Monday Rostov

Day 21 in Russia and I’ve settled into a familiar routine. Every morning starts with a call home via FaceTime, which my children now view as a major irritation to their lives. My son, a fanatical Swansea supporter, comes to the phone only to ask if “we’ve signed anyone yet”. The answer is always the same. Needing to refocus, I tackle a gruelling fitness circuit that would kill a normal man. Lunch is then taken with the Telegraph’s James Ducker and David Coverdale from the Sun. Being football experts, we all predict Belgium will stroll to a comfortable win later on against Japan, a conversation we return to when we drift away from the Rostov Arena in the small hours, shaking our heads at the madness of it all and wondering whether we’ve ever reported on a better match. Poor Japan.

Tuesday Rostov to Moscow

Another day, another flight, albeit one with a difference. The Aeroflot check-in lady finds it hilarious that I’m flying to Simferopol, the capital of Russian-annexed Crimea, to return from Rostov to Moscow. I smile wryly, knowing that the Guardian and Observer are having the last laugh here – we’ve saved £7 on a direct flight. But life’s about to get tricky. I’ve a story to file but it’s impossible to get a mobile network in Simferopol and the only way to access the airport wifi is via a Russian phone. Artyom, a Russian barista who learned English at school in Montenegro, comes to my aid by giving me his mobile number. Access to Gmail is blocked but, thinking on my feet (I should be reporting from war zones, not Wolves, next season), I send my story by direct message on Twitter. The 750 words land safely and on time and so does my plane in Moscow, which means I’m back to see England beat Colombia. Everyone’s a winner.

Wednesday Moscow to Nizhny Novgorod

The morning after the night before and my colleague Barney Ronay has yet to emerge from the oligarch suite as I tiptoe out of the flat, leaving behind the remnants of the pizza I cremated while watching England. I’m off to Nizhny Novgorod, ready for the Uruguay-France quarter-final, and bump into Colin Cooper, the former Middlesbrough defender, on the plane. Cooper works for the FA and is one of 10 England scouts out here. He tells me he’s spent the past six months following Switzerland, putting together a dossier on a team who England will no longer play. I know how he feels given all the stories I’ve filed that have never seen the light of day. Refusing to be discouraged, I send another, about play-acting at the World Cup, and brace myself for a ticking-off from my mum when she sees I’ve used the word shithousery.

Thursday Nizhny Novgorod

A strange day starts with the water being cut off at my hotel – just when it was needed most – and ends in a police car. The 10 hours in between are spent at the Nizhny Novgorod Stadium, where an audience with Óscar Tabárez, Uruguay’s wonderful 71-year-old coach, is the highlight. They call him El Maestro in Uruguay and you can see why. Tabárez looks like he would happily talk all evening. I’d stay and listen to him, too. What a man. It’s gone 10pm when I finish and my taxi is nowhere to be seen. A Russian policeman recognises I’m in distress and kindly calls the cab driver. While I wait, he offers to take a picture of me outside the stadium. Yuri – we’re soon on first-name terms – is a jovial man and suggests I get behind the wheel in the police car for another photograph. Easily led, I agree. We laugh, show pictures of our kids, and I explain that I’m from Bristol, which is not near Salisbury.

Friday Nizhny Novgorod to Moscow

With the Uruguay-France quarter‑final kicking off at 5pm, the morning offers an opportunity for sightseeing, which has so far been limited to a visit to the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow, where Barney tried his best to educate me. “You can say you saw a Rubens,” he says. I was more impressed we got in for free by showing our Premier League press passes. As it happens, my plans to explore Nizhny Novgorod never materialise after I get caught up in a long chat with an Ecuador fan, who keeps trying to bring the conversation back to Diego Maradona every time I mention Jefferson Montero. As for our friend Rubens, never mind Peter Paul the painter, Uruguay could have done with Sosa the left‑footed striker as they are well beaten by France. Cue lots of glum South American faces on the night flight to Moscow.

Saturday Moscow to Sochi

It’s 4am by the time I check into my airport hotel, where the receptionist is Russia’s equivalent of Basil Fawlty. The only thing missing during a terse exchange is the moose’s head. I can’t remember feeling this tired since I slept from Bristol prison to HMP Isle of Wight handcuffed to an inmate, catching flies all the way. “Twenty-eight years in the service and I’ve never seen anything like that, James,” said Mr Hughes, the senior prison officer on that escort. I took it as a compliment. The Guardian and Observer don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour and take a dim view of anyone sleeping full stop, although they have at least gone to the trouble of booking me an apartment in Sochi, for Russia v Croatia, that comes with a hammock. If only I could work out how to stay in it.