Did I mention how much I like Augustiner? It's lovely stuff served Bayerischer Anstich. Both the Helles and Edelstoff. I can't understand the hate some have for Edelstoff. Subtly delicious is how I find it. Doubtless if you've been abusing your tastebuds with clumsy hop bombs, you'll find it bland. But that's your porblem, not mine.
Despite the slightly iffy weather there's a good crowd. I fetch myself a litre from the beer shed and set about demolishing it. At least I would do if my first long draught didn't reveal my terrible mistake: I've picked up a Radler. No way I'm drinking that. I pour it into the gravel at my feet and fecth a proper beer. That's better. Don't want to drink any of that sugary poison. No knowing what it might do to my delicate system.
Pretty much all of the EU is represented in the group watching the game. It's easy to spot the English. They're the ones swearing and shouting and holding their heads in their hands. The Italians are much more restrained. It's our fiery English temperament, you know. That and the fact we all turn into frothing maniacs as soon as someone starts kicking a footbal.
The crowd is distracting my attention from the game. Which is no bad thing. Following it attently would only make the agony more acute. When the inevitable penalties come around, I'm dying for a leak. I'm in the bog for the first two England penalties. Just as well. I do make it back in time to catch the downcast looks of the England players as they head out on penalties yet again.
I don't feel like any more beer. Less might be a better idea. But I don't feel like vomitting. More like crying. I can't be arsed to work out which tram to take and walk back to my hotel. I'm feeling a bit peckish when I get to Hauptbahnhof and nip inside for a bratwurst. Very nice. Why aren't there sausage stands in Dutch stations?
It's about midnight when I get back. Time to kick out some z's.
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