FIFA World Cup 2026:
various fixtures and dates, June-July
AND
Isthmian Premier League:
Enfield Town vs. Whitehawk.
Saturday 29th August 2026, 3pm kick-off
From The Sublime to The Ridiculous?
Have you missed me?
And, more importantly, have you been missing your football. Have YOU been along to watch YOUR team play yet, this fine
new football season? And no, I don’t mean on TV. You know that doesn’t count! For some,
the early season fixtures are difficult to accommodate in a busy diary. Perhaps
due to family holidays, weddings, etc. For others (e.g. ex-pats and the infirm)
the chance to attend a game in person arrives rarely. And takes on mythic
proportions and importance, when it does so. Rather like The Holy Grail. Perhaps
there have also been more distractions than usual, in a summer when football hardly
seems to have taken a break at all. Thanks to Gianni Python’s ever-expanding
Flying Circus. Did you, like me, run a 104-match marathon, ending in agony and frustration, hitting The Wall?
Despite being neither away on holiday nor an infirm ex-pat, The Pharaoh still gave up his first chance to watch Fulham play, last Thursday, in the Carabao Cup. For rather more prosaic reasons. Such a game might be considered merely a meaningless distraction in a tin-pot tournament, say in the eyes of fans whose clubs exit early (deliberately?). Or, by contrast, one of the sport’s few remaining fine traditions, that’s well worth maintaining - according to fans of sides who progress to the latter stages. I’ll hold fire on my own “Judgment of Paris” until the result of FFC’s game in the next round is in. It's scheduled to be against a struggling Championship side, who play at the quaintly-named (and suddenly over-sized?) ‘London Stadium’. Bless!
For the record, a much-changed Fulham XI comfortably despatched tier 3 opposition on Thursday. I chose to reserve my energies for a non-football-related early start, the following day. Going to see England take on a deeply sub-par Pakistan side, on Day 2 of the Lords test match. Luckily, there was barely a rain interruption of note. Although other interruptions were expected - and encountered...
Anyway, back to the football. The following photo shows Carabao siblings. Twins, in fact. Like Schwarzenegger and De Vito: The Sessegnons. Ryan, left, who plays as left wingback for Fulham; while Steven (also formerly of Fulham) plays as, errmm, left wingback for Wimbledon. Did I mention they’re near-identical twins? Sadly for Steven, there could be only one winner, on the night. Next up, 'Ammers away!
It would seem remiss, however, in this year of a World Cup summer, NOT to regale you first with tales of my mammoth, marathon, 5-week road-trip to and through sunny California. Cordially invited by a generous host, my L.A.-based, former college buddy, Peter, I decided (at my ripe old age) that I should probably grab the chance, while I still could. And before his long-suffering wife, Jenna, had the chance (and the foresight) to withdraw my invitation. There was always the lurking, residual possibility that the U.S. Immigration Force would consider me a threat to Homeland Security. Or something.
This was a trip that had been c. 4 long years in the planning. It would eventually include a short trip north, to visit funky San Francisco and Napa Valley's vineyards. But first, it would focus on whatever World Cup games Gianni Infantino and the ticket touts/scalpers left (relatively) affordable for us mere mortals. I will skip most of the varied cultural trip details, to focus on the football. It was, after all, The Pharaoh's quadrennial opportunity to guide you around some of football's Global "Ziggurat", rather than solely our usual, domestic, English football "Pyramid".
Peter and
his very close, local, even longer-standing buddy, George, had been confident all along that they'd be
able to access plenty of match tickets, via a local draw / allocation. In the end, they received absolutely none, of course. LOL!
I was also UNlucky enough to find that the seeded tournament draw had meant
England’s games would be confined to the East of the U.S.A. – plus
Mexico City. Scotland’s matches would be similarly distant. And the USA’s host
status instead saw them seeded in the group that would be centred on the West
Coast venues.
I arrived at LAX on 10th June and stayed/survived in California until 13th July. In the meantime taking in two (hideously expensive!) World Cup matches, live, at L.A.’s spectacular So-Fi stadium. Plus pretty much all the tournament's other fixtures, live on T.V. – in the “correct” time zone. No staying up until 4am for me! Oh, and a baseball game.
Peter was in the process of
completing a significant expansion to the family home. Work gangs populated the grounds and patio, plus large parts of the house, at times. It'll be an (even MORE) amazing home, when everything is
(eventually) completed.
The two matches we got to see “live”, as neutrals, were: Iran versus New Zealand, in the Group stage; plus Canada versus South Africa, the first Group of 32 knock-out game. Ticket costs were c. $500 and c. $600 respectively. Although, to be fair, these were far from being the cheapest (“Nose-Bleed”) seats in the house. I baulked at the cost, and only went along to these TWO games because my host saw them as Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunities. Twice! You can judge the excellent sightlines for yourself, in the images shared below.
The US$ vs. GB£ exchange rate
during my trip, incidentally, (and for the analysts amongst us) was c. 4:3 – or
1.33 dollars to the pound. Which made £ST costs relatively easy to calculate. The last time I’d been in So-Cal was 18 years earlier;
when the exchange rate had been running at more than TWO dollars to the pound. Then, I’d
been able to spend cash like a dying man. Less so, this time around.
A lot of pre-tournament chatter had been about the egregious
cost of match tickets, transport, etc. Of how “real” fans were being priced out by a FIFA
cash-grab. And that was largely true, of course. Yet a lot of Real Fans just sucked it up
and shelled out huge funds on acquiring tickets. There was even a story (apocryphal,
I hope!) of one Scotland fan selling his house to fund his trip – and to help
drink Heathrow and Boston dry. So one could argue that the fund-raising side of
FIFA had pitched the pricing formula “optimally”. In truth, we were lucky to
spend so “little” on our seats.
California has some deep pockets. And large pockets of ex-pats
from many of the world’s nations. So there was high demand for EVERY
game to an extent that surprised the hell out of me. U.S. fans seemed
prepared to shell out ANY amount of money to watch their side. Treating every
game as though it had the entertainment value and prestige of The Super Bowl, contrary to all empirical evidence.
Even the NZ game, for instance, was over-subscribed. Because so many
“Persians” wanted to attend the match. Schizophrenically hoping to demonstrate against the
country’s ruling regime AND support their players. They massively outnumbered the Kiwi fans present. We
got something of a last-minute “steal”, as the bottom (comparatively) finally
fell out of that over-inflated market. But that made gaining entry to the stadium officially "difficult". While the atmosphere at the game was
“odd”, to say the least.
We finally got into the stadium late. Long story, but largely as a result of FIFA’s complex and poorly conceived re-selling process. All roads lead to Geneva! Their portal
not embedding smoothly and well with established resale sites (Stub Hub, etc.). All
transfers had to go through FIFA, of course. But they couldn’t seem to handle
the volume of trades with accuracy.
Peter was convinced we’d already missed several goals, by the time we took our seats. In fact, we’d only missed the opening goal, scored by New Zealand. The Iranian fans, however, reached loud, high-pitched, and excited (errmm) Fever Pitch, pretty much every time their side had the ball. So it had seemed like the scoreline might have been 5-0, by the time we got in and took our seats. It ended up being a surprisingly entertaining 2-2 draw, played out between two poor sides. Neither of whom seemed likely to trouble the tournament's later stages. Not least with all the additional (political) local obstacles placed in the way of the Iranians participation.
Draught Beer inside the stadium, incidentally, cost the equivalent of a down-payment on a small, terraced house in Teesside (at c. £18 per pint). After which shocking realisation, and steep ascent to my seat, I needed defibrillation. Although I guess FIFA were working on the basis that, if you’d happily(?) paid upwards of $1,000 for a seat, you might be expected to pay just about ANYTHING for a beer, once you realised how far away from the pitch your seat was. Nobody seemed to be stopping the street traders from selling their food and drinks outside the stadium, however, as I hear was reported elsewhere. But people were mostly more intent on just getting into the stadium and to their seats, ASAP. I didn't explore the cost of food inside the stadium. We’d wisely filled our boots at Woody’s famous smoked rib house, in the mean streets of Inglewood. A district I probably wouldn’t venture anywhere near at night.
Left: "Slap-up" pre-match nosh at no-frills Woody's. HIGHLY recommended. Just don't ask how I avoided getting any sauce or debris on my pristine shirt.
Right: a typical patio "watch party"; rooting for England. Beastly cold "Pines" West Coast IPA, from Peter's kegerator. Enjoyed here with Jeff and George.
Later in the tournament, Canada and S. Korea did us a favour. How? By failing to the top their respective groups (with Korea, in fact, unexpectedly exiting at the Group stage). Meaning that they were displaced from their seeded locations and many pre-tournament ticket purchasers now found themselves with seats for the wrong games, in the wrong cities. Our $600 tickets had been selling at more than TWICE that price, just the day before the game. But, eventually, enough S. Korea fans decided to cut their losses and ditch their tickets. I still baulked at the cost; but” whad-are-ya-gonna-do?”. Again, the crowd and atmosphere was officially “ODD”. As we found ourselves amidst a melange of fans from almost ALL over the world. Mostly from S. Korea, Mexico, U.S.A., Canada and South Africa – in declining order of numbers present. There was little on the pitch for anybody to celebrate, alas.
visible from Mars. "Couldn't you get flags and Jumbotrons any bigger?"
The result didn't match the pre-game build-up. A poor 1-0 win, ground out by a marginally superior
Canada side, against a surprisingly lack-lustre S. Africa team. The latter
seemed strangely intent on playing for a 0-0 draw, Extra-Time, and penalties.
Something they were singularly incapable of doing, anyway. Although they did
rather spoil the spectacle and the experience for most of the c. 72,000 present,
on their self-imposed exit route, out of the tournament.
The South Africans will have made
few friends, with their unapologetic time-wasting and refusal to come out of
their own half any more than was strictly necessary. They belatedly realised
that this WOULD be necessary, only after going behind to a marginally better
side, late on. The tail-end of the game was vastly superior, as a result. If
only S. Africa had played like that for NINETY minutes (instead of 19) they might
well have progressed to the next stage. Poor tactics and game management, and a wasted opportunity. Although I guess it must have seemed to them like a wise approach, on paper, before the
game.
As you can see, we WERE still standing. "Literally!"
I found myself watching many of the televised games in the
company of a wide variety of new friends. I saw the tournament’s first match (Mexico
vs. S. Africa) for instance, on a large outdoor screen on Peter’s unfinished
patio, with an excitable Mexican commentary. Sitting alongside the Mexican work gangs who had downed tools for the duration. I was something of
a curiosity to them, in my Fulham FC shirt (c. 2002 vintage – see above, think Steed
Malbranque, Brian McBride, Andy Cole, Lee Clark, Luís Boa Morte, et al). Until I
made the obvious connection for them with Mexico’s #9 and penalty King, Raul
Jimenez. Who’s been playing at The Cottage for the past couple of seasons. After
which I became an honorary Mexican, regardless of my loud and shame-faced insistence
that I “No hablo Español!”
Sadly, I didn’t watch the England-Mexico game with them due to the early evening kick-off timing. But we had good chats about it afterwards. It being one of the
most exciting of the tournament, etc. A Walking Football buddy had contacted me during my trip,
encouraging me to join him in Mexico City's Azteca stadium. But I’d already
blown my budget to smithereens, by that point. Rob assures me he had a blast in the rain, as he
partied with the locals and waited for the storm-delayed kick-off.
I wore my England shirt (see above, c. 2006 vintage – think Lampard and
Gerrard, and that infamous not-a-goal) for the first of the live games I attended.
And for many of the televised games (again, see above) - plus the baseball match. As well as
in the street, bars, stores, and on the beach. It broke the “ice” and drew
nothing but positive reactions. Some locals even realised and observed that I was on "the wrong
coast". When England weren’t playing, I'd wear one of many club shirts to watch the other nations. Including
my old “Mark Kirby”, Enfield Town F.C. fat man special.
After the Q-F stage, I reluctantly flew home. To confidently prepare myself for a France-England final. But you don’t want to hear the gory details of what happened next – do you? Again? (See opening image - Ouch!)Water under the bridge, Old Boy! Don't risk reopening old wounds, and all that!
One final brief aside does arise, however. As I contemplate the presence of The Democratic Republic of the Congo in the finals. For the first time in decades! DR Congo (or Doctor Congo, as I now call them - 🎝“You put de lime in de coconut and mix it all up…”🎝) is a country where I once spent a few happy (if sometimes unduly "exciting") months, when I wore a younger man’s clothes - and worked on a world famous beer brand.
It was called Zaire, then. I went there (and to Rwanda and
Burundi, next door) working on recent product launch projects, during the Italia
’90 World Cup finals. Watching most of the games on TV, and extensively playing table
football with a Dutch buddy (a whole other long story, all of its own) in bars and drinking dens
across central Africa. I believe I was the only man in the whole region wearing
an England shirt. And certainly the only one cartwheeling around a hotel bar, when Platt
scored his late winner, against the colonial Mother country. But I digress.
Again! Albeit nostalgically, this time.
On Saturday, those expected windy, rainy conditions produced
a flurry of (home) goals against lowly visitors, Whitehawk . Starting as early
as the 3rd minute. Those who enjoy the fine details might like to
know that the away side wore red (not white) and there were no hawks present /
visible. Whitehawk have been based in East Brighton Park, on the edge of
Kemptown, since their formation in 1945, at the end of WW2. The naming of their
“Enclosed Ground” home carries its own long story – for another time. They
would need to dig out their tin hats once more, to face an onslaught on the
road, at one of the Isthmian Premier League’s more fancied sides.
Notice that nobody is sporting the unfashionable #13 shirt. The cowards!
A decent attendance of 604 included a larger smattering than usual of Newcastle United shirts. Why? Because the crowd was boosted by 2x coach loads of Newcastle fans, who had stopped off en route to White Hart Lane for the evening’s EPL fixture against Spurs. They had been specifically invited to attend. Cannily offered free entry, in return for spending their Toon Pounds in the club’s Butler’s Bar. It was widely agreed that this was better hospitality than their usual fare: 2 hours stopped in a motorway service station. Rumour has it they were provided with a police escort for their onward journey – and a translator.
There was pressure and press from Billy Holland's home side, from the very start. Before long, some nice teamwork and interplay on the Enfield left paid off, resulting in a ball reaching Sam Youngs, just outside the 6-yard box. His first touch set the ball up for a volley, from c. 8 yards out. It was deflected into the ground by the flailing defender and looped high up over the stranded, back-pedalling GK. 1-0, and the first goal of many, we hoped. After which the visiting GK’s behaviour became erratic and frequently “what I call” unsportsman-like. Deliberately running into opposition players with the ball out of play, and various other shenanigans, did NOT endear him greatly to the vocal home fans behind his goal. Who duly spent the match cheerily reminding him that the deteriorating scoreline was “all his fault”. How we larrffed!
Just a few minutes later, a ball was won “robustly” by Town’s #15, Declan Rydings, from an overly ambitious, marauding Whitehawk defender. Two swift passes forward allowed Avgoustidis to run into space and collect the ball c. 22 yards out, outpacing the central defender. He rounded the advancing GK (who dived at him, feet first - recklessly?!) leaving the latter flat on his backside. It looked for all the world like Rydings had done too much, when he jinked back inside, past the recovering right-back. But his curling, rising, right-footed effort across the goal found the top right-hand corner of the net. 2-0, with only 9 minutes gone. Home fans were licking their collective lips. This was what we’d come for!
Klevis Muca; never allowed to settle. Neither by Town's front line, nor their fans.
Despite that deficit, Whitehawk failed to heed the warning
signs. In the 30th minute, their GK and wing-backs initiated some intricate passing along the edge of their area, trying to play the ball
out around Enfield’s high press. Bad idea! A poor first touch put the left-back under
pressure and his resulting attempted back-pass to the GK was as under-powered
as his grey matter. A toe-in Enfield challenge pushed the ball towards Luke May-Parrott,
who won a one-on-one challenge with the GK (who, had he come out more
bravely, at full stretch, might have claimed the ball) rounding him
for a two-yard left-footed tap in. 3-0 already! And it was starting to look
clear why the visitors had only secured one point so far, from a possible
twelve. They’d also picked up a couple of early yellow cards, for persistent
bad (“agricultural”) fouling, within the first 25 minutes. This cooled their early enthusiasm further.
Spiritedly, however, Whitehawk did not crumble. They were,
in fact, next to score. Winning a contested ball deep in Town territory, they
completed a swift, sweeping move down the right, at the second attempt, as Seokjae
Lee got on the end of a driven, low cross. In acres of space, untroubled by any
suggestion of “marking”, he beat the over-exposed Dylan Thompson at his near
post. 3-1 after 32 minutes. Game on? Not exactly.
We then entered a more stale-matey phase of play. With Town
happy to absorb some pressure, while still looking threatening whenever they
had the ball. It was a state of affairs that lasted through the hour mark, with
plenty of profligate finishing, mostly from the home side.
The pantomime villain of the piece, however, continued in
his role, to perfection. Routinely heckled from behind his goal, in the 64th
minute Whitehawk’s Klevis Muca mis-hit a routine, sweeper-keeper clearance from
c. 25 yards out. Directing it into the chest of the onrushing May-Parrott. The rebound
resulting from May-Parrott’s continued high press had enough momentum on it to beat the
scrambling, retreating keeper across his own line. Muca ended up red-faced, tangled
up at the foot of his own goal net, and signalling a need for the physio.
Presumably to massage his ego and cover his blushes. Since he was soon enough back
up on his feet to try and prevent the 4-1 scoreline from deteriorating any
further.
Something he was, alas for Whitehawk, singularly unable to do. After several
more missed chances from the hosts, May-Parrott slathered his own personal icing
onto the cake by completing a hat-trick in the 88th minute. Out-muscling
and out-pacing his centre back to latch onto a perfectly-weighted through ball. 5-1,
with pretty much just stoppage time to go. There would be no
further scoring. Enfield (the scoring-est side in the league; and with the best
GD) would find themselves sitting pretty in second, behind unbeaten Carshalton
Athletic, after the season’s five games. Only ONE side will claim automatic promotion, at the end of this campaign. So strong early form could turn out to be all-important.
Klevis Muca trudges disconsolately back towards his net to retrieve the ball yet again. Much to the amusement of Enfield's well-entertained home supporters. With not a single defender in the frame. Town's players celebrate in front of their adoring fans - again! TBH, I could have flooded this report with photos of Town's players celebrating their many goals. But what would be gained by that? And a bit of tasty floodlight "porn" adds electric atmosphere to the occasion, as a gloomy late afternoon sets in on North London. Ahead of Tottenham's gloomy late kick-off against Newcastle. Those Geordies must have enjoyed their Big Day Out.
Match highlights are available on YouTube, here
Post Script
1) Just two days later, on Bank Holiday Monday, ETFC would add a tasty 1-4 away
win, at mid-table Wingate & Finchley. Meanwhile Carshalton suffered a surprise
3-2 reverse at early strugglers, Three Bridges. Resulting in the thing of
beauty that is the current league table – see below.
After six games, Enfield Town are now top, on Goal Difference, as we enter a break in league action, to allow for the The Football Association Challenge Cup (more commonly known as the FA Cup) 1st Round Qualifying. Town are away at Frenford F.C. of Ilford on Saturday. At stake, a potential revenue-raising run in the oldest national football competition in the world. The hosts are a significantly more junior club, but will hope to make the most of their home advantage. I can't get along to this local tie, however, because...
2) I should also announce that I do plan to finally break my Fulham F.C. duck, this coming weekend, against Crystal Palace. Thanks to a generous season ticket lend by friend and irregular match buddy, Graham. An Old Skool gent of the very first order! A Palace fan and Walking Football buddy, John B, will be joining me (in "the wrong end"). With both sides much-changed from last season, and struggling for goals and points, the result is not an easy one to call. Fingers crossed...
All photos (except those of The Sessegnons and Fernández with Anderson) courtesy of Peter and The Pharaoh.
Which could easily become the title of a great new children's picture book.
