BPL blogger David Weiner is a Sydney-based sports journalist and soon-to-be lawyer.

"Welcome, David. We're just making up your bed. It will take a few hours".

Nothing unusual there, I thought. After two months on the road in hostels in Europe, it's more than normal to arrive while they are still changing the linen (or pretending to) and tidying up the room.

But in World Cup South Africa, they aren't kidding when they say "still making up your bed."

As I strolled around the "Australian Football Village" to get my bearings while waiting, I stumbled across a group of workers out the back. They were literally putting the final nails in the frame, unpacking the mattresses and shipping them off to the rooms.

I shouldn't have been surprised! My transport from the airport didn't pitch, the train line from the airport only opened on June 8, and we've even had to wait while sending a search party out to find our bus because the driver had clocked off for a sleep!

Do we care? Not a bit! We're here for the football fever, and by hook or by crook we've made it "on South African time", every time.

We've jumped out of the bus to avoid city gridlock, we've danced in the street rejoicing Bafana Bafana's result - packed in like sardines in Sandton Fan zone, sweating it out shoulder to shoulder with the locals. We've listened as the Argentines bang their drums from the terraces and as the Nigerians break out in heaving chants. We've blared out Waltzing Matilda, clubbed beach balls, and teased Germans on our pilgrimage to Durban's stadium in what felt like a green and gold invasion of the World Cup. We've also trudged back together, glumly, silently, embarrassed, with our tails between our legs.

"So boys, is your Dutch coach going to be as attacking as our one," I couldn't help asking a boisterous Dutch contingent as I tried to jump on the Oranje bandwagon outside Soccer City in Johannesburg yesterday - the best remedy just hours after arriving home bleary eyed from the Durban debacle.

"Your team is shit. You have no strikers. What do you want him to do? And anyway, we send you all our crap coaches," he replied. Ouch. And off they went, continuing to sing, bounding along the pavement in their orange capes, orange balloon hats, flag painted faces, flag proudly in one arm, a vuvuzela in the other.

Another window in the kaleidoscope of colour shining here in South Africa.

The inebriated Oranje-man might have been a bit harsh about our team, but that's what hurt in the wake of Sunday's match. Is that the legacy we want the world to remember about Australia? Is that a performance that reflects us, Australians? Germany has been the yardstick so far - exhilarating, mobile and skilful - but what might have happened had Verbeek not inexplicably tinkered with his side?

He has now arrived at his moment of truth. If he dishes out another three players out of position, a disorganised defensive structure and a team with no balance, maybe the drunk Dutchman might have had a point.