The Austrian woman stared at me with a mixture of disbelief and pity. After a weekend of Spanish glory was matched with roasting hot Spanish weather, Monday morning was as bleak and miserable as the mood of any German. A cold wind whipped down the canal like a wet towel in a locker room and the skies were black and full of rain.
Not exactly the perfect conditions for my voyage of penance.
At 7am, you’d be surprised just how busy Vienna actually is. The streets teemed with commuters, some of whom were in danger of walking straight into the water when I began to tear off my clothes in front of everyone. The discovery that the bloomers were a lot longer than I’d imagined was a bonus, but the material was so thin and flimsy that the morning wind kept touching me where it had no right to be poking around. I only had to walk 30 meters, but it felt like 1,500, especially as I became aware that cars were slowing down to take a closer look.
I won’t lie to you, I felt like a piece of meat.
Not that any of this seemed to bother Gary. He was delighted with this turn of events, scampering along the bridge taking pictures and laughing openly at me. I’d love to say that it could all have been so different, but Germany were so poor, that it’s not really be true. Spain fully deserved their victory, and I fully deserved my shame.
So ends the fable of the Englishman who thought that it was a good idea to support Germany. I guess some things just aren’t meant to be.