Good morning from Brixton…and apologies for the lateness of today’s blog. The tenth FIFA World Cup of my lifetime begins on Thursday and, until this weekend, I hadn’t given it much thought. After an Arsenal season that stretched into June and delivered plenty of joy and a dash of heartbreak, I suspect my brain had quietly decided football could wait for a bit. Then, with my wife away in Scotland and full control of the TV remote restored, I found myself watching a pair of programmes that, whether through subconscious curiosity or the algorithm doing its thing, slowly nudged me into tournament mode. The first was The Bus: A French Football Mutiny on Netflix. Honestly, it is tremendous television, exactly the sort of thing the popcorn emoji was invented for. Charting France’s spectacular implosion at the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, it follows the breakdown in relations between Raymond Domenech and his players, culminating in the squad refusing to train before their final group match and creating a media storm back home. Kudos to the producers, who somehow persuaded Domenech to revisit events that paint him as an absolute lunatic, helped in no small part by his own diary entries from the time. If anything, he does little to dispel the impression he was operating on a completely different wavelength to everyone else around him. Patrice Evra, Bacary Sagna and William Gallas provide the players’ perspective, while journalists, officials and former government ministers help piece together a story full of ego, paranoia, betrayal and enough colourful language to keep everybody happy. Is it a hit job on Domenech? Possibly. Would it have benefited from hearing more voices from the dressing room, particularly Nicolas Anelka’s? Probably. But as a piece of football storytelling, it’s hugely entertaining. That teed me up nicely for Sunday’s viewing, Saipan on Amazon Prime, which dramatises Roy Keane’s explosive falling out with Mick McCarthy on the eve of the 2002 World Cup. The film itself is perfectly watchable, and there are some cracking one-liners – I particularly enjoyed the unseen presence of Sir Alex Ferguson hovering over events – but I couldn’t shake the sense I was watching Steve Coogan in an offbeat episode of Ted Lasso. If, like me, you get distracted by details, like the fact the filmmakers clearly didn’t have the right to use the Umbro logo on the kits, then you might struggle. Roger Ebert, eat your heart out! Still, both programmes served as a useful reminder of something. World Cups are rarely just about football. They are about personalities, arguments, broken metatarsals, heroes, villains, controversy, culture and occasionally complete absurdity. Long after the winners are forgotten, those are often the stories that linger. One glance at the White House suggests this summer’s tournament will create a few more of its own. It also got me thinking about the previous nine World Cups I’ve lived through. Every one seems attached to a particular memory, image or moment. Some glorious, some ridiculous, some barely connected to the football itself. So, before the tenth gets underway, here’s a quick trip through my first nine. Italia ’90 – Age 7 I was part of a school trip to the local police station when Cameroon shocked holders Argentina in the opening match. As we shuffled through a common room, a group of officers were glued to a television showing the game. In my head, we walked through at the exact moment François Omam-Biyik scored the winner, but I suspect memory is being generous. The same police station would re-enter my life 14 years later after I was fined for driving through a red light while returning a videotape to Blockbuster. A low point made even worse by the fact the policeman who pulled me over was riding a bicycle and blowing a whistle. An utter humiliation. USA ’94 – Age 11 I remember more about England failing to qualify than the tournament itself. Dennis Bergkamp seemed to be everywhere, Ireland had Eddie McGoldrick representing Arsenal and Sweden had Anders Limpar, who we’d only recently sold to Everton. Mostly, though, I remember thinking everything in America looked absolutely enormous. France ’98 – Age 15 Romania’s squad famously bleached their hair during the tournament. Naturally, a few mates and I decided to do the same while on a school trip to the National Rowing Championships in Strathclyde. For the record, I was the cox. In retrospect, spending the night before the race turning peroxide blond wasn’t the cleverest idea. We got a bollocking from the teachers the next morning, went out in the first race, and then got another bollocking when we returned to school. My folks were in Australia at the time, none the wiser, and when term ended a few days later, I flew to Brisbane on my own to meet them. Mum gave me a bollocking as well. And, I shit you not, within two hours of my arrival, after 24 hours on a plane, I was having my hair dyed back by a confused hairdresser. Japan/South Korea ’02 – Age 19 I was in a hotel room in St Petersburg, Russia when Ronaldinho lobbed David Seaman. Stop getting lobbed, David! Yet my strongest memory is from Sydney, where my travelling companion Alex and I settled into a bar to watch the third-place play-off between Turkey and South Korea. Halfway through the match, the television was switched off by a cross-dressing Aussie who announced the start of a burlesque show. The evening took an odd turn. Germany ’06 – Age 23 I was working as a porter at an auction house in central London and picked up a Saturday shift to earn some extra cash. After work, one drink became several, and before I knew it I’d watched Argentina beat Ivory Coast, sprinted to Paddington and somehow boarded the last train towards Windsor. The plan was to change at Slough. Instead, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was in Didcot. If you’ve ever accidentally ended up in Didcot, you’ll understand the feeling. A taxi driver quoted me £100 to get home, which felt outrageous until I asked how much he’d charge to take me to Bristol instead. “£100.” Convinced I was somehow gaming the system, I decided Bristol represented better value for money despite being 100 miles in the wrong direction. I spent the night on a friend’s sofa and still had to get home the next morning. To this day, I remain impressed by the stupidity of the decision. South Africa ’10 – Age 27 I met a Dutch girl in Clapham on the opening night of the tournament. A short-lived romance followed, culminating in us joining what felt like the entire Dutch population of London to watch the final at O’Neill’s in Leicester Square. We dressed head-to-toe in orange. Secretly, because of Cesc Fabregas, I wanted Spain to win. The Dutch girl spent most of extra time being violently sick in the toilets. I probably wasn’t as supportive as I should have been. Spain won. The relationship lost. We never saw each other again. Brazil ’14 – Age 31 World Cup fever had swept through the office and my employer had booked an entire bar for England’s final group game against Costa Rica. The problem was England had already lost to Italy and Uruguay. The game was meaningless. Nobody wanted to be there. Naturally, I volunteered. Never one to pass up the opportunity to avoid actual work, I spent an afternoon drinking beer in a dark room watching one of the most forgettable 0-0 draws ever played. It’s genuinely remarkable how little I remember about the rest of the tournament. Russia ’18 – Age 35 For some reason, the memory that immediately jumps out isn’t England reaching the semi-finals. It’s South Korea beating Germany. I was watching on my phone and laughing so much at the sight of the reigning world champions imploding. Maybe that’s the thing about World Cups. Sometimes you remember the giants falling more vividly than the winners lifting the trophy. Qatar ’22 – Age 39 Arsenal were top of the league when domestic football paused for the much-maligned winter World Cup. While plenty of people grumbled about the timing, it gave Gooners a month to bask in our unexpected change of circumstances. I booked a trip to Copenhagen and ended up watching the epic final between Argentina and France in a brewery in Vesterbro. By some distance it was the best World Cup final I’ve ever seen. Yet as Lionel Messi lifted the trophy, all I could think about was how mad it was that Neal Maupay being a snide prick to Bernd Leno had ultimately led to Emi Martinez winning a World Cup. Football is weird. __ Right, that’s yer lot for today. Thanks for indulging me. Until next time. The post Nine World Cups, nine memories appeared first on Arseblog ... an Arsenal blog.