But anyway, I left to tramp through the streets of Lusaka to be the first in line to buy tickets for the World Cup qualifier being played that afternoon between Zambia and Liberia. What a dim fool I am. Not for getting up so early; but for thinking that I’d got myself up early enough to be at the front of the queue. When I made it to the ticket outlet (it was a stroll through the dark on account of being street light free on the streets of Zambia’s capital) I was mildly disturbed to find an assembled throng which would have eclipsed in size the annual Hajj to Mecca. Bugger. Still I have this British queue gene (again, bugger!) in me so I dutifully took my place at the back of the mob.

The atmosphere was electric. The excitement was tangible. Sadly the tickets wouldn’t be for another good few hours. What was I going to do to pass the time? Well it’s easy really. Being the lone red faced lad among the waiting masses I was something of a peculiarity and whenever I confirmed, with a suitably football-esque chant obviously, that I was indeed backing “The Chipolopolo” (apparently this means “the bullets”) as opposed to Liberia, who were clearly the filth of the continent, I was greeted as a long lost brother. This entailed so many African handshakes (a multi step hand shake) that my palms were as blistered as an Albino on a sun bed. To say that the mass meeting of football fans was mildly disorderly is a grossly unfair statement. There was no “mildly” about it. This was more disorderly than a tramp’s underwear. Pushing and shoving never came into it. This was a tsunami of bodies all vying for the same tickets and not going to back down until they got them.

To describe, in only a few words (especially given my propensity to witter rather than be concise) what went on is tricky but after a good few hours the ticket window opened and the human tide that surged forward would have made the charge for the last lifeboat on the Titanic seem quite pedestrian and serene in comparison. Somehow the ticket touts (I hate those scum) managed to monopolise the window for the best part of the next hour as tempers frayed throughout the crowd. The disgruntled hordes and yes, I was one of them, decided something along the lines of: “Screw this… I want a ticket too” and so in unison and most definitely en-masse surged forward. Sadly this did not bring about the desired effect of moving the leeches from the window but it did bring about a charge by baton wielding and heavily armed police. Excellent stuff.  This is just like football back home in the 80’s; albeit it with considerably more AK47’s in evidence. Oh the thrill of it all. By now I was actually very glad that Heide had somehow bluffed me so completely by playing three “papers” in a row.

Had this been all it would have been enough, but it got even better. On human swell number 427 one particularly twitchy, but heavily armed, guard loosed off a round. Just to calm things down you understand. Yeah cheers! I thought it was a blank but several hundred others didn’t. And the result? Predictable panic. Just what you need, a crowd more hacked off than John the Baptist’s noggin and pandemonium. It can only lead to trouble. So let’s all charge the ticket window again. Outstanding! Eventually I did get a pair of tickets for the afternoon’s entertainment but if the encore (i.e. the match) could reach the wonderful fever pitch of the ticketing it would be a truly exceptional day. Many hours later I made it back to the hostel and for me to be in such high spirits, while enduring a caffeine free day showed just how much fun the morning had been.  Heide was ready for the game and was still demonstrating the élan with which she delivered the flat palm of “paper” beats “rock”. After I had regaled her with tales of truncheon charges and the fleeing, squealing West Bromich Albion fan (Brits – I know it’s weird, you see lots of fellahs in Man U, Arsenal and Liverpool etc shirts but a bloke with a “Boing – Boing – Baggies” T shirt, well you just don’t expect that) she wasn’t quite so thrilled.

The game itself wasn’t actually very good. The crowd,  boisterous, thoughnot as much as we’d expected, began to grow impatient with the Zambians inability to break down the Liberian defence (call me “coach of the year” if you like, but after 10 first half corners, all of which swang outwards to the penalty spot and all of which were abject failures, I’d have varied the set pieces) As the match seemingly completed its course to a dour 0 – 0 draw the Zambian superstar, a 41 year old fellah who is also the national coach, oh yeah, and the country’s Vice President, threw himself into the fray and finally broke the deadlock with a beautiful, curling free kick with but moments to spare. Pandemonium erupted. It was riotous; though not as in the ticket fiasco but good humoured and celebratory. It was fantastic. You have to feel for the Liberians, well unless you’re Zambian I suppose, they’d come a long way, played well and were beaten by a long shot by an aged politician!

Whilst all this excitement should have been enough for just one day I’m delighted to say there was more to come. Besides seeing a good number of blokes I’d lined up with earlier in the day, who were pleased to see me, and utterly delighted to see Heide at the game we then caught a “taxi” home. When I say “taxi” I’m actually talking about an ancient Datsun with a Cabbie who couldn’t find his fly if he was bursting for a pee. With our vast, at least 48 hour, orientation in Lusaka, we were able to shout things like “no, no, the second left on Cairo Street, right, erm, no your other right, on to Church Street and past the fire station” but it was all utterly futile as the ancient car wouldn’t make it as far as the station before erupting in smoke itself. I believe that the last oil change this motor had enjoyed was back in 1978 and it picked today to give up the ghost. Great. The smoking monster packed in a good mile from our destination and in the middle of a major road. Naturally. No option, we had to push. That’s Heide and I had to push. The lazy bugger with no sense of direction steered. Cheers mate. We eventually got to a garage at which point we left. Not before paying of course. How dumb is that? Some people do a “runner” from a cab fare, us? We push the bloody thing, then pay. With a tip!!!

Only one thing could top off a day this good; you’ve guessed it, a few cheeky beers in one of Lusaka’s many bars. Ahh, what a blissful Saturday!