Champions and Thieves

In my mind it was to be the consummate battle between good and evil; those that had built glory and those that had bought it.

I met up with Bastian (a German - but as it wasn't international the footballing rivalry subsided) in front of the statue of Marshall Zhukov astride a horse, which in turn stands in front of the State history Museum, which in turn stands in front of Red Square. The Museum, which I never had the pleasure of entering is indeed very Red and square, more so than the thing with the same name that lies behind it. The statue itself is one of those which attracts tourists who run and jump in front of it whilst their picture is being taken, in a hopeful effort to liven up yet another "this is me in front of..." photo. Some slide-show viewers would really be in for the long haul when these guys got home.

"No, wait I'm jumping, see? Not standing! Jumping!"

Invariably the photographers' finger is off-cue and a re-jump is necessary. By the third or fourth take the jumper has lost more heart than an actor under the direction of Francis Ford Coppola... but it was amusing to watch until Bastian turned up.

On to the football; It had been a long day in Moscow getting things sorted but the atmosphere was fantastic. It reminded me of how travel-savvy I had become to watch quasi-boozed, overweight fans attempting to pronounce - and listen for - the names of their wanted destinations.

"Sportinaya [sic], thas the one" pointed one rather large cockney Chelsea fan, after scrutinizing the metro map for a good 5 minutes. "We're close so lets hop off here for a few beers".

I got chatting to some and glowed as they wowed at my travel plans. It was a brief comfort to hear English surrounding me again. Seeing a thousand other people in the same situation as me, trying in unison to navigate the un-navigable. But while we shared nationality and the love of beer and football, and as much as I missed my family and friends, it reminded me that I was still for all intents and purposes in Europe, and I yearned for the long road ahead.

Thoughts of obtaining a ticket were dashed by the news of a complete sellout and tout tickets going for as much as $4000US. The police presence was astounding, they were everywhere but had little to worry about - the rivalry between the two teams not half as intense as that of what could have been (Liverpool v Utd). Jovial banter was as manifest as the Old Bill - especially in the awesome Red Square as we wandered around the mini football arena that had been erected there.

Suddenly, through the crowd I caught the flash of a familar face. Approaching him I saw more and more until they clocked me in equal astonishment, it was Foreman, a friend from back home accompanied by a group of lads including Dollar - all friends from back in Blighty. They had tried getting in touch but of course the Russian SIM had displaced the old one from home. It was sheer luck to have met them and a great boost to the day and perfect timing. We headed for one of the many bustling pubs near to Red Square. Afterwards realised they only had 1 pump and 2 very sweaty and agitated barmen who had severely misjudged the drinking capacity of two sets of English football fans. However we queued and queued and finally got our jug before settling down to some of the finest pre-match banter i've ever witnessed.

The pub was predominently Red, with a smattering of Chelsea fans and pre-match build-up blaring on the big screen. The songs soon drowned that out and went to and fro as we epitomised the definition of merriment. The lads headed off with their tickets in hand. Bastian and I waited for Yulya - one of the girls who had helped me with my visa stamp - and her friend and headed for a different bar to knuckle down for the match. More friends joined and we sat at the end of a long table under which we all placed our bags and coats. During the match I left to meet various Russians who were extremely ineterested at my presence at the bar (being the only Englishman).

I was interviewed for television and radio, only after making it clear to both that they should ask before rolling tape, which neither had done. It's just manners. I'll never know whether I made it onto prime-time but both had assured me I would. They asked questions in regard to why I was in a pub and not at the match and I took great pleasure in filling them in on my travel plans which did not allow for such luxuries. It was indeed a surreal experience. One that turned a little sour when I returned to the table and checked my bag for my phone, which had dissappeared along with my MP3 player. Neither were expensive but my numbers, birthdays and music had gone, and I would be lying if I said it didn't put a dampner on the whole affair.

The fact was that I had most likely shaken hands with the thief when meeting people around the table. I am a paranoid traveller and had left the bag at the foot of friends for less than 5 minutes, but on the road, even that is not ample. It was a lesson, but a hard one to swallow. It may sound precious but your possessions become almost like little friends on the road, especially my music which I treasure. I had also agreed to meet up with the lads in Red Square afterwards and was now was unable to without my phone.

When John Terry slipped and mishit the penalty which allowed United to win the European Cup for the third time in their history it was a definate consolation, but the theft was fresh and played on my mind. For the first time since leaving - and on the back of the visa debacle and my camera breaking - I wallowed and had thoughts of coming home, if not a little magnified by a belly full of beer.

Still, every problem brings a challenge. Plus United won, which no-one can steal from me.