
Annoncering
11.20PM: I'm still at home, piling on the layers of clothing as Kelly Clarkson bleats her way through "Star-Spangled Banner" on the TV in the corner of my living room. Her voice is a little shaky, but the cheerleaders' outfits are pleasingly nubile, or at least they are until I realise that I'm a fully-grown adult male growing visibly aroused at this Lolita-ish spectacle even through the second pair of jeans I'm trying to force on. I cringe.I haven't left yet, but am confident I will be able to catch at least 90 percent of the game as it's a dystopian pantomime that takes roughly 20 fucking hours to complete.11.25PM: The coin is tossed and the Patriots win, which is apparently significant. Time to make tracks.11.30PM – KICK OFF!: I have scouted out a place called the Blueberry Bar in East London. An ex-pat group of Americans living in the city have registered their plans to gather there on meetup.com. If the number of positive RSVPs at the site are anything to go by, I will soon be surrounded by 700 exuberant Yanks screaming their guts out at some fat men cradling an oddly-shaped ball 4000 miles away.11.43PM – SAFETY! Giants 2, Patriots 0: Still in transit. I've been checking Twitter regularly for updates on the game. I don't really understand a lot of the language being used, but there may have been a foiled terror plot at some point in the first quarter.
Annoncering
Annoncering
0.49AM – TOUCHDOWN! Giants 9, Patriots 10: The bus seems to be taking longer to come than it should. It's late on a Sunday evening and there are a high number of German students waiting for the bus with me. I have no idea why they're here, or why they're eyeing me quizzically. Then I remember that I am wearing two pairs of jeans, a step too far even for the sartorial daredevils of Europe's secondary schools.0.51AM – HALF-TIME Giants 9, Patriots 10: I get on the bus and am joined by a group of around five young Americans. This makes literally no sense to me. I assumed that all Americans watch the Super Bowl. I check my phone and realise it is half-time and I am probably going to miss Madonna sing in clothing that she shouldn't really be wearing at her stage in life. My American co-travellers talk loudly about Covent Garden's “street beggars” who “perform tricks for people, it's like their job”. I attempt to bore holes in the back of their heads with my gaze, but fail. I'm feeling pretty Taxi Driver right about now.1.02AM – MADONNA WINS THE SUPERBOWL: I am still on the bus with the Americans and have my head leant forlornly against the window with my fingers massaging my temples. “When we go to Paris, can we make sure we get some of that cake they have there, you know, like the cheesecake?” I hear from somewhere in front of me. I get off two stops early.
1.13AM – MADONNA IS OLD: As I walk up to the Sports Cafe on Haymarket, I am stunned by the lack of drunk Americans and the overheard sentence: “She might be a bag of bones and that, but I'd still give her a kick round the park.” This collection of words comes from an English man in a New York Giants jersey who is stood outside smoking a cigarette. I smile and reach for my dictaphone and camera, relieved that my own night is about to start in earnest.
Annoncering
Annoncering
Annoncering