The streets of Amsterdam make me nervous. Swedish football fans are everywhere, mostly in large, noisy, unruly mobs. They hang out of bars and fill streetside restaurants, singing, chanting, heckling. At one square we come across a few hundred of them, an agitated throng of blue and yellow, singing as if at a political rally, with many police watching closely. I am having quiet, second thoughts about the sense and safety of our attendance at the big international match between Holland and Sweden at Amsterdam's stadium.
We retreat to a small Indonesian restaurant in a lane to eat before the game. Hugh has finessed us into getting him a brilliant orange shirt with 'Robben 11' emblazoned on the back. He wears it like he was a player, not a spectator. As it turns out, Hugh will be Robben tonight - the star striker is out with injury. I am sure that Hugh secretly dreams of being called from the crowd to play. For him, the outfit is a badge of loyalty, for me a target for the vicious swedes. They hadn't even made the world cup while Holland had nearly won - clearly the swedes have something to prove. And they are here in force. Over gado gado, my mind keeps confusing them with marauding Norwegian vikings - I am certain that swedes are of the same stock. We arrive at the game early and take our numbered seats in row three behind the goal. We've walked past police on horseback and been bag and body-searched to get there.
And slowly, but surely, the mood of the stadium builds. Swedisch fans pour in - a blot of blue and yellow at the far end of the stadium. Dutch fans dribble in, a steady stream of bright orange juice fills the stadium. They wear outrageous outfits - orange satin coats, huge furry orange top-hats, orange pants and shirts, boots, orange everything. Two massive orange lions come up to Hugh and Caity and pose for a photo. The music starts, loud, energetic, happy. And the seats around us, the entire stadium, fills til there is only orange, blue and yellow as far as we can see.
Gerard, Syl's uncle, who has gotten us into this by securing the tickets, arrives with swedish son-in-law Bjorn. Gerard wears an orange cap, with fluffy ears, looking like an amiable bear. He has bought an over-size orange hat for Hugh, which hides his head. Bjorn, perhaps prescient of the final result, is more sombrely dressed.
We sing oom pa pa songs that everyone seems to know and wave plastic flags.
A fan behind me claps me firmly on the back
in a gesture of solidarity. I smile weakly. We sing the anthem. The atmosphere is fantastic, electric, united, spirited. The game begins. And within minutes, Holland has scored. The stadium goes wild. There will be four more eruptions from the orange side and a single, lesser yell from the swedes at the other end over the game. Holland wins 4-1. The swedes go home empty-handed.
There is no violence. Just oodles of sugary, patriotic pride. The crowd, orderly and polite, streams out of the stadium to pack trains and buses. We make the slow trip - a stop-trein - to Rotterdam, change for Dordrecht, then a bus to Centrum. Even diehard Hughie is knackered by the time we stagger in, after midnight. I agree to take a photo of his orange self before he collpases happily into bed.
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