Three Sunsets

Unable to choose between three pictures for the next ‘Picture of the Week’, and because my ‘Picture of the Week’ feature has become more of a ‘Picture of the Month and a Half’, I decided to just go completely wild and publish 3 pictures in one go.

This first one captures the two tallest buildings in the city – the IFC in the foreground and the ICC gleaming in the fading sun, facing off against each other across the harbour. While looming over them in a rare appearance out from under the haze is Tai Mo Shan – Hong Kong’s highest peak, perhaps making a statement about how nature always has the last word over man’s puny attempts to reach the sky. Or something.

Sometimes sunsets can be brooding and tinged with melancholy, as in the 1st picture, but sometimes they can be light and full of promise. This was taken from a ferry puttering back to Sai Kung one Friday afternoon, the weekend stretching out suggestively before us.

And then some sunsets are neither ominously bruised nor promisingly bright. Some are just peachy – like this one from a beach on Cheung Chau last weekend. The hills of Lantau are just visible in the background.

And there you go – a week (or so) in Hong Kong, in three sunsets.

Oh So Lo So

After 4 and a half years in one place, you become… no matter how exotic that ‘place’ once was and still may be… comfortable. Perhaps a little too comfortable. Besides it’s only right that you should feel comfortable in your adopted home – it wouldn’t do to be constantly exploring, constantly forcing new things upon yourself, living constantly on edge in case you might be missing something incredibly novel. No, after four years in one place, especially a place as condensed and accessible as Hong Kong, your expectations for each weekend begin to shrink. A hike across a far-flung mountain range becomes a trip to 7-11 to buy the paper. Dinner on the 110th floor of the world’s highest hotel becomes a pint in a Mongkok side-street…

And blogs suffer because life’s just too comfortable. Everything’s been experienced. Once you’ve written about how crazy-busy a Chinese New Year market is, or how foul a mooncake tastes, there’s really no need to write about it again. So last weekend I forced myself to go above and beyond, to a far-flung* beach, and write about it. Or at least publish some photos with a blurb or two.

*’far-flung’ by Hong Kong standards (around an hour door to door)

Somewhat symbolically, the towers of Hong Kong island recede into the background as the ferry pulls away from the Central piers. Still, though, hulking leviathans of the sea split the weekend waters in two as if to say: This Is Hong Kong!

Once on land, you follow narrow lanes past and eventually through overgrown grass and jungle to find…

…the sand! Lo So Shing on Lamma Island. Blissfully quiet compared to some of Hong Kong’s big-name beaches. Maybe it’s the distance away from civilisation, or maybe it’s because people here don’t like going to the beach after September (it’s autumn now, you see).

And on your way home you might stop for a beer as the sun dips towards the hills, and remind yourself of exactly where it is you live.

Midnight in Paris – Part 6

Wednesday 6th July

Portugal 2 – 0 Wales

Semi-Final, Lyon

Ronaldo 50’, Nani 53’

 

Looking back from a vantage point of several days, the final looming large and the rest of the tournament receding into the distance, the semi-finals stand out as two very different matches.

The good thing about lesser teams going deep into tournaments is that it creates a talking point, a reference for those who might not even care much for football. Even your mum, for example, might know that Wales had beaten Belgium who are quite good, aren’t they and were nearly in the final. The bad thing about lesser teams going deep into tournaments is that you get Portugal Vs Wales in the semi-finals.

It still rankles, as it did with my 16 year old self, that South Korea got to the 2002 World Cup semis. Yes, there was a great narrative, heart-warming scenes, moments that transcend football, but their quarter-final with Spain and their semi against the Germans were absolutely awful spectacles. Because the further a little team goes the more likely they are to freeze, stunned, in the middle of a dauntingly wide pitch, cavernous stands towering above them, like a sleepwalker awakening naked in his garden, and think ‘Fuck, I shouldn’t be here.’ Little teams should know their place and exit competitions at a sensible time: Northern Ireland left after the Round of 16 – fine. Iceland after the quarters – cute. Wales in the semis…

It would be different if they had made a game of it but without the suspended Ramsey they offer little and Portugal do enough. After a tight, tactical, cagey… (dull…) first half, Ronaldo explodes a header beyond Hennessey – seriously, he gets on my tits as much as the next sane person but what a header! – and then hits a shot that Nani diverts in. By the end it probably should have been three, or four. I can’t remember a good Welsh chance in the entire game, and it’s not because I fell asleep or anything.

Oh, and I reserve the right to lump Portugal in to the ‘lesser teams’ category – it could have been Belgium, or Croatia, for God’s sake, but the Portuguese have done just enough. People have called them ugly and dull, and they have been at times, but there does come a point where just being ugly and dull stop being enough. They have scored in, and have at least tried to win, all their knockout games (unlike some teams), although this is their first win in 90 minutes all tournament. I grudgingly admire them, and would ordinarily be supporting them in the final against a much sexier opponent, but the thought of CR7 getting his greasy mitts on the trophy, winking to the camera then posing in his Calvins for a dressing room winners shot is more than I can stomach.

 

Thursday 7th July

Germany 0 – 2 France

Semi-Final, Marseille

Griezmann pen. 45+2’, 72’

 

Luckily, though, France should have way too much for them in the final. I drag myself out of bed on a school night for the final time until Russia 2018, and can feel my body and mind protesting against yet another of these unnatural awakenings. I am relieved that I haven’t yet started waking up at 3am unbidden on football-free nights, a sign that my body hasn’t yet accepted this as the norm. It must only be a matter of time, though.

This game is everything that the first semi is not: fast-paced, high-skilled, dramatic… a game that feels like a semi-final, between two teams who know that this is their natural stage. It’s also a very odd game in that Germany dominate for long periods, especially in the first half, like few other teams have done all tournament, but France end the match looking like worthy winners.

Chances fall for Can and Muller and more, but they are without their one true goal-scorer Gomez. And as the first half trips over into injury time, and Germany think OK we should be ahead but let’s not panic just yet a French corner is headed by Evra onto Schweinsteiger’s hand. Penalty – the second conceded by Germany in two games, both for handball. Griezmann scores.

The second follows lovely trickery from Pogba, which allows him to cross. Neuer flaps (there’s something quite enjoyable about a Neuer mistake – he looks like a school bully) and Griezmann pokes home. Six for the tournament.

Germany then chuck everything at France: they hit the post and force a superb close range save from Lloris, but can’t find the goal to drag them back into the game and turn what is a very good match into a classic. For all their reputation as a resilient, come-back team (Never write off the Germans, eh?) when was the last time they actually performed a comeback from two goals down in a tournament? The 1986 final?

So France get there and have proved during this knockout round that, while their defence has been a little eccentric, their attack has been the best in the tournament by far. Good enough, with Griezmann, Giroud, Payet, Pogba et al, to ensure that it is they who are beaming from ear to ear, dancing on the pitch with the trophy on Sunday night, and definitely not posing with it in their underwear.

 

Sunday 10th July

Portugal 1 – 0 France (a.e.t.)

Final, St. Denis

Eder 109’

 

Truly, I didn’t put all that crap about France being way too good and not wanting to see Ronaldo in his pants as some sort of set-up for this punchline. I genuinely wrote those bits before the final!

There is a piece of wisdom about international tournaments: they get the final they deserve. And many people are suggesting that this is very much the final that Euro 2016 deserved. Tame, uninspired, cautious… And that was just France. Stuff happened intermittently, but in between the stuff there were long stretches of nowt.

But the purpose of this blog is not to cast opinions on the merits or otherwise of this tournament. It’s about my journey through 4 weeks and 2 days of middle of the night matches and what happened as I lay on my couch, sometimes accompanied by a cat or two, and by the men noisily unpacking crates of fruit for the market outside. And so, after a late evening vet’s trip (said cats…) and only two hours sleep due to watching the Wimbledon final, I feel strangely refreshed. Crazily refreshed. I wrote at the start of the tournament that the last World Cup nearly killed me but this… This has been a dawdle. I don’t feel the effects at all. Am I fitter or, as I suspected before, am I now an old, up with the lark type of early middle aged man?

I’m sure anyone with at least a passing interest knows by now what happened in this final. To summarise: Ronaldo’s maybe injured, Ronaldo plays on, Ronaldo’s definitely injured, stretcher and applause, do it for me lads do it for me, France have some chances, lots of moths, Gignac hits the post in the last minute, extra time, Guerrero free-kick off the bar for Portugal, Ronaldo relieved (that’s my job – how dare you!), Swansea reject Eder holds off Koscielny and lashes in from 25 yards, Ronaldo very confused, am I happy?, jealous?, I don’t know, France looked stunned, France lose.

It’s probably the least entertaining international tournament final in my memory. I mean, they’re never the best games but this is a prosaic mix of caution from Portugal and what one can only imagine is stage-fright from France. But it has to be watched – the whole tournament had to be watched – because that’s the stage I’ve reached in my football-watching career: I might actually hate football by now but just not realise it. It’s too late. I’ll be getting up early or going to bed late or bunking off school or sneaking live streams at work or, who knows, just watching matches at a normal time if I ever move back to Europe or they ever hold a World Cup in China… for the rest of my life.

But, to employ a football cliché, at the end of the day… No matter that it was a bit of a let-down – the final and the tournament as a whole – it’s still an international football tournament. It’s still the Euros. If you go on holiday and find a poo in your hotel bed it’s a disappointment but, hey, you’re still on holiday. It beats work. And the games couldn’t have been all bad.

Trust me, watching at 3am puts things into sharp perspective.

Midnight in Paris – Part 5

Thursday 30th June

Poland 1(3)(5)1 Portugal (a.e.t)

Quarter-Final, Marseille

Lewandowski 2’

Renato Sanches 33’

 

Another two day break, another chance to actually sleep whole nights at a time. It’s one game a day from now on – no chopping and choosing what nugget I’ll have to miss due to the need for slumber. But I require an assurance from the footballing Gods: that I won’t regret getting up at 3am – that it will be worth my while.

And, lo, with less than 120 seconds having passed, Lewandowski sweeps a brisk cut-back into the net and the first half rollicks by at a fine pace. Chances come and go, play ebbs and flows, Sanches, Portugal’s new wunderkind, equalises from the edge of the area. Ronaldo doesn’t celebrate with him because he’s probably a bit jealous… We have ourselves a quarter final!

But come half time it is clearly all a bit much for the coaches, who gather their charges together and reprimand them for being so cavalier and so darn entertaining. Remember Portugal’s Fernando Santos was the evil brains behind their diabolical 2nd round tie with Croatia, while Poland’s results so far read like the Enigma code: 1-0, 0-0, 1-0, 1-1. From minute 45 onwards it’s slim-pickings. Very slim-pickings.

A (short) treatise on modern football: the pressure on footballers and managers is such, and is so engrained in their skulls, that they refuse to take anything that could be deemed as a risk and could therefore get them into trouble. ‘Trouble’ in this case means being criticised on social media and then in the press and then getting sacked, or dropped from the team. You can actually see the left-back thinking as he passes the halfway line: I could go on a run here try an incisive pass create something and be the hero but actually no I’ll turn and pass square to the centre back. And the ‘fan’ on twitter proclaiming that this the worst match ever and that the coach is a tactical luddite encourages others to do the same, and the theme trends, and is picked up on by proper media and pundits and is the reason why teams play so defensively in the first place. It’s all very Catch 22, yet comes to me crystal clear at dawn on a Friday morning, as this game meanders towards the penalty kicks that have been inevitable since minute 46.

Ronaldo takes his kick first, clearly worried that if he goes last the shootout might already be won and his moment of waxed-chest thumping snatched from him, to set Portugal on their way. Blaszczykowski misses and that’s the last time I’ll need to type his stupid name. Portugal just about deserve it for showing more attacking edge (relatively speaking) but this is definitely the default quarter final – you know, the one that opens up because a fancied team finished second in their group and another team just didn’t turn up and they need a couple teams because, well, you need eight to make up the quarter finals. In short: I really don’t think that this tussle will have given us our 2016 champion.

 

Friday 1st July

Wales 3 – 1 Belgium

Quarter-Final, Lille

Williams 30’, Robson-Kanu 55’, Vokes 85’

Nainggolan 13’

 

As Sam Vokes rises to head gloriously past Thibaut Courtois, and settle Wales’s place in the SEMI-FINALS!, I reach above my head to turn on the Jacuzzi chair in which I’m sitting, and reflect.

Perhaps I should elaborate. Despite fully investing in World Cups and European Championships when they are on, I no longer count them down on a calendar, memorise the group schedule months in advance, simulate the tournament on FIFA or create handmade wallcharts, as I was wont to in my formative years. I do, though the fact that I’ve blogged in-depth on every match played so far may hamper these claims, have a life.

Months before, when Euro 2016 was still just an abstract concept, I booked a night in Shenzhen – the part of China just across the border from Hong Kong. It was a long weekend and I’d never been. Except it later dawned that I’d miss Quarter Final 2 (at first glance probably England Vs Italy). As the tournament progressed the dilemma crystallised, though my skills of prediction proved abysmal, and I toyed with various solutions. Should I bring my laptop and try to stream it over the hotel wifi? (Luckily I didn’t – the wifi was terrible) Should I get up at 3am and trawl the streets of Shenzhen for a bar? Should I avoid the score until getting home the following evening?

I chose the latter, and woke up on Saturday morning oblivious to the shock that had rocked European football. And I made it through breakfast and a wander around some shops, to just past 12pm when, I entered the pool in the Queen Spa (Shenzhen’s number one spa on TripAdvisor). And there it was spread across three TVs: Wales 2 – Belgium 1 with twenty minutes to go.

I graciously admitted defeat, settled into said Jacuzzi chair, and awaited the Belgian equalizer that appeared inevitable at that point, as they were throwing all sorts of balls into the box. But with five to play, Ramsey broke away and crossed for Vokes, Burnley’s main hit-man, to leap like the proverbial salmon and nod home. Wales in the semis, and who would bet against them beating Portugal too? I wouldn’t.

Upon closer inspection (AKA the highlights when I got home) it appears to have been a stonker of a game, the initiative being wrestled from one side to the other, Nainggolan lashing in a shot from 25 yards, Williams powering in a header, Robson-Kanu (who doesn’t currently have a club!) executing a Cruyff turn to dumbfound three defenders and finish very coolly… Of all the Quarter-Finals to miss…

 

Saturday 2nd July

Germany 1(6)(5)1 Italy (a.e.t)

Quarter-Final, Bordeaux

Ozil 65’

Bonucci pen. 78’

 

Back to more familiar viewing habits: the 2:55 alarm. The heavyweights. The superpowers of European football. This should have been the final, no?

I’m tempted to direct the reader back to my influential ‘Treatise on Modern Football’ from the Poland-Portugal game but… no. This was more a case of too much mutual respect than a case of two teams not going for it. They both set out with identical formations and neutralised one another. Italy perhaps more understandably so given their current limitations due to suspensions and injuries.

The game bubbled to life in the second half: Florenzi karate-kicking a shot off the line, Ozil prodding home, Buffon saving superbly from his own defender Chiellini, Boateng stupidly raising both hands in the box and Bonucci coolly converting… It did seem strange that Bonucci was taking the penalty but, afraid of outing myself as a footballing dunce, I didn’t want to write it as such before checking that he hasn’t been Juventus’s go to spot-kicker for years. But I checked – and he hasn’t (this was his first ever penalty) and I’m still a football expert.

Alas, for the 4th time this tournament, extra-time was a dud. It used to be the best bit: teams scrabbling to avoid a replay, or penalties in more recent years, growing tired and making mistakes. But now most teams see it as chore to tick off before the inevitable shootout. I’d tie this in with the aversion to risk taking that’s now prevalent in football: missing a penalty is almost a noble way to go, a lottery. Rather a miss from 12 yards than giving the ball away with a minute to go. Maybe this will be Euro 2016’s legacy: the death of extra time? Maybe they’ll remove it altogether and go straight to penalties, as they did in the Copa America. It definitely needs spiced up… Reduce teams to 7-a-side? Use three balls at one time? Introduce something called Golden Goal, where the first team to score… Oh, wait.

Ironically, after a dull extra half hour the shootout is brilliant. Italy miss four (Zaza the pick – practically cha-cha-ing up to the ball before blasting miles over) while Germany only miss three (Germany missing any at all is a huge shock – the first time that’s happened since 1976). They see it through and, wait for it, beat Italy in a tournament match for the first time, wait for it even more… ever! The sun crests the apartments opposite, and I slump back off to bed.

 

Sunday 3rd July

France 5 2 Iceland

Quarter-Final, St. Denis

Giroud 12’, 59’, Pogba 19’, Payet 42’, Griezmann 45’

Sigthorsson 56’, Bjarnason 84’

 

The timing of the quarter-finals worked out pretty well. Thanks to weekends and public holidays, this is the only one that means getting up at a headache-inducing time on a school night/morning.

And at least it’s fun and frolics at the Stade de France. This game breezes by like a pressure-free last day of the season encounter, rather than a pressure-cooker quarter final for the host nation against an almighty looking banana skin.

The early goals help: 4-0 up by half-time. The quality of the strikes ascending through to a glorious chip by Griezmann after Giroud’s dummy had played him through. He’s now leading scorer. Iceland gamely keep going but they’ve been rumbled.

And so we have our semi-finalists. I’m going to tentatively deem the quarters a success. OK, Poland-Portugal and Italy-Germany got quite tense and tactical but the other two were ding-dongers. And all eight teams scored at least once, which is a very rare thing indeed at a major tournament. If the semis can hit even greater heights – and they look finely poised to do so with the dark horses trading off and the heavyweights clashing together – then this bloated, slightly saggy in the middle tournament may yet be redeemed! Just three more early starts… Just three…

North of the Border


As Hong Kong stretches north on grassy plains, and the high-rises thin out into sparse clumps, the length of time between stops increases as your train rumbles along the century old Kowloon-Canton railway. You come upon a thin strip of water – a murky line that marks one world from the next – and beyond that… A city rises before your very eyes. Shenzhen. Belligerently eying the green and the hills… the space… on the southern side of the river. Once beyond the border the buildings are different: Older? Cheaper? Grand but bland. Unmistakably Chinese. And there’s the Commercial City, built on a butt of land that juts cheekily into Hong Kong – five storeys of ‘Copy watch, Sir?’, ‘Come look’, ‘What you like?’, ‘Genuine copy’ with people squatting beside carry-out rice bowls and kids clustered in stairwells playing trumps and dice, rather than locked away in cram schools. It’s another world, for sure.

Midnight in Paris – Part 4

Saturday 25th June

Switzerland 1 (4) – (5) 1 Poland (a.e.t)

Round of 16, St. Etienne

Shaqiri 82’

Blaszczykowski 39’

 

After a football free break of two days, we arrive at 9pm on Saturday, to a pitch awash with sun, and the prospect of knockout fun! Though, to be honest, I approach Switzerland Vs Poland with no little amount of trepidation, having seen more than enough of the two sides in the group stages…

It starts off slowly – if ever there was a game in need of a goal it’s this one – but Poland have the better chances. Their forward Milik has to be the most frustrating player at this tournament, sending shot after shot after shot high or wide in every game so far. Today he shoots over an empty goal (the keeper isolated following a bad back pass) with 25 seconds played.

Luckily, though, we get the goal we need before half-time. Blaszczykowski slotting home after a counter, and hopefully that’s his last meaningful involvement in this tournament as typing his name’s a right pain in the arse. Poland then decide that’s enough and have no meaningful attempts at goal post-53 minutes.

The Swiss punish them with the goal of the tournament, the goal of any tournament: a bicycle kick from the edge of the area. It needs no description other than that, does it? There’s no way a bicycle kick from the edge of the area could be anything but amazing. Shaqiri performs the acrobatics, the ball clips in off the post, and we have extra time.

And by this point I take back everything I ever said about Switzerland being boring – they are the only team trying to win it. Derdiyok has two great chances but Poland hold on and, as is so often the case, the team that should have won it loses on penalties. Xhaka the only man to miss – but at least he does so in some style: well, well wide.

Not awful, in the end, but surely just a mildly diverting amuse-bouche ahead of two bombastic ties…

 

Saturday 25th June

Wales 1 0 Northern Ireland

Round of 16, Paris

McAuley o.g. 75’

 

Hmmm, or not.

The problems with this format are thrust out into the open for all to see: Northern Ireland simply shouldn’t be in the knockout stages of an international tournament. They arrive here because they lost by as few goals as possible, and they now carry on where they left off against Germany. That’s not to say that they are completely negative; just incredibly limited.

Wales, meanwhile, appear to struggle in their new role as favourites and look unrecognisable from the team that dismantled Russia last week. It’s a struggle, especially as the clock ticks past one a.m.

Thankfully, I am spared the extra half hour by one moment of quality from Gareth Bale (he really is carrying them through this tournament) as he beats his man, swings in a devilish cross and forces the own goal from McAuley. Phew.

So, that was a write-off. But up next is the team of the tournament, who just beat Spain in thrilling fashion, and a team coming off the back of a crazy 3-3 draw. Now we’re talking!

 

Saturday 25th June

Croatia 0 1 Portugal (a.e.t)

Round of 16, Lens

Quaresma 117’

 

Oh, sweet Jesus.

I don’t watch it live (…”I will be forever grateful that I didn’t get up to watch the match that morning. I don’t know what made me stay in bed, sometimes fate is just on your side”…) and when I try to watch it ‘on-demand’ the game is nowhere to be seen. I don’t pause to think that my TV might be trying to tell me something.

So, I naively track it down (on ITV; the sacrifices one makes…), and settle down to what should be match-up of the tournament so far. I can see from the length of the programme and the position of the advertising breaks (quite the amateur detective) that the match has gone to extra time but not penalties. 2-2 and a 120th minute winner?

Kick-off… Nothing immediately happens, and then nothing continues to happen. Towards the end of the first half, with still nothing whatsoever having happened, I start to skip ahead. Half time. Second half. Still nothing. I start skipping again. Every time I press play I see one of two things: a wildly over hit pass or a player being tripped. Skip skip skip. Last ten minutes. Skip skip skip. Full time. Extra time. Nope, nothing to see here. Skip skip skip.

It’s abysmal.

Modern football has reached the point where players are so drilled, so well-trained, so tactically programmed that, if they were so-minded, two managers could put their teams out to play a never endingly goalless game. Two managers could ask themselves the question: what’s the bare minimum effort, ambition, drive… whatever required to play something resembling a football match? And they know that footballers will never deviate from the game plan because, well, why would they? That’s what happens here, in Lens, on this infamous night: two sick Victor Frankensteins perform their twisted experiment in front of the whole world. How else can you explain what happened to these previously attacking, entertaining sides? The players spend 120 minutes in a daze of short passes, over hit long balls and clips round the ankle. Portugal only win because Subasic in the Croatia goal short-circuits (he’ll never be seen again, mark my words) and fails to hold a Ronaldo shot. The first shot on target. After 117 minutes. Quaresma nods the rebound in. Suddenly Croatia wake up, their manager’s spell broken, and actually try to score. But it’s too little and way, way too late. Modric, Srna and co. fall to the ground, distraught, but it’s hard to have any sympathy for them at all. Come back Poland and Switzerland, all is forgiven. At least there can’t be a worst match at the tournament. The depths have been plumbed; the nadir reached. The only way is up… baby. Or am I being far too naive?

 

Sunday 26th June

France 2 – 1 Republic of Ireland

Round of 16, Lyon

Griezmann 57’, 61’

Brady pen. 2’, Duffy s/o 66’

 

Despite the temptation, after last night’s debacle, to divorce myself from football and run away with a fresher, sprightlier sport – rugby maybe – I tune in at 9pm in true Pavlovian fashion. (As an aside, can there be a greater insult to a game of football than the statement: I’d rather be watching rugby? No, I didn’t think so).

And, in a sign from the footballing Gods that says ‘everything’s going to be alright’, Ireland win a penalty within barely 60 seconds of kicking off. Brady slots home off the post, and provides the starting pistol for a superb game of football.

And I don’t mean ‘superb’ in the way a starving man will find any meal ‘superb’, it really was a good game, tussling directly with Hungary-Portugal (Portugal… shudder) for game of the tournament.

You always knew France were going to win, but it didn’t make the match any less interesting. Plenty of people watched Titanic, after all. And Ireland do have chances to extend their lead but, after a nervy first half at the end of which they are booed off, Les Bleus come out revitalised for the second and both Griezmann’s goals are well-taken. After Duffy is sent off for a last-man trip it could have finished 4 or 5-1.

And that’s the last of the 9pm kick-offs! The tournament is reaching the business end and my resolve is going to be tested like never before. The quarters and semis are all 3am-ers…

 

Sunday 26th June

Germany 3 – 0 Slovakia

Round of 16, Lille

Boateng 8’, Ozil m/p 13’, Gomez 43’, Draxler 63’

 

It turns out that France-Ireland is the last of the 2nd Round games that I see in full, as my carefree life of wall-to-wall football finally catches up with me. After feeling perfectly alert – refreshed almost – after an un-taxing weekend, my eyelids droop as soon as the action in Lille gets underway.

Sleep, as I’ve written before, is an elusive beast. The more you want it the more it slips between your fingers; but when you could really do without it, sleep slaps you on the back of the head and drags you off. Lack of sleep is also hard to quantify – it’s not just a case of ‘miss two hours one night, catch up on two hours the next’. You can go days, weeks (17 days and counting) with reduced sleep and not feel terrible. And then all of a sudden it hits you on a languid Sunday evening. I remember travelling around Vietnam 7 or 8 years ago, on bumpy night-buses driven by what may have been escaped convicts. After 3 weeks of this I was, while not feeling terribly exhausted, slowly losing my mental capabilities. One evening I was walking in Ho Chi Minh City, through a grid-style block of streets that was incredibly easy to navigate, the sort of grid that lab rats negotiate on a daily basis, to the hostel in which we had stayed for the past four days, and I got hopelessly lost. I went around and around for ages trying to find the entrance only to find that I had never been more than twenty feet away from the hostel door the whole time. Yet, if you’d have asked me I’d never have said I felt tired.

Anyway, this meditation on sleep is in lieu of anything much to say about this match. From the highlights Germany look very impressive – after Northern Ireland and now this they seem to be clicking – while we are all better off without Slovakia. Ozil’s penalty miss, fact fans, is Germany’s first at a Euros since 1976 (including shootouts!)

 

Sunday 26th June

Hungary 0 – 4 Belgium

Round of 16, Toulouse

Alderweireld 10’, Batshuayi 78’, Hazard 79’, Carrasco 90+1

 

From the highlights Belgium look mighty impressive, although in the 70 or so minutes between the first and second goals Hungary appear to have given it a real go. They really have re-established themselves on the international stage during these past two weeks and, as when Uruguay re-joined the international elite at the turn of the decade, it just feels right.

But eventually Belgium wear them down to register the biggest victory of the tournament so far. Hazard runs the show and scores a superb solo jinker. It’s a statement much like Germany put out in the previous game, or as Spain did against Turkey. Contenders!

 

Monday 27th June

Italy 2 – 0 Spain

Round of 16, St. Denis

Chiellini 33’, Pelle 90+1

 

The last hurrah. The final whistle peeps, and ushers in a changing of ways. Spain are no longer the dominant force in world football; and we are now in the dead zone of non-stop 3am kick-offs. And I myself am also playing football this very evening – albeit in the slightly less high stakes arena of Victoria Park pitch number 3. Though I leave early to ensure that I am fed, showered and generally not too shattered to sit up watching this ‘Match of the Tournament So Far’. I do have previous in missing huge Italian matches in the European Championships due to my own footballing commitments, actually: I missed their classic Euro 2000 semi-final with Holland because of a keenly-contested encounter on the grass outside my house (if my memory serves, I scored a sublime diving header…).

Anyway, this is a good send-off for the midnight kick-offs: a compelling, absorbing match that threatens to be utterly thrilling at times. Despite my eyelids growing heavy a few times in the opening half an hour, I manage to see it through to its 2am conclusion. I feel a strange sense of achievement.

Although Italy have now comfortable dispatched both Spain and Belgium, both by two goals to nil, I still can’t see them as favourites. France lurk, Belgium have resurged, Germany await… Perhaps if they can see off the Germans in the quarters then we’ll have to take them seriously.

Here Spain are disposed of very clinically and, in the end, pretty easily. At first it did seem that the World Cup was an anomaly, that Spain were still Spain and they were going to pass their way to a third consecutive triumph. Against Turkey and the Czechs they turned on the old tiki-taka and started to purr. But in some ways it was like a Rolling Stones tour: they pleased the crowds but didn’t really prove to be relevant at the top of the charts (the charts, in this tortured metaphor, being the later stages of an international tournament). Croatia and Italy have found them out and dispatched them by playing solidly, and robustly, but with plenty of pace and vigour in attack. Spain can caress the ball around like no other but, as the saying goes, they don’t like it up ‘em.

 

Monday 27th June

England 1 – 2 Iceland

Round of 16, Nice

Rooney pen. 4’

Sigurdsson 6’, Sigthorsson 18’

 

Oh stop now, you’re spoiling us.

After a group stage rich in pickings for those of us who enjoy the England football team’s travails, from last-minute Russian equalisers, to free kicks from 97 yards out, and blank scoresheets against dire Slovakians, this is gold.

I, of course, miss the 3am kick off. I head online over breakfast, more for confirmation than anything else: England set up quarter final with France. But no. England dumped out by heroic Iceland. Ignominious end to Euro 2016. Hodgson resigns.

I save the highlights for after work, and watch the glorious first twenty minutes or so in real-time. Sterling chopped down. Rooney into corner. 4 minutes gone. Routine. Iceland throw in. Oh, it’s long. And oh… it’s being flicked on… And it’s in. Apparently everyone saw the replica goal they scored against Austria apart from Kyle Walker and co. But the best is yet to come because in their next attack, Joe ‘I’ve had nothing to do all tournament’ Hart fails to keep out the weakest trickler you have ever seen.

Then I watch Match of the Day for the rest of the highlights. The scene opens on a dimly lit studio, flags at half-mast, Lineker wearing the sort of expression usually saved for North Korean news anchors announcing the death of the President. Shearer is puce – laying into the team and the worst performance he has ever seen from any team ever! And in truth they never really looked likely to get back into the game despite having 70 minutes plus to do so.

And with that, the Round of 16, which started with such a whimper, ends in high drama. Can the quarter finals continue the theme?