I trooped off to the Colour House Theatre yesterday to watch England get beaten by Portugal. It was a sombre affair.
I would have been better off watching it in one of the bodegas of Stockwell over some bolinhas de bacalhau and vinho verde, at least there would have been a party afterwards.
On second thoughts, perhaps the defeat of Portugal's co-linguists Brazil later on in the evening might have dampened the atmosphere a little.
Paul and I discovered the Portuguese bars and cafes of Stockwell during "Drink your way around the Northern Line, a project that pre dated both "Eat your way around the World in London" and "A Welsh Born Icon". (We both realised last year that anyone with a little local knowledge should not be surprised to find a Brazilian in Stockwell.)