Brian Viner: Five-star treatment for whistle-blowers and cereal offenders

Over coffee we pondered the collective term for referees and decided on 'cock-up'

On the coastal road from Porto to Lisbon there is a five-star hotel with a single, armed policeman standing outside. This is where the Euro 2004 referees are billeted, but I will refrain from naming the establishment just in case there are any Latvian hitmen who read this column, one of whom might want to slip past the armed policeman disguised as a Portuguese waiter, then let himself noiselessly into the room of Mike Riley.

On the coastal road from Porto to Lisbon there is a five-star hotel with a single, armed policeman standing outside. This is where the Euro 2004 referees are billeted, but I will refrain from naming the establishment just in case there are any Latvian hitmen who read this column, one of whom might want to slip past the armed policeman disguised as a Portuguese waiter, then let himself noiselessly into the room of Mike Riley.

Mr Riley it was, you'll recall, who turned down a penalty appeal by Latvia against Germany on Saturday that was not so much cast-iron as reinforced steel. Satisfied as all Latvians were with the draw, the defeat of mighty Germany would have been one of the greatest moments in their history.

So I would hate to blow the whistle, as it were, on Mr Riley's whereabouts. I would feel partly responsible if he was then taken out with a sharp blow to the temple just as he stepped off the bidet.

A week ago, on the morning after England's agonising defeat by France, I had breakfast in the afore-not-mentioned hotel. It was fascinating to be surrounded by referees in mufti, to see which of them made their decisions quickly, selecting the pineapple juice without a second's hesitation, and which of them dithered between the croissants and the Danish pastries, looking anxiously around for the fourth official.

Kim Milton Nielson was there, also Danish but emphatically not a pastry, being particularly lanky. So was Mr Frisk, the only referee ever to have won the Grand National. I have used that joke before, but frankly I fully expect to use it again. There are some jokes, just as there are some car-rental companies (although not in Portugal this summer), which offer unlimited mileage.

Besides, I don't mind confessing that I am mildly obsessed with Mr Frisk, the refereeing circuit's pin-up boy. There is rarely any great danger of referees being prettier than the players in their charge; obviously, Pierluigi Collina would not push David Beckham very far in a beauty contest, but that is only an extreme example of a general rule. It always looks to me, however, as if the perma-tanned Mr Frisk, with his swept-back, streaky blond hair, thinks himself at least as glamorous as any of the footballers around him. In the slightly histrionic way he awards free-kicks and flourishes yellow cards I detect a sub-text along the lines: "You might be richer and more famous than me, pal, but you've only got half the barnet."

Even at breakfast, I can report, Mr Frisk looked perfectly groomed. One never really thinks of referees doing mundane things such as eating Alpen, which is why it was so interesting watching them. The great Collina, incidentally, eschewed breakfast altogether. He is a man apart even when it comes to mealtimes, although I did see him hand in his key at reception with marvellous authority. I am haunted by the thought that this tournament is the last time we will see him in action, almost as haunted as I am by the thought that Wayne Rooney might be wearing red next season. But don't get me started on that.

My companion at breakfast in Portugal last Monday - in newspaper jargon, this is what is called burying the lead - was Gary Winston Lineker. Over coffee we pondered the collective term for referees and ungenerously decided on "cock-up", although I reminded him what Michael Owen had said in the BBC studio on FA Cup final day, that nine times out of 10 the truly execrable decisions are made by the men running the line. Lineker agreed that this was so, and said how impressed he had been with Owen's eloquence that afternoon.

If only his boots were currently talking with the same degree of confidence.

I had been invited to join Lineker, Alan Hansen and Ian Wright for a game of golf after breakfast, which I was looking forward to, not least to see whether Wright dresses for golf as he does for the studio, like a medical orderly.

Unfortunately, they were travelling to a course an hour's drive away, and I would have missed my flight back to Heathrow. Nevertheless, I can exclusively reveal that there is ferocious competition behind the matey bonhomie that we will see in the BBC studio this evening. Lineker, Hansen, Wright and Peter Schmeichel, who was unavailable for golf last Monday, are playing for a replica of the Claret Jug given to the winner of the Open Championship, but inscribed Euro 2004. The man with the best four rounds will win it, and there will be moments on the fairways today, you can bet, when England v Croatia will be merely an afterthought.

Similarly, tonight's referee, the incomparable Mr Collina, will not be dwelling on the England match when he hands in his key at reception this morning. It's only us poor saps at home who can think of nothing else.

b.viner@independent.co.uk