We're back in our hotel. It would have been nice to watch the games in a pub. But everywhere is dead.
Japan vs Cameroun
"I told you the Zwickl was good."
He grabbed a beer from the wrong crate. Giving up on that, he move on to the Hösl Whiskey Weisse.
"Not bad." Mike says.
"Whisky beers are all shit."
"Not bad, Ron."
Surprisingly, it isn't. Because it has no whisky flavour. I hate whisky beers. What the hell is whisky malt and why use it in beer?
"Mike, your lads have won."
"But you must feel at least half Japanese."
To celebrate we have dinner in a Hungarian restaurant. I'll say no more about the meal. It's one of those experiences I'm consigning directly to the dustbin of memory. I hope the binman will take it away, crush it and dump it in a landfill, never to be seen again. Until 24th century archeologists dig it up. Then bury it again encased in concrete.
It was that good a meal.
Italy vs Paraguay
"One nil to Italy."
"Bound to be one nil to Italy. That's what they do. And Paraguay are shit."
"I take that back. Italy are shit. Fancy some more impulse schnapps?"
"No. I need to concentrate on the game. . . . . OK, a small one."
Italy score. "How did that go in?
"That goalie's a wanker, Mike. Look how he flapped at that."
"Time for bed, said Zebedee."
"See you at eight tomorrow for brekkers."
"Can't you talk like a normal person for once?"
And so our two happy/tired/horizontally-challenged heroes settles into their beds. Or one did. The other wrote this bollocks.
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