Arrive at my hotel to find out the Dutch national team have left and moved to a different hotel. A plate of lovely sandwiches is soon polished off before heading to Nelson Mandela Square and a few beers followed by a curry and a good night's sleep - the first one for a while.
Sunday 11 July
The big day, well it would have been massive had England been there (yes, that feeling will persist for another four years!). Still it is a World Cup final and we will all try to get tickets to the big event.
First, a humbling trip to the Apartheid museum in Johannesburg. A moving if necessary experience. Necessary to realise a significant part of this country's recent history, but also because there's not a lot else to do in the city - thank goodness there's a match on tonight.
Talking of which, we head to a shopping mall a few hours before kick off. This, though, is a shopping trip of a different kind - we're looking for match tickets. Some money grabbing Scottish bloke wants £1000 a ticket. Maybe if the Three Lions had been there he may have stirred some interest but the Jock was clearly out of touch and only interested in swelling his bank balance. I hope he failed.
We then got some transport to within a mile of the stadium and found a nice house party selling beer and doing a bbq. A good option, we tell the hosts, should we fail, as expected, to get tickets.
Then we head to the stadium on foot with a sign declaring our intentions - we want tickets - and stumble across some teenagers who seem ready to do business.
At first, I am disbelieving and keep my distance. They then give us the three tickets we require, before quickly exchanging one of those tickets for another. No matter. We are happy to buy a trio of tickets and don't care where we sat.
Now comes the key question: how much? "Nothing," came the response from one. "Free," said another.
What? Something doesn't seem right here. We quickly, very briefly, show some sign of gratitude before I decide the best thing to do is get away from this suspicious situation as pickpocketing/mugging is at the forefront of my mind.
I then inspect the tickets and they seem legitimate but, obviously, they are not. They cannot be. Now the teenagers are well in the distance and we have all our possessions still on us I conclude they must be fake.
Nevertheless, it is worth trying to get in with our false tickets. The worst that could happen is they turn us away. The best case scenario is they're genuine.
I suggest I try first and then my accomplices try an alternative gate, as to not arouse suspicion should I get turned away.
Amazingly I get passed the two points of security and so do my colleagues. We arrive at our respective seats and they are vacant so clearly they were genuine tickets and not fake at all. This still makes no sense to this day and I am dumbfounded. But, hey, we are here. And for free. Amazing!
The temperature is chilly at best and incredibly cold at worst but we are warmed by the sights of Nelson Mandela and Shakira, for very different reasons, prior to kick off.
The result almost takes on an irrelevance but due to my association with the country and that I am in a Spanish section of the ground I decide to support Casillas, Xavi et al, so when Iniesta seals victory in extra time I whoop with delight along with the Spaniards beside me.
The game was not the most interesting as a spectacle but what the hell - we can't exactly ask for a refund on the tickets. And we were just delighted to be there.
We head back to our hotel still shaking our heads in disbelief.
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