With the World Cup nearly over for another four years, it’s time to reflect on what a strange, sleepless reverie it’s been, and turn our attention to the next competition. Beyond Djed Spence’s sliding tackles and Jude Bellingham’s imperiousness, my highlight was not an England game, but the evening I joined London’s Colombian diaspora in Elephant and Castle for last week’s match against Switzerland.
Little Bogotá was lit up by a sea of yellow shirts and flags, arrayed across the streets and pavements of “Latin Elephant”. It was, as it always is for Colombia games, a delightful scene: an unofficial, chaotic, self-organised fan zone. The cafes and bars were doing a roaring trade, and a guy with a cleaver standing atop a pickup truck was hacking the tops off coconuts and selling them to drink. Children ran around chasing each other, older couples danced together and hundreds of fans, passersby and neighbours milled happily around, sharing views of the tiny screens and lamentations about Colombia’s inability to score, making new friends and sort of half-watching the game.
