Eshtop im!

I'd been to one of my language exchanges just before the match with Portugal. I wasn't able to get home in time so it had to be a bar. Fortunately it was a bar with a copious supply of cheap brandy.

It  looked like a scrappy first half to me, but what do I know about football? The second half seemed much better. In those last ten minutes, the ones where one goal doesn't seem like anywhere near enough of a cushion, we were one up. The bar was on tenterhooks. Every time the Portuguese had posession the tension mounted. Stop him, stop him! I mouthed into my brandy. Maybe I was louder than I thought. I noticed the Spanish man sitting at the table to my left staring at me.

The Portuguese pushed forward again. ¡Eshtop im!, ¡eshtop im! shouted my neighbour.

And they did.