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A bit of an epic trip, this one, lasting for 7 days and taking
in 4 hotels in 3 cities. What follows is very much Paul and Helen's
condensed account of what happened, as although Rich went on the
same flights, his experiences are almost entirely different. And
as for the Inverness Boys...
Myself (Paul), Helen and Rich left Gatwick on the Friday before
the game for 3 days in Gdansk before heading to Bydgoszcz on the
Monday. I'd struck a bet with Rich the night before that there would
be less than 10 Scots on the plane, and I was right - we were the
only ones, much to the delight of the air stewardesses.
The highlights of our time in Gdansk included visiting numerous
underground pubs and meeting several people, including a mental
Algerian guy and a lovely student celebrating her 'name day', Anouska,
along with a bunch of art students from Carlisle - hello to Laura
and Heather from Ayrshire. Laura taught us that Zubrowka vodka (flavoured
with bison grass) did not leave a hangover the next morning when
drunk with apple juice - we'd neglected to the follow this on the
first night and I didn't surface until 5pm! We also quickly learned
that all Polish men have learned to speak English from Borat, as
Helen was treated to several chat-up attempts - "I like you,
you very nice! Very pretty lady", including one by a real salty
sea dog, 60 if he was a day, who followed up with his e-mail address!
Monday morning and a train down to Big Dog - a wee bit of a culture
shock from Gdansk's medieval architecture and cobbled streets! The
walk down the main street from the station to the town (we were
staying in the Pod Orlem) had us convincing ourselves that this
was just the town's equivalent area to Kings Cross. The hotel was
nice though, and after a quick stop to freshen up we went for a
wee wander around.
We'd agreed to meet Rich at 8pm in whatever pub was in the square
(which turned out to be the very narrow Bar Amsterdam) - at around
4pm I thought we should just pop in from a research point of view.
I was quickly greeted by Artour, John from Sheffield and a bunch
from NOSTA, and on returning from the bar we got talking to Buenos
(as in Aires), Ally (the main Posh Spice verse contributor) and
his wife, Susan. Foolishly, Ally asked why I wasn't in "the
much better pub around the corner" (see the Tribute to Talc
page), so after a couple we set off to find one, ending up downstairs
in a back alley in the excellent Pub Medyk. After chatting to Martin
and Chrystof (don't worry lads - the photo will be up soon!) at
the computer on the bar about this very website we set off to the
boat pub with a crowd of high school students for a table football
contest.
Myself and Rich (who had stumbled across us all in the Medyk)
were the only victorious Scottish pair, and after several gubbings
we set foot back on dry land and continued our drinking in Merlin,
where a mad skinhead with a frisky girlfriend set about buying us
a variety of mind-blowing shots. After another round in the pub
underneath the Amsterdam, we staggered our separate ways (it was
barely midnight!), having agreed to meet up at the station for the
Under-21s match the next day.
We met up in time for the train around mid-day to Wloclawek, and
by the time we got there, the train having stopped off in Torun
for the Notts Scots and Artour's NOSTA contingent, there were 30-40
Scots in tow, all of which appeared to be on a day-trip... apart
from Helen and I who, on the advice of Polorbis in London ("no
hotels, very busy"), had booked the Tuesday night in the Hotel
Kujawy, so we stepped off the train with our full week's baggage
strapped to our backs. This made no difference to the massed ranks
of the Polish polis, who marched us all a mile and half to the ground,
accompanied by a real show of military strength from all the riot
vans. After an hour of standing outside the Scotland turnstile,
and seeing the taxi we'd hailed chased away by the police, we were
suddenly allowed to wander off, the majority in the direction of
the stadium bar, whilst us two were eventually driven to the hotel
in a police car (with the siren considerately wailing as we pulled
up - ensuring that the hotel staff were eyeing us up constantly).
We got a taxi back to the ground, but by the time we met the others
(Ally, Susan, Buenos, NTA's Campbell and Adam - Josie was feeling
ill so Scott had gone back to Torun with her), the polis had shut
the bar. Having just come up the road, we led a deputation back
to the nearest pub, optimistically titled the Strong Club. After
a couple of bevvies, and the very friendly barmaid inviting us back
with the immortal words "I like you, you come back after game,
no worry about the crazy people", we were off to the offy next
door to perform the old 'vodka into soft drink bottles' trick.
The game was abysmal, a 1-0 defeat in the pouring rain, and we
took the decision to leave after an hour to head back to the pub
(partly as the voddy had run dry). This was now around 6pm, with
everyone's train at 9pm. What followed is a story all on its own
- suffice to say that I was drinking with 2 comedy hooligans (think
Right Said Fred), a Robbie Coltrane look-alike was plying us with
double voddys, a student and his sultry girlfriend tried to initiate
a bit of wife-swapping, and we were presented with a leaving gift
of a box of six new pint tankards from the friendly barmaid (along
with Buenos' lost hat).
The only other Scots who were staying were the Kirrie Boys - 2
lads from Kirriemuir who we had met hours earlier in the bar. We
went for one drink in the dubious London Pub, where we encountered
the hoolies again ("I like you, my beautiful Scottish friend"),
and staggered back to the fleapit of the hotel, promising to get
the first train out of this hellhole the next day. We found out
the next day that Ally and Susan had managed to miss their train
and had to pay for a taxi (and petrol) back from Torun to Big Dog!
I still say that they were the lucky ones.
Up at the crack of dawn (hardly able to sleep given the surroundings),
we headed for the first train, having been unable to rouse the Kirrie
Boys and leaving 5 of our new pint glasses in the hotel room. Thankfully
we met a couple of Scottish guys on their way through from Warsaw
on the train, and such was our relief at getting back to relative
civilisation that we almost kissed the platform at Bydgoszcz station,
whilst everyone else was remarking on what a dump the place was.
We met Ally and Susan outside the station, and stumbled across
the Inverness Boys (with Billy Dunn) in Hamburgery Pizza (we'd popped
in for breakfast). They had flown to Amsterdam and caught the train,
but David couldn't work his phone on the continent, so it was a
spot of luck we found them so early. Helen and I checked back into
the Pod Orlem, and we all met up back at the Medyk, along with the
Notts Scots. A good session later (to a soundtrack of James Brown
and the Stones, along with a bit of DIY) we headed up to the square,
and with a sizeable carryout we marched off to the ground. We missed
kick-off by a couple of minutes due to the congestion, but soon
found a good spot, although after the game (1-1 draw, if anyone
doesn't know!) we were quite late out, and found ourselves around
the corner in the Hotel Zawisa bar (more like a kiosk selling cans).
A pizza stop and one more drink in the Medyk was enough for most
of us to call it a night, as the previous day in Wloclawek had exhausted
the lot of us who went. There was still time for Inverness David
to lose his wallet and passport though!
As a reward to ourselves for the Under-21 ordeal we checked into
the luxurious Holiday Inn (I know - we sold out!), and after a meal
in the hotel's TGI Fridays restaurant (even worse), we headed out
for one last night on the town. We bumped into Ewan and Jon who
were over with the Albannaich trip, and after a drink in the Blue
Café, where we met the gay Algerian and Anouska again, some
mental cocktails in the Tropikana bar (with yet more comedy Polish
hooligan types, one chatting up a Polish girl in English, trying
to convince her he was Welsh!), and witnessing another fight in
the Irish pub (we saw one the previous weekend), we staggered back
to the hotel.
After meeting up with Rich at the airport (we'd barely seen him
as he'd spent 4 nights in the dog) and stocking up on a variety
of duty-free voddy (potato vodka, bison grass vodka, vodka with
gold flakes), we found ourselves sitting behind Singing Phil and
Scott Kelly on the flight home, leaving me open to ridicule for
my vegetarian eating habits. After a farewell drink in Gatwick's
bar, much to the dislike of assorted shell-suited Ingerlish boneheads
off on their package trips, it was back to reality - only 4 months
to go until Brussels!
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After the excesses of the Croatia home game, NATA split up and
headed our separate ways to Belgium. The Inverness Boys (David,
Allan and Brian, along with occasional member Scott) spent a week
via Eurostar in a dodgy area of Brussels (where David was able to
prove himself as a "team player"). Ally and Sue flew out
on the Sunday, as did Chris (separate flight, but staying with the
Inverness Boys). Helen and I (Paul) caught the Eurostar from Ashford
on the Monday morning, and what follows is our story. All the rest
of NATA simply stayed at home!
Patently the only Scots at Ashford on the Monday lunchtime train,
Helen and I were the subject of a few bemused glances, particularly
as we took our seats on the train (next to a tutting English gent).
No sooner had we sat down than Colin from the Prestwick Tartan Army
passed us on the way back from the buffet car, and he invited us
to join them down in the next carriage. The next 5 hours passed
swiftly in the company of Colin, Steff, Tom, McGregor and Danny,
as we visited a couple of dodgy-ish bars in the Anderlecht area
right outside the station. A walk through the pouring rain, a drunken
row and a brief doze followed, before stirring ourselves to go and
meet the others, several hours later than planned.
Now semi-sober, we met up with the others, including several LA
members and the Milngavie Tartan Army for a few beers, before ordering
one Hoegaarden too many and staggering home to the hotel, past the
ludicrously small Mannekin Pis.
We had planned to do the U21's on the Tuesday, despite the TA wedding
taking place in the town (we all had a semi invite, in a friend
of a friend kind of way, but we all agreed that we didn't really
know the couple enough) and we were to meet up in the Mort Subite
bar at lunchtime to discuss our options. We then decided that as
we couldn't be sure of a train back to Brussels we would stay put
- we then got a text from Brian explaining that they were on a train
to the game. The red-shirted and porn-star sunglass toting Milngavie
boys went their own way to continue their open-top bus tour, as
we spent the rest of the day on a drinking tour of the Bourse area,
where we found the superb art deco L'Archiduc jazz bar, complete
with pianist at 5 in the evening, along with meeting the Cardiff
Tartan Army (CARTA?) over a couple of 11% beers, not to mention
the nearly-violent gay bar and the strangely sedate fishmarket bar.
After meeting up with the St Truiden-shirted Inverness Boys back
in L'Archiduc (by which time you had to ring a bell for entry),
and buying a veggie-kebab (which I had sworn not to do), we staggered
back for the night.
On matchday, we had another rendezvous in the Mort Subite (where
I managed to upset the waitress for no apparent reason), and we
opted to go out to the Schumann district (where the EU HQ is) for
some beers, with the Inverness Boys and Chris choosing to stay in
the Grande Place. Now, the GP was a real focal point for a large
number of TA throughout, but as my first experience of it was treading
broken glass on the Monday night, whilst picking up a cigarette
burn from a fellow reveller, I was a wee bit put off. By all accounts,
the atmosphere was excellent (even if the carry-outs were at premium
prices) and the TA so well-behaved that the polis took the unprecedented
move of allowing the square to stay open throughout - however we
had taken the view that we would rather soak up the local atmosphere
in backstreet drinking dens, and so, for the most part, that's exactly
what we did. Anyway, after moving through the GP, meeting Polish
Danny and Scott of the Notts Scots, we caught the metro out to the
James Joyce pub (scene of the wedding reception on the Tuesday).
We were shocked at how dead the streets were in this part of town,
and headed back to the metro via the Old Oak for a baked tattie.
Confident that we were in plenty of time, we walked to the turnstiles
from the metro (getting separated on the way) to be confronted with
a massive scrum of people and no obvious method to the madness.
Helen and I were some of the lucky ones who saw kick-off. We were
even in our seats in time for the anthems but the terrible sound
system meant only the main stand could hear anything - the rest
of us pretty much gave up and had to endure yet another chorus of
"Hey Baby". The game was a big disappointment, as Scotland
played possession football in our own half before conceding the
first, then going through the motions until the last minutes. As
we prepared to take a last gasp free kick, with the score still
poised at 1-0, Helen turned and said "if we don't score this,
we'll lose 2-0". We didn't score, and we duly conceded straight
away on the break. Absolutely distraught at the manner of the defeat,
I was quickly planning the fastest route back to the hotel as the
final whistle went.
As around 9,000 of the 12,000 Scots at the game headed for the
gates, we stayed to applaud the Belgian team, then the Belgian fans,
then the stewards, all to a chorus of "Doh a deer", and
then to the two young girl stewards now sporting Scotland 2008 tshirts,
"Hey Baby". After over half-an-hour of solid singing and
dancing, and choking back tears of pride, we said goodbye to the
crowd of bemused stewards and headed out into the night.
After being herded to the metro the long way round, we were told
that it was too busy and no-one else would get on that night. We
found ourselves in a crowd of hundreds, relying on Chris's French
language skills to negotiate a passage back to town, when a bus
pulled up. We had a loose arrangement to meet back in the fishmarket,
which was also a useful haven away from celebrating Belgian fans,
or so we thought until Nicholas and friends popped in. Understandably
happy with the result, and sat drinking and laughing with their
friends, they took the time to come over to say how happy they were
with the way the Scottish fans had behaved, and how the Scotland
fans had won on the night, even if the team hadn't. An exchange
of tshirts later and we were sat drinking at their table. Still
feeling a wee bit subdued, we had the last drink of the night in
a suitably dodgy old-mans bar and headed back through the still-partying
square.
On the Thursday, despite a late start due to a hangover, Helen
and I went back out to Heysel for the tourist trawl around mini-Europe
and up the Atomium, before heading round for a quick drink in the
stadium's own bar. From there we took a lightning detour to Anderlecht's
ground on the south-side, before heading back in to the Mort Subite
to meet up with Ally & Sue and Scott & Josie. After the
obligatory Mort Subite cheese omelette (just about the only sustenance
I had all week), we set off on a "TA couples evening"
trawling the backstreet bars. A couple of jars of "John Lambie"
from a ming vase, and a few Kwaks later and we were all dancing
with the drunkest bar owner in town (click here for a photo). After
a wee bite to eat everyone drifted off to bed (around 1-ish) and
Helen and I found time for a quick nightcap in some weird acid-jazz
place round the corner from the hotel.
The next day was checking-out day, and in a misguided attempt to
sample at least some of the beer festival we'd booked an evening
Eurostar. Of course, by Friday morning my liver could take no more,
so after stashing the bags at the hotel we did a wee tour of the
Moleenbeek area to check out RWD Moleenbeek's ground (it's like
a big Firhill). A spot of beer-shopping later (9% Delirium Tremens
and a spot of Hoegaarden Grand Cru that I'm saving for the right
moment) and a quick coffee in the Halloween Bar followed before
the Eurostar journey from hell. This being 6.30pm on a Friday, all
the Hooray Henry's who work for daddy's friend in Brussels besieged
the buffet car (right behind our seats) and proceeded to guffaw
all the way back home to jolly-old-Blighty, leaving me feeling lucky
to be a Scot!
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With holiday left over at work and nowhere to go after we failed
to make the play-offs, a plan was hatched after a suggestion from
Helen on the way to the Latvia game to go and see whoever finished
runner-up in our group in the play-offs. Although I was secretly
hoping for a return to Zagreb, Prague for the Czech Republic v Belgium
was not a bad second! Ally & Sue decided to join us, along with
John from Sheffield.
We arrived on Sunday and spent the first couple of days drinking
(Ally M took in a death metal concert in his kilt on the Monday),
even going out and drinking in the stadia bars/clubhouses (Zizkov
for atmosphere/prices, Sparta for glitziness, Slavia for old photos,
Bohemians for fried cheese and a wee non-league club called Dragoun
Brevnev for bemused looks and a great display of Czech 1st division
strips). We even managed to pick up authentic Slavia Prague shirts
(just to wind up the Sparta supporters - Jon!). However our search
for tickets was proving fruitless, as the game had been sold out
for 3 weeks to the Czech fans (even their FA were unable to help).
John joined us on the Tuesday, and on the Tuesday night we prowled
the Old Town looking for Belgians to drink with. We'd given up and
the four of us headed back to our hotel (John was staying in a different
place) when we stumbled across 4 young guys who had just driven
non-stop from Brussels and were looking for a beer. These were the
only Belgian fans we were able to drink with the whole week we were
there (including after the game).
On the Wednesday, nursing a killer hangover compounded by stomach
cramps (the kind that can only be cured by Yop drinking yoghurt),
I struggled over to our base camp in Molly Malones (I'm pleased
to report I managed to avoid going Caffreys again - never liked
that place the first time around either) for something to eat before
embarking on a quest to find more Belgians. We made a tentative
arrangement to buy some spares from some Belgians in the old town
square (the tickets were on their bus), but we weren't able to meet
up with them again. After some encounters with some boisterous (but
mostly friendly) Czechs on the way to the ground, we continued our
search for tickets.
We made our way round to the Belgian end (where the STC tickets
were for our game) and found that they were selling them from a
wee ticket office next to the turnstile (face value 500kc - £10)
and all we needed was passports. Apparently the Belgian FA had returned
over 1,000 tickets! Anyway we spent the next 90 minutes (we got
there early so as to get tickets from touts/spares) chatting to
Belgian fans on the concourse and giving away 2008 T-Shirts (no
banner, but Ally M tells me that is another story). They were all
delighted to see us, and all told us how much they had enjoyed Glasgow
(bearing in mind that these were travelling fans who had mostly
been at Hampden) and the Brussels match. We also bumped into an
Irish couple, 2 Argentineans (they got T-Shirts to take back, despite
the fact that they've nothing to do with UEFA!) and a student from
Dunfermline who was dragged along by his Brussels Uni pals. It was
the friendly reaction from the Belgians that swung my views on who
I wanted to win (one skinhead even started a chorus of "We
love you Scotland"), and so after they won 1-0 we headed back
into town to celebrate (on our own, as it turned out!).
One downside was the temperature - I don't think it was ever warmer
than 3 or 4 degrees, and the game itself definitely seemed to be
at -1 or -2. A case of being thankful for the vaseline under the
kilt! We wore kilts for the duration, and as always the only negative
comments as usual were from English tourists - the Czechs still
remember us very fondly. So, all in all a successful trip, with
decent (enough) football, cheap beer (the cheapest was 24p a pint,
but we stayed out of the bookies, where its as cheap as 10p) and
heavy indigestion.
All we need now is to be drawn against the Czechs again for Euro
2004 Qualifying!
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