| More on Martin | Born in Thurrock, lived in Cambridge, now in Paris. One of Martin's favourite haunts (given the travelling choice) is The Reggae Bar, Cenang Beach, Langkawi Island, Malaysia. "Terrible food, Heineken in cans, feet in the Andaman Sea, and unbelievable sunsets." Martin was once mugged in Morocco but firmly believes..."that (not counting war-torn danger areas) you are just as likely to get mugged in London as you are in Lima..." Martin can reach the top shelf in any given supermarket! |
| "...the referees would be blowing their whistles like they’d joined a Samba band and we’d be standing back in our own halves shouting 'WHAT NOW?!'." | | Martin Stevenson |
England supporters in Berlin. That can’t be a good idea, can it? Berlin is one of my favourite cities. I spent most of last summer there and there’s a lot I miss about it. The sausages for starters. Then there’s the price of the beer (which here in Paris, is criminal), the architecture, the museums, the parks and the people - who ride bicycles and clean up after their dogs (Parisians take note). I even like the sound of the German language. It’s not often you hear an Englishman say that but I do miss that rolled ‘G’. For all Berlin has to offer though, I’ll still be staying away while the football’s on. I’ve never really been a fan of football. Before I swapped Cambridge for Paris, Marcus, flat-mate and, being Australian, Chelsea supporter, managed to tweak my interest; even to the point where I cared about the result against Uruguay, but not to the point where I might head down to the Abbey Stadium for anything other than directions back to the Flying Pig. It’s not even football in particular; just team sports generally. At school I never got the hang of hockey or rugby (or, for that matter, standing in the snow in the middle of winter being shouted at) but for one game in the fourth year, and only one, I was in the basketball team.
 | | Martin Stevenson |
There was the local school league but our school didn’t have a squad so England’s least imaginative PE teacher called the year’s tallest boys into his office and told us we were the Sawston Village College basketball team. I swear there was at least one taller girl in the school but the decision had been made and he put us under the expert leadership of Derwyn Hardwick, who, despite being 4-feet tall was the school sports star and captain of everything except the Cutty Sark. The PE teacher also told us we had a game the following evening. He told us who we were playing (Linton Village College) and what time we were playing them (7pm), but in an unfortunate oversight he forgot to tell us what positions we were playing (though Derwyn played them all as I remember), what to wear (11th hour shirts were found) or, indeed, the rules of basketball. In basketball, as I now know, if you advance into your opponents half with the ball, you can’t then cross back into your own half. Simple, if you’ve been told, but our team spent the whole game dribbling for all we were worth (our only skill); not running toward Linton’s basket so much as away from Linton’s players and on the rare occasions we’d gain a few metres in a misplaced burst of optimism, the Linton boys would close in and suddenly we’d be retreating like it was worth points, the referees would be blowing their whistles like they’d joined a Samba band and we’d be standing back in our own halves shouting “WHAT NOW?!”. The first time a Sawston player was fouled we didn’t even know how to restart the game. One of us had to be led by the hand to the sideline and told to throw the ball in – which I did. Robert, our least coordinated player, almost caught it too. We gave him a little round of applause. The rest of the game was spent running in ever decreasing circles; invariably losing the ball, occasionally firing on our own basket, and generally looking like what we were; lanky teenagers who hadn’t got used to their growth spurts. By the end of the match, the size of the Linton players, their ability and – let’s face it – ‘knowledge’ of the game, meant we were picked up by our mums; battered, bruised and humiliated (as if being picked up by your mum isn’t humiliation enough when you’re fifteen). On reflection, the PE teacher decided it was best if I wasn’t in the team; the first time we’d ever agreed about anything. On further reflection, I decided I was jiggered if I was ever going to join another poxy team in my life. But PE-related trauma should be left at the gate when you leave school (which I did at a sprint). Maybe it’s not even football I dislike, maybe it’s just PE teachers. Or Derwyn Hardwick. Whatever. For two weeks next summer, if you need me, I’ll be anywhere but Germany. Which is probably dumb because Berlin is a fantastic city; from the quirky little bars of Prenzlauer Berg to the grand classicism of Unter den Linden, from Norman Foster’s glass dome on the parliament building to the communist horror of the apartment blocks on Karl Marx Allee. If you are heading to Germany next summer you’ll find Berlin is big enough to keep you occupied but small enough to make getting around easy. It has parks, museums, wonderfully friendly people, and a nightlife which could put you at serious risk of missing the following day’s matches. On top of all that it has cheap accommodation, cheaper food and beer gardens the size of, well, football pitches.
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