It's not all a World Cup wonderland

At times it is, and before anyone starts emailing away furiously in complaint, I realise how lucky I am to be out here covering the biggest football tournament in the world.

But it isn't all fantastic football and fancy restaurants, sensational soccer and sightseeing. There's quite a lot of less enjoyable stuff that goes on in between. So here, in an attempt to redress the balance, is a list of what else I've been getting up to in South Africa.

Wandering aimlessly around stadiums, trying to find the way in.

In fairness, this isn't just a South African problem. A couple of years ago, I spent more than an hour-and-a-half wandering aimlessly around Doncaster Rovers' new stadium because nobody seemed to know where the press entrance was. Eventually, we discovered why. Because there wasn't one.

That hasn't been the case here in South Africa, but as friendly and approachable as the volunteers and helpers have been, they generally haven't had a clue about the location of the media entrance.

Even the internationally-approved sign language for journalist (a frantic wiggle of the fingers in the air, which is effectively interchangeable with the internationally-approved sign language for asking for the bill) has proved ineffective. And I haven't really wanted to ask a policeman, on account of the whopping great guns.

So taking control of proceedings into my own hands, I've generally set off aimlessly wandering around the ground.

Sometimes, as at Ellis Park, it works a treat and you stumble across a sign proclaiming Media Entrance. Other times, as at Rustenburg, you make it twice around the stadium before admitting defeat and phoning someone you know is already in the ground. Inevitably, you're as far away from where you need to be as is humanly possible when you finally make the call. Either way, you are constantly amazed at your own uselessness.

Sitting in the Stadium Media Centre watching time tick by The Stadium Media Centre sounds like a massively grand place, doesn't it? Well it isn't. It's a huge tent, in the middle of a car park, containing some tables, a few television screens and a handful of internet connection points.

It also has something purporting to be a canteen, but which should really be described as the purveyor of the world's most undrinkable coffee. And, for some bizarre reason, little else apart from Crunchie bars.

There's one at every stadium, and given that you have to turn up at a ground more than three hours before kick off in order to collect your press ticket, you spend a lot of time sitting in the SMC pretending to do some work.

Generally, you're only working out who to put into your fantasy football team (thank you Miroslav Klose for getting yourself sent off last weekend), but you have to buy into the image. You're also sitting next to a lot of other journalists, which thanks to issues of personal hygiene two weeks into a tournament, is never a good thing.

Sitting in a restaurant on your own, trying to convince everyone you're not weird/friendless/a psychopath.

Anyone who works away from home will know this one, but somehow it's even worse in a foreign country.

It generally starts with the waiter or waitress laughing knowingly as you walk through the door. "Table for one," they inquire, while inside they're saying "Of course it's for one you freak."

They'll generally tuck you away in the corner tables for one aren't good for passing trade and will inevitably ignore your attempts to order quickly to get the ordeal over and done with.

You'll get your food eventually, after desperately dropping into conversation that you're working over here so that's why you're dining alone, and normally suffer the final indignity at the end.

"Straight back to your hotel is it sir?" Which can also be read as, "You just about got away with a restaurant don't even think about being a social pariah in a bar as well."

Taking a taxi ride and desperately trying to secure a receipt.

In Johannesburg, I had my own car. In Cape Town, and here in Port Elizabeth, I've been at the mercy of the local taxi firms.

This has meant three things. First, I've had to enter into countless debates about the uselessness of the England team. I know they're useless, you know they're useless and the taxi driver sure as hell knows it too. And with South Africa heading out at the first hurdle, he's going to extract every bit of pleasure he can.

Second, I've learned that nobody in South Africa really knows where anything is. It hardly inspires confidence when your taxi driver gets out of the car, wanders over to another taxi, returns with a map and then proceeds to rip said map into several pieces when he realises it's a map of Pretoria. That happened to me yesterday in Port Elizabeth.

Thirdly, it also means you have to end every journey with a desperate attempt to get a receipt. In England, this generally isn't too much of a problem. In South Africa, though, asking for a receipt seems to be akin to demanding the keys of the car.

Yesterday, my taxi driver wanted an extra 50 Rand (£5) before he would give me a receipt. I paid it, then asked for a receipt for the payment for my receipt. The response cannot really be printed in The Telegraph & Argus.