Stimulating speech: Henry Kissinger's greatest hits

Some wit and wisdom from Dr. Kissinger.

A leader does not deserve the name unless he is willing occasionally to stand alone.

A leader who confines his role to his people's experience dooms himself to stagnation; a leader who outstrips his people's experience runs the risk of not being understood.

Accept everything about yourself--I mean everything, You are you and that is the beginning and the end--no apologies, no regrets.

Any fact that needs to be disclosed should be put out now or as quickly as possible, because otherwise the bleeding will not end.

Art is man's expression of his joy in labor.

Blessed are the people whose leaders can look destiny in the eye without flinching but also without attempting to play God.

Diplomacy: the art of restraining power.

Each success only buys an admission ticket to a more difficult problem.

Even a paranoid can have enemies.

For other nations, utopia is a blessed past never to be recovered; for Americans it is just beyond the horizon.

High office teaches decision making, not substance. It consumes intellectual capital; it does not create it. Most high officials leave office with the perceptions and insights with which they entered; they learn how to make decisions but not what decisions to make.

I am being frank about myself in this book. I tell of my first mistake on page 850.

I don't see why we need to stand by and watch a country go communist due to the irresponsibility of its people. The issues are much too important for the Chilean voters to be left to decide for themselves.

If eighty percent of your sales come from twenty percent of all of your items, just carry those twenty percent.

If I should ever be captured, I want no negotiation - and if I should request a negotiation from captivity they should consider that a sign of duress.

If it's going to come out eventually, better have it come out immediately.

If you don't know where you are going, every road will get you nowhere.

In crises the most daring course is often safest.

It is, after all, the responsibility of the expert to operate the familiar and that of the leader to transcend it.

It was a Greek tragedy. Nixon was fulfilling his own nature. Once it started it could not end otherwise.

Leaders are responsible not for running public opinion polls but for the consequences of their actions.

Leaders must invoke an alchemy of great vision.

Moderation is a virtue only in those who are thought to have an alternative.

Most foreign policies that history has marked highly, in whatever country, have been originated by leaders who were opposed by experts.

Ninety percent of the politicians give the other ten percent a bad reputation.

No country can act wisely simultaneously in every part of the globe at every moment of time.

No foreign policy--no matter how ingenious--has any chance of success if it is born in the minds of a few and carried in the hearts of none.

No one will ever win the battle of the sexes; there's too much fraternizing with the enemy.

People are generally amazed that I would take an interest in any form that would require me to stop talking for three hours.

Power is the great aphrodisiac.

The absence of alternatives clears the mind marvelously.

The American foreign policy trauma of the sixties and seventies was caused by applying valid principles to unsuitable conditions.

The American temptation is to believe that foreign policy is a subdivision of psychiatry.

The conventional army loses if it does not win. The guerrilla wins if he does not lose.

The essence of Richard Nixon is loneliness.

The illegal we do immediately. The unconstitutional takes a little longer.

The longer I am out of office, the more infallible I appear to myself.

The nice thing about being a celebrity is that, if you bore people, they think it's their fault.

The security of Israel is a moral imperative for all free peoples.

The statesman's duty is to bridge the gap between his nation's experience and his vision.

The superpowers often behave like two heavily armed blind men feeling their way around a room, each believing himself in mortal peril from the other, whom he assumes to have perfect vision.

The task of a leader is to get his people from where they are to where they have not been.

The Vietnam War required us to emphasize the national interest rather than abstract principles. What President Nixon and I tried to do was unnatural. And that's why we didn't make it.

There cannot be a crisis next week. My schedule is already full.

To be absolutely certain about something, one must know everything or nothing about it.

University politics are vicious precisely because the stakes are so small.

We are all the President's men.

We cannot always assure the future of our friends; we have a better chance of assuring our future if we remember who our friends are.

Whatever must happen ultimately should happen immediately.

While we should never give up our principles, we must also realize we cannot maintain our principles unless we survive.

You can't make war in the middle East without Egypt and you can't make peace in the middle East without Syria.

Curling up with a good book: On China

Complete title: On China
Author: Henry Kissinger
Year published: 2011

Henry Kissinger is one of my all-time favorite statesmen. And not only because--like me--he loves soccer! Kissinger has been in the forefront of seismic world shifts over the last few decades, often times playing a vital role in creating and shaping a better future. In this book, he draws upon his extensive experience in diplomacy with the Chinese and offers his perspective on how this once sleepy, backwater country has grown into a world superpower--if not THE superpower. Interesting ready and lots to think about. The following review was written by Max Frankel, who covered Kissinger's historic trip to China in 1972 with president Richard Nixon, and was originally published in the New York Times on May 13.

Henry Kissinger was not only the first official American emissary to Communist China, he persisted in his brokerage with more than 50 trips over four decades, spanning the careers of seven leaders on each side. Diplomatically speaking, he owns the franchise; and with “On China,” as he approaches 88, he reflects on his remarkable run.

To the degree that Washington and Beijing now understand each other, it is in good measure because Kissinger has been assiduously translating for both sides, discerning meaning in everything from elliptical jokes to temper tantrums. At every juncture, he has been striving to find “strategic concepts” that could be made to prevail over a history of conflict, mutual grievance and fear. As President Nixon’s national security adviser, then secretary of state for Nixon and Gerald Ford, and since 1977 as a private interlocutor extraordinaire, Kissinger has been unwaveringly committed to surmounting what he considers the legitimate Chinese resentment of American interference in their internal affairs and Americans’ distaste for China’s brutal suppression of ethnic, religious and political dissent.

The surprise buried in his lumbering review of Sino-American relations is that the much ballyhooed Nixon-Kissinger journeys to China in 1971-72 turned out to have been the easy part. “That China and the United States would find a way to come together was inevitable given the necessities of the time,” he writes. “It would have happened sooner or later whatever the leadership in either country.” Both nations were exhausted from war (Vietnam, clashes on the Soviet border) and domestic strife (antiwar protests in Nixon’s case, the Cultural Revolution in Mao’s). Both were determined to resist Soviet advances and so could quickly agree to make common cause. The menace of Moscow took the leaders’ minds off confrontations in Vietnam and Taiwan and quelled their ritual denunciations, whether of international imperialism or Communism. They decided that the adversary of my adversary was my pal, and for more than a decade that was fruitfully that.

But that was a different time. China finally escaped from Mao Zedong’s mad doctrine of perpetual revolution and from the enfeebling nostrums of central planning; it became an industrial powerhouse. The Soviet Union and its empire collapsed. And the United States, feeling supreme, began promoting democracy with missionary zeal even as it grew dangerously addicted to foreign oil, goods and credit. The radical shift in the balance of power turned China and the United States into mutually dependent economic giants, but it left them without an overarching strategic design of partnership.

It is to demonstrate the need for such a design that Kissinger reviews the ups and downs of Sino-American relations, reaching even into ancient Chinese history to define national characteristics. (He finds it apt that the Chinese like to play “wei qi,” or “go,” a protracted game of encirclement while we play chess, looking for control of the center and total victory.) Kissinger draws heavily on much recent scholarship and on notes of his trips to Beijing to celebrate the pragmatism of Mao’s successors. He says they are content to remain within their restored historic frontiers, willing to await a peaceful reunion with Taiwan, and most determined to continue their remarkable economic growth and to eradicate China’s still widespread poverty. He is less confident about America’s capacity to sustain a steady foreign policy, noting that “the perpetual psychodrama of democratic transitions” is a constant invitation to other nations to “hedge their bets” on us.

As students of Kissinger well know, he has long considered democracy to be a burden on statecraft — both the clamor of democracy within the United States and our agitations for democracy in other lands.

He recalls yet again his agonies in office in the 1970s, when he thought that American demonstrations during the Vietnam War could have misled Mao into believing that a “genuine world revolution” was at hand. He argues that the “destruction” of Nixon in the Watergate crisis, the withdrawal of Congressional support for Vietnam, new curbs on presidential war powers and the “hemorrhaging” of intelligence secrets all combined to undermine the quasi alliance with China, making America appear ineffectual against the Soviets. He is glad that Jimmy Carter did not let his human rights concerns upset relations with China and that Ronald Reagan’s cheerful personality overcame the “almost incomprehensible contradictions” of his dealings with Beijing even as he promoted the idea of an independent Taiwan.

The severest test of the quasi alliance, of course, was the brutal suppression of democratic strivings in Tiananmen Square in 1989. That violent crackdown also tested Kissinger’s tolerance for the assertion of American values in foreign relations.

Looking back, he believes everything depends on circumstances: “There are instances of violations of human rights so egregious,” he writes, “that it is impossible to conceive of benefit in a continuing relationship; for example, the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, and the genocide in Rwanda. Since public pressure shades either into regime change or a kind of abdication, it is difficult to apply to countries with which a continuous relationship is important for American security. This is especially the case with China, so imbued with the memory of humiliating intervention by Western societies.”

And so Kissinger admires the way President George H. W. Bush, “with skill and elegance,” walked the “tightrope” of punishing China with sanctions after Tiananmen while simultaneously apologizing with private letters and special emissaries. President Bill Clinton tried applying pressure for a time, Kissinger notes, but was shown no gratitude when he wisely relented; the Chinese “did not view the removal of a unilateral threat as a concession, and they were extraordinarily touchy regarding any hint of intervention in their domestic affairs.” And President George W. Bush, despite his “freedom agenda,” earns Kissinger’s praise for overcoming “the historic ambivalence between America’s missionary and pragmatic approaches,” by means of “a sensible balance of strategic priorities.”

If America’s preference for democratic governance is made the main condition for progress on other issues with China, Kissinger concludes, “deadlock is inevitable.” Those who battle to spread American values deserve respect. “But foreign policy must define means as well as objectives, and if the means employed grow beyond the tolerance of the international framework or of a relationship considered essential for national security, a choice must be made.” That choice “cannot be fudged,” he insists, even as he attempts to protect his flanks with a fudge of his own: “The best outcome in the American debate would be to combine the two approaches: for the idealists to recognize that principles need to be implemented over time and hence must be occasionally adjusted to circumstance; and for the ‘realists’ to accept that values have their own reality and must be built into operational policies.”

Still, in the end, Kissinger votes for national security über alles. Scattered through his history are tributes to American values and commitments to human dignity, which may indeed sometimes drive our policies beyond calculations of the national interest. Exactly that happened, in fact, after “On China” went to press, when President Obama ventured into Libya. Kissinger was perhaps surprised when that humanitarian intervention and bid for regime change failed to evoke a Chinese veto at the United Nations. But in Asia now more than Europe, he argues, “sovereignty is considered paramount,” and any attempt “from the outside” to alter China’s domestic structure “is likely to involve vast unintended consequences.” Besides, as he used to insist while practicing realpolitik in Washington, the cause of peace is also a moral pursuit.

This central theme of Kissinger’s experience and counsel must be distilled from the sometimes ­meandering and largely familiar history he tells in “On China.” Only in its last pages does he discuss the essential question of future Sino-American relations: With no common enemy to bind them, what will keep the peace and promote collaboration and trust between the world’s major ­powers?

Kissinger addresses this question by looking to the past, a memorandum written by a senior official of the British Foreign Office, Eyre Crowe, in 1907. Crowe argued that it was in Germany’s interest to “build as powerful a navy as she can afford” and that this would itself lead to “objective” conflict with the British Empire, no matter what German diplomats said or did. There is today a “Crowe school of thought” in the United States, Kissinger observes, which sees China’s rise “as incompatible with America’s position in the Pacific” and therefore best met with pre-emptively hostile policies. He perceives growing anxieties in both societies and fears they are exacerbated by Americans who claim that democracy in China is a prerequisite for a trusting relationship. He warns that the implied next cold war would arrest progress in both nations and cause them to “analyze themselves into self-fulfilling prophecies” when in reality their main competition is more likely to be economic than military.

Indulging his habitual preference for diplomatic architecture, Kissinger insists that the common interests the two powers share should make possible a “co-evolution” to “a more comprehensive ­framework.” He envisions wise leaders creating a “Pacific community” comparable to the Atlantic community that America has achieved with Europe. All Asian nations would then participate in a system perceived as a joint endeavor rather than a contest of rival Chinese and American blocs. And leaders on both Pacific coasts would be obliged to “establish a tradition of consultation and mutual respect,” making a shared world order “an expression of parallel national aspirations.”

That was indeed the mission of the very first Kissinger journey to Beijing. And while he does not quite say so, he invests his hopes in a concert of nations represented, of course, by multiple Kissingers.

Stimulating (well, not really) cinema: The Hole Story

Directory: Alex Karpovsky
Year: 2005

After thoroughly enjoying Alex Karpovsky's "Woodpecker" (and raving about it in a previous post), I thought I would give his first feature a try. And if compared by the standards of "Woodpecker," I'd have to say it falls short. But it is a first feature after all, and there are some good ideas here and lots of funny moments. I really wanted to like this film more than I did--again, having loved "Woodpecker" so much I thought this one would be on a similar level. Well, it really wasn't, although the last one-third or so really redeemed the movie for me. So, it's definitely worth a watch or even two, despite some flaws.

Karpovsky is the star of this mockumentary. He plays himself, who (for the purposes of the movie) is a karaoke-video editor with big dreams. Karpovsky is trying to film a pilot for a show called "Provincial Puzzlers," which centers on small-town unsolved mysteries. Karpovsky and crew journey to bone-chilling Brainerd, Minn. (in the middle of January no less!). While all the other lakes in the area are frozen over completely, one, North Long Lake, has a large opening which refuses to freeze over. The mysteries of this phenomenon are what drive Karpovsky to Brainerd but when he arrives, he finds that the once-open hole has indeed frozen over, leaving North Long Lake just another solid white wasteland.

It's Karpvosky's reaction to this development and his fierce determination to change it--even if it means trying to alter the forces of nature--that provide the comedic moments in the movie. And for better or worse, it's Karpovsky's character that dominates each scene of the movie. We see him townspeople about the hole, and we also see brief interactions with with a girlfriend back in Boston and his lone cameraman. But it's Karpovsky's show--we are privy to all of his thoughts and his existential musings. Sometimes these bits click and sometimes they don't, and for a first movie that's to be expected (as a side note, you really appreciate "Woodpecker" all the more after watching this, not because this is really bad--it's not--but that "Woodpecker" is so good).

With the days stretching into weeks and months and no sign of the hole opening back up, Karpovsky's descent into mental instability accelerates. It's here where the movie really starts to hit it's stride. After an insane dive into a frozen lake, Karpovsky checks himself into a local mental health facility. The director is a remarkably understanding and compassionate man and he allows Karpovsky to be filmed while he is treated. The reasoning being that it will help speed his growth because it's so important for Karpovsky to be the center of attention. Karpovsky hatches one last scheme to try and get his hole open once again leading to a gorgeously shot (and strangely affecting) conclusion.

For me, the actual biggest drawback was the Karpovsky character itself. I didn't find him likable at all--in fact, I found him self-centered and manipulative. And while that hasn't bothered me when watching past movie, it just didn't work for me here for whatever reasons. On the occasions when Karpovsky addressed the camera directly in his soul-baring moments, I didn't laugh (as was his intention) but felt uneasy. In "Woodpecker," we knew the Johnny character was a goof and we were able to goof on his Zen-like pronouncements. But there was just a different vibe in this one--for whatever reason--that was offputting and ultimately not always funny.

Stimulating sports: Meet the men of Danish Dynamite

Here's a look at the players who made up the memorable Danish Dynamite team:

Ole Qvist, Troels Rasmussen, Lars Hogh and Ole Kjær The keepers, who were generally seen as the weak links. That is particularly harsh on Qvist, who was excellent at Euro 84 – he made a vital and famous save from Erwin Vandenbergh when Denmark were 2-1 down to Belgium in their final group games and would have played in Mexico but for a mysterious nerve injury. Hogh went on to play 817 games for Odense while Kjær, who did not feature in a major tournament, made a sensational last-minute save from Luther Blissett to secure victory at Wembley in 1983.

Ivan Nielsen and Søren Busk Tough, lanky, moustachioed defenders often described as Morten Olsen's "bouncers", but they were more flexible, good-natured and disciplined than that: incredibly, Nielsen, Busk and Morten Olsen picked up only four yellow cards between them in 214 internationals. One of Busk or Nielsen switched to full-back when Denmark played 1-3-4-2. Nielsen would sneak out to the toilets at half-time with Elkjær for a cigarette. He now runs a plumbing firm with his son.

Morten Olsen Arguably the last truly great libero, a man who could change an attack with a couple of urgent strides. He moved back from midfield at the age of 32, after a shin operation that threatened to end his career, on the recommendation of his Anderlecht manager, Tomislav Ivic. Olsen, one of nature's gentlemen, had an absurd range of skills for a sweeper. He dealt in dragbacks, backheels and stepovers at a time when few forwards had such tricks, but his most lethal weapon was the surge at the heart of a defence, fuelled by that devastating change of pace which would draw players towards him and open up all sorts of space elsewhere. If Franz Beckenbauer didn't touch the sides, so smooth was his work, then Olsen went through teams like a clumsy surgeon – all short stabs in front of his body, almost Sensible Soccer touches, to keep the ball moving but always under control. This is best exemplified by his frankly orgiastic creation of the opening goal against West Germany at Mexico 86. As the BBC's Barry Davies said so imperiously: "Slow, slow, quick, quick, Olsen! Yes, penalty!"

Henrik Andersen and John Sivebæk Modern, freewheeling full-backs who were the only men to play both at Mexico 86 and when Denmark miraculously won Euro 92. Sivebæk would frequently pop up in the centre-forward position, a reflection of the tactical freedom the players were granted.

Jens-Jørn Bertelsen and Klaus Bergreen The unsung heroes, although Piontek knew their value and they almost always kept Lerby and Arnesen away from the central-midfield positions they craved. Bertelsen, unpopular with the press, was a splendidly unobtrusive playbreaker who hardly ever gave the ball away, while Bergreen was an indefatigable jack of all trades. If that sounds like faint praise, it shouldn't: he was just an extremely good all-round player. After running a steakhouse, Bertelsen now sells villas in Spain.

Søren Lerby A force of nature blessed with a frankly obscene will to win. Lerby was seriously hard: he played with his socks rolled down and without shinpads – in its own way every bit as cool as Viv Richards not wearing a helmet in cricket – and in November 1985 he played two games in the same day, first a World Cup qualifier against Ireland and then a German Cup semi-final for Bayern Munich against Bochum. Lerby, who usually started on the left of midfield, had the lot. He was a forceful runner with the ball; a good short passer and a fantastic long passer; an unyielding ball winner and a tireless harrier; and an excellent long-range shooter.

Frank Arnesen A breathtakingly imaginative dribbler, who ate up the ground with his pitter-pattering run and duped defenders with all manner of deception, although he had an odd habit of being denied clear penalties. He was a superb crosser with either foot, and usually roamed from a wide-right role. Known as Frankie Boy, Arnesen was a natural showman with a brilliant voice who Piontek described as "a kind of Danish Frank Sinatra". Some feel that, but for persistent knee injuries, he could have become Denmark's greatest ever player.

Jesper Olsen Known as de Vlo (the fly) in Holland, he was integral to the story at the start and the finish. Olsen arguably never truly fulfilled the potential he showed against England in 1982, but he was a delightfully sinuous dribbler who would beat defenders with just a swing of the hips. He suffered a brain tumour while living Australia but has fully recovered and works for a sports management firm.

Allan Simonsen The ghost at the feast. Simonsen, at the age of 31, broke his leg in the first game of Euro 84 and missed out on the rewards of a trail that he had blazed, although he is still the only Dane to win the Ballon d'Or. He was a gloriously impish attacker, blessed with genuine pace and great footwork. He could also finish with power or precision with either foot, and was an extremely hard worker who was deceptively good in the air. In short, a class act. Tragedy, alas, couldn't have happened a nicer guy.

Michael Laudrup The bright, shining superstar of the side. Laudrup was just 21 at Mexico 86 but even then was being compared to Michel Platini and Diego Maradona. His awareness was outstanding; Laudrup had the ability, afforded to only the very best, to play as if he had a bird's-eye view of the pitch. He became an incredibly good passer, best known for defence-splitting scoops and passing one way while looking the other. And he was, by even the very highest standards, an incredibly quick runner with the ball. It's surprising that he never finished in the top three of the Ballon d'Or, but few players have been so respected by their peers.

Preben Elkjær There's no proof that man-love was invented because of Elkjær, but it wouldn't be a surprise. He was a cool, infectiously cheeky and totally unfettered character with a mischievous sense of humour, christened Den Gale Mand fra Lokeren (The Crazy Man from Lokeren) during his time in Belgium, but on the field he was deadly serious: there can be no higher praise than to say he so nearly matched Lerby's will to win. Most remember his power, and with good reason. He was determination incarnate, and his seemingly endless lung capacity is even more amazing given that he was a chain smoker. Often he would go on me-against-the-world runs, culminating most notably in famous strikes against Belgium and USSR. He would simply run through defenders (see his goal against Scotland in 1986) and if a brick wall got in the way, well, he'd take his chances. In short, nothing was going to stop him scoring, and it was fitting that, in the 1984-85 season in which he inspired little Verona to the Serie A title, he scored a superb solo goal against the reigning champions Juventus with no boot on his right foot, having lost it during a surge down the left. He nagged away at defenders constantly, inverting the 80s relationship between defender and attacker, and must have been a nightmare to play against.

Yet there was so much more to Elkjær than raw desire. He had wonderful balance and sublime skill: one ninja-like turn on Russell Osman during the 2-2 draw in 1982 boggles the mind almost as much as the famous Dennis Bergkamp goal at Newcastle; he developed the Elkjaer turn, a spin-off of the Cruyff turn, when he was on holiday in Barbados and saw kids playing with coconuts on the beach. He was an incredibly aggressive finisher with both feet, from short – and long range; and if he was occasionally iffy in the air, his overall record – 38 in 69 games – brooks no argument. Truly, there have been very few forwards in the game's history with such a complete range of skills. He came third in the Ballon d'Or in 1984, second in 1985 and fourth in 1986. He also won the Bronze Ball at Mexico 86, the only instance of a player knocked out in the last 16 winning this award. As you may have discerned from the length of this entry, he's something of a favourite.

John Lauridsen, Ole Rasmussen, Kenneth Brylle, Jan Molby and John Eriksen also represented Denmark at Euro 84 or Mexico 86. Eriksen died in 2002, at the age of 44, after suffering a rare form of dementia.

Stimulating sports: The legend of Danish Dynamite

I've been wanting to get this one up for a long time, but work and other issues have taken precedence. Still it's a fascinating read and the authors do make a tremendous point--often times, we do fondly remember the teams that don't win almost as much (or if not more) than the teams that do. This was published in the Guardian and is truly superb.
Note: Pictured above is Denmark's squad prior to their 1986 World Cup match against Mexico. Front row (from left), Henrik Andersen, Jseper Olsen, Morten Olsen, Jens Hogh, Soren Lerby. Back row (from left), Preben Elkjaer, Frank Arnesen, Jan Molby, John Sivabaek, Michael Laudrup, Soren Busk.

Winning is for losers. Many of life's more interesting stories focus on those who didn't quite make it; who didn't get the girl or the job or the epiphany or even the Jules Rimet trophy. Johan Cruyff said his Holland side of the 70s were immortalised by their failure to win the World Cup and, when World Soccer invited a group of experts to select the greatest teams of all time a couple of years ago, three of the top five sides won nothing: Hungary 1953, Holland 1974 and Brazil 1982. Lying 16th on the list – above any side from Argentina, Spain, Germany, Liverpool, Manchester United or Internazionale – was the Danish team of the mid-80s.

That may seem odd, given that all they achieved was reaching the semi-finals of Euro 84 and the second round at Mexico 86, when, having laughed in the face of the Group of Death, they lost 5-1 to their Spanish nemeses in football's saddest, maddest thrashing, but it shows the extent to which this all-action, ultra-attacking side captured the imagination from the moment they qualified ahead of England for Euro 84.

As the Danish supporters' song went: they were red, they were white, they were Danish Dynamite. They had world-class players such as Preben Elkjær, Michael Laudrup, Søren Lerby, Frank Arnesen and Morten Olsen, as well as a visionary German manager in Sepp Piontek.

While Laudrup called them "Europe's answer to Brazil", most went for what was probably an even more flattering comparison: they are the only side to have been widely compared to the Dutch team of the 70s. In that respect, Denmark were both derivative and thrillingly futuristic. Although they had the Total Football hallmarks – spatial awareness, ceaseless movement and imagination of passing – they were like a fast-forwarded version of that Holland side. No team has ever had such a collection of jet-heeled dribblers.

As with that Dutch collective, the appeal of the Danes went beyond the field of play. They were unique, refreshing and life-affirming. And even though time has not been kind to their array of tomboy mops, matted thatches and cock-rock mullets, they were seriously cool in a languorous, quintessentially Scandinavian way. Yet unlike the Dutch they were not ostentatious. Self-deprecation was the norm, and they revelled in their role as underdogs.

This was the beauty and the beast of Danish Dynamite: it was a love affair with chain-smoking, beer-drinking everymen who were actually top professionals at some of Europe's biggest clubs, but the considerable joy was tinged with the subconscious fear that the folksy, light-hearted Danish attitude was always going to stop them getting right to the top.

There are so many what ifs. What if the wonderful Allan Simonsen had not broken his leg against France in the first game of Euro 84? What if Denmark had not hit the post twice in the semi-final defeat to Spain? What if Elkjær, of all people, had not fired his penalty over the bar in that shoot-out? What if Denmark had rested players for their final group game against West Germany at Mexico 86? What if Arnesen's wife had not fallen ill before that game? And, most of all, what if Jesper Olsen had not played one of the most infamous backpasses in football history against Spain a few days later?

That Denmark were in a position to ponder such things was a miracle. A tiny country with a population of just five million had never previously produced anything resembling a decent team. The main exports had been bacon and beer, porn and cheese. Danish football did not even turn professional until 1978.

They had reached Euro 1964, but only because qualification was an unseeded knockout: the teams they beat were Malta, Albania and Luxembourg. They took bronze at the 1948 Olympics and silver in 1960; apart from that, nothing. In the documentary Og Det Var Denmar, Piontek's predecessor, a likeable mutton-chopped dreamer called Kurt Nielsen, is asked before a game whether he has any tactical plans. "No," he says. "Tactically it's still about scoring goals."

Simonsen was European Football of the Year in 1977, but despite that and the fact Nielsen's team contained a number of players who would star in the 1980s – Morten Olsen, Simonsen, Arnesen, Elkjær, Lerby and Jens-Jørn Bertelsen – they did not take international football particularly seriously. They hung out at a Copenhagen nightclub that became known as "the clubhouse". Denmark were an international team in name, and a pub team in nature.

It was richly ironic that it would take booze money to turn such an attitude around. In 1978 Carlsberg said it would give the Danish Football Association (DBU) a million-kroner sponsorship on the proviso that professional standards were set. That process was accelerated by the fact that so many of the national team were playing abroad, and values learned there were slowly seeping in. A particular influence, unsurprisingly given the way the team evolved, came from Holland: Arnesen, Lerby, Jesper Olsen and Jan Molby were all talked at by Johan Cruyff in the twilight of his career. "He was like a king holding court," said Molby in his autobiography, Jan The Man. "He knew everything and you couldn't help but listen. At times you'd want him to shut up, but he wouldn't." It was worth it: Cruyff broadened their horizons as only he could.

Arnesen and Lerby left the Copenhagen club Fremad Amager to move to Ajax in 1975 at the age of 19 and 17 respectively. Denmark got a headstart on football globalisation, benefiting from the enlightenment and experience that comes with playing abroad. At Euro 84, their 20-man squad contained 14 overseas-based players; the other seven teams had only five between them. At Mexico 86, their squad included players from the champions of Italy, West Germany, England, Holland and Belgium, but not Denmark.

Yet the most important component was travelled in the opposite direction. Piontek, who would later be responsible for the emergence of Turkish football around the turn of the century, took over in 1979; he was only 39, but had already managed Werder Bremen, Fortuna Dusseldorf, Haiti and St Pauli. Though ostensibly dour – he was christened Alemano Bruto, the tough German, during his time in Haiti – he was witty, as comfortable in his own skin as it is possible to be, and he'd been around a lot more than the block.

"I was the national manager in Haiti under the dictator Baby Doc – son of Papa Doc, who murdered 11,000 people," he says in Og Det Var Danmark. "I've met Idi Amin from Uganda. He was a former boxer and had a flat nose. I met him in Saudi Arabia and he said: 'Good discipline, good coach.' I've met [Nicolae] Ceausescu's son, the manager of Steaua Bucharest. Saddam Hussein's son Uday Hussein. Yes, I've met a few."

He had met nothing like the Danes when he took over in 1979. "'I can't do anything with this team', I thought," he said. "I only saw them six times, three days a year. There were limits to what I could achieve. How could I get them to work as a team?"

Piontek was not an overnight success, because he was fighting against an entire culture. He dumped the No1 goalkeeper Birger Jensen, a symbolic sacrifice, but it took a long time for his doctrine to be accepted. "Danes don't like the word 'discipline'," he said. "'Nobody bosses us around. We're no good anyway.' I had to change that." The first signs came when Denmark won eight out of nine in 1981, including a rollicking 3-1 win in a World Cup qualifier against the eventual champions Italy, the Azzurri's only defeat en route to lifting the trophy.

The tipping point arguably came when Piontek moved the training camp to the headquarters of the Danish Confederation of Sport, a bleak concrete dump called Idraettens Hus, with barbed-wire fencing and no TV or phone in the players' rooms. This, the players quickly realised, was serious business. By the standards of the day, Piontek was incredibly demanding and meticulous. He would have three-hour tactical meetings before games; and at his boot camp before Mexico 86, players were pushed to breaking point, with altitude training in oxygen masks as part of a daily programme that began at 8am and ended at 11.30pm.

If Piontek was fortunate to be blessed with an exceptionally talented group of players spanning two generations – in the Tyler Barker age, Morten Olsen (60) is easily old enough to be the father of Michael Laudrup (45) – it took an even rarer managerial talent to harness that group. Make no mistake: we are, or at least we should be, talking about one of the all-time greats here.

Another of his strengths was tactical enlightenment. The presence of the remarkable Morten Olsen as libero allowed his team to switch seamlessly between 1-2-5-2 and 1-3-4-2 formations, often within games. This was Jackson Pollock football: players would go wherever instinct took them as part of a system that many respected judges feel was even more fluid than the 70s Dutch side. Piontek called it the "contra system", and it was perhaps best exemplified by the right-back John Sivebæk's extraordinary goal against Ireland in 1985.

Denmark treated the ball with the utmost care; their goalkeeper, for example, never, ever kicked from the hand. This led to a number of goals that came from what were almost relay runs straight down the centre of the pitch, most notably against Scotland at Mexico 86. John Eriksen's goal against West Germany in the same tournament, a creation of delicious simplicity, even came from a chipped goal-kick. A chipped goal-kick! Both goals were notable for the way the attacks crescendoed. Denmark were full of mouthwatering dribblers: Arnesen, Laudrup, Elkjær and the two Olsens. All were quick but all, more importantly, had a devastating change of pace.

Positivity was ingrained in the side – in the Mexico 86 match against West Germany, Lerby ran 30 yards to deliver a ferocious bollocking to Sivebæk just for passing the ball back to the keeper – but not to the point of naivety. The first name on Piontek's team sheet was the underrated defensive-midfield whippet Bertelsen, while he instructed Klaus Bergreen to man-mark Michel Platini in the first game of Euro 84. (Platini scored a deflected winner, but Bergreen did a decent job and lamented Platini's "lousy shot" on live TV after the game.) The defenders are often criticised, but this is more than a little harsh. Denmark did not have a glass jaw, only an exposed one.

Piontek was also stubborn, but not intractable: when Morten Olsen and Søren Busk approached him suggesting the sort of pressing game and cavalry-charge offside trap that would later become familiar at Arrigo Sacchi's Milan, Piontek assessed its merit and soon implemented it. Nor was he averse to displays of sentiment: he included Simonsen, who at the age of 33 had not played for Denmark since breaking his leg at Euro 84 and had never fully recovered, in the World Cup squad. He then gave him 20 minutes as substitute in the dead rubber against West Germany, a gesture of the richest humanity.

And though Piontek was a strict disciplinarian, he rarely pushed it too far. "He came with a lot of German discipline but also knew he had Danish players – they also need some of their own responsibility and he found a good balance between discipline and freedom," said Morten Olsen, who has been Denmark's manager since 2000. "We couldn't play as a German team, we had to play as Danes. He knew that and that was very, very clever."

Similarly, even though Piontek had clamped down on the side's booze culture, he remained aware of the team-bonding capabilities of alcohol. When Denmark reached the semi-finals of Euro 84, he allowed the players a night out with a curfew time of 5am. (Most arrived back just in time for breakfast, and lunch had to be put back to 5pm.) The fact that such a night out was now a novelty was testament to the extraordinary change in attitude that Piontek had engendered.

Piontek and his team took the whole of the country on a vicarious voyage of discovery: as Denmark's first great side, they were subject to the peculiar kind of goodwill, gratitude and unconditional love that only occurs when you are exploring virgin territory. There was none of the wearying cynicism, complacency and expectation that accompanies modern football. This was an intoxicating red-and-white fairytale. The commentator Svend Gehrs, Denmark's answer to John Motson in the 80s, hit the nail on the head when, seconds after Denmark had qualified for the semi-finals of Euro 84, he described them as "this unconquerable team of optimists". Throughout that period, Gehrs had a happy habit of capturing a nation's voice:

"I'm stunned, but I have to present our new star player: Jesper Olsen. Here he outwits four defenders and [Peter] Shilton. Presenting Jesper Olsen" – after Olsen scored a last-minute equaliser against England in 1982 (the phrase later became the title of a book Presenting Jesper Olsen: Sublime moments in football told by the players themselves).

"Unbelievable! That man is fantastic! He goes past two defenders, the world's best keeper (Jean-Marie Pfaff) approaches him ... Well done, Preben! He is unbelievable. He hurt his thigh, and so what?" – after Preben Elkjaer's winner against Belgium put Denmark into the semifinals of Euro 84.

"But Jesper, Jesper, Jesper. That's lethal" – after Olsen's backpass agaisnt Spain in 1986.

This was not just blind partisanship. Neutral observers were similarly moved. When Laudrup scored a peach in the 6-1 win over Uruguay at Mexico 86, ITV's John Helm announced: "The boy's a genius!" After that same game, a Mexican TV commentator said: "Senors, Senores, you have just witnessed a public fiesta of football."

There was a fiesta among the public, too. Inextricably linked to the Danish Dynamite experience were the Roligans, the Denmark fans renowned for their peaceful good cheer. (Rolig is the Danish word for calm and mild-mannered). Almost all clad in red and white, they were shiny, happy people, described as the "nicest drunks in the world", and even won the Unesco Fair Play Trophy in 84.

Around 16,000 Danes went to Euro 84 in France; among their number for the semi-final was a young Peter Schmeichel, who did the 38-hour round-trip even though he was playing for Hvidovre against Brondby the next day (they lost 8-1). At Mexico 86, their group included the Scotland pair of Steve Nicol and Charlie Nicholas, who joined in the merriment after the match between the sides. The Roligans had the same infectious sense of fun as their team and complete love for the players. One day, in Copenhagen, somebody graffitied "What if Jesus comes back?" on a wall. The next day, the answer came: "Then we'll move Elkjær out wide."

It's no surprise the players were so popular. It's not just that they were so obviously talented, but they were normal blokes who seemed as boyishly excited about what they were achieving as everyone else. And they happily laughed at themselves. All of them, and even Piontek, hammed it up in the video for one of the great World Cup songs, the gloriously kitsch Re-Sepp-Ten ("We are red, we are white, we stand side by side). Simonsen was happy to be killed off in the 1977 film, Skytten. And when his career was all but killed off after he broke his leg at Euro 84, the players asked to sing a comic folky song for him on live TV: "Allan you're our friend … we think of you again and again … this is a song for you … Hope to see you in Paris." Theirs was a genuine brotherhood. "They were willing to make fools of themselves to show Allan he was in our thoughts," said Piontek. "They worried about their friend whose career, in reality, ended here. That proved to me they were a team."

The Danish Dynamite story began as it would effectively end: at the feet of Jesper Olsen. His backpass against Spain in 1986 provided a neat bookend to a dream that began with his stunning last-minute equaliser in the first Euro 84 qualifier against England.

It was Bobby Robson's first game in charge, in September 1982, and England had not conceded in over seven hours of international football. Yet in a tumultuous atmosphere that had the feel of an uprising they were run absolutely ragged, with Elkjær giving Osman one of the great chasings, and would have been well beaten were it not for Shilton.

In the end, they almost grabbed a scandalous victory. But Olsen, aided by a routine off-the-ball run from Lerby that caused all manner of chaos, swerved irresistibly through the heart of England's defence before passing the ball coolly under Shilton. "Denmark were brilliant," enthused Robson, who couldn't let his own concerns override the sheer joy at seeing such a thrilling emergent force. That did not stop the tabloids printing headlines such as "RUBBISH" and "ENGLAND'S SHAME".

The risible ignorance of such a response would soon become clear. In the 12 months before the return fixture, Denmark established themselves as one of the world's best sides. When they hammered the future European champions France 3-1 in a friendly two weeks before meeting England again, the watching Robson described their performance as "chilling" and said they were "a formidable team, one of the best I have seen for 10 to 15 years".

If anything, Robson's comments served to numb his own players into subservience. Denmark had such an air of calm that nobody realised they were equally terrified going into the match at Wembley, which they only realistically needed to draw to maintain an iron grip on qualification. It was a two-card poker game in which both parties had a two and a seven of different suits. "We entered the pitch bluffing," said Morten Olsen. "They knew we were good but we made us out to be even better."

Against a meek England, Denmark's 1-0 victory was almost too easy: even though they didn't have many chances either side of Simonsen's 38th-minute penlaty, they kept the ball with a comfort that sent English football into one of its occasional bouts of soul-searching. In The Times, Stuart Jones said there was a "numbing inevitability" to the result.

The victory, watched by over 80% of the Danish population, was crucial to the emergence of the team. "It signalled to a great group of players how much they could achieve," said Piontek, "for England were still considered one of the top teams." So, now, were Denmark. Victory in Greece took them to the European Championship and at the end of 1983 they were voted World Soccer's National Team of the Year, with Piontek named Manager of the Year.

Denmark went to Euro 84 as one of the fancied teams, despite an appalling build-up: their seven warm-up matches brought a 6-0 defeat, a 4-0 defeat and only three goals. Their group contained the hosts and clear favourites France along with Yugoslavia and Belgium. They lost a cagey opening match to France 1-0, a game best remembered for the hideous crack when Simonsen's leg broke after a challenge from Yvon La Roux, and for Manuel Amoros headbutting Jesper Olsen.

Four days later they thrashed Yugoslavia 5-0, although the official Uefa site says "there has never been a more misleading scoreline". World Soccer partly agreed, suggesting the match could have ended 10-6 or 12-7 to Denmark; either way, it meant Piontek's team required only a draw against Belgium, who themselves needed a win, to reach the semi-finals.

It was a bona fide classic, end-to-end and staggeringly ill-tempered in view of the fact that many of the Denmark side played in Belgium. There were nine Anderlecht players on the pitch at one stage and, when Rene Vandereycken banjoed his club-mate Arnesen, another club-mate Morten Olsen shoved him over. "If I had a gun," said the usually calm Olsen, "I'd have shot him." It was all so heated that, at one stage, the referee pushed Bergreen over.

Belgium went 2-0 up shortly before half-time, but a penalty from Arnesen and a header from Brylle put Denmark level and then, with six minutes to go, Elkjær scored his famous solo goal. Denmark had discovered yet more uncharted territory: a European Championship semi-final against Spain.

Impossibly, this was an even better game. Lerby gave Denmark an early lead, and, in an incredible, you-attack-we-attack second half, Arnesen and Elkjær hit the post either side of Antonio Maceda's equaliser. Spain had plenty of chances too. Bergreen was sent off in extra time for a second bookable offence by the English referee George Courtney, but Denmark held on for penalties.

The first to miss was Laudrup, with the score 2-2, but Courtney booked the Spanish goalkeeper Luis Arconada for encroachment and ordered a retake. On it went to 4-4 when Elkjær, the man you'd have put your house on, walked coolly up to the spot. "I wasn't nervous at all," he said in Og Det Var Danmark. "I'd taken six penalties for my club that year and scored on all six, so I was sure I could do it." He passed it high over the bar.

Qvist ran across to hug Elkjær and promise he would save the next penalty, but Manuel Sarabia put Spain through to the final. Elkjær trudged off, his backside visible because of a huge rip that had resulted from some earlier mistreatment by a Spanish defender. Seeing another man's bare backside will never again be infused with such poetic sadness.

While the world is reasonably familiar with Denmark's very public exploits at Euro 84 and Mexico 86, their apogee was a private party that occurred between the two tournaments: an extraordinary 4-2 victory over a very good USSR side in the 1986 qualifiers. The date was 5 June 1985, Danish constitution day, and it was when Danish Dynamite became cultural history. Not until then did the Danes truly believe that the fairytale of Wembley and France was more than just that. Not until then could the fans finally stick it to the chattering classes who had rejected football as an oafish pastime.

The game itself, played on a Wednesday afternoon in an astonishing atmosphere, could easily have ended 6-6. Elkjær and Laudrup – at that stage the world's best strike partnership, followed by a lot of daylight – each scored two, and it swung from end to end at a pace that looks fast even by today's standards (watch most 80s games and you'll see how much this has changed). It was a relentless, pulsating contest of audacious finishing, goal-line clearances and breathtaking midfield charges that split open defences like a Japanese steel blade to the belly of a bloated tuna.

Piontek described it as the most beautiful game during his reign. "What you saw from Laudrup and Elkjær against the Soviet Union really was not normal," he said in the book Tynd Luft (Thin Air). "[The Soviet players] were so strong. They could have won 5-4 or 6-5. There were no breaks. It went boom-boom."

"For me this will always be the game," adds Laudrup. "A lovely sunny afternoon, a packed national stadium and then the game itself: six goals – which could easily have been 10 – one amazing opponent and a match where nothing was decided even when at 4-1 after 67 minutes. I've haven't had that feeling before or after."

It is the only football match that Molby owns on video. "I was on the bench," he said, "and it's the best match I've ever seen."

That USSR game was part of a topsy-turvy 1985 that summed up the Danes' thrilling unpredictability. They played eight games that year; in four they failed to score, in the other four they scored 17. Five of those came in their penultimate World Cup qualifier, away at Norway. Denmark went in at half-time 1-0 down and in serious danger of missing out on the World Cup. They hammered five unanswered goals in the second half and and then eviscerated Ireland 4-1 at Landsdowne Road in their final qualifier. Perhaps it was simply a case of them finally getting their just deserts: in two scoreless qualifiers against Switzerland, they hit the post five times and missed a penalty.

Yet that is not the only year in which they had peculiar results. In 1984 they lost 6-0 and 4-0 in friendlies against Holland and East Germany before excelling at Euro 84. They could be erratic within games, too: in their Mexico 86 match against Scotland, Denmark were kept at arms' length for 75 minutes of the match. But in the other 15, leading up to Elkjær's only goal, their rhythmic, incessant pressure made you feel that a goal was not so much in the post as sent by recorded delivery.

This was a team who could win 6-1 one week and lose 5-1 the next – as they did at Mexico 86, when they became the only team since the 50s to score and concede at least five at the same World Cup.

"In Mexico we shall attack, like we always do," promised Piontek. And even though they went out in the second round – the same as entirely forgettable sides from Italy, Morocco, Paraguay, Bulgaria, Poland and Uruguay – they were undeniably one of the teams of the tournament. It is easy to look back with a revisionist gaze and assert that they never had a realistic chance of actually winning it, but that simply is not the case.

After the first week of the tournament, The Guardian's David Lacey wrote that they were "at the head of a distinguished list of European candidates" to win the tournament. When the ITV co-commentator Billy McNeill was asked during the Uruguay game whether they could win it, he said: "It would be difficult to back against them." In the ITV studio, Brian Clough raved about them. They were the real deal. Even after the tournament, Fifa's technical report noted that they "played the most spectacular football during the tournament … their readiness to risk something, linked to a full physical commitment, provided the Danish game with an exceptional dynamism."

It was not just their futuristic football that caught the eye. Their kit was groundbreaking and breathtakingly cool: red-and-white halves were nothing that hadn't been seen before, but the white and red pinstripes on them were, like the team, entirely new. The kit was premiered at a fashion show that was live on the evening news of the sole Danish TV channel at the time, with Morten Olsen, Per Frimann and, of course, Arnesen modelling it on stage. It was quickly called "the carnival suit".

In a sense Denmark were lucky: Fifa banned similar halved shorts, which would have been too much of a good thing, and insisted that they could be only one colour for TV purposes. So Denmark were left with basic red or white shorts to go with their red or white halved shirts, and used each permutation in their four games.

Denmark were placed in the very first Group of Death with West Germany, the South American champions Uruguay and Scotland. Denmark were bottom seeds because it was their first World Cup. Despite that, and the truly appalling pitch in Nezahualcoyotl (staggeringly, it is described as "very good" by ITV's Helm; in those days if it was green it was great, even if it was in reality a bobbling beast), they breezed through with three wins out of three.

First came a tight 1-0 win over Scotland, thanks to a typical through-the-brick-wall goal from Elkjær, and four days later they wowed the world by trouncing Uruguay 6-1. It can't be ignored that Uruguay were reduced to 10 men at 1-0, but by then Denmark were already all over them. It was unforgettable stuff. Laudrup scored a solo goal of such smooth, bewitching brilliance that it almost overshadowed the fact that Elkjær scored three and made two in one of the World Cup's great individual performances.

That left Denmark top of the group and with a conundrum going into the final match against West Germany: draw or win and they would face Spain in the second round, lose and they would have an easier match against Morocco. Any potential inclination to throw the game was washed away by the opposition: Denmark had never beaten West Germany, except for a friendly in 1971 when Germany fielded an amateur side, and had not played them for 14 years because of German indifference towards an opponent they believed to be beneath them. And Piontek, never given a real chance in his homeland, was desperate to win.

Having beaten Italy, France, England, the USSR and Uruguay in Piontek's time, this was an irresistible chance to bloody the nose of another supposed superior. Even though their second-round game was just five days away, Piontek rested only the players on a yellow card, Nielsen and Bergreen. "We had a team meeting and decided to go for the win," said Molby. "The truth is we felt we could take them all." They took Germany, 2-0 in another staggeringly open game, with Jesper Olsen scoring a gloriously arrogant, gently caressed penalty that brought this superb commentary from Barry Davies: "'Where am I going to put it? You've gone the wrong way, haven't you.'"

Unbeknownst to Denmark, their campaign was going the wrong way. This should have been one of their finest hours, but when you watch the game now you can almost hear the Jaws music. The genesis of the defeat to Spain lay here, with the frustratingly avoidable sending-off, and consequent suspension, of their playmaker Arnesen.

"I had been irritated throughout he game," he said in a radio interview in 1989. "My wife had fallen ill. She was lying there and one guy said it was meningitis and the other said it was a virus. I think that was why I was incredibly aggressive. She wasn't on her death bed. I think all the excitement that came with this had an indirect effect on what happened."

Arnesen was ticking throughout the game. First he was booked for dissent in the first half when he should have been given a penalty. Then, after a breathtaking, high-speed dummy on the counter-attack that would have put him through on goal, he was butchered by Ditmar Jakobs. In hindsight, it is obvious that Piontek should have taken him off. But this was Germany, this was payback. And with a couple of minutes left in the game, Denmark paid for it.

"I get the ball in the halfway line and it is as if I'm trying to goad [Lothar] Matthaus," says Arnesen. "A little bit too much. I could have just played the ball to Morten Olsen, but I keep the ball demonstratively a bit too long and then he comes gliding from behind and kicks me but doesn't hit me, and then kicks again. Just as I get up, I make a reflex move, where I just kick out behind me and just as I kick and see the ref, who is standing 20 metres from me, I knew that I was going to get sent off."

By the standards of the day, it wasn't a red-card offence – it was Beckham on Simeone, basically – but back then referees showed a straight red even when it was for two yellows, so we can perhaps assume that was the case here. Arnesen put his hands to his knees, trying to work out what he had done, before his body relaxed itself and did a backwards cartwheel. He then sat with his head on his knee for 10 seconds before walking over to shake Matthaus's hand and apologise.

"And then you walk. All the way to the other side of the pitch. Damn, it was as if something was humming ... Humming in my head. I didn't hear anything. I walked past [the West German squad member] Dieter Hoeness, who said: 'Why do you do something like that?'."

Denmark missed Arnesen terribly in the second-round match against Spain, although that was not apparent at first. They took the lead through another magnificently lazy penalty from Olsen. But Spain would not break. Unlike almost every other team in the world, they were not afraid of Denmark. This wasn't a great Spain team, far from it, but something about Denmark rubbed them up the wrong way and made them find an extra level of determination. They would also beat Denmark at Euro 88 and then, on the darkest of nights for Danish football, in qualification for the 1994 World Cup.

If Denmark were marginally the better side in the first half eight years earlier, they were far from their best. And then the entire game changed on the stroke of half-time. Hogh threw the ball out to Olsen, and he dummied Julio Salinas before playing an inexplicable, blind pass across the face of his own box. Hogh wasn't there, but Emilio Butragueno was, and he tapped it into the net. "But Jesper, Jesper, Jesper, that's lethal" said Gehrs with the most heartfelt resignation and national melancholy.

"I shouldn't have played that pass," said Olsen 10 years later. "It's just one of those things you can't change. If it had happened in the group stages, we would have played another game, and it could all have been forgotten. Of course, it's unfair that I will be remembered for such a thing, but that's how it is. It's mainly in Denmark people still talk about it so maybe it's good that I don't live there."

So they do. To this day, a serious faux pas is described as a "rigtig Jesper Olsen" (a real Jesper Olsen), whether by the general public or even in parliament. It was traumatic stuff, for sure, yet the received wisdom that Denmark simply collapsed after that doesn't ring true. They started the second half strongly, with Elkjær nearly scoring after an outrageous angled run from the halfway line. He then missed a decent chance before, against the run of play, Butragueno headed Spain in front in the 56th minute.

Piontek immediately brought on Eriksen, a forward, for Andersen, a defender, and that left Denmark exposed to ruthless Spanish counterattacks. Some will say that Piontek went for it too soon – there was still half an hour to go when Eriksen came on – but Denmark were used to playing with three at the back, and an almost identical substitution at an identical stage of the Euro 84 match against Belgium had been rewarded when the substitute Brylle scored within three minutes.

The problem was not the change but the fact that, for whatever reason, Denmark completely lost their discipline. A nominal 3-5-2 formation was more like 3-1-6. For the third goal, Busk was left one-on-one against Butragueno, with no other player within 30 yards; for the fourth, Spain had four attackers on three defenders. It unravelled quickly and disastrously, and Denmark were spanked. This was truly shocking stuff: those who woke up the following morning (it was an 11pm kick-off in England) to be told the score were not at all surprised. Then they were told who had won.

With such a staggering defeat, there was an inevitable need to look for reasons. A frequent refrain in the British broadsheets was that Denmark's lung-busting power game could not cope with the squeezed itinerary of a major tournament, particularly in Mexican heat, while Piontek blamed the psyche that he had fought so hard to change.

"This Danish attitude started creeping in (after the group stages in Mexico) where players thought, 'Oh well, we've made it this far, we've done brilliantly and nobody can blame us'," he said in Tynd Luft. "At the end, there was something missing in their frame of mind. This transition to: 'We can and we must!' Perhaps it hadn't succeeded as well as I thought."

That, pretty much, was that. By Euro 88 the team was past it, and lost all three games to Spain, Italy and West Germany. They failed to reach Italia 90. One generation morphed into the next and, astonishingly, an inferior Denmark side won Euro 92.

By now Piontek had gone: he was tipped over the edge in the summer of 1990 when a tabloid made dark claims about a bank account in Liechtenstein. He resigned and took over as manager of Turkey. Some said it was a smokescreen; Piontek was open about the fact he wanted to take advantage of Turkey's lenient tax laws, yet says he would have stayed but for that story. Either way, it was a sad end. He was not around to preside over Denmark's most successful team, but he had certainly presided over their most memorable one.

Stimulating cinema: Woodpecker

Director: Alex Karpovsky
Year: 2008

"Whose story do you believe?"

That message, which is emblazoned on a Christmas float shown toward the end of this excellent movie, also doubles as the film's central theme. Working in a documentary style--yet mixing actual people with actors--Karpovsky has created a really interesting and thought-provoking piece of filmmaking which obscures the lines between fact and fiction. Are we watching something or someone that's "real" or not? Karpovsky is certainly playing with the viewer but in the best possible way. And he's playing with the "real" people in the film too, although not maliciously. I'm convinced that Karpovsky didn't set to mock the subjects in the movie and I don't think they felt like they were. It's a fine line though--mixing people's genuine passions and emotions and introducing fictional characters that kind of play up (or play down) those same feelings for laughs. The laughs are subtle and there are also scenes of genuine sadness, regret and longing. I waited a long time to get to see this--having read about it online somewhere--and I devoured it on back-to-back nights, enjoying every second. I am convinced that this movie is a small masterpiece--you really can't praise Karpovsky and the movie's star, Jon Hyrns, quite enough.

The movie takes place in the tiny town of Brinkley, Ark. Located on I-40 between my hometown of Memphis (which also makes a fun appearance in the film) and Little Rock, Brinkley becomes the center of the bird-watching universe when reports start coming in about sightings of the ivory-billed woodpecker. Once thought to be extinct, this "Lord God bird" sparks remarkable interest, attaining an almost mythical quality. Of course, there are believers and non-believers and everyone has an opinion. Karpovsky starts in straight-documentary fashion, setting the stage by talking with civic leaders--who comments on the impact tourists make on the town after word gets out--and bird experts--who debate whether or not the ivory-bill actually exists. These early scenes are some of the best in the movie, as the residents of Brinkley speak about their town and the interest in the ivory-bill with pride and stubborn determination. The area is really depressed (someone comments that the population of the country has dropped from 17,000 to 9,000 in a relatively short time), but maybe, just maybe, news of the ivory-bill will bring in enough traffic from birders and tourists to get things going again.

One of those looking to spot the ivory-bill is Johnny Neander (Hyrns), a house painter/poet from Portland, Ore. Johnny writes poetry, simple odes to birds that are unintentionally hilarious. Imagine going to a fourth-grade recital and some poor kid is on the stage pouring out his soul though a poem. You want to laugh, but you really have to bite your lip. That's what Johnny's poems are like and you just can't help but laugh, even though he is so sincere in what he's writing about. Neander is a bit off, but earnest in his desire to spot the ivory-bill. He craves the attention and adulation that he would get if he did spot it and years to move up the ranks in the birding fraternity. Also in tow is Wes (Wesley Yang), Johnny's Asian sidekick who tagged along. The Wes character really steals the show. He never talks (except just a little at the very end) and we rarely know what he's thinking because he keeps a placid poker face. We don't know if he really likes Johnny and wants to help him find the bird or if he's just goofing on him like we are. But even though he's silent, Wes conveys a lot of comedy and his interactions with Johnny are priceless. It's also surreal watching Johnny and Wes mix with the "real" people of Brinkley. The townsfolk are never quite sure what to make of them and the tension that is generated is real (and really funny). Although somewhat of a nut, Johnny arouses our empathy when he tries to articulate to us exactly why finding this bird is so important to him.

In the final scenes, it starts to become more and more obvious what's real and what's not, but by then you've developed such affection for Johnny and Wes that you are really rooting for them. It's also interesting to go back after watching and listening to the director's comments on what he found in Brinkley when he went back after the filmmaking. When reading about this, I learned that Karpovsky had made an earlier movie in the same vein, called "The Hole Story." I'm looking forward to checking this one out one day and comparing the two.

Random pictures from an exotic place I'll probably never get to visit

Way off the beaten path, the Marshall Islands offer more exotic beach beauty, a low-key relaxed friendly atmosphere and a truly exotic stamp for the intrepid traveler's passport. If only I had the funds to match my wandering spirit ... Two beach views here, the first from Enoko Island and the second, Airport Beach near the capital of Majuro. "Yopkwe!"