I watched the England - France game in the Chichester Arms: the barmaid's lottery numbers took preference to the first six points of the second half, and Johnny Wilkinson's winning drop-goal was acclaimed by the thwack of a miscued pool ball and a drunk stumbling noisily through the side door.
The last time England made the final I watched it downstairs in Balon, by the bus terminus in Liberec. I was the only English face in a Saturday morning smattering of Czechs, placing bets on the afternoon football, drinking twenty-crown lager, and playing at roulette. There wasn't much time for celebrations: no sooner had the game finished than I was on the tram to Jablonec to see the locals hammer Sparta Prague.
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