Frank Skinner's Euro Blog - Times Online - WBLG

It's Germany, not Spain, having the inquisition

Despite historical precedent, it’ll be Germany, not Spain, who’ll be having the inquisition after this one. Spain were just too good for them.

Those Spanish fans who turned up in bullfighter-gear got the mood exactly right. Germany seemed to decide the only way to stop the sweet-passing Spaniards was to muscle them out of the game, but they ended up looking like a snorting, angry bull charging a slinky, side-stepping matador.

Mind you, the Spanish team nearly ruined the whole evening. Deciding to throw doddery old Luis Aragones above their heads, as part of the post-match celebrations, was a risk to say the least.

The stiff, pale old body bouncing above their shrieking faces was unnervingly reminiscent of the Ayatollah Khomeni’s funeral.

And, stadium-music person, if you must play We Are the Champions when a team has just won the European Championships, I’d suggest, in the interests of accuracy, you fade it before Freddie Mercury says ‘of the world’.

Still, it was a top-notch tournament with top-notch winners.

Adios, amigos.

Turkey take great delight in teasing the fat lady

After three weeks in Switzerland and Austria blogging for Times Online, I thought I’d sum up my own highs and lows from Euro 2008.

Turkey were my team of the tournament. The obvious highlights were their 3-2 win against Czech Republic, after being 2-0 down with 15 minutes to go, and the quarter-final victory over Croatia, when their extra-time equaliser turned up later than a Zimbabwean election result. Every time the fat lady got up to sing, the Turks pushed her back into her seat.

The Italians were the biggest disappointment. They looked so brilliant when they won the World Cup two years ago, but they seemed to have descended into catenaccio hell. Luca Toni was particularly poor — proof that Peter Crouch wouldn’t necessarily get better if he beefed up a bit. Mind you, the Italians were dealt a particularly cruel blow when playing the Dutch. One of Holland’s first-half goals against them was about three yards offside. I know these things happen, but to eradicate any possible doubt about how wrong the decision was, they showed one of those fancy overhead camera replays on the stadium’s big screen. That really rubbed salt in Italy’s wound.

We should be more like the Germans

So tonight is the European Championships Final at Vienna’s Ernst Happel Stadium, or the Big Happel as I like to call it. I have my ticket and I’m very excited. Speaking of tickets, is there some sort of black market for used tickets?

Whenever I leave the stadium, over here, there are guys with signs saying ‘I collect used tickets’. I’m assuming it must be some sort of a scam. The tickets are not exactly suitable for framing. My final ticket says, in large letters, Winner of Match 29 vs. Winner of Match 30. It doesn’t exactly make the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, does it?

I’m not a great champion of political correctness

About 15 minutes before the Spain-Russia game kicked off, the stadium-announcer led the crowd in a rehearsal. We had each been given a small plastic cape with the slogan ‘No to Racism’ emblazoned across it. The idea was that, when the players came out, we would do a Mexican wave with the capes pulled up above our head. I was excited to see whether Luis Aragones would be wearing one.

For me, the Mexican wave is not the best context for hammering home my anti-racist credentials because over the years, my annoyance with the wave, at football and cricket matches, had led me to say some very disparaging things about the Mexicans for inventing it.

Spain master the 'beautiful cross'

I’ve been in Vienna for 8 days now and, weather-wise, there’s been no in-between; we’ve either had glorious sunshine or the sort of rain that would make Noah put his head out of the ark window, look up towards Heaven and shout ‘Yes, alright; there’s no need to go mad.’

Last night was a rain-night. Difficult conditions for football, you’d think, but it didn’t seem to bother Spain. In fact, judging by the way they took Russia apart in the second half I would say the bulk of the Spanish squad spent their formative years mainly on the plain.

Cooking up a storm

I watched the Germany-Turkey game in an Italian restaurant in Vienna, with Adrian Chiles and Lee Dixon, both over here as part of the BBC’s Euro 2008 coverage. That being the case I thought I’d put together the highlights of the evening followed, of course, by a bit of post-match analysis.

The restaurant’s telly was set high above the bar and tuned to a German channel. Before the game they showed the team line-ups, with the names arranged to show roughly where each player would play. Adrian went straight into professional mode. ‘You see, when they show the line-ups over here, they put the goalie’s name at the bottom of the screen. That way the left-sided positions are on the left of the screen and so on. In England we put the goalie at the top so the left-side of the team is on the right of screen. Their way is much clearer.’ I nodded. I felt like I was doing Media Studies.

Whatever happened to the drop-ball?

Whatever happened to the drop-ball? I don’t recall seeing one in this entire tournament. I used to love the drop-ball. The ref would stop play, usually because of an injury, and then re-start the game by dropping the ball near to where it was when play was stopped. As soon as the ball landed, it was anyone’s. This was the best bit. Two opposing players would stand facing each other, waiting for the dropped ball to touch the ground, at which point they’d both go totally ballistic; wildly kicking in the general direction of the ball. If they missed with one foot they’d immediately take a swing with the other till it became like a blood-curdling version of the hokey-cokey. The ball eventually spun or ricocheted in a completely unpredictable direction, away from the furious kickers, and play resumed as normal.

Save me from this prediction affliction

So whatever happened to the Group of Death? It turned out to be more like the Group of Mild Concussion. The one thing we were sure about before Euro 2008 was that three of the best teams in the tournament had ended up together in Group C. As it turns out, Group C is the only group not represented in the semi-finals.

Football is unpredictable; that's why we love it. So why do people, before games, always ask me what the score's going to be? Furthermore, why do they get angry when I say 'I don't know'? They seem to feel I'm being awkward; refusing to join in. In the past, in order to avoid a scene, I would just say 0-0. It seemed like a nice, non-controversial scoreline; one that couldn't offend anybody. I was wrong. 'Nil-nil?' they'd say, mildly outraged 'that's boring', as if I my prediction was somehow binding; like I'd put some terrible curse on the game that would spoil it for everyone. This unjust response made me resentful and I decided to up-the-ante in these pre-match discussions. Thus people would say 'What's the score going to be?' and I'd say '2-1' and then add 'How many minutes of stoppage time will be played in each half? I'm predicting just 1 minute in the first but 3 in the second.' This would, again, get strange looks but it was a dual-purpose reply. Firstly, it subtly made the point, I hoped, that predicting any detail of a football match was a futile activity, be it the score, the number of free-kicks, or, if you like, the number of un-penalised foul throws. Secondly, referees, in England at least, do tend to add 1 minute on the first half and 3 on the second, so this prediction is less random than most.

Thus, the person I'd spoken to, having dismissed me as a smart-arse, might well, when the electric boards were held high, begin to see me, rather, as some sort of Derren Brown figure. If, into the bargain, the score, by some fluke, actually was 2-1, he would begin to think I was in league with the Devil.

Of course, even if all this happened, I would get no credit for my success because the man I'd told would, rather than admit my superior predicting powers, wipe our conversation from his memory. On the rare occasions someone successfully predicts a score correctly, all the witnesses suddenly develop amnesia. So the excited fellow is saying to his friends 'I said it would be 2-0' and they're looking puzzled and saying 'Did you? I thought you said 2-2'

Over the last few days, I've been asked, by 3 different taxi-drivers, what the score will be in the Germany-Turkey game. Because the referees here have proved much less uniform - I've only seen one game with the 1 minute-3 minutes formula - I've decided to keep it simple. I say '4-3 to Germany'. Of course, the drivers look aghast. People who ask what the score's going to be don't like 0-0, but they don't like big score predictions either. It sounds like your not taking the predicting game seriously. I'd say the acceptable range for these people lies somewhere between 1-0 and 3-1. Anyway, before any of the drivers could protest at the ridiculousness of my 4-3 prediction, I added, with no hint of irony, 'On penalties.' The eyes in the rear-view mirror look genuinely distraught. Predictors don't like 0-0, they don't like big scores, and they don't like too much detail. I'm thinking of adding a list of who'll score and who'll miss.

If you're one of the people who feels a desperate need to exhibit your football-psychic skills, I suggest you play safe and stick to the time-honoured art of retrospective football predicting. When a team score, after any sort of sustained pressure, turn to whoever's next to you and say 'Well, it was coming'.

Spain are going for a song

I didn’t reckon much to Italy versus Spain last night. I thought they were pushing it a bit when they showed highlights of the game on the stadium’s big screen and accompanied it with Robbie Williams’ Let Me Entertain You. A sonorous reading of TS Eliot’s The Wasteland might have been more appropriate.

I honestly felt the Spanish fans’ post-match celebrations were hampered by the quality of the previous 120 minutes. They seemed pleased but slightly embarrassed, like a batsman who’s thick-edged a boundary to third man when he was aiming for mid-off. They still sang Y Viva Espana, but that was tinged by embarrassment too. Still, that surely should be the default performance mode for that song. On the sheet music, just above the first few bars it should say, instead of ‘allegro’ or whatever, ‘Strident, but with a tinge of embarrassment’.

I can’t get used to the fact the Spanish fans sing a song which anyone who grew up in this country during the Seventies associates with stereotypical Spanish naffness; all sangria and moonlit knee-tremblers with bullfighters. The Italians, to their credit, resisted the temptation to respond with Joe Dolce’s Shaddap Ya Face.

Nevertheless, Spain are through to the semi-finals and meet Russia in the next game. Maybe there’s a Ra-Ra-Rasputin in the offing.

Of course, if the England fans opt for their own cheesy Seventies national stereotypes song it’ll have to be Matchstick Men and Matchstick Cats and Dogs. Let’s hope Peter Crouch doesn’t take it personally.

Has Euro 2008 hit the wall?

When people out here ask me what I do for a living, I’ve taken to saying ‘journalist’. I know it’s stretching it a bit but it has less pitfalls than answering ‘comedian’.

Of course, if I was a proper journalist, my piece on the Holland-Russia game would include some of those fabulous national-symbol-analogies that proper journalists use.

‘The Russian bear truly emerged from hibernation last night’ or ‘When the Dutch defence started to leak Marco van Basten could not find a little boy to stick his finger in the dyke.’

But then it starts getting complicated because the Russian manager is Dutch, so is the Russian defence a dyke as well? I’m not sure they have dykes in Russia. Even Tatu later admitted it was a publicity stunt.

It’s better if I keep it simple. I was bored for most of last night’s game; certainly the first 90 minutes. Maybe it was because I watched the game at Vienna’s fanzone; a massive outdoor screen surrounded by stately buildings; and thus spent the night sitting on the extremely uncomfortable wood-chip floor, or maybe I’ve slightly hit the Euro 2008 wall, or maybe it was because the game was a bit boring. I don’t think it was just me.

When the screen broke down, 70 minutes in, there was no Manchester riot, just some ironic cheers and applause. Some people took it as an excuse to slip away but the screen soon flickered back into life. A further test of the game’s excitement-rating came when Ruud van Nistelrooy hit his late equaliser. Amidst the cheers of the Dutch fans present I could definitely hear a collective sigh. None of the neutrals fancied another half hour on the rough wood-chip floor.

Extra-time was much better. These last two quarter finals have been a great advert for extra-time. When Uefa said they’d cut straight to penalties if Turkey and the Czech Republic were level after 90 minutes, I thought it was the death-knell for extra-time.

In recent years the added half-hour has tended to become an over-cautious pre-amble to the penalty shoot-out. But with the Turkey-Croatia and Russia-Holland games, it’s been the best 30 minutes of the match.

The one thing that really kept my attention throughout the game was the noticeable rise of Russia’s Andrei Arshavin to star-status. Every big tournament has its special turn; the player who really blossoms during the course of the games; and Arshavin, even though he missed the first two matches through suspension, could be it. He looks a bit like Prince Harry with a fringe.

I wonder if Harry is familiar with Arshavin?  They get up to all sorts of things at public school

Why you should never, ever leave before the end

Whenever anyone offers me a lift to a West Brom game I always say the same thing 'You know I never leave before the end, don't you?' They often respond as if this is eccentric behaviour. Turkey, in this tournament, have proved to be the great champions of people who never leave before the end. I've been to three of their games and seen them beat Switzerland with a 90th minute winner, score 3 goals in the last 15 minutes against Czech Republic and break the Croatians with their late, late extra-time goal last night. I'm at the stage where, when I get back to the hotel after a Turkey game; I put the telly on to make sure they didn't score during the warm-down.

I had plenty of room to escape, last night, if I had decided on an early exit. For some unknown reason I spent the game with three empty seats either side of me. I felt like Robert Vaughan at a Magnificent Seven reunion. It's nice to have a bit of space but I did feel rather a lot of responsibility during the Mexican wave. When they announced, mid-way through the second half, that the stadium, with a 51, 428 attendance, was sold out, everyone around looked at me accusingly, like it was my fault the poor announcer had unknowingly lied.

The only person with more space than me was the Croatia boss, Slaven Bilic. Do you remember that moment in the Impossible Job documentary when Graham Taylor told the linesman 'I'm in my metre'? The coach's technical areas have grown a bit since then. At the Ernst Happel stadium, they're the size of a small putting green, and Bilic likes to work at the very edge of it. This doesn't suggest a manager who takes much mid-game advice. If his assistant had an idea he thought might turn the game, he'd never make the gaffer hear from that distance. He'd have to text him.

Of course, Bilic needs plenty of room for his flamboyant gesturing and melodramatic dropping to his knees. I actually caught him watching replays of himself, on the big screen, on two separate occasions last night. I've very much enjoyed the fact this tournament has featured so many white-haired, sly-old-fox football coaches but Bilic is one of the new school. I bet he has pictures of Jose Mourinho on his bedroom wall.

But the Croatian boss went a melodramatic gesture too far last night. I know running on the pitch when Croatia scored was a lovely photo-opportunity but it turned the goal-celebration into a victory celebration, and the football gods don't like being told when the game is over, that's why they sent us Turkey.

Vienna is the home of psychoanalysis, but you don't have to be Sigmund Freud to work out why the Croatian players messed-up the penalty shoot-out. It's hard to win a game twice. Croatia's failed penalty-takers looked full of dread as they returned to their arm-in-arm team-mates. Of course, they didn't have to trudge back to the team. There was plenty of room next to me.

In future, if Slaven Bilic offers me a lift to a West Brom game I'll say yes. After last night, there's no way he'll be leaving before the end.

J-Low has a lot going on at the back

Well, the stage was set, wasn’t it? Underperforming, shaky-looking Germany scrape through to the quarter-finals and have to play the exciting, multi-talented and much-fancied winners of Group A. Poor Portugal didn’t stand a chance.

Even though their coach, Joachim Low, was banished to what appeared to be some kind of corporate dining room – an unfortunate place to be hanging out when you’re dressed like a waiter - the Germans still looked suspiciously like the Germans.

For me, the moment of revelation came in the 19th minute, when their defender, Arne Friedrich, produced a perfect tackle to rob Cristiano Ronaldo as he headed for goal; icy precision putting the brakes on extravagant flair; wondrous wings clipped by cold steel. The German defence were looking suspiciously like the German defence. Joachim Low has so much at the back they ought to call him J-Low.

A couple of minutes later, Germany were 1-0 up. The goal came from Bastian Schweinsteiger; a man who, despite looking about as German as it’s possible to look, when he played in the last World Cup, has now dyed his hair even blonder and managed to look more German still. A few minutes later it was 2-0. Despite Portugal’s comeback, I felt the die was cast; Germany were Germany again.

And all the time, poor old J-Low was shut in his glass box, like a less-annoying David Blaine. When Ballack scored the third we saw the coach going crazy, clearly not restrained by his corporate surroundings, and when Portugal pulled it back to 3-2, we had a shot of him lighting up a fag. Oh, yeah, he’s still Joachim from the block.

And, at the end of it all, how nice to see the Portuguese coach, big Phil Scolari, make a special effort to shake hands with the excellent Schweinsteiger. That blonde hair won’t look at all out of place on the King’s Road.

The big screen does not lie

I was at the Spain-Greece game in Salzburg last night. With Spain already through to the quarter-finals and Greece already out it was what I believe they call a dead rubber. I was a neutral at a game that didn't mean anything anyway; a sort of belt-and-braces approach to non-involvement.

There were only two really exciting moments during the match: the first was when news came, via the big screen, that Russia were somewhat unexpectedly beating Sweden 1-0 in the other game in Group D. The second was when the big screen told us it was 2-0. Both moments resulted in a burst of excited chatter from those around me.

Are the Brits winning the European Tout Cup?

It’s all about tickets. Everywhere I go in Switzerland this trip - Basel, Berne, Geneva, Zurich - the streets are full of ticket touts wearing big signs around their necks written in English, German and French, that say something like "We buy any Euro 2008 tickets." Some are primitive cardboard jobs, written in marker pen, following the traditional "hungry and homeless" design, but most are neatly printed in large red lettering and laminated to guard against the near-continual Swiss rain.

Germany's bad boys get government approval

I don't think I'd ever seen a managerial double-sending-off before Joachim Low and Josef Hickersberger got their marching orders during the Austria-Germany game last night. The two men, exiting together, reminded me of Billy Bremner and Kevin Keegan walking off after their dual-dismissal in the 1974 Charity Shield game. Bremner and Keegan, of course, threw their shirts to the ground by way of a protest. I couldn't imagine Low getting his skin-tight tango-teacher white shirt off that quickly. The two managers would have had to pause on the running track while the already bare-chested Hickersberger peeled the highly-tapered garment off Low's shoulders.

Pleased to walk away from Czech nightmare

Petr Cech practises begging for forgiveness before the game.

As I made my way back from the Turkey-Czech Republic game last night, still buzzing with the thrill of it, the streets of Geneva were full of Turkish fans, singing on street corners, blasting car horns, running across busy roads trailing Turkish flags behind them. When, this morning, I headed for the railway station to get the 10.14 train to Zurich, there were still flag-draped fans on the streets, but now they were sheltering from the rain, drinking coffee from paper cups and generally looking wrecked. Turkish delight had become cold Turkey.

Real fans throw toilet rolls

I was checking out the list of things you aren't allowed to take into a stadium at this tournament. They include firearms, bottles, aerosols and, interestingly, 'Promotional materials and clothing'. In other words, it's fine for me to smoke at one of these games; there isn't a smoking ban here; but if I wore a t-shirt advertising Nicorette patches I could be ejected from the ground. I don't know but it's possible the 'promotional materials and clothing' restriction is part of a deal with the sponsors. They've paid a lot of money to advertise their brands. They don't want a not-paid-for big close-up of someone wearing a 'Try Lemsip' top hat.

Saying hello to Psycho

I had a brilliant seat for the Holland-France game, in the back row of the top tier. The Wankdorf Stadium only holds 30,777 so I wasn’t too far away from the pitch and had the luxury of being able to stand for periods of the game with no danger of blocking anyone’s view. The only thing behind me was wall. I found it liberating. I’d forgotten how good it felt to stand at a game. I became aware, as I switched between sitting and standing, that I actually seemed to enjoy the game more, was more focussed and involved, when I was on my feet. I’ve noticed this phenomenon at music gigs too. Sitting is alright for a band you admire, but not one you love.

Of course, as a neutral at this tournament, sitting is perfectly appropriate. These are teams I admire but don’t love. When they score I tend to remain seated while wild celebrations go on all around me. I quite like remaining calm, face fixed in an inscrutable half-smile, while others whoop and throw their arms in the air. Still, I’m not here to talk about my sex-life.

It just seems ironic to me that at this tournament, where I have no real passionate involvement, I have re-discovered the joy of standing-up to watch football. I know some supporters still defiantly stand at English domestic games. I always thought they were Luddites, refusing to accept progress, trying too hard to be a ‘real’ fan. Now I understand. When I’m at the Hawthorns next season, I fear the seat I’ve come to accept as a comfortable perch will feel like a straitjacket, keeping me in place.

My seat at the last  Holland game was in the front row, on ground level. Everything there is seen through a forest of players, with linesmen, cameramen, ball-boys and people with laminates around their neck, constantly crossing your line of vision. I started to think maybe Arsene Wenger was telling the truth after all: he really didn’t see any of those controversial incidents.

As I was making my way into the stadium last night, I noticed Stuart Pearce, ticket in hand, queuing ahead of me, so I went over to say hello. I have, on occasion, felt a bit sorry for myself during this tournament, because England aren’t here. It reminds me of when I got expelled from school and went back, a few weeks later, to see some of my friends. Everyone had their books and biros and was scurrying around from class to class, busy and involved. I found the luxury of being able to sit casually in the sixth-form common room, drinking coffee, couldn’t alleviate that feeling of being an outsider; a spare part. But how must it be for Psycho? I’m thinking I would have been here with my England shirt on, the stadium draped in crosses of St George, singing my head off. He, I assume, as part of the England set-up, would have been at the training camp, on the coach, probably on the bench; in the very eye of the storm. Now he’s queuing to get in with everyone else. Still, at least he’ll get a better view.

Life behind the lens cap

I suppose today's blog should be about how much I enjoyed watching Croatia beat Germany on Swiss TV last night but the truth is I didn't enjoy it. Those shots of Slaven Bilic celebrating the goals were just a bit too familiar.

So, instead, I thought I'd give you a little insight into the life of a Times blogger, and explain some of the technical difficulties one has to overcome. I'd never done anything quite like this before, sending posts and photographs from overseas, so the Times sent out one of their people, Tom, to give me a quick lesson in how to use the equipment. It all went very well and Tom flew back to England. A couple of days later I tried to take some photos of Berne on my way to the Holland-Italy game; the beautiful city, the colourful fans, the empty bear-pit; but I could not get the camera to work. I saw a Dutch TV crew in the street and asked their cameraman for advice. Surely, I thought to myself, a professional will sort it out in seconds. He took the camera from me and pressed a series of buttons but he couldn't get it to work either. I tried a few more times before the game but eventually I gave up. The next day, I phoned Tom.

Cornered by some Turkish fans on a tram...

I was walking across Basel, on my way to the Switzerland-Turkey game, when I suddenly became concerned that I was going the wrong way. There was only fifty minutes to kick-off time but there wasn’t another fan in sight. Then I saw a number 36 tram with the German word for stadium on the front so I jumped on board.

The tram was completely empty except for a group of about eight black guys sitting together at the front. I noticed a couple of them were wearing Turkey shirts. I was wearing a Switzerland shirt. Several scary stories about Turkish football fans suddenly came to mind. A friend of mine went to a game at Galatasaray and said he felt physically sick when he saw the infamous signs, held up by the home fans, saying ‘Welcome to Hell’. I had a similar feeling, recently, when I saw a road sign saying ‘Welcome to Hull’.

Anyway, I looked at these guys and they looked at me. There was a woman with them but I figured she was just there to operate the camcorder while they put the Swiss supporters to the sword. No, I was being ridiculous; I felt sure these Turks were just ordinary football fans off to enjoy the game. Then one of them suddenly shrieked and lunged towards me. I never much fancied being brutally murdered but being brutally murdered for being Swiss; that really was a bummer.

Hats off to national stereotypes

I don't want to keep going on about the Holland fans but I saw one in Berne who, as well as wearing an orange suit, wore a hat that was in the form of a big Dutch cheese. On top of the cheese was a clog, some tulips and a windmill. Thus he managed to cover four Dutch clichés with one hat. I also saw Switzerland fans in cheese-themed hats but this time it was the classic Swiss cheese, with holes. Many of their fans rang cow bells too.

I think this embracing of ones own national stereotypes is very healthy. I wish the Swiss fans had taken it even further. How brilliant it would be to hear twenty thousand people doing a synchronised yodel. It would send a shiver down the spines of the opposition.

Forget total orange, let's paint terraces Sky blue

You know when you go to see a band and you wake up the next morning with ‘concert-ears’ – that hissing sound that usually lasts till about lunchtime? Well, I was sitting with the Holland fans at the game last night and still, now, if I close my eyes, all I can see is orange. I have never been in the midst of any group of people who adhered so rigidly to one colour. I mean, the Hare Krishnas are partial to orange but even they break it up with a bit of maroon.

So where are the bears?

Hooray, they've just turned up at my hotel room.

The tickets that is, not the bears.

No ticket, carrot-eating bears and dying for a cigarette

It’s lunchtime in Ipsach and there’s still no sign of my ticket for Holland-Italy in Berne tonight. I keep nipping to Reception to ask if there’s any news but no joy so far. The hotel manager, a bull-necked brute of a man, in his mid-forties, speaks excellent English but, when studying it, he must have accidentally turned two pages at once, thus missing the section that included ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. He has substituted ill-tempered grunts in their place. When I asked him if an envelope had arrived for me, he looked outraged. ‘There is no envelope’ he said, like Richard Dawkins impatiently declaring there is no God. I said ‘thank you’ and the manager looked puzzled. He’s probably downstairs, Googling the phrase as I write.

Holland-Italy could be one of those all-time great games. The thought of the ticket not arriving is doing my head in. Maybe I’ll start smoking again. That might ease my nerves. I didn’t realise you could still smoke in public spaces in both Germany and Switzerland. I’m not a nostalgic person by nature but seeing people smoke at the Czech Republic game; seeing them smoke in restaurants, even at breakfast this morning, has been a walk down Memory Lane. Of course, it’s also been a walk down Secondary Smoking Lane but that won’t matter if I start smoking myself. To fit in with the Ipsach set I really need a pipe, ideally with a handlebar moustache fixed just above the mouthpiece. That might even win over the Minotaur on front-desk.

Mind you, if the ticket doesn’t show by, say, four o’clock, a pipe won’t be enough. I’ll have to buy every sachet of tobacco the local newsagent has and cram the contents into an Alpine horn.

I suppose I should go eat something. I’m planning to see Berne before the game. A taxi-driver told me they have bear-pits there, where you can watch the bears eat carrots. That sounds great. Then again, a taxi driver here also told me that Ronaldo was injured and definitely wouldn’t be playing against Turkey so who knows. I’m going to be a bit gutted if the driver said ‘bears’ but meant ‘rabbits’. Suddenly, the carrots-thing wouldn’t be such a bizarre phenomenon.

So will there be bears? Will they eat carrots? More importantly, will there be a ticket? I believe this is what they call a cliff-hanger.

Video: Swiss fans, identikits and bizarre blowers

Frank Skinner took his video camera to Czech Republic's 1-0 victory over Switzerland and caught some unusual sights on film...

Podolski leads the Poles a merry dance

I left Germany this morning and now I’m staying in Ipsach, twenty-six miles from Berne. I’m slowly closing in on the Euro ’08 venues, like a darts-player edging towards the winning double. I wandered around Ipsach tonight, looking for a lively bar where I could watch Germany play Poland. There wasn’t one. I ended up in a sort of Berni Inn restaurant, full of middle-aged couples.

There was a big telly in the corner, showing the game, but I seemed to be the only customer who was actually watching it. Thus, in the interests of democracy, the TV sound was turned down and Seventies disco music played instead. Most of the customers seemed to have dressed with this in mind.

I can’t understand what the commentators over here are saying, of course, but I did miss the general crowd noise etc. Podolski’s first-half goal came about thirty seconds into ‘Yes, sir, I can Boogie.’

I got a few stares when I involuntarily shouted ‘wide, wide, wide’ halfway through Barry White’s ‘I can’t get enough of your love’. Maybe they thought that, after all these years, I’d suddenly been taken aback by the shape of Barry’s face.

As you may know, I’ve resolved to stay neutral during this tournament but I do feel genuinely sorry for the host nations. They both did surprisingly well in their opening games but ended up with nothing. Not even their own fans have much faith in them. One Austrian guy I met told me it’s ‘a little bit embarrassing’ that Austria is hosting the Euros because ‘they are not so good at playing’.

I tried to reassure him by pointing out that Austria having the Euros is no more embarrassing than England having the Wimbledon Tennis Championships. He nodded in agreement. I won’t get to see Austria live in this tournament, unless they make the quarter-finals. That would probably require another Anschluss.

The Swiss fans seem to have given up hope as well. Since I’ve been in Ipsach I’ve seen several examples of Swiss and German flags on the same car. It’s tough when, after one game, your fans have already got a plan B.

Getting down to business ... in Germany

Euro 2008 has started and I'm right here in the middle of it; sitting in my hotel room in Binzen. It's in Germany. Yes, I was surprised as well; what with the Euros being in Switzerland and Austria, but I'm new to this foreign correspondent lark. When David Baddiel and me did podcasts from the last World Cup we were in German hotels. I assumed that was because the World Cup was in Germany but now I'm wondering if the Times people have some sort of special deal with German hotels and they send you there regardless of what you're working on. Maybe I'll nip down the Binzen bierhaus later and bump into a Times journalist covering the Barack Obama story.

Even stranger, my original route, from London to Basel, included a stop-off in Frankfurt. Die Times; that's what I'm calling it from now on. Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining. Three and a half weeks at the Euros; what a treat. And Die Times did kindly agree to switch my flights and let me fly from London to Basel, direct. I always find, when I swap flights, there is a very tiny part of me that hopes the plane I was originally booked on falls out of the sky and I'll be able to spend the rest of my life telling people that 'I should have been on that plane.' Then again, if the flight I'd switched to crashed, I think those moments as it plummeted towards the ground, would be made even worse by me saying to my terrified fellow passengers 'Of course, I shouldn't even have been on this plane. Why didn't I listen to Die Times?'

I flew Swiss Air in the end. There was no hint that the Euros were happening at the airport in London but the Swiss Air flight was a European Championships fest. It said 'The airline for all fans' on the side of the plane and we were given complimentary chocolate footballs and wet wipes that had 'You'll never walk alone' on the packet. I bet the Times reporter covering the Third Test at Trent Bridge didn't get any of that on his flight to Dusseldorf.

I decided to wear a Switzerland shirt to the opening game. That was an interesting experience. It just felt like fancy dress. Like I was off to a party. When I put on an England shirt it has a distinct effect on me; the same effect it has on most male England fans. If you are a male England fan, and you don't know what I'm talking about, just try singing 'Eng-er-land, Eng-er-land, Eng-er-land' good and loud. Move over to the mirror and watch yourself sing. That face you're pulling is how all English men look when they're wearing an England shirt.

Anyway, I had a splendid time. The opening ceremony had people on stilts and the game itself was, as opening games go, pretty good.

Although I was wearing my Swiss shirt I wasn't upset that Czech Republic won. By then I was wondering just how bad Petr Cech's hat-hair is, post-game. More blog tomorrow. Auf weidersehn.

How about a spot of homosexual voyeurism to kick things off...

You know, I was really enjoying last weekend’s Britain’s Got Talent final until little George Sampson did his dance routine with all that rain and an umbrella. How long, I thought to myself, before I’m watching Steve McClaren, with his red-and-blue FA brolly, reproducing this same routine on Sports Relief, interspersed with clips of us losing to Croatia? Just like Waddle, Pearce and Southgate in their pizza ad, everyone will love Steve for being able to laugh at himself and this time it’ll all be for charity. No doubt the warm-hearted applause will make up for the boos he got that wet night in November. I shook my head at the very idea of it. Once more, I was re-living our New Wembley failure. I keep thinking I’ve got over England not qualifying for Euro ’08 but then something unexpected, like little George, gives me a flashback; I get a faraway look in my eyes, and it hits me all over again.

Coming soon...Frank Skinner

Frank Skinner, comedian, broadcaster and Fantasy Football legend, will blog here every day during Euro 2008. He's refusing to support Germany, won't be sucked in by Italy and France can go jump. Apparently this year we can forget the tears and tantrums - it's all about the football.

So, if the European Championship without England leaves you cold, then let Frank put the laugh back into your summer.

We even have an anti-support policy that you might like...

Come back soon for Frank's first post.