In a development that has stunned sober people and geographers alike, Niagara Falls has been declared an 'unlikely World Cup viewing hotspot.' Yes, the same cascade of water that has been falling over itself for millennia, the same natural wonder that honeymooners use as a backdrop for regrettable tattoos, has now been anointed a venue for watching chaps in shorts chase a ball. I must confess, when I learned this, I choked on my G&T in a manner that can only be described as 'theatrical but sincere.'
Let us deconstruct this magnificent absurdity. The Falls, for those unfamiliar, is a locale where the primary pastime is staring at a very large quantity of water hurling itself off a cliff. The secondary pastime is being scalped by opportunistic taxi drivers. And now, presumably, the tertiary pastime will be squinting at a telly while drowning out the roar of 168,000 cubic metres of falling H2O with the roar of a Vuvuzela. This is progress, ladies and gentlemen. This is the future of sport.
I spoke to a man named Gary, from Scunthorpe, who had travelled 3,400 miles to stand in a misty park and watch England's group stage match on a giant screen. 'It's the atmosphere,' he bellowed, over the din of planetary hydrodynamics. 'We wanted something different from your average Wetherspoons.' Indeed, Gary. Nothing says 'different' like rain that hasn't finished falling yet and a wind-chill that makes your beer taste of regret. I asked if he had purchased a souvenir plastic poncho. He had not, preferring instead to 'feel the elements like a true fan.' His teeth chattered a morse code I interpreted as 'help me.'
The organisers, of course, are calling it a 'triumph of community spirit.' I call it a triumph of humanity's eternal quest to find the most acoustically challenged environment possible for a pastime that relies on the human voice. Perhaps next year they will host a poetry reading at a construction site, or a sommelier's convention in a curry house. The possibilities are as endless as the Falls themselves, which, by the way, are slowly eroding. Like my faith in humanity.
Let us consider the economics. To watch a match here, one must first navigate a labyrinth of Iced Gem-coloured souvenir shops, each selling fudge that tastes vaguely of wet socks. Then, one must secure a 'premium' spot on a rain-slicked patch of grass, for the low price of fifty Canadian dollars, which is roughly thirty-seven pounds, or the same amount I spend on gin in a standard week. The payoff: you get to see a football match from a distance that would make a hawk weep, while simultaneously being soaked by a natural phenomenon that has no off switch. It's like the World Cup was designed by a sadist with a hose.
But the real question is this: will the spectacle of football improve the Falls, or will the Falls improve the spectacle of football? I suspect neither. I suspect that the real winner here is the nearby casino, where fans can go to mourn their team's defeat while losing their mortgage in a game of blackjack. That, my friends, is the true Niagara experience: a monument to nature's power, swiftly repackaged as a backdrop for human folly. I shall be watching from the hotel bar, where the gin is plentiful and the only waterfall is the one in my martini.
In conclusion, if you wish to experience the World Cup in a location where the sound of the vuvuzela is mercifully drowned out by the sound of a planetary tap left running, by all means, head to Niagara. But if you value your hearing, your dignity, and your ability to feel your toes, I suggest you find a snug pub in Britain with a reliable heating system. The Falls will still be there tomorrow, falling, as they have always done, whether anyone is watching football or not. Some things, thank God, are impervious to branding.
