our bags for home a few days later.

It was the most important kick of a ball in Welsh history for 58 years, and it kept that title for all of six minutes. Wales get a free kick a considerable distance outside the box, and we don’t even pretend it’s going to be anything else than a Bale shot. With the way the keeper is positioned, the only way to score would be putting it to his right. The keeper knows this, everyone in the stadium knows this, and Gareth says “Watch this”.

He puts his free kick to the keepers left, wrong-footing him and scoring the first Welsh goal at a major tournament since Terry Medwin on the 17th June 1958. The scenes inside the stadium were reminiscent of a Welsh pub on a Friday night that had just announced all their Strongbow was about to go off and it had been reduced to 50p a pint. Limbs flailed wildly into the sunny Bordeaux sky, seats were tumbled over, we hugged friends and strangers, and I smashed my shins so hard into the seat in front of me to the extent they’ve never been the same since. It was our first shot on target ever at a Euros, and it had gone in.

We’d fucking scored at a major tournament. Not only had we scored, but we’d scored to take the lead! I tried to soak in every second of the celebrations, but somehow it just didn’t actually feel real. VAR didn’t even exist by this point, but it felt as if someone was going to come along and say “Ok Wales, you’ve had your fun, but actually this isn’t happening and was all just a mass hallucination across a nation”.

20 minutes later, things should have got even better. Martin Skrtel elbows Jonny Williams in the head in the penalty box about a metre away from the official. It’s such an obvious red card that they should have invented something worse than a red card to give him. It would have got him disqualified from a fight, never mind a football match - but somehow nothing is given. Any person in the stadium or watching back at home instantly knows we’re going to lose 2-1 in the last minute with a Skrtel goal, because that’s just the kind of thing that happens to us.

I’ve rarely seen a worse decision on a football pitch, and the average level of football I usually watch features 65 year old referees who had 10 pints the night before.

We maintain our 1-0 lead until half time, as the Red Wall unleashes every song we know (and a few we don’t) in ultimate party mode. Unlike that Belgium qualifier that seemed to last for about three days, the game is passing by in the blink of an eye.

With an hour on the clock, it’s back to reality as Slovakia find the net. After what had been a pretty dominant first half for Wales, the second period was quite the opposite, and the goal had been coming. A change was needed, and Chris Coleman delivered, bringing on Joe Ledley and Hal Robson-Kanu. Oh, Hal.

Hal Robson-Kanu ranks as one of my favourite footballers of all time, despite being, let’s be honest, not that good at football. Apart from Bale himself, his name was the one that would be sung the most by our supporters, and I had biked through Vondelpark in Amsterdam singing “Hal, Robson, Hal Robson'-Kanu!” far more times that I care to admit. Going into Euro 2016 he had two goals in 30 appearances for Wales. He would leave it as a legend.

Ten minutes after the double substitution, Ledley played the ball to Aaron Ramsey, who was doubling up being a footballer with being an Eminem lookalike. Ramsey found Hal Robson-Kanu, who unleashed an unstoppable drive that flew into the net.

Well, ok. He shinned it. But it definitely flew into the net. Fine, it bobbled along at about 3mph and somehow crossed the line, sending the Wales fans into an even greater state of delirium than the one which greeted the opener. While I remember everything about the moments after Bale’s goal, I think my mind shut down during the celebrations of this one, because I can’t recall a single thing.

Hal Robson-Kanu scoring a late winning goal at a major tournament was just too much to comprehend. It’s the kind of scenario you dream up with your friends after consuming far too many pints “Ha, wouldn’t it be class if Hal scored the winner”.

The remaining 9 minutes of the match took far longer than the 81 that had come before it. Every clearance or tackle was treated like a goal, and every time Slovakia had the ball I just waited for it to hit the back of the net and wake me up from the dream that was unfolding in front of me.

But the Slovakia goal never came. Full time, and it was Wales 2 - Slovakia 1. With England and Russia yet to play, we were top of the group!

The celebrations lasted long after the final whistle, as the travelling Wales fans partied like it was 1958. I was one of the last to leave, taking a moment to sit on one of the steps at the end of the game and take it all in. It was never going to get any better than this, and I made sure to make the most of every minute of it.

I reunited with my dad outside of the stadium, having had tickets in different parts of the ground. A French jazz band was playing, and Wales fans were leaping around in delight, twirling each other by the arm, and bringing out the kind of dance moves best left to a dark nightclub at 3am where nobody can see you. It was perfect.

The celebrations moved into the city centre, and it seemed like everyone in Wales was there. As a Llantwit Major AFC fan, it was lucky we didn’t have a game that weekend, because I saw at least 9 of the team and the manager, and it wasn’t water and Lucozade they were consuming by the gallon.

Just when you thought the day couldn’t get any better, Russia scored a last minute equaliser against England, and for a brief moment it rained beer in Bordeaux, as plastic fanzone glasses soared through the sky. Being realistic, Russia picking up a point was probably a bad thing for our qualification hopes, but everyone had had far too many pints to be concerned about that.

It was a night that most people would have gladly seen go on forever, but it did eventually come to an end. All Welsh fans gained a place in their heart for Bordeaux, and Bordeaux absolute reciprocated, with the tourist board of the city writing an open letter inviting us to come back anytime, and French newspaper L’Equipe writing:

“An anthem to give you goosebumps, never-ending singing and the impression all you can see is red: the show was also in the stands, yesterday at Bordeaux, where Wales beat Slovakia (2-1) in its first major tournament for 58 years.

“After such a long wait, the fans were thirsty for victory but not only that. The Welsh are many, noisy, sometimes a little rowdy but mostly peaceful. They must tolerate drink better than others. The coach Chris Coleman and the players have all paid tribute to this extraordinary popular support, of the kind that gives you strength and an indestructible confidence.”

It’ll never be forgotten.

The next game was the one the media would have you believe we were most looking forward to, and for 99% of Wales fans was the one game we wished wasn’t happening. Playing England is shit, and I would quite happily never see a 49 year old man from Burnley dressed as a crusader ever again. I’m not going to spend too much time on this game, apart from the fact it almost lead to my first ever tattoo.

Just before half time, Wales have a free kick absolutely miles out. It’s way too far to shoot, and I angrily say “Why the fuck is he shooting from there?” to the guy next to me.

Obviously, it goes in. Had we held on and won the game, I made a promise to myself to apologise to Bale by getting the phrase tattooed, but of course, we lost with pretty much the last kick of the game. It’s strange how the mind works, and my main memory of this game was getting a lift back to Paris with some random Wales fans who saw me walking to the train station and offered, only to sit in awkward silence the entire way when two of them in the backseat had an absolutely blazing row with each other, where it felt like 20 years of secret resentment came out. A 0/10 day out.

With that circus over, it was on to what I expected to be the grand finale - Russia in Toulouse. It was a chance at the ultimate payback for the despair of the playoffs in 2003, or, what I thought was more likely - another heartbreak at the hands of the Russians. On reflection I can probably admit that beating us at football 1-0 is not the worst thing Russia has ever done in another country, but it kind of felt like it at the time.

I already knew I was holding on to some pretty severe trauma from that game, but it only increased when I saw a Russian fan wearing a t-shirt with the result of the match printed on it. I can’t remember the exact words I used when I saw this, but I certainly wasn’t able to be nonchalant about it.

Going into the final round of games, England were on 4 points, ourselves and Slovakia had 3, and Russia were on just 1. With England playing Slovakia and certain to win, it meant we would guarantee our place in the knockout stages with a win by finishing second, while a loss would most likely send us home unless we were extremely lucky with the ranking of the 3rd place teams.

Before the game, I thought it was the end. I had successfully avoided the giant Euro 2016 merchandise stalls at the first two games, but I could wait no longer. I absolutely raided the stall for anything which had a Welsh flag and Euro 2016 written on it, reluctantly accepting that this was going to be the final match of our tournament.

Not quite.

For the best experience over the next few lines, I recommend you start listening to Heather Small - Proud while you read.

In what is probably the best 90 minutes of football Wales have ever produced, we absolutely dismantled the Russians. The football was beautiful, and so was the backdrop - with a stunning sunset providing the kind of setting that such a magical display deserved. By the 20th minute, it was pretty much over. Aaron Ramsey scored with a confident finish, and Neil Taylor added a second with the exact opposite of a confident finish.

Any hopes of a Russian comeback were extinguished on the hour mark as Gareth Bale got his goal - meaning he had scored in every game of the group stage. From some brief research, only four players in history have ever done that, with Lukaku, Shearer and Kluivert pretty decent company to be keeping.

The rest of the game passed by in a dreamlike state, as the heroes in red pulled out back heel passes, keep ups and nutmegs, and every touch being cheered to the rafters by the disbelieving Welsh fans. Of course, the biggest cheer was still to come.

There had been whispers throughout the game that England hadn’t scored yet. During the entire 90 minutes, I hadn’t even thought about the other game in the group, because an England win was so nailed on. As the final score came in, it showed why I write for a living, rather than being a professional gambler.

England 0 - Slovakia 0. We’d won the group.

Welsh fans once again took up more than 3/4 of the stadium, and just as had happened in Bordeaux a week earlier, the place was rocking long after full time as the magnitude of what had just happened sunk in. I had optimistically booked a flight to Nice before the tournament began, thinking there was perhaps a chance we would edge Russia to second place. I stared at the booking on my phone, thinking about how it was the best money I ever wasted. We were going to Paris as group winners.

Outside the ground, I saw one of my Wales away companions, and assumed he had also seen me. I went to jump on his in celebration, only to realise that he had not in fact seen me, and I had just brutally tackled him to the ground.

After the Russian fans had been very naughty boys the week before, the city was on high alert - making it difficult to celebrate in the way such a victory deserved. Me and George were in the mood for merriment and tomfoolery, and an alcohol ban wasn’t going to stop us for long.

After being turned away at several bars, we finally found one that would serve us. It was a wine bar, with an unusual gimmick where you loaded money onto a card, which you could then tap against 40 or so different bottles of wine around the bar, automatically dispensing a glass for you. Sensing this was going to be the best bet for the evening, we loaded €50 onto a card and prepared to settle in for the long haul.

Less than 5 minutes later, it was announced that the bar had to close as soon as possible. Drink €50 of wine in 10 minutes? Challenge accepted.

We decided to splash out on a glass of champagne each, before downing as many glasses of the cheapest thing we could find until the card stopped working. An expensive few minutes later, we headed back out into the street, just as four large French policemen headed into the bar. If the perfect crime truly does exist, we had just pulled it off.

After encountering a few more closed bars, it seemed as if the night of our lives was going to end with us far more sober than we wanted to be. But then, salvation.

A loophole in the alcohol laws meant that places were allowed to serve booze to Welsh fans if they were having a meal, and we found one bar that was offering a very generous definition of ‘meal’. “Bonjour butt, a bowl of chips and 6 pints of Kronenbourg please” was all we needed to hear, and we knew we had found exactly where we needed to be.

For some reason, Ian Rush was there, a fact I discovered when I was carrying a bowl of chips and 6 pints of Kronenbourg back to a table. By the time I came back inside to get a photo with him, he was tucking into a bowl of chips of his own, so I left him be.

After selling more bowls of chips than they had ever done in all the years they had been open, the bar eventually closed at some time in the early hours of the morning. Rumours spread amongst the Welsh fans that a disco club was open somewhere in the city, and we spent at least an hour looking for it. We never did find that disco, instead holding one of our own, dancing with joy in the streets until our legs couldn’t cope anymore.

When I got back to the hotel, I discovered that the owner had left a bottle of champagne outside my door in celebration of the Welsh victory.

Life couldn’t get any better than this, could it?

-End of part one-

Here are 10 photos I’ve taken at games in Argentina, to try and share a bit of what makes me love it so much.

A long, but glorious trip around Argentina and Brazil was coming to an end. I’d seen 14 matches at 14 stadiums, including La Bombonera and Maracana, perhaps the two most iconic football stadiums in the world. At worst, they’re top five.

It was almost time to go home, but I had time for one more game. With none of the bigger clubs in action, it was time to go niche. I had toyed with the idea of going to a Serie D (tier 4) game, before expanding the search radius on Futbology and finding America-RJ vs. Vasco Da Gama in the final of the Rio de Janeiro U20’s Cup. This had to be the one.

It almost didn’t happen. I had sat in the hotel lobby waiting for an Uber for 20 minutes, with multiple drivers cancelling the trip after accepting. While doomscrolling, I came across a post from the Vasco account that revealed the cup final was actually played over two legs, and Vasco were already 4-1 up after the first game. “Ah fuck it, I’ll cancel the Uber and go to a different game” I thought, only for a notification to pop up that my driver was on the way, and would be arriving in two minutes. Looks like I was going after all!

It was a long ride, and after saying “olá” and “Se Ronaldo tivesse se mantido em forma durante toda a sua carreira, o Brasil teria conquistado 7 Copas do Mundo” to the driver, my Portuguese had been pretty much completely used up.

As we made slow progress through the streets, it was clear we were leaving the touristic part of the city far behind. Hotels and ice cream shops were replaced by low cost, self built housing and barbed wire. I had stayed far away from the widely advertised “Favela tours” that have become trendy in the past few years, unable to escape the feeling of it being poverty porn designed to make visitors feel better about their own lives. As such, this was my first experience of seeing these neighbourhoods up close, and it was far better to do so in a way that felt genuine and not staged for Instagram likes.

As the journey continued, the moment arrived where I started to get worried. “Seu funeral” (English - your funeral) started to appear painted on walls everywhere you looked, with an arrow pointing in the way we were travelling. Still better than encountering a group of English people on holiday, but still not exactly ideal. After several minutes of following these signs, I was just about mentally prepared for my doom. At least I’d seen Wales at Euro 2016 and Llantwit win the league before I was brutally murdered. Finally, the funeral signs reached their destination…

A funeral home called “Seu funeral”.

With a fresh lesson in not jumping to conclusions, I arrived at the stadium expecting to see a big crowd. With the stadium holding around 14,000, and America-RJ not being a club that wins things often, I thought the stadium would be packed even despite the heavy defeat in the first leg.

I was wrong.

I’ve seen bigger crowds when Llantwit Major U9’s were at home to Cowbridge Town, with the (brilliant) stadium almost completely empty. At one point I feared I might be the only person there who wasn’t the parent of one of the players, although a small late surge just before kick off thankfully put an end to that.

Still, for most of the game it wasn’t exactly the end to the trip I was hoping for. Until suddenly, it was.

With the score at 0-0 America-RJ got a penalty, and with it the chance to at least have a hope of getting back in the game. They missed, and a few minutes later Vasco scored to make it 1-0 on the day and 5-1 on aggregate. Game over.

Knowing they had lost, the game started to get absolutely brutal. Back in my university days we had played our own specific version of FIFA 11 that involved going out to the Gatecrasher nightclub until 4am, coming home and firing up the Playstation 3 before seeing who could get 5 red cards the fastest. The way America-RJ played in the last 20 minutes of this game is just about the closest I’ve come to witnessing those virtual games in real life, as they started to make some hideous tackles.

It was almost surprising that things didn’t boil over until the very last minute. But when they did, they did so in style! A Vasco player got the ball and nutmegged an opponent, who responded by kicking him as hard as he could in the arse, before punching him in the face.

10 seconds later, and it’s absolute chaos. Both benches are cleared, and there’s flying kicks and punches all over the field. The game is actually available in full on YouTube, and I think this grainy screenshot tells you more than 1000 words could.

This wasn’t 30 seconds of handbags that you sometimes see at the end of a game, it looked more like I had accidentally wandered in to filming for a Brazilian remake of Lord of the Rings battle scene. Having won the game, I’d say Vasco just about won the fight too, with several America players left with ripped shirts, bruised egos, and stinging eyes after the arrival of riot police who had used tear gas on them.

I was stood in the away end, which was at least 15ft high and completely unreachable from the field. This meant I could mock the America players as much as I wanted, without having to worry about the fact they would surely kick my head in if I actually had any intention of fighting them. If you were ever wondering how fun it is to give furious players who just lost a cup final and pepper sprayed the wanker sign, the answer is - extremely.

There was never any chance that the match would restart for the final minute or so that were left to be played, and the trophy was awarded to Vasco - although they were unable to lift it for at least another 40 minutes or so while the police took back control of the situation.

My Uber ride home added an extra word to my Brazilian vocabulary, as I learned “Bomba” meant “scandal” after my Vasco supporting driver repeatedly used the word and I looked round anxiously to see if one of the America-RJ players had managed to get hold of a bomb.

In what had threatened to be the ultimate damp squib of a final game, I was instead left with a memory for life. I left Brazil with an absolute love for the country, and part of that is definitely due to the fact that less than an hour after thinking what a boring game I was watching, I was contemplating whether or not one of the players in the game might actually be trying to bomb me.

Joga bonito.

It’s May 25th 2025, which is a long time since 1935. On 24th February of that year, Union Saint-Gilloise became Belgian champions for the 11th time with a 3-2 victory over Racing Mechelen.

90 years later, they are still waiting for number 12. They’ve come impossibly close in the last three seasons before this one, twice finishing the regular season top of the league only to be denied by the forced excitement of Belgium’s playoff system. Even more impressive was the fact that until 2021, Union had spent a generation in the second tier or below, with their initial relegation in 1973 being followed by two more.

Despite this, undoubtedly the most brutal of these near misses came in the 22/23 season, where they had finished the regular season in 2nd place. With 89 minutes played of the final game of the playoff round, USG were on their way to the title. By the time the whistle blew, they were 3rd, collapsing to a 3-1 loss to Club Brugge. This looked to have given the title to Genk, only for Toby Alderweireld to score a 94th minute equaliser for Antwerp to bring them their first title for 66 years. Three different sides had been top of the league in the final five minutes of the season, the type of ending to a campaign usually only seen in terrible straight-to-Netflix ‘Soccer’ movies.

Today was a chance to right the wrongs of the last few years. USG had been dominant throughout the playoffs, winning eight and drawing one to close the gap on Genk, who finished 13 points ahead of USG but had fallen apart in the playoffs to the point they’d already had no chance of winning the title with several games remaining. Instead, it was Club Brugge who could once again steal away the title from USG, this time for themselves.

The job for USG was simple - win, and they were champions. A draw would be enough if Club Brugge failed to win, whereas a loss would only do if Brugge also lost.

Even better for USG, they were at home to Gent, who had picked up just 1 win from their playoff campaign so far, losing each of the remaining 8. In addition, Gent’s main rivals are none other than Club Brugge, meaning there would be plenty in the away section who would happily take a loss to ensure the trophy stays out of their rival’s hands.

Looking at the situation from an objective perspective, it seemed certain that USG would get over the final hurdle at last. However, clearly haunted by the ghosts of the last few years, that mood was not reflected by the supporters outside the truly magnificent ​​Joseph Marien Stadium in the hours before the game.

I was there at 15:00 ahead of the 18:30 kick off, to soak in both the atmosphere and a few beers at Union’s Tavern, a pub just across the street from the stadium. If USG supporters were used to seeing their heroes lift silverware, the day would have had a feeling similar to Christmas Eve - buzzing with excitement ahead of inevitable celebrations to come. Instead, it was more like a group therapy session. “We’re not going to mess it up again, are we?”. The air was thick with tension, until suddenly, it would be full with something else.

With kick off now two hours away, a clearly pre-determined plan kicks into action. One of the ultras scales a bus stop and starts a rousing, fist pumping chant. Thousands join in, and begin surging down the street away from the stadium. I have no idea where they are going, but I do know that I’m going to follow them. Something is happening.

It turns out to be a bus welcoming, synonymous with Liverpool in English football, but common all over Europe for big games. I’ve seen Feyenoord supporters do one after a monumental victory over hated rivals Ajax that looked more like a scene from a zombie movie, the sky completely engulfed by flares and fireworks as hundreds of people swarm all over the bus, banging on doors and windows in joyous celebration.

While this one was altogether calmer, it was still a hugely impressive sight. The moment the bus turns the corner and onto the street leading towards the stadium, all you can see is fire. Blue and yellow balaclava wearing ultras are igniting fireworks, along with strobe flares, smokebombs, and just about anything else you can imagine which is designed to explode.

And it’s not just the ultras. Union is a club for everyone, with flags and stickers showing their opposition to all forms of discrimination plain to see wherever you look. It’s not just a gimmick (looking at you, St Pauli and your lack of support for Palestine), but a clear part of the identity of the club. This is also reflected by how many languages you could hear spoken in the stands. Fitting for a team based in Brussels, I heard English, Polish, German, Spanish, and Italian being spoken in addition to the Dutch and French majority. Similar to my experiences with Swedish football, there were also far more women in the crowd than you usually see - a great reminder that football is for everyone and not just bald blokes who love Stella and the Daily Mail.

As the last flare burns itself out, the smoke clears, and the final piece of ash is brushed away from the clothes of the crowd, it’s time to make our collective way into the stadium.

It is a stadium as beautiful as it is totally unsuitable for USG’s new status as one of the powerhouses of Belgian football. With a capacity of around 9,400, it simply does not have the space required as a result of USG’s remarkable rise back to the top since 2021. Union cannot play their ‘home’ fixtures in Europe there, and it lacks the kind of fancy corporate facilities that are sadly seen as essential in the modern game.

Personally, I would take a crumbling terrace covered in crash barriers, stickers, weeds, and the skeletons of empty beer glasses over a corporate box any day, and that is where I found myself on this most pivotal of days for the blue and yellows. This standing section is home to the ultras mentioned earlier - with their Union Bhoys name a very confusing one for those with a knowledge of Scottish football (Rangers ultras group is called the Union Bears, while Celtic supporters often refer to themselves as the Bhoys).

The terrace is rapidly filling up, with the unspoken rule of leaving a scarf tied to a crash barrier to reserve the spot while going to buy beers. And buy beers they did! From what I could find in my research, the prize money for winning the Belgian top flight is about €8,000,000. Consolation for USG then, that even if they didn’t win today, they’d made this much money in beer sales just from the four guys standing directly behind me. A side note on them - if there was (an admittedly niche) world record for who could scream “ALLLEEEZZZZZ” into my ear the loudest, his record would be as tough to break as Usian Bolt’s 100m time.

Away to the left, Gent’s away end are throwing an end of season party - and from the looks of some of the USG shirts and scarves on display in their section, a funeral for Club Brugge’s title hopes. There are dozens of inflatables bouncing around the away sector, with everything from beachballs, crocodiles, rafts, and a solitary penis. Thinking about it, that sounds almost exactly like the videos I used to catch my university housemate watching after coming back from a big night out.

Kick off draws near, and one of the best things you can see in a football stadium is brought out. When a giant generic flag appears which covers the ultras section, you just know something good is about to happen. For those unaware, these large flags are used to hand out pyrotechnics without being picked up on stadium cameras, with a quick clothing change in the majority of cases. Sure enough, a minute or so after the appearance of the big flag, balaclava wearing ultras scurry out from every direction.

They’re each holding two bamboo sticks, usually intended for garden use. It’s fair to say none of these guys are too concerned about their tomato plants right now, with multiple smokebombs taped to each stick. These are ignited and lifted high into the sky, with a blue and yellow card display also being held up around the entire stadium. It’s lucky the infamous helicopter from last season isn’t overhead right now, as not only was the air thick with blue and yellow smoke, there were also countless fireworks exploding all around. A point deduction for shooting down a helicopter was just about the only way USG hadn’t lost the league title in the past few years, and the pilot clearly wasn’t taking any chances.

You’d have been forgiven for not noticing due to the thick blanket of smoke covering the field, but the game was now underway! The atmosphere was good, but it was clear to see that in the battle between nerves and excitement, nerves currently had the high ground.

That lasted for all of ten minutes.

USG win a corner on the left hand side. Gent’s defenders are clearly expecting a cross, but instead the ball is played along the ground. It catches them completely by surprise, and the ball is smashed home by USG’s Croatian striker Franjo Ivanović. The stadium erupts - and not just the home sections. As predicted, Gent supporters wanted no part of helping their rivals become champions, and they celebrated the goal against them with almost as much enthusiasm as the Union supporters themselves!

From that moment on, I knew USG were going to win. This time, at last, it wasn’t going to go horribly wrong.

A reminder, if it was needed, that sometimes I need to just shut the fuck up (subtle foreshadowing).

The early goal had USG buzzing, and they could have added to their lead on a few occasions if not for some good saves and a lingering bit of nervousness in the finishing. 25 minutes after the first goal celebration, it was time for another.

It wasn’t USG who had put the ball in the net however, but Antwerp. Club Brugge were 1-0 down at home, and the grip on the title had grown stronger. The stadium was really bouncing now, safe in the knowledge that not only would their title rivals need to score twice, but Gent would have to go against the wishes of their own supporters by equalising.

That calm lasted for exactly eight minutes.

News came through that Club Brugge had equalised against Antwerp, and within the space of a few seconds, Gent equalised with their first shot of the game. It was almost as if they had scored by accident, Gent’s striker instinctively tapping home from close range before thinking “Oh shit, did I just win Club Brugge the league?”. Silence from the away end showed that feeling was mutual, and heads sunk into hands all around.

It was almost the last action of the first half, with the whistle blowing almost immediately after.

The Union players were applauded off the pitch despite the obvious frustration of conceding the equaliser, and another few gallons of beer were being queued for to calm the latest surge of nerves.

This half time wait would be extended, with the league keen to ensure that both of the decisive games restarted at exactly the same time. There had clearly been more stoppage time over in Brugge, as USG were left waiting around on the pitch for a considerable amount of time before the final and decisive 45 minutes of the season.

If USG had scored in the first five minutes of the second half, there was a real possibility that the amount of beer that would have flown from the stands would have caused a postponement due to a waterlogged pitch.

I don’t speak French, but “Le putain hélicoptère” was easy enough to understand, muttered through clenched teeth as two early second half chances were wasted. If any of the USG supporters packed inside the ground were therapists, they could have picked up enough clients for the next several years - such was the clear lingering trauma from their previous flirtations with glory.

Of course, 1-1 was actually enough to do the job as things stood, with Club Brugge still tied at 1-1 with Antwerp. It was clear that not a single person in attendance trusted this scoreline to stay as it was, with blue and yellow fists shaking with despair at the sky as time continued to tick by without a second goal for their heroes.

A false rumour spreads around the ground that Brugge have scored, with USG supporters proving their peaceful reputation to be true as they managed to restrain themselves from setting the original perpetrator on fire.

Every football supporter has experienced the clock that appears to be moving backwards at one point. Fittingly enough for today’s setting, my own was the Wales vs. Belgium qualifier in 2015, a 1-0 victory that just about ensured a first appearance at a major tournament in my lifetime. Gareth Bale had given Wales the lead after 25 minutes, with the remaining 65 minutes feeling equally as long as the 58 years that had gone by since John Charles and the boys had reached the 1958 World Cup in Sweden.

For USG supporters, this was that moment. 40 minutes to go, 35 minutes to go, 34 and a half minutes to go…

You desperately try not to check the time for as long as possible, only to realise that when you do so, what felt like 20 minutes was less than 5. As much as the therapists in the crowd were gaining work, there were sure to be a lot of disappointed nail technicians in the morning as dozens of pedicures were cancelled due to fingernails being chewed to the bone in an increasingly frantic stadium.

If you’re a Real Madrid fan, liking football is probably pretty fun. For the rest of us, it’s usually fucking miserable.

Not today.

With 68 minutes on the clock, the wonderfully named Canadian striker Promise Akinpelu would write himself into permanent USG folklore. Gent mess up a throw in deep into their own territory, with the fullback under immediate pressure. He can’t get it clear, losing possession to USG’s press. The ball is played into the box and finds itself at the feet of Akinpelu, who takes a touch before calmly slotting the ball past the goalkeeper at his far post.

It’s chaos.

The celebrations can only have lasted a minute or so, but they appeared to take place in slow motion. A beer majesticly flies through the air, leaving the flailing limbs of its past owner behind as it soaks an almost impossible amount of people. In the row in front of me, someone has stolen his friend’s flat cap, using it as a weapon against him as he joyfully smacks his newly exposed head with it again and again. As always, someone has ended up on the floor, and hundreds of shins will never be the same again. People make the frantic decision of whether they should attempt to down their beer in one, or accept it being lost in the mayhem. The man behind me with the loudest voice in the world ensures once and for all that I won’t be able to hear anything in my old age, and there are tears, screams, hugs with strangers, and accidental fists to the face which won’t hurt until the adrenaline wears off.

Now, they (mostly) believe. The atmosphere had been dying off as nerves took over, but that had been washed away with the goal that put USG back on top. Fists shook to the sky with joy, not despair, followed by what I would consider to be the signature chant of Union supporters.

The chant begins with the supporters raising one fist to the air, starting with one, then another, and another, until the entire stand has their fists raised. Once the song begins, they punch the air in the direction of the pitch, screaming:

Bruxelles,

Ma ville,

Je t’aime,

Je porte ton emblème,

Tes couleurs dans mon cœur,

Et quand vient le week-end,

Au parc Duden,

Je chante pour mon club,

Allez l’Union,

Ohohohohohoooo...

Like most things, it sounds better (and mostly rhymes) in French but here’s an English translation:

Brussels,

My city,

I love you,

I wear your emblem,

Your colors in my heart,

And when the weekend comes,

In Duden Park,

I sing for my club,

Come on, Union,

Ohohohohohoooo…

If you only learn one thing from this book, let it be that “Ohohohohohoooo…” is pronounced the same in both French and English.

Seven minutes later, things would get even better.

The ball comes into the box, again from the left side, this time in the form of a precise cross. It lands inch perfect on the head of man-of-the-moment Promise Akinpelu, who wrongfoots the goalkeeper by directing the ball to the left, when most players would have aimed for the top right corner. In my opinion there are few better words in the English language than bamboozle, and the Gent goalkeeper was well and truly bamboozled as he helplessly watched the ball nestle in the bottom left corner of the net.

If the celebrations for the second goal had been fueled by relief, this time around it was pure joy. Any beers that had survived last time around were sacrificed, with cathartic screams of joy coming from every direction. This was more than a goal - it was 90 years of pain evaporating in a single moment. With the tears, came the helicopter. Le putain hélicoptère.

Its arrival is like something out of a movie. The sky had once again been turned blue and yellow with pyro smoke after the third goal, and when it finally cleared minutes later, there it was. Still in the distance, perhaps afraid to come any closer after the events of a year ago, but unmistakably the flying machine that the home supporters had both been dreading and dreaming of seeing all day.

The arrival of the helicopter leads to another special moment, with scarves removed from necks and twirled in the air, replicating the movement of helicopter blades. “HÉLICOPTÈRE! HÉLICOPTÈRE! HÉLICOPTÈRE!” they chant. Once a song used to mock them, now one that would be forever connected with the crowning glory of their return from obscurity.

So much of Union’s story since they were promoted back to the top flight resembles a movie that you could certainly be forgiven for perhaps expecting one last twist ending, but thankfully for the blue and yellow loyal, M. Night Shyamalan wasn’t amongst the Gent substitutes. The visitors never looked likely to spoil the party for a second time, and the closing stages took place in a shared experience of joy from all four sides of the stadium.

3 minutes of injury time were announced, along with a plea for supporters to stay off the pitch at full time. Even if the helicopter had been landing on the pitch, there was no way anyone was paying attention to this particular request. With three short blasts on a whistle, the referee ensured the footballing equivalent of “and they all lived happily ever after” became a reality. Fairytale no more - Union were champions.

The next hour would bring a tear to the eye of even a statue, as Union supporters flooded the field in joy. In moments like this, there really is nothing quite like football. Every time you turned your head, you saw someone having one of the happiest moments of their lives. I stayed in the stands to begin with, taking in the celebrations from those who had also resisted the urge to join their heroes on the pitch.

A few rows in front of me are two guys, both completely unable to speak through the tears streaming down their faces. Hands on their head in disbelief, each attempt to put words to the moment only causes them to cry even harder. A husband and wife to my left are also engulfed with emotion, while another stands alone, periodically screaming. We’ve all been there mate, we’ve all been there.

I decide to make my way onto the pitch, because you only get so many opportunities in life to be part of a pitch invasion, and when that opportunity comes - it must be taken. This is my excuse for storming the field with Helsinborg supporters in 2021 after their 3-1 victory over BK Halmstads saw them promoted, although I have less excuse for getting caught up in the moment and taking one of the corner flags with me.

No chance of a unique souvenir this time, as the corner flags and goal nets have long since disappeared. Just a few blue and yellow strands remain in the goal where the title winning strikes were scored, with these small pieces being cut away with keys, bottle openers, and anything else sharp (but not quite sharp enough to be refused entry to a stadium) they could find.

My lasting memory of this day will be in these moments, walking around the pitch and observing all the different types of joy that football can bring. There were of course, the usual excitable football lads, waving smokebombs, hoisting the players onto their shoulders, chanting and generally going mental - the staples of any football celebration. But beyond this, there was also the guy on crutches, standing 20 feet or so from the main scrum of celebration, taking in the moment from as close as he dared. The guy holding the “USG Italian branch” banderi flag with tears streaming down his face. The two girls embracing on the pitch, one holding a handmade “I should be studying” sign. The dads with their kids on their shoulders, and so many more stories.

Someone at USG then made the best decision of the day so far, opening the gates to allow those people who had not been able to secure a ticket for the match to join the celebrations. In poured hundreds of delirious supporters, some falling to the ground and kissing the grass, overwhelmed with happiness that they were able to celebrate inside the stadium after all. This was also the moment I witnessed one of the most emotional moments of the day, a man wheeled into the stadium on a hospital bed by his friends. He was clearly very unwell, but no matter what happened, he and his friends would always have this moment of pure joy. Hopefully he made a full recovery, but if not - some of his final moments were spent surrounded by friendship and pure joy, not a bad way to go.

On a more cheerful note, the opening of the gates allowed for numerous good boys to join the on-pitch celebrations, with dogs of all shapes and sizes running around with glee at being allowed to meet roughly 12,000 new friends. One of them in particular absolutely refused to take part in a title winning selfie, in a way that only someone who has tried to take a nice photo of their cat can relate to.

With the trophy presentation delayed until the helicopter could land and safely deliver its precious cargo, the pitch slowly began to clear in anticipation, although the fastest runners who had secured a place right next to the platform weren’t going anywhere. A number of the Union Bhoys had arrived back in the stands, setting off one more round of flares, smokebombs, and fireworks, partly in celebration, and partly because they didn’t want to have to carry them to wherever the party went next whenever things finally died down at the stadium.

After one fragment of firework missed my head by about 3 inches I decided to move to a slightly less precarious spot. I did so just in time, as just a few minutes later came the crowning moment. The players finally reemerged from the changing rooms, once again being mobbed by the many admirers who remained on the field. With a helping hand from security they were able to find their way through, and moments later the unique trophy (featuring a bull with a football/globe on its back) was lifted aloft by goalkeeper and captain Anthony Moris, a man who had been with the club since their days in the second tier.

Blue and yellow confetti rained from the sky and was quickly snatched up by those looking for a souvenir. I did initially manage to grab some, but gave it away 30 seconds later to the stressed looking dad of a young kid who was in floods of tears that he didn’t manage to get any. To make myself feel better, I will choose to believe this confetti will become a treasured family heirloom, and not immediately forgotten because of an iPad.

It had been a long day, and my lungs were keen to be somewhere that wasn’t being set on fire every five minutes. Heading back onto the pitch for one last walk through the joyous crowds, I did my best to take in every single moment. I watch a lot of rubbish football in my life, and I knew there would come a day pretty soon where I’d just watched a 0-0 draw in the Bosnian Third Division and had to walk 5 miles back to the hotel because Uber doesn’t exist here.

When that day came, I could just close my eyes and pretend I was back here in Brussels, on the day that dreams came true and people learned to love Le putain hélicoptère.