Las Vegas Sun

March 28, 2024

The beautiful game … and the totally insane crowd

Welcome to World Cup at the Crown & Anchor

World Cup Fever

Sam Morris

World Cup fans packed the Crown & Anchor on Saturday.

As I watched the Samoan guy puke into his hand and then seamlessly shove it back in, I couldn’t help but wonder—why can’t they hold the World Cup every year?

Click to enlarge photo

Scream if you're drunk!

The Crown & Anchor pub became a roiling, sweaty, absolutely stifling hot box for the four hours I spent there Saturday morning, as a nearly even mixture of U.S. and England fans poured in to watch the first matchup between these teams in 60 years. Sides were eventually drawn, with U.S. fans on the bar side and England fans on the dining room side. As Carlsberg and Sierra Nevada were passed back to people who couldn’t move, chants of “USA!” made it impossible to carry on conversations. The alcohol-soaked crowed soon found a sense of humor as well, adding “Fuck BP!” to the list of chants.

And then there was Pukey McHandPuke.

“Don’t touch that guy!” yelled Melissa Kluzel, noticing that the guy, who looked amazingly like Ron Jeremy’s stunt double, was making his way past us. He glanced back, sneered, and tried to get in a word with the Connecticut soccer mom, in town with husband Kaz to be right there, right then (although I’m thinking that at that moment she would rather have been anywhere else). He gave up and moved on, but within minutes was back again, stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt and whipping it around, slapping me in the face numerous times (bear in mind I couldn’t move, let alone duck). Somewhere along the way the shirt got lost.

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The friend I had come with turned around, noticed him and scoffed, “You again?” The inebriated pukester took this as a gesture of friendship, muscling his way to the bar and ordering two beers, one for my completely ignorant friend. As the beers arrived, Mr. Fresh Breath stuck his hand in one of them, splashing suds all over the crowd and spreading it through his hair. As my friend reached for his beer, a couple of eyes around the bar widened. I tried in vain to warn him about this guy’s hands-on method, but the noise level made that impossible. As my buddy gulped, one guy to our right put his head in his hand in disbelief. A waitress trying to make her way through the crowd took one look at shirtless guy’s fur, matted by sweat, and took a quick detour behind me.

Click to enlarge photo

Saturday's match was the first between U.S. and England in 60 years.

As England scored the first goal, some guy to my left was making an unsuccessful attempt to stay attached to his girlfriend, who had somehow been turned sideways and locked into a position where her beer-holding hand was cocked at an angle, spilling the contents all over my arm. Melissa’s husband was nowhere to be seen. I was able to get one arm free to cheer when the U.S. scored the game’s only other goal, but as the crowd writhed to and fro, chanting, “USA! Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!” I’m pretty sure I was forced to fondle more than one male ass as I struggled to get my other hand up. Elsewhere, a British guy who clearly needed the crowd’s support to stand upright, asked a woman if she’d “fancy a bit of knees up.” The game ended in a tie, but you would have thought the U.S. had won from the reaction.

I got crushed, covered with beer, sweat, and god knows what other bodily fluids, probably inadvertently violated at least three decency statues, and am currently so hoarse I have to talk in a whisper. But as someone could be heard yelling above the din, “Is there anywhere else you would rather be right now?” Nope.

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