Football is Rubbish

The parade of Belgian fans marching through Copenhagen on game day. Belgium lost.

I happened to be in Denmark during the Euro Cup—the big giant soccer tournament between all European countries (although Wales and England are separate teams) that everyone loses their shit over. I was present for approximately four games, and I watched two of them.

The first game was against the lovely French-speaking country of Belgium, a state whose flag I misidentified as the German flag. The game started at six, (or 18:00, since Denmark and the rest of Europe use 24-hour time), but all day Danes wore their red Danmark jerseys, drinking Carlsberg and Tuborg beer, and congregating at the holiest of places: the bars.

The Belgians were present too: I saw an entire parade of them march through the city center, wearing yellow, red, and black shirts, wigs, face and chest paint, carrying mini not-German flags, beating drums. They were also escorted by Danish police to prevent any fights breaking out. Once the game started (II was in a bar for the first half), Denmark scored within the first five minutes, and the (mostly dudes) around me whipped off their shirts, flung their beers in the air, and began chanting in Danish. It’s the same type of fervor you see from UNC fans when UNC makes a game-winning three with zero-point-one seconds left on the clock to beat Duke. But Carolina blue is much prettier than Danish red.

It’s also quite awkward and uncomfortable to be the only one sober in a bar, surrounded by people singing songs in a language you don’t know, cheering on a team from a country that’s not your own, playing a sport you don’t understand, like, or care about.

I realize this is a rather pessimistic and depressing view of European football. But why else do you come read my blog if not for my dark and witty commentary?

Anyway, Denmark beat Belgium, then beat Wales, then beat the Czech Republic. Each night after a game I’d get up to pee at four in the morning, and the fireworks would still be going, the car horns still honking, the guys still yelling. It was an exciting time; the morning after a game, the streets of Copenhagen, normally pristine except for the thin carpet of cigarette butts, were filled with beer cans and bottles and other miscellaneous rubbish.

The British call trash “rubbish,” and since England ended up actually winning the whole thing, I believe it’s only proper to pay homage to the UK in this little essay of mine.