A football fan in South America

Small screen, fuzzy picture. That'll do

When people go travelling, they inevitably miss their family and friends. But there's no telling which of their guilty addictions from home will mould their journey and land them in unusual situations.

Having left my Tottenham Hotspur season ticket behind, I followed the drama of Harry Redknapp's tax trial, the hunt for a new England manager and Spurs' dramatic 2011/12 season from the villages, volcanoes and valleys of South America.

Whether it's nearly coming to blows with a Chilean bus driver, getting a shop to shut down in Brazil or experiencing the ugly side of food poisoning in Argentina, I ended up in strange situations in order to catch matches on TV.

***

Stoke away, 11 Dec

It should not have been this way. I had spent six years organising the journey of a life time: me, my girlfriend and eight months travelling in South America. Back home, I had left the stress of London life and the excruciating ups and downs of following at first hand the fortunes of Tottenham Hotspur. With my season ticket in the safe hands of a close friend, all I had to do was relax, explore, enjoy myself – and forget about football for a bit.

It started so well. Spurs won their first three games while I was away and I could chill out in the safe knowledge that the poor early-season form was turning into a distant memory. As for me, volunteering on an organic farm in Patagonia was keeping my mind off things. My environmentalist hosts kept my thoughts a million miles away from the qualities of a 4-2-3-1 formation versus a 4-4-2 by getting me interested in the merits of solar panels versus hydro-power, naturally powered outdoor showers versus their traditional counterparts, garlic plantations versus onions.

One month into the journey, I made the mistake of having a taste of it. I was warming up the cold turkey.

The game was Stoke away and, to my surprise, the Argentinean broadcasters had deemed it worthy of a live airing. Finding somewhere that showed it, though, was to test whether I really wanted to slip back into the old habits.

It was 1pm on a Sunday afternoon in Bariloche, formerly a booming tourist city that had been turned into ghost town by an ash cloud which, after months of devastation, showed no signs of abating. The eruption of a volcano in nearby Chile prevented air travel to the area and the beautiful surrounding lakes and mountains had disappeared into a grey cloud.

Bariloche - not the Mecca of Argentinean football

Our anxious dash from one closed bar to the next led to disappointment after disappointment. Then we spotted a sports bar - this will do, surely. The waiters look at me blankly as I ask if they'll show the, uhm, mouth-watering clash.

The six members of staff took it in turn to go through all of their 500-odd channels, and, eventually, they saw me jumping up and down in joy as an excruciating 20-minute flickathon bore fruit. The next 90 minutes are less successful. Spurs lose 2-1.

***

Norwich away, 27 Dec

The traditional glut of games at the end of the calendar year and I needed my seasonal football injection - it was Christmas after all.

Magellanic penguins in Puerto Madryn (Newcastle fans I guess)

I'd reluctantly agreed to buying a bus ticket which I knew meant leaving Puerto Madryn, in the east of Argentina and a traditional whale-watching spot, before the end of our game away at Norwich. It was that or waiting around the city, which we'd already bled dry of activities over a 10-day period, for another 24 hours.

My girlfriend had started feeling ill the morning of the match, the result of us trying to recreate a Christmas dinner with local ingredients. The game started and I settled down in front of the communal hostel TV. The boys were playing some beautiful stuff and a first half lead meant I left in high spirits. Things got even better when I convinced the cafeteria owner to put the game on in the station.

For my girlfriend, though, it was going from bad to worse. I was torn: from where I was sitting I could see she was in agony, but I was reluctant to move – we were really playing some stunning football. 

The moment when her face turned green was the moment when I decided to leave the caf behind to sit with her. When we went outside, she vomited violently on the platform.  As the person who had abandoned her, I was made to clean up.

But it was not all bad - as we got on the bus, I got a text saying we'd won 2-0.

***

Everton away, 11 Jan

With Spurs playing better than in the 20 years I had been following them, I realised that I was facing a dilemma: miss the action and regret it for the rest of my life or mould our itinerary to be in front of a screen when we were in action. There was no real decision.

The next big one was our game at home to Everton. A win and we'd be elevated into the group of teams chasing the title. I felt guilty that a two-day walk to visit one ofChile's famous volcanoes would be cut short, but we have a great record against the less famous of the Liverpool clubs.

Volcano Antuco trek - not many pubs around

My plan was working to perfection as we finished the hike with two hours until kick off and were only 45mn by bus from Los Angeles, the closest city. But slowly, things started going wrong.

The bus took an hour to show up, meaning we'd have to have to be on the move pretty quickly. Instead, the driver started talking to us about about everything from volcano lava to ageing English rock stars. He bought us an ice cream. He went outside and, to my irritation and disbelief, grabbed a hose from a nearby garden and began slowly and attentively washing every inch of the bus.

When we stopped for 20 minutes at the first village, I finally exploded. I may or may not have sworn. The driver may or may not have told me that, if I wanted to walk from there, I was free to do so. We missed the first half but it was another win, although slightly bittersweet.

***

Man City away,  22 Jan

By now, I realised that the Spurs fever that had swept Britain was spreading to South America, with broadcasters teasing me by showing almost every game. By the time we faced Man City away, pundits reckoned both teams could break their title-winning duck this season. There was no way I could miss the match.

I managed to convince my girlfriend that, instead of visiting the beautiful seaside city of Valparaiso, we would be better off staying at our hostel (featuring a communal room with cable TV) an extra couple of days. A major fright came with the signal going the night before, but by 10.30am on matchday the TV was fixed and we were ready to go.

The picture I would have taken had we gone to Valparaiso

In the early stages, I did my best to tame my natural instinct. There was no shouting at the ref and any encouragement was uttered almost under my breath. The emotion was showing on my reddening face, and the heat wasn't helping as I felt the sweat swarming my palms.

The hostel's backpackers got on with their business, chatting to the pretty American receptionist who was sat nearby or checking their emails on communal computers right behind the sofa that I'd sunk into. Some took a passing interest in the game, but wisely chose not to engage me in conversation. One had been brave soul had even risked sitting next to me.

As the script of the game rolled out, I gradually began forgetting where I was. At 2-2 and only precious few moments of the game left, a promising counter attack emerged and I became convinced that it would result in the winning Spurs goal. I had felt unusually positive since waking up. “This is it, this is it, this is it, this is it,” I began saying over and over. Slowly and quietly at first. Then faster and faster, shouting. Fifteen or 20 people stopped what they were doing and stared at me, then the screen, and huge laughs burst out as the ball went agonisingly wide and I wrapped the shirt over my head in embarrassment. “Crazy English guy,” an American tourist whispered loudly. A few minutes later, we conceded a penalty and lost the game.

*** 

Newcastle home, 11 Feb

 

I thought I would tame the devil on my shoulder by spending matchday on a remote beach near Paraty, Brazil, which was only accessible by boat or a long walk through the jungle.

Praia Sono - good for crab watching, not football watching

When we reached Praia Sono, it was as tranquil as we had imagined. Extensive white sands appeared in front of us, protected by an expanse of luscious trees and hills all around. A few hours later, left to my thoughts by a companion who was asleep on the beach, my mind turned to White Hart Lane. There was nothing to lose by investigating whether any of the beach shacks that served food might also hide a small television.

It looked like my luck was out as they were either closed, empty, or barely had electricity. On the verge of giving up, I asked the man who ran the village's only shop if there was anything I could do. He said that I'd have no luck with the bars – but that I was welcome to watch the game at his house.

I returned as agreed later and, saying hardly a word, he locked up the shop and led me down a small muddy path to his modest home.

I said hello to his confused wife, who stood by their front door alongside his elderly, startled father. His children were the next to look at this gringo in disbelief as I walked through a narrow and dark corridor to a small spare bedroom where the television was. My Portuguese being almost non-existent, I struggled to explain that the family's main breadwinner had closed down his business to allow me to watch a match between two perennial underachievers.

My awkwardness did not last too long, as it turned out that he did not have the right channel. I don't know if my embarrassment at having put us all in this situation, or his disappointment, were greater. Yes, I said, I was sure I didn't want to watch Bayern Leverkusen vs St Pauli from the German league instead.

I later found out Tottenham had won 5-0.