Friday

Tonight is England v Algeria - time for the team to make good after a dodgy-but-promising opener and all set up perfectly for a 7.30 kick off on a Friday night. Christ, you wouldn't want to be working behind a bar tonight - or at least I wouldn't.

The plan, as was arranged on Wednesday night, is to head to Clapham Common to watch the game in the Alexandra with some of the podcast boys. By the time I get home from work, I'm not particularly enthused by the idea any more, mainly because it involves travelling to South London for the third night in a row but also because I'm always slightly apprehensive about watching England in pubs anyway, particularly during the World Cup. I'm far from being some sort of football snob, I think, but during a major tournament there's bound to be an unhealthy mixture of ignorant meathead football fans and completely clueless non-football fans who are along for the ride. There's nothing wrong with this second group, really - it's the extra interest that gives the World Cup its buzz and makes it a truly 'world' event - as long as they keep their mouths shut in busy pubs. That's all I ask; just don't make banal comments and attempt to analyse something when you have no frame of reference. Or if you do, do it quietly, to a friend - rather than shrieking your giddy ignorance across a crowded room. OK?

Anyway, I decide to head to Clapham after all, as Joe has informed me that the place isn't too busy. This is probably true when we speak, but after a 45 minute journey south I find myself having to talk my way past the bouncer who has stopped letting people into the pub, such is its fullness. The atmosphere is OK, though - everyone is optimistic and we even manage to get a small round of imaginary vuvuzelas going briefly at the back of the room.

That's probably the last positive bit of the evening, though. England are - crushingly - totally abject tonight. No one plays well; and Rooney plays worse than I think I've ever seen him play before. Expectation seems to be hanging over the squad and not one man looks happy or comfortable with the job he's been asked to do. As a result, the game ends 0-0 without ever looking like being any other scoreline. Algeria don't want to score; which should spur a team of £30m players like England on to scoring - but somehow, inexplicably, it doesn't. At half time some of us are still hopeful, many of us furious. By full time, though, we're all angry. The atmosphere in the pub is actually quite ugly; the frustration and confusion really rather tangible.

We pour out of the doors and dejectedly grab a couple of cans and head to Tom's house to debrief. There's not much appetite for football chat, but we have a fairly nice time and get well on our way to being totally hammered before heading out again towards a vague bar with vague purpose. Before I sense that the last tube might have left, I say my goodbyes and shamble up the road.

The next thing I am conscious of is consciousness itself - returning suddenly on an outdoor tube platform. The sign above me says 'High Barnet', and I know instantly what's happened. Instead of changing trains at Kings Cross St. Pancras, my comatose, idiotic body continued on to the very northern outpost of the Northern Line. Daft prick that it is.

I ask bystanders for advice and they all suggest heading up the road towards a bus stop. It's 1.30am and I have little chance of finding a useful nightbus. At the stop there is a man lying on the floor, unconscious, in a pool of vomit. Before I'm able to process the information, an ambulance turns up and the paramedics try to wake him up. I have to get out of this weird, cold place, I reason - and head for the taxi office. A stupid night ends expensively - and, eventually, at home.