Heckling at Euro 2012: has it even started yet?

Sunday morning and I'm nursing a light hangover which tastes of black: nothing unusual so far. I'm up at the ungodly hour of eight thirty, making an aesthetically horrifying serpentine to the kitchen, almost dozing off as I watch the kettle boil.

I should have dozed off the previous night too as I sat for what seemed an endless evening on a bar stool, armed with a pint of stout, a ton of good intentions and some foul language watching football. I felt like a child who gets spectacularly told off and humiliated by Santa in a shopping mall on Christmas Eve: the words "disappointed", "sheepish", "cheated" and "dumbass" come to mind.

I should also add "broke" as I walked off after six long hours of sitting and yawning, running a three-digit (plus two decimals) tab which I'm sure MaltaToday will be glad to settle. [Ed's note: that's a NMFP].

Euro 2012 kicks off in the slowest of manners, with its camp flowery graphics that must have been a recycled branding proposal for some Eurovision or other, and its multi-million Euro stadia that effectively raise a long finger to the financial crisis. I miss Friday's opening ceremony due to traffic (yeah, yeah, I am traffic, very funny, especially if you're caught behind a horse drawn carriage which doesn't pay licence or VRT) and make it just in time to the kick off between hosts Poland and lowly Greece (who won the competition in 2004, a mystery for which not even Stephen Hawking has any clue).

There's hardly thirty sods in the rathole I choose for the evening. I should have imagined that Poland and Greece will not set anyone's hearts racing. Remember the Simpsons' parody of football? I too, would have loved to riot but my patience got the better of me, even as both teams cantered on with their concept of football: slow, boring, safe, like a lecture by Fr Joe Borg.

I will spare you the boring details of the opener, whose only real tingle of excitement was a penalty saved by Premist... Premdol... Perambulator... Przemysław Tyton seconds after tottering on to replace Szczęsny, red carded for being excessively stupid. Even the handful or so still awake behind me reacted with an "ooh" before they all went back to daydreaming of being at home, alone, doing the ironing.

That same evening I spent too much time with my back to the telly, eagerly preparing a light dish of pasta, while Russia outclassed and mauled a messy Czech Republic 4-1.

***

Come Saturday you'd expect my fortunes to turn. I choose an Irish pub in Spinola this time round. Holland vs Denmark kicks off with commentary provided by three loud Maltese girls who sat with their backs to the match, nipping any attempts at atmosphere in the bud. This time, the bartender couldn't pull off the same trick with "audio change" button that had previously swapped George ("Jauauuudge") Micallef's commentary in favour of a lullaby. Reports that our star commentator got overly excited at the pronunciation of the name Bendtner might not be so far off the mark.

Despite the irritating flow of play as the Danes are proving to be tougher than your average butter cookie, the pub itself offers bouts of mild entertainment. I am confused as to the behaviour of a young man whose hairstyle, stubble and atrocious physique tell me he just fell off the top bunk-bed at college and wound in this pub dressed up like a "fruit salad" (credit: K. Chircop). I can't tell all the guffawing whenever Bendtneeeahh controls the ball like the goose he is, or when Huntelaar tries the unthinkable by lobbing the keeper one-on-one, failing miserably. The first surprise of the tournament is served: Danish efficiency kills off Holland's narcissistic pussyfooting, all in all the result was fair.

You'd expect some fireworks for Germany v Portugal, but even this match fails to stoke up the fires. Nani fouls himself spectacularly, a certain J. Mourinho trying to steal some camera time from the shrieking Ms C. Ronaldo by gesticulating wildly in the VIP enclosure, Germany's Joachim Loew sporting the usual Bryan Ferry look, and pretty much nothing else.

In moments like this I miss Abel Xavier, patron saint of Useless Football.

***

You'll forgive me, against this background of nothingness (only nine goals in four matches) and hangovers, for watching Italy and Spain at home. I can tell you the match was a real spectacle for neutrals like me, especially if you're already nauseated by Italy or England flags sprouting from balconies.

I did try to catch some outdoor action, but I couldn't find a decent spot to watch the game in the packed bars in the Marsascala seafront, where I would have spent some time among a couple of faces painted in the tricolore and families ordering industrial amounts of hot dogs (bic-chips ta!) and the occasional Mohawk.

At least, Fabregas spared all us the inconvenience of carcades, but I'm still waiting for England-France for some more adrenalin.

Wayne Flask blogs on www.wayneflask.com