Happy travelling supporters mingling in Lenin Square ahead of the match against France can be divided into two groups: the sunburn and pre-sunburnt
Donetsk: city of trams, slag-heaps and sunburnt English knees – of inflatable spitfires, Lenin monoliths and Ipswich town flags. The far-Eastern capital of Ukraine's carbon netherlands was already buzzing this morning. Against the odds a familiar Anglification has occurred in the baking heat of this sprawling miner's city turned Oligarch's toy-town. In central Lenin Square one of the largest throngs of English fans has congregated, perhaps driven by an urge to commune with their fellow man that goes beyond even football. Yes: these are high times indeed for the Golden Lion Irish Pub (stationed just a little to the left of the monument to the father of communism) which is already absolutely heaving on the morning of England's opening Group D match with pilgrims from the travelling football diaspora. Donetsk in high summer has a sweeping, florid, slightly ragged beauty.
In its green town squares and municipally wooded boulevards – monuments to the occasional optimism of Soviet town planning – there are some unusual sights today. Helmeted English bobbies stroll between groups of fans in pavement cafes, shaking hands like travelling royalty. One grizzled sergeant, papped by a travelling press pack, is even handing out his business card ("get the name right"). Around the famous coal-black tribute to Lenin himself England fans pose for pictures, a stream of hardy shirtless souls who on a day like this can essentially be divided into two groups: the sunburnt and the pre-sunburnt.
Across this tableau of sedate, cheerful, to date pleasantly respectful Anglo-tourism, a lone familiar figure could be seen strolling in jeans and polo shirt. Had things turned out just a little different Stuart Pearce – for it is he – might have been across town in a Three Lions blazer, ensconced in campaign mode. It is a rather lonesome sight. Pearce poses gamely for a couple of pictures. "Just got in this morning," is his only comment before he strides off alone and map-less in a south-westerly direction, displaying either a commendably detailed knowledge of Donetsk street geography, or a desire to lose himself (easily done) in the vast urban grid that falls away down towards the city reservoir.
No doubt Pearce would probably be happier, if probity allowed, over in the Golden Lion (speciality: Steak a la Scotland) with England's familiar travelling crusaders, who have, apparently, been in full chain mail warrior costume ever since Gatwick and who are on the face of it holding up remarkably well in swooningly hot conditions. "It's a lovely city. Beautiful," says chief crusader Dex. "Perfect. I was here with Spurs in the winter time and it was dark when we arrived, dark when we left, but this is unrecognisable. Don't believe all the stories."
Just across from Lenin Square, up Artema boulevard is the largest monument to the current insurgent dictat, a vast mural of leaping, smiling, scantily clad women dedicated to Uefa, which has briefly planted itself centre stage in alliance with the City's power-broking Donbass elite. "Making history together," is the slogan on the endless plastic awnings, with their peculiar psychedelic vaginal flower emblem, a piece of corporate logo-schmaltz that seems even more jarring in this rowdy Eastern cowboy town on the coal frontier of Europe's second biggest country.
England will make history of one kind or another tonight as they attempt, if not to win, then at least to emerge with footballing dignity intact — as they did most recently in 2004 — from what is a habitually fraught tournament. The supporters have made a fine start and the mood in Donetsk is cheerfully reverent so far, most England fans arriving only this morning to tales of light-speed passport control ("Heathrow needs to look and learn") wondrous weather and a city that is in its own way fascinating and beautifully varied. This is an elite tranche of only the most committed England fans: no low-cost airline flights here, no time taken out from the beach holiday. Travelling to eastern Ukraine is only for those willing to ford turgid city transfers and take their chances with the nuts and bolts of negotiating a notably non-EU European outpost.
Perhaps with this in mind there is a mood above all of informed realism. Some chants of Enger-lund, Enger-lund were already audible around Lenin Square, breaking out like the low drone of a Soviet-era police klaxon, but mainly there is that sense of cheerfully lowered expectation. "I haven't missed a game in nine years," says one of the crusaders. He expects to get three more in the Ukraine.
Perhaps Donetsk might yet prove similarly hospitable for England's players tonight, albeit the prospect of a first half played half in evening sunlight is slightly troubling judging by previous tournament experiments with running around in debilitating heat. This is Hodgson's England though, and there has been a calming not just of expectation, but of England's style. Often they don't so much press as lurk, dropping off rather than chasing, accepting their lot. One English journalist in Ukraine has taken to declaring at regular intervals: "Why, though? Why can't they just pass the ball to each other? Look at [insert name of European nation currently in action]. Why can't they just pass the ball like that?"
It is a good question and perhaps England will answer it in the best way in the magnificent violet-tinged Donbass Arena this evening. In the past they have at times arrived at these tournaments already fretful, jittery, overcome with a sense of declining momentum. If the travelling cohorts of a pleasantly realistic support are anything to go by, Donetsk might yet prove a good place to start. Read More
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