With the worsening situation in the middle-east, and the belief
that if anything did kick-off, the Turkey v Scotland B match would
be one of the first things to be pulled, we waited and waited before
booking, watching the flight prices rise as we did. With less than
a fortnight to go to kick-off, Helen and I decided that the game
was a goer, and picked up relatively cheap (£250) flights
to Antalya with Turkish Airlines, with a 3-day stopover in Istanbul
on the way.
The flight was delayed an hour from Heathrow Terminal 3, which
had all the charm of a refugee camp as ever, however the service
on board was impeccable. The flight was full, with at least 30 mechanics
heading out to prepare for the Rally (that was starting in Antalya
the day after the match), and I found myself sitting next to a chatty
Belfast girl – this was good news for Helen as it meant she
could read her book in peace! The plane passed over the snow-covered
Alps, and then the snow-covered rest of Europe, before coming in
to land at the snow-covered Istanbul airport. On landing, we could
see where the delays had been coming from, as the snow that had
been swept from the runways was piled up six-foot high at the sides.
After a quick queue to pay £10 for our visa, it was through
customs and on to the bus – this took us straight to Taksim
Square, where we were staying. The 150-yard walk from the bus stop
to the Divan Hotel front door merely confirmed that the Turks weren’t
used to gritting the pavements.
Astounded at the weather - after all, we hadn’t really associated
blizzards with Istanbul – we made plans for the night and
headed across the square to the Marmaris Hotel, which boasted a
roof-level bar. After a couple of drinks and a great view of the
blizzard wreaking havoc on the streets below, we headed for the
Istiklal Caddesi, the main drag where the majority of nightlife
options lay. After an abortive attempt to go into the North Shield
pub (the booming techno drove us back from the door), we went round
the corner and found a local bar called “Dad”. We had
agreed on an early-ish night, as we wanted to get some stuff done
in the morning.
Of course, that was easier said than done, and we made it out just
after midday. The blizzard was still in full flow, although the
advantage was that Istiklal Caddesi (also the main shopping street)
was deserted. We located the Galatasary club shop (which was shut)
and found out that Gala were at home the following evening (although
I sincerely doubted this game would go ahead), before finding an
Adidas shop and getting hold of a Turkey shirt (a bargain at only
£20). The poor shop assistant thought he was being helpful
by rushing over with an XXL after I came out of the changing rooms
with the shirt straining at the seams, only to find out that I was
trying on the same size at the time! A short trip down the Tunel
underground system, a walk across the Golden Horn and a taxi ride
under an ancient viaduct later and we were at the Kapali Carsi:
Istanbul’s infamous Grand Bazaar. We then spent at least the
next 4 hours wandering around half-lost, buying stuff we wanted
before we went in (a Gala shirt for £16), stuff we thought
looked good when we were in there (an ornate copper drum), and stuff
we still don’t know why we have it (a sultan hat). The stall-holders
are real Arthur Daley types, and try anything to win you around
– whilst in markets at Turkey I was asked if I was: Danish,
Norwegian, Irish, German, French, Spanish and Mexican (maybe he
thought the kilt was a poncho!). Helen was a bit putout that all
she got was Russian (Russian girls in Turkey are associated with
one thing!).
Back to the hotel in a taxi with all the purchases for a quick
siesta, and then out on the town. The weather was improving slightly
and we made our way down towards the famous Pera Palas hotel (built
for Oriental Express customers, and patronised by Agatha Christie)
for a cocktail in the bar. On the way back up we were in such diverse
places as a restaurant with a drug-crazed waiter (“You come
back tomorrow and we smoke! You like smoke?”), the Caravan
rock club (where someone head-butted me in friendship – less
worrying than it sounds) and a Turkish bar for Raki. We decided
to pop into the James Joyce “just for one”, and ended
up leaving three-and-a-half hours later after a lock-in that involved
a Turkish girl showing me her stockings and an Irish girl practically
propositioning me in front of Helen. Back out into the blizzard
(again) and it seemed that the whole of the youth of Istanbul was
on the streets and heading for Taksim Square.
After a lengthy lie-in, and a trip to the hotel patisserie in an
attempt to get food (and ending up with coconut chocolates), we
eventually made it out the door just before 3pm. We were desperate
to see the Aya Sofia and Blue Mosque, so it was straight in a taxi
across the town. Just wearing my Turkey shirt got us an impromptu
discount at Aya Sofia (a big 5th century church that became a mosque
and then a museum), and we killed time in the sunken cistern whilst
waiting for the end of prayer time at the Blue Mosque. The building
is breathtaking, and we approached across a snow-covered park to
see it in all its splendour. This was also the only time during
my six days in Turkey I wore trousers (underneath my kilt), as a
sign of respect, and Helen also covered up with a pashmina. An omelette
in the café next door later, and it was into a cab and off
to Ali Sami Yen stadium to see if the game was on.
Given the blizzard conditions that had persisted all weekend, we
were convinced that the game would be unplayable, not least because
of spectator safety. How wrong could we be? The pavement around
the ground was throbbing with fans, and the “helpful”
taxi driver offered to sort us out with a ticket. I’m still
fuming about this, as this was the only occasion I was ripped off
all the time I was there, as we paid the equivalent of £20
each for tickets. Given Premiership prices, £20 is not too
bad, but when I tell you the face value was 40p, you can understand
my frustration! It seems that this is the going mark-up for foreigners,
as Tom from Glasgow (who we met the next day) paid £40 for
an 80p ticket! On making our way around the ground, past queues
of bouncing lunatics and across the sheet ice of the car park, we
were instantly shepherded to the front of the queue when the kilt
was spotted. For all the Gala fans reputation as headcases, I found
them to be very friendly and helpful. The ticket turned out to be
for the uncovered seats behind the goal. Except they were covered…
by around 3 foot of snow! We edged along the row that the stairs
led to, up towards where the riot police had cordoned off a good
30 yards from the caged Malatyaspor fans, and tried to find steady
footing. At this stage the blizzard was so severe we could barely
see the other goal, let alone the stand behind it, despite the brightness
of the floodlights.
After initial concern that the ref had changed his mind, the game
kicked off with an orange ball at 7pm, to the sight of around 20
yellow balaclava-clad Malatyaspor fans letting off a flare and starting
a bouncy. Over to our right, the police were standing back to allow
fans scaling the 10-foot fence into unoccupied covered seats by
the touchline, whilst immediately to our left, armed police were
bouncing down 10 rows at a time after losing their footing, only
to be pelted by snowballs from their colleagues when they hit the
deck. It was to this chaotic background that Gala took the lead
from a goalkeeping mistake from an innocuous free kick, shortly
before the whistle went (around 15 minutes in) to allow a team of
groundsmen to rush on and sweep the fresh snow off the lines (that
had been painted black). For reasons of health (we were in Turkey
until Thursday so we didn’t want to catch colds now) and safety
(2,000 fans leaving our end at the final whistle would not be a
walk in the park), we elected to bow out early at half-time. Again,
as we passed, we were smiled at, waved at and patted on the back
by most of the fans in our row. This was obviously the day that
“hell” had frozen over!
After a meal and a drink in the Inter-Continental’s roof
bar (complete with a view over Besiktas’ Inonu Stadium) it
was back for an early night to pack the bags for the next day’s
flight to Antalya.
Back to top of page
The domestic terminal at Ataturk airport is very spacious and empty,
which is a pleasant change from the feeling around the rest of Istanbul.
There is even a North Shield bar, which is where we waited for our
flight. It turned out we were on the same flight as the Turkey B
Squad, and a surlier bunch of miserable individuals you have never
seen. We also met Tom from Pollokshaws, who had been in Istanbul
the same time as us, but elected to stay in Sultanahmet (for the
sights), whilst in Taksim we had been closer to the nightlife. After
a delay of around an hour (snow again!) it was off for the 1-hour
journey to Antalya. As we neared the coast the cloud cover began
to clear, and we touched down under a beautiful blue sky (and a
gale force wind). We mentioned to Tom that we would try and look
out the Antalya North Shield pub (I know it makes little sense for
a group of Scots abroad to search out an English pub, but it’s
just a handy place to meet!).
After getting lost straight after getting off the bus, we admitted
defeat and took a cab to our hotel – the Marina Residence
right above the harbour. We were lucky to be given the best room
at the very front of the hotel with a view right over the harbour
to the mountains, and after the dumping the bags we took a wee walk
along the cliffs to the stadium. The area around the stadium was
pretty quiet, and the outside of the ground was quite dilapidated,
but no sign of an elusive club shop. Through the gaps we could just
make out the Scotland squad in training. Continuing my quest for
an Antalya shirt or similar, we grabbed a taxi (there seemed to
be ranks everywhere) and asked for the bazaar. It turned out (after
a good hour of being lost) that we had been taken to the Fruit &
Veg bazaar (which has loads of normal stalls) and not the tourist
bazaar on my map, but nonetheless I was at least successful in getting
hold of a scarf.
A long and winding walk eventually led us to Kebab Street where
we grabbed something to eat, before heading over the road to a blue-lit
bar inside a shopping centre. Although this place did provide us
with the cheapest beer of the trip (60p a pint), it was not the
most comfortable – imagine a bar in an old shopping centre
(like the Savoy centre), with no toilets and the only women in there
are serving, apart from Helen. After dropping off our purchases
(Helen picked up four knock-off t-shirts at the market as well),
a cab took us to North Shields, where we thought we might find any
fellow Scottish stragglers. It was not to be, however, and after
around an hour we strolled back into the centre. Needing to “freshen
up”, we did the logical thing and popped into the Best Western,
and even drank in both bars, but still no sign of anyone! Resigned,
we headed back into Kaleci (the old walled town leading down to
the hotel and harbour), and still found time for a few in the Kardelen
bar (complete with folk music) and the Rock Bar (where I met a Man
Utd supporting Turk).
With tickets on our mind we were up for breakfast the next day,
and caught a tram out towards the Sheraton hotel where the SFA were
staying. Actually getting in the door was easier said than done
– we spent around 20 minutes negotiating the gardens after
coming through the back entrance to the grounds. When we did find
our way in, an apologetic Willie MacDougall was on hand to tell
us that there were no actual tickets for the game, as admission
was entirely free. He did, however, buy us a drink for our trouble
of getting all the way out to the hotel, along with Tom, Jock from
Fife and Lorraine McDonald, along with Gordon and Morag who were
staying at the Sheraton itself. After a few (expensive) drinks in
the hotel, we decided on Amor for lunch, and we shared a cab to
the restaurant, which overlooked the harbour from the other side.
Lorraine, Jock and Tom turned up later after checking Lorraine in,
and after the meal we did the logical thing and headed for the North
Shield (conveniently right next to the ground).
(The next paragraph
was catastrophically omitted from the original version, and only
noticed by Keith Rowley, Worthing's Assistant Manager!)
After a quick bevvy, we headed out the pub for the ground, only
to bump into Willie MacDougall - "quick, come on lads, you'll
miss the kick-off". With that, he led us around the ground
to the VIP entrance, up the stairs and straight into the directors
box (complete with 2 armed guards - see photos). We were in time
for the teams running out, and were happy to watch Scotland give
a decent account of themselves in a creditable 1-1 draw (Turkey
had beaten Germany away in their previous match). Of particular
note was the blonde midfielder David Noble, who had a commanding
effect on the game after coming on in the second half. The only
real downside (apart from the Turkish equaliser, and a spot of play-actiong)
was the the fact that the team made no effort whatsoever to applaud
the fans (okay, they probably never heard us, but still, we were
there!).
Back to the North Shield, and we were surprised to see two Scots
already in there, obviously some way down their pints – it
turned out that Andrew and Ian were ex-pats and had been in the
Antalya area for some time (Ian – “tell me, do you always
manage to find ex-pat Scots wherever you go?” YES!). At this
point we were asked why we were in an English pub rather than the
city’s Scottish pub, The Highlander? Of course, this led them
being press-ganged into taking us there, and along with a Turkish
friend they roped in, we headed off down the steep cobbled streets
of Kaleci towards the promised land.
As is so often the case with Scottish theme pubs, they bear little
resemblance to the real thing (i.e. the floor and walls aren’t
covered in lino, there’s more than one beer pump, no jug of
stagnant water on the bar and a there’s actually a ladies
toilet). Nonetheless, the Highlander was big and comfortable enough
(with big leather sofas), even if it was a bit empty. The bar staff
put in a quick call, and within 30 minutes we had a singer to serenade
us, who was later joined by either (a) a gorgeous Tori Amos look-alike,
or (b) a girl who had a face like a monkey, depending on whether
you are Paul or Helen. To the bars credit, they did have superb
(as in “wind-up material”) embroidered polo shirts,
although the marked price was a somewhat steep 27 US$. Step forward
the arch-negotiating team – remember, Turkish prices are only
a suggestion - and 3 hours later a deal had been struck at 20 dollars
a piece. After an evening of food, beer and discussion, not to mention
two very drunk ex-pats who were supposed to be at home with their
wives ready to get up for work in a few hours, we staggered back
to the hotel in the early hours more than a little worse for wear.
We had agreed to meet up at Amor on the Wednesday for lunch, however
given the strength of the hangover this was more like breakfast
to us. After lunch Helen and I wandered down to the harbour and
ended up chartering a boat to go and see the Lower Duden Falls –
2 hours for £40 (but don’t tell him I told you –
it should have been £60, apparently). After a wee rest back
at the room, we headed out to the North Shield where we had a loose
agreement to meet up with Ian and his wife (made in a drunken haze),
but there was no sign – after a coffee we headed across to
Stella’s Bistro for the poshest meal of the trip (complete
with some pretty decent Turkish wine). Still shattered from the
previous day’s endurance drinking, and with a day’s
travelling ahead of us, we strolled back to the hotel (via the bar
overlooking the harbour for a night-cap), packed and had an early
night.
This enabled us to get up bright and early the next day, and after
breakfast we checked out and stashed our bags behind the reception
desk for a couple of hours so we could go out for a walk around
the centre. I was still hoping to track down an Antalyaspor shirt,
but a search of several sports shops in the centre proved fruitless,
although we did have tea with a friendly Fenerbahce fan. With an
hour left, I persuaded Helen we could walk to the stadium, and then
have a coffee on the cliff on the way back for the bags. The front
was silent again, and the door to the restaurant/office firmly locked
with no signs of life. Out of frustration, I tried the directors
box entrance and poked my head in an office door where two men were
chain-smoking furiously. They beckoned us in, and with the tried
and tested language of pointing at my shirt and saying “Antalyaspor”
the guy behind the desk picked up the phone book and made some calls.
The third or fourth call struck gold and he leapt up, indicating
we should stay and have a look round – by now it was 15 minutes
until we were supposed to be back at the hotel and Helen was getting
a wee bit frantic. We had a wee wander around the pitch side, and
then he returned with an English-speaking sports shop owner who
proceeded to drive us through the back streets towards the fruit
market. My luck was in – a red Puma Antalyaspor shirt with
“36 Faruk” on the back for the bargain price of £16
(which is pretty much the going rate). A breakneck taxi journey
back to the hotel and on to the airport then followed.
The football shirt frenzy didn’t stop there either –
three hours to kill in Istanbul airport led to the acquisition of
a Besitkas and a Trabzonspor shirt as well.
Back to top of page
|
No sooner had the qualifying draw been made than Helen and I began
discussing the pros and cons of each destination. We were both agreed
that Lithuania was probably our most eagerly anticipated, as the
Baltics is one of our favourite parts of the world, and we began
talking about the best ways to get there. By the time it was close
enough to book flights (which we did in June 2002!), we had opted
to travel via Riga (which I preferred to Tallinn) Sunday-Sunday,
with 4 nights in Vilnius during the week (and a stand-by hotel in
Kaunas). Everything was booked and guaranteed with cards in June,
including the Vilnius hotel (the Best Western Anabasis Vilnius)
through Expedia.
So you can imagine my surprise when I got home on the Wednesday
the week before the game (in other words, 2 days before I left for
Glasgow) to an answer machine message from Vilnius explaining that
due to a “computer error” my booking had been erased,
and they were now fully booked. After several heated telephone calls,
where they explained they had sourced alternative accommodation
(which the internet showed to be little more than a hotel on the
very outskirts of the city), and after being asked “if you
lost my booking, how did you find my telephone number?” they
eventually confessed that pressure from a tour operator (Passport
Travel) had led to me being “gazumped” for a hotel room.
Expedia were none too happy, but unable to guarantee me the room
I had booked until taking up with the manager the next day, so I
took matters into my own hands and booked an alternative room, at
the City Gate hotel, again with Expedia.
Come Thursday morning, after very little sleep, I was so worried
about not getting a bed that I rang the new hotel just to double
check. Of course, they had never heard of me and advised that they
were also full up. Now at my wits end, I telephone Expedia to advise,
and after 20 minutes on hold while some serious negotiations ensued
between Expedia and Vilnius, I was told that a room at the City
Gate hotel had been found.
So, this is the background to our departure to Glasgow on the Friday
afternoon – we stashed our main luggage at Heathrow’s
left baggage area and made our way through to the Domestic departure
lounge for the Glasgow flight. As usual, Heathrow’s domestic
area has all the charm of a busy bus station – even worse
now the main bar/café area has been shrunk. We did bump into
the Scottish Women’s team on their way back from a hammering
in Germany, and they were all very friendly, particularly the two
we were chatting to.
Saturday morning saw an early start in the Iron Horse, after meeting
Ally & Sue on the train through from Dumbarton. The customary
visit to the Scotia, where we met up with the Nottingham and London
contingents, was sandwiched between trips to the Bay Horse, with
Craig in tow, and the Queens Park Café, where three of the
Milngavie boys joined the fray. Although we made it to the ground
in earlier than ever, we missed the anthems due to the pie queue.
After our fortuitous 2-1 win we met up with Icelandic Bragi and
three of his pals, but we were so shattered, and cautious of burning
ourselves out, that we made our excuses and left the Iron Horse
in time for the 7.30pm train!
Back to top of page
The early night meant we up bright and early, and free of any fuzzy-headiness,
and it was back to the airport (with the same cabbie!). The airport
was relatively quiet of TA travellers, although we did stop for
a chat with Jimmy Black, who was waiting outside the still-closed
bar at 12:15pm. We strolled around and Helen was able to pick up
a travel rug-ish tartan shawl in preparation for the Baltic chill.
After picking up our bags and checking in for the Riga leg of the
flight, we made our way airside where we bumped into the Inverness
Boys (David, Allan and Scott had flown down on the earlier flight),
and David was able to fill us in on the details of Scott’s
misadventures the previous night. Clarkston Chris soon joined the
fray in the upstairs Tap & Spile bar at Heathrow, followed by
around 30 from the Heb Bar TA, including Buenos, Richie and TA Ealing
(Colin). This all made for quite a lively flight, but the BA stewardesses
took it all in very good spirits.
The Inverness Boys never made it quite as far the agreed meeting
point (The Amsterdama), but Chris, Helen and I met up with the Heb
party in Dickens. A parting of the ways came around 1am closing
time, where quite a few of the Heb guys set off in search of a strip
joint, whilst another few tagged along with us to A La – still
going strong and still accessed through an innocuous glass door.
After a chat about Bristol with Rob, it was back to our massive
room at the Konventa Seta and some sleep.
We had decided that in order to not waste the day, we would take
a bus tour of the city at midday – so it was up for breakfast
and then off to the bus station to get the tickets and stash the
bags in left luggage. Although I had been out the previous night
in just a ghillie and felt fine, Monday morning saw a fully-fledged
blizzard hit Riga, so the bus tour was even more attractive. We
were back in town in time for lunch in Tim McShane’s and a
quick beer next door in Alus Seta (where I managed to order something
with a load of lemon pith in. Well, either lemon pith, or an excited
barman), before heading back to the bus station where we met the
Inverness Boys and waited for the bus to set off.
The journey was uneventful enough, save for Paul managing to break
Chris’ phone before we had even reached the Riga city limits.
There was plenty of space, so Chris managed to get his seat to himself,
and we arrived in Riga around 9pm.
Back to top of page
I must have rang the City Gate hotel at least three times whilst
I was in Riga, just to remind them I would be arriving late so they
didn’t give my room away. When we arrived at Reception and
checked in, we were handed the key to Room 9. Five minutes later
we were back at reception – the rooms on the ground floor
were labelled 1-8, and the first floor started at 21. The Receptionist
looked at us like we were mad, and led us to a large, unmarked wooden
door halfway up the stairs – this opened up into what can
only be described as a suite, with a separate living and TV area,
and a huge bathroom. The room was not without flaws – it lacked
a toilet roll holder, a shower curtain (although, unlike every other
room in the hotel, we had an actual bath) and one of the blinds
was missing (this didn’t affect us as it was in the TV area).
The general consensus was that we were in the Manager’s room
– they had obviously moved heaven and earth to get us in!
We had a text message-arranged meet at Naktinis Vilkas planned
with Ally & Sue, who had also briefed Rich, but when we caught
a taxi out there all we could see was a sign for a “Sauna”
and a woman who wanted to charge us to get in. Given the name had
also changed, we reasoned this was out-of-date info and made our
way round to the Prie Parlamento (home to Ministerija in it’s
basement) for some pub-grub. A few text messages later, it turned
out we had been in the right place originally, so back round the
corner we went. The club was a bit of revelation, empty, but a revelation
nonetheless. The DJ was spinning heavy house tunes from the cockpit
of a MIG jet that had crashed into the dance floor, but the quieter
bar area had big velvet seats with lots of soviet imagery, and there
were mannequins of Lenin and “Uncle Joe” behind the
bar (and the staff were more than happy to let us climb over for
photos). A taxi then took us (less Rich and Chris) back into the
centre of town to The PUB, where the bedraggled remnants of the
TA that night were strewn throughout the back bar. After meeting
Wee Davie’s Shannon, Helen and I left at closing time and
popped into Brodvejus (aka “Broadway”) on the way back
to the hotel, where we were reunited with a dancing Chris and a
“tired and emotional” Rich.
The next day we were up pretty late, and rendezvoused with Ally
& Sue, and several of the London boys, back at the PUB for a
pizza lunch. Ewan was one of many on the CSA flights via Prague
that had arrived luggage-less, so he had got hold of a Soviet army
coat from a market to ward off the Baltic chill. A wee visit to
the Avilys brew pub (with it’s superb honey beer) and then
Helen and I were off over the river towards the Zalgiris stadium
for the U21 game. A busload from Kaunas included a substantial amount
of the Loony Alba contingent, and we met up with Craig and Kevin
in the spookily-named Antalya Bar on the outside wall of the stadium
(spooky, because I was wearing my “Highlander Bar, Antalya”
t-shirt at the time), before being turned out at 5pm (an hour before
kick-off) and heading to Po Grin Dis over the road. Despite leaving
in time for kick off, and despite Kevin having sorted out tickets
(even though this was an U21 game, some Scots didn’t get in
until half-time due to the queues at the ticket office!), the police
seemed determined to misdirect us, and we missed Kyle’s opener.
We managed to find each other in the stand – the last person
on the scene was Craig, who contrived to break a seat by stubbing
his toe. The game finished 2-1 in favour of Lithuania, including
a starring performance from a cheeky number 10 who stood and goaded
the Scotland fans after his equaliser, and a shamble refereeing
performance, and afterwards, the Kaunas contingent made their way
back by bus and taxi (Kellas had thought Kevin’s text message
that morning had been an April Fools joke!).
We got split up from the Nottingham boys, so headed back over the
road to the Po Na Gim with Peter from Welling, and after meeting
the Lithuanian Steven Pressley, we headed back to Avilys for more
honey beer and some food. A rendezvous with Gavin and Dave, and
some cherry beer (aka lager with red syrup). The PUB was too busy,
and Broadway was charging (only £2, but that’s 2 pints!),
so we found Bix, a rockers bar behind the Radisson SAS hotel. On
walking up to the bar, I was slapped heartily on the back by an
ageing skinhead rocker and handed a glass of Lithuanian “champagne”
to help celebrate the birthday of one of his friends. My next visit
to the bar brought another treat – a 75% ABV-strong double
shot of Lithuanian mead, served flaming on a silver platter with
the barmaid ringing a bicycle bell, much to the amusement of the
other customers. I only managed half of it before the straw melted
(because of the flames, obviously).
We did make it back into Broadway, where we witnessed Adam (aka
Winnie the Pooh) in full sharking mode, and bumped into Cary from
ETA, however the mead had well and truly kicked in by now, and whatever
remained of the evening swiftly became a blur.
Back to top of page
It was over to Gordon and Morag’s hotel (The Business Guest
House) for midday on Matchday. Despite getting a cab, he got lost
and we had to get dropped off 500 yards (and across a 6 lane highway)
away from our intended destination. Gordon had mentioned the possibility
of sharing a people carrier to Kaunas over lunch in Antalya, and
there was space for Ally & Sue on board as well. For “people-carrier”,
read “A-Team Van”, complete with blacked out windows
(Note to the conspiracy theorists – the REAL elite don’t
have email lists or ATAC clubs – you wouldn’t even know
we were there!). So, along with Dave C, a mad Georgian driver and
an Armenian navigator who later got us lost on the way to the ground,
we set off on the long, very straight, road to Kaunas.
Our journey was pretty uneventful – this was a good thing
considering Lithuanian drivers. A minibus organised by Scott Kelly
(who missed the trip due to a bad back) crashed en route (no serious
injuries, thankfully, but a few minor carry-out spillages!) –
Ewan, who had only just been reunited with his missing luggage,
then had to spend a couple of hours with the driver and the police.
Ewan’s trio of bad luck was when he arrived at his hotel in
Kaunas (that he had booked for himself and three others) only to
find out they had never heard of him. Thankfully, his bad luck ran
out when he rang me and I explained that Ally and I both had rooms
booked at the Best Western that we would not be using.
We were dropped in Kaunas’ Old Town square (which is pretty
much a long way from where everyone else was – Metropolis
bar, halfway up the biggest precinct any of us had ever seen), and
after a lunch stop in a Cowboy themed bar, we made our way down
the precinct. Metropolis was hoaching, but we found a seat in an
alcove and somehow ended up with three times as much beer as we
needed. A series of conversations with Kaunas-based LA members and
bedraggled Battlebus troops followed, before we elected to head
back down the way. We became spilt from Ally & Sue, and headed
off to a backstreet boozer (more of a café), where Joan,
Norrie and a few other reprobates had set up camp, along with an
industrial quantity of face-paint.
Back on the main road, and we popped in to Avilys (Kaunas branch)
for some sustenance, as I was worried that the potato pancakes I’d
“enjoyed” earlier (there’s a limit to how many
potato pancakes one man, even this man, can take) would fail to
keep me satisfied. Ally & Sue then joined us, and a few honey
beers later we headed back to the rendezvous point with the A-Team
van. A slow journey to the ground followed, not helped by the driver
and navigator not having a clue where to go (and obviously experiencing
difficulties in making themselves understood with the locals). After
parking up, we headed straight across to a very small bar, where
we secured a seat upstairs and I tucked into my cigar (previously,
Scotland had never lost when I had smoked a cigar). A few rocket
balloons out the window later (which confused the drunks below no
end), and it was off to the turnstiles around 45 minutes before
kick-off. Thankfully we negotiated the entrance without too much
worry, but horror stories later reached me of big difficulties befalling
a large number of supporters. Thankfully, I had already learned
the hard way, in Brussels and Riga, that an early arrival is often
a recipe for success!
The spartan turnstile facilities aside, the ground was pretty smart
by Eastern European standards, although a wee bit lopsided –
very similar to the Daugava stadium in Riga, but with an “end”
as well as a side stand, all in trademark Soviet architecture. What
were chronically lacking were toilet facilities – there was
a massive queue out of the back gate of the stadium leading down
stairs to a cluster of unlit portaloos, and the police were clamping
down on any al fresco relief. The brass band were on the concourse
playing rock’n’roll classics to an appreciative Tartan
army audience as I spotted Kevin high in the stands and we made
our way up, soon joined by Craig. The stand filled up as kick-off
approached, including one particular member of the TAMB community
who continually called Kevin “Tam” to his face, much
to his annoyance and our amusement. As the temperatures plummeted,
Helen became even more grateful for her wraparound travel rug, and
after a forgettable rendition of the anthem, kick-off, and a feast
of football was upon us.
The match was dire, rivalling the previous performance in Lithuania
in 1998 for lack of entertainment. It was pretty obvious that Vogts,
content to aim for the 4 points out of 6 that he had set as a target,
was playing for the draw – in light of the Lithuanians’
superb 1-1 result away to Germany a few days previous, this may
have seemed a sensible strategy to the more cautious. The plan came
unstuck in the final quarter of the game, when a Lithuanian striker
tumbled in the box from a seemingly innocuous challenge from Naysmith
– I was 150 yards away at the time, and despite writing this
2 months after the event, I have still not seen the incident on
TV. Lithuania duly scored from the spot, and despite a couple of
half-chances, the game was lost.
A strange atmosphere followed at the end of the match, as the police
kept us in our section for around 30 minutes, ostensibly for our
own protection. We milled around the concourse for a while with
some of the Loony Alba and Nottingham boys, in turns joking and
commiserating (with Norton I had to commiserate both on the result,
and on his trousers), but the atmosphere at the head of the crush
was turning a wee bit unsavoury, as a few fans took exception to
what most of us as a reasonable police decision. Anyway, after a
while we were on our way back to where the minibus was parked, and
then it was back to the privacy of our tinted glass transport, as
the streets teemed with celebrating locals waving flags out of car
windows. The journey back passed quite quickly, as we dozed for
most of it, and after being dropped off in front of the cathedral
none of us felt like going out (it was 2am already), so we all headed
back to our hotels.
After a substantial lie-in, and another close look at my badly
injured foot (I’ve never seen a blister pus so much is so
many directions!), we walked up Pylimo (named after the old city
wall) towards the KGB Museum, where we bumped into Peter, Davie,
Shannon and the rest of the Milngavie boys (Ally Jones, Colin, Sumo
and Gary). Inside the museum the reunion continued, with Rich and
Chris, Gavin and Dave and the Inverness Boys all knocking around,
however by the time we had gone round it was just Helen and I and
the Milngavie posse, so we decided to take in a bit of local backstreet
colour. The first pub was a strange affair, with a collection of
Lithuanian drunks and “The Count” behind the bar –
this became even more surreal when a full military band trooped
through the pub, instruments and all. Then followed a café,
where we were served by what can only be described as a hooker in
carpet slippers, the Aeroflot bar, with a Russian barmaid who caused
quite a stir, and another unnamed place, where Gary’s “vodka
& coke” left no room in the tumbler for any coke.
The rendezvous in the PUB was for 8pm, and we settled in for some
food, and some very, very bad beer. With the Milngavie Boys now
settled in for the night, and Helen and I in no mood to be left
drinking slops, we bid our farewells and we headed off to find some
better beer. A brief stop in a recommended pub/pizzeria, where the
gift of a pennant was reciprocated with a coolbag, and then off
to The Globe – a hotel bar, where a friendly Welshman was
deep in conversation with two Scots (who cannily enough were staying
in a hostel over the road whilst enjoying the hotel’s facilities!).
The night finished off in the civilised surroundings of Avilys (as
you’ve probably guessed, I took quite a liking to the honey
beer) – this time it was Susan’s turn to receive an
unusual gift: a NATA badge was exchanged for a bottle of Lithuanian
champagne.
Back to top of page
We were up early on the Friday for the 10am bus to Riga. Davie
and Shannon were already at the bus stop, and Shannon had managed
to secure a bag of grapes from the bus station grocery shop (sensibly,
Davie had declined the chance to eat fresh fruit on a 5 hour coach
journey!), and Chris arrived soon after. A few other Scots were
on the bus, but the slept for most of the journey. The only occurrence
of note was the 90-minute delay at the border, where Shannon grew
continually worried that, as an Australian passport holder, she
should have had a visa. I had phoned the embassy earlier that morning
for her, but as the person who answered the phone didn’t fully
speak English, and could have been the cleaner for all I knew, so
the future didn’t look too bright. Eventually, a surly border
came on the bus clutching a blue passport (same colour as Shannon’s)
and called a man off the bus, before we drove onwards to Riga.
Upon alighting at Riga Autotoosta, Davie and Shannon set off to
find their hotel room, Chris set off for the Radisson and Helen
and I headed back to the Konventa Seta, where we had a “suite”
to look forward to (and a bargain at £85 a night). This turned
out to be a mini-apartment in a separate building, with a massive
living room, and even a fitted kitchen sink and cooker. After a
wee nap in our luxurious surroundings, it was out and off to our
7pm rendezvous at the Skyline Bar of the Reval Latvija Hotel.
Chris was already waiting for us, and was complaining about having
to pay £4 a pint – I don’t why, as our worked
out at £1.40 each (he must have a gullible face!). Davie and
Shannon followed soon after, and following a couple of beers it
was off to Alus Seta for some food. Alus Seta was packed, even busier
than our previous weekend visit when Scotland were in town in 2000.
We managed to squeeze onto a table by the door, and filled up on
ridiculously cheap Latvian food. A pub-crawl ensued, with a visit
to the superb Runcis (like something out of Twin Peaks), the pool
bar Klondaika (which has transformed from a dive into a techno bar
complete with young, under-dressed Russian teenagers out on the
town), Paddy Whelans (opposite Dickens), rounded off with a visit
to the incomparable A La.
A well-deserved lie-in followed on the Saturday – so late,
we had a knock on the door from the cleaner. After opening the door
to see an absolutely stunning girl in a green pinny (a sign of a
truly great hotel!), I went back to bed regretting not inviting
her in! When we did surface, we only made it as far as the Philharmonic
Square before we had laden ourselves down with shopping (pictures
and Latvian champagne), so – via a quick trip up St Peter’s
church spire – it was back to the hotel room to lighten the
load. On the absolute off chance there was a league game on, we
took a cab out to the Skonto stadium – no luck, so we popped
into FC Barcelona (so named as Skonto wear blue and red) for a drink
and a bite to eat. A taxi took us back into central Riga, and we
headed for the Zeppelin markets (not really any souvenirs, more
for locals), then walked from there along the riverside into the
Old Town. After several attempts, we finally found a café
that looked open and welcoming down a back street near the Arsenal,
and after a warming hot chocolate, it was out into what was now
a full-blown blizzard. Walking into the face of the blizzard quickly
lost its appeal, so a wee diversion into Rigas Balzams Bars followed,
where a couple of cocktails were soon ordered – Helen took
the sensible route of a hot Balsam toddy, whilst I plumped for altogether
more feminine Balsam Ice Cream. These quickly induced sleepiness,
so back to the ranch for another doze before our evening dinner
date.
We had agreed to meet up with Davie and Shannon at Staburags, a
Latvian restaurant slightly out of the centre, but right next to
their hotel. Soon after arriving, we were befriended by a mad Russian
tatooist called Alexander (he gave me his card), who insisted on
asking Shannon’s permission before speaking to me! Food was
soon ordered (yet more potato pancakes!), and Shannon’s knuckle
of pork almost tipped the table up on it’s own. The meal was
finished off with a glass of neat Balsam for Davie and myself, and
then it was back into town, after an abortive attempt to find another
traditional place. Chris had already made his excuses for not coming
out on the Saturday, and said he would wait for the Inverness Boys
arriving, however this turned out to be much later than planned
due to some wild texted claims of unspeakable acts with a pizza
waitress.
Central Riga was a real winter wonderland when we stepped out of
the taxi, and after dodging the snowball throwing neds, we made
our way to Melnais Kakis (disappointing) and Zeppelin (a bar on
the site of a restaurant Helen and I had been to previously), which
brewed it’s own beer. We had heard of a bar called the Pupu
Lounge, and asked the Zeppelin barman (Ivor – a very friendly
chap) for directions – to his credit he tried to dissuade
us, but gave us the info nonetheless. After we found it and paid
our £3 to get in, we could see why – the write-up in
Riga In Your Pocket was a bit on the rose-coloured side. After sticking
it, begrudgingly, for one drink (bottled, of course), we headed
down the road to Amsterdama for a last drink before bidding farewell
to Davie and Shannon as they continued their world tour of Eastern
Europe.
All that now remained was to catch our late-morning flight on the
Sunday. A leisurely sit-down in the bathroom that morning was slightly
disturbed by the mention of the flight time as 0740 in Riga In Your
Pocket, and the rest of the packing and taxi ride out was a little
quiet (I hadn’t wanted to terrify Helen!). Of course, this
turned out to be just another case of worrying about nothing –
everything was fine and the flight was as stated on our booking
confirmation. The Inverness Boys and Chris were already airside
(and Scott and Allan were already on the beers) – we joined
them just as David was changing his boxers for a new pair (for some
unexplained reason). We then had to sit patiently on the runway
as the plane was literally hosed down (by a wee guy on the back
of a truck) from back to front with de-icer fluid, which obviously
cheered us up no end, and then we were up, up and away, free to
reflect on another 3 points lost.
Back to top of page
|
In a departure from our usual holiday planning, when we heard the
Norway friendly was a goer, we decided to treat it with caution
and, as a damage-limitation exercise, decided on spending only two
days in Oslo. Of course, we then ramped up the cost by plumping
for spending the subsequent bank holiday weekend in Copenhagen,
with a cabin on the boat between the two capitals.
The belated departure led to us sharing a flight with several TA
luminaries, including Will, Arthur, Charlie Docherty, Ewan (on his
last trip before his round-the-world trip) and the “Club Class
Chuckle Brothers”: Kevin and Craig were even more smug than
normal at their free upgrade, and Craig even turned up in a blazer,
in anticipation of free drinks and canapés in the lounge.
Donnelly had other ideas, however, and was in a pair of shorts hawking
his Loony Alba rain jackets.
The flight passed without incident, and we touched down in the
wood-panelled surrounds of Gardermoen airport – the real Oslo
international, linked to the city centre by a 20-minute high-speed
train. (Campbell “Two Flights” Burton was one of many
who had flown Ryan Air to Torp, and then suffered the near-two-hour
bus journey. When he heard of a high-speed train link, he though
“just the job”, until he turned up in the wrong airport
on the way home and missed his flight, getting home 24 hours later
and £200 lighter!).
After some initial confusion outside the railway station, we found
our hotel (our bedroom overlooked the platforms!), and after checking
in (and having a couple of cheeky ports from our duty free stash)
it was off to the SAS Radisson bar to meet Kevin and Craig. After
picking up a bemused Jim Brown in the downstairs Irish bar (“I’ve
been waiting here for an hour and there’s no sign of the b*stards!”)
it was up to the breathtaking top floor bar for a pear cider session.
The debate on whether to walk or catch a cab to Tam Coyle’s
birthday meal was settled by the rain starting, although we did
end up with a mini-tour of the residential backstreets after the
cabbie failed to understand what street we wanted.
The meal had been arranged by Don Lawson (of Johnny Foxes’
bar in Inverness), and was in the sister restaurant to The Dubliner
pub – mussels and beef (or salad and veggie stuff for Susan
and I). We thought we were taking the safe option by taking seats
towards the back near Ally and Sue, only to have the tranquillity
shattered when the birthday boy pulled up a chair. I continued my
dalliance with fish by eating some mussels (“Don’t look
at it – just put in your mouth!”), and a round of songs,
comedy and speeches followed the food.
We slipped away at an opportune moment and made our way up to Bohemen
– a Valerenga fans bar that some of Craig’s Chelsea
pals had tipped us off about. Busy, but not too packed, we settled
into the museum-like interior. Surely there aren’t many places
in the world where you can see Bologna, Sao Paulo and Torquay scarves
jostling for space on the same wall? Unfortunately, the bar shut
quite quickly, and everyone fell out into the night streets to see
what downtown Oslo could offer in the way of after-hours libation
on a Tuesday night. A few of us (several London boys, Jim Brown
and Sid from ETA) stumbled across So What, a grungey pub/club down
an alleyway. We settled in for a drink as a variety of intellectual
jakies and punks proceeded to abuse us (“Football is for low
class people!”). Home at 3am (the bar was still open) to a
cup-a-soup and a warm bed!
A wee lie in on the matchday was followed by a yomp across town
to pick up the tickets from the SFA’s hotel (the other Radisson),
and a quick chat with Donny, Shambles and Marky Adams. Wanting to
minimise beer expenditure (and the fact that Ringnes is probably
the worst lager known to man!), we then opted for an open-top bus
tour of the city – this only turned out to be a sure-fire
way to waste £16 each. A quick port stop at the hotel, followed
by a beer in the Cathedral awning and a desperate struggle to by
antacid medicine at a Norwegian chemist, and on to Bohemen. Despite
a bouncer at the door (stopping people going out with beer, but
no control over how many went in!), the place was heaving. We found
what was a small enclave near the bar, and got talking to, amongst
others, Dave The Bankie, Campbell, Sheffield John and Tam McTurk
and Jane, who I would be meeting again in Copenhagen that weekend
to go to the Brøndby v FC København derby. As the
walls closed in, I made a dive for the door, and after gathering
the troops (well, Kellas, Craig, Kevin, Ally, Sue and Yan in a fetching
pair of shorts) we headed for the tube to the ground.
A couple of Baileys miniatures were consumed on the tube out (I
was playing catch-up here!), and luckily we found that the Dolly
Dimples pizzeria at the ground was serving beer. A jug and a table
were quickly procured, and there was time for a leisurely couple
of pints before strolling round to join the queue for the away end.
The police had taken it on themselves to hand-search everyone, and
were trying to deny entry to big flags, but the slow-moving queue
was kept entertained by a fat Norwegian skinhead who was dancing
and pulling his trousers down to a chorus of good-humoured abuse
from the Tartan Army. Once inside the ground, we fell in with more
of the Loony Alba crew.
The game itself was not much of spectacle – Scotland seemed
solid enough at the back (one or two mistakes notwithstanding) to
deal with the likes of Carew, however we offered little going forward
(and none of us could figure out it was in fact Don Hutchison up
front!). Darren Fletcher made an impressive enough debut, but after
some of the friendly results we have endured under Berti, it’s
hard not to be happy with a 0-0 draw. In fact, the most exciting
thing to happen during the game was the rocket balloons.
After the game, the queue for the train station platform was beyond
a joke – Kellas suggested we try and see if the pizzeria was
still serving beer. Our luck was in, so we settled down for some
£5 pints to let the queue die down. As we headed back into
town, we opted to try the area by the City Hall for a bevvy, although
we lost two of our number when Jenny dragged Grant back to the hotel.
We headed for Dr Jekyll’s Sports Bar, an ambitious bar just
south of the main street, and this promptly claimed the record for
the most expensive bevvy of the trip – 72 Norwegian Kroner
for a Guinness (around £6.50). After a couple of drinks, and
a bankruptcy declaration, it was back to the ranch for another cup-a-soup
and a kip.
The next day Helen was suffering a wee bit, but we rallied to check
out of the hotel, stashing the bags in the left luggage room. A
quick visit to football shops (one in the shopping centre, and the
one opposite Bohemen) and some takeaway pizza slices and it was
down to the harbour to join the “Tartan Navy” cruise.
This gave us a chance to meet Paul Baker and his son Jamie for the
first time – we knew they were on the ferry back with us that
night. The cruise itself was pretty basic – pleasant enough
but not groundbreaking, and the main entertainment was provided
by a bag of salted cod snacks – possibly the fishiest, saltiest
thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. A swift visit to Peppes Pizza
(and the biggest glass of coke in the world) followed, before panicking
about not leaving enough time to check in for the ferry and then
jogging back to the hotel.
We checked in for the Copenhagen ferry without a hiccup, and we
were well impressed with our “Commodore” cabin –
double bed, decent sized window, and free mini bar. We went up on
deck to watch the boat sail from the Oslo quayside, and when we
had made it back through the gale to our cabin, a chilled bottle
of DFDS sparkling wine was waiting for us. We spent the next hour
or so polishing this off, before making our way down to the bar.
We had reservations about the expense of drinks (captive audience
and all that), so I almost fainted when I found out it was only
£2.50 a pint (or bottle of pear cider). We settled down and
soon ended up in conversation with Gus and Grant from Copenhagen,
and Roger from Edinburgh (who was on his way to see his Lithuanian
fiancée). As the evening went on, it was becoming more and
more obvious that not everyone in the bar had the same level of
tolerance (Norwegians aren’t used to drinking due to the high
cost), and pretty soon it was a case of stepping over bodies to
get to the bar. A Norwegian handball team (both men and women’s
sections) were on their way to a game, and whilst the guys engaged
us in serious and informed conversation about football (“Are
you a Celtic or a Dundee United fan?”), the girls flocked
around us because of the kilts (and the remote possibility of being
bought a drink). In between all this, we made time to chat to Robbie,
Michael and Bob (a Scot, and Irishman and an Icelandic guy) who
were staying in Oslo but hitting Copenhagen for the cheaper weekend
bevvy. The evening also involved a visit to the nightclub (complete
with a John Cleese look-alike getting on down) and the disco (strangely
a different place), before we retired to our cabin, leaving Grant
and Gus at the bar.
We made it up for breakfast, and then sat around for a while as
the boat docked, and loads of people filled up the stairways and
halls. We quickly got our bearings, and still feeling like we were
at sea, we swayed towards a metro station, where we managed to break
the ticket machine and had to be helped out by the inspector. Our
hotel could scarcely have been closer to Central Station, and we
were happy to be able to check into our room at 11am. We planned
to take an open-top bus tour of the city, then go and see the Parken
Stadium (a spot of reconnaissance) before having a siesta and hitting
Copenhagen’s notoriously late nightlife. Well, that was the
plan anyway. In contrast to Oslo, the bus tour was genuinely interesting,
and took in just about all of the sights. We then made our way out
to the eastern part of the city centre and up to Parken. The Danish
national stadium (and FCK’s home ground) is Scandinavia’s
biggest – similar to Ibrox in it’s box-like structure,
and situated in the corner of a large city park, sandwiched between
two main roads (Østerallee and Østerbrogade), which
are in turn close to a small urban centre (Trianglen) with shops
and resturants. We walked up Østerallee, and around the ground
(taking in the superb FCK shop) – at the back, across a small
car park, is a another stadium belonging to BK Skøjld (and
shared by B93) with a small and basic clubhouse. We partook in a
small beer here, and then another in Parken’s very swish Stadium
Café, before heading round to Osterbrogade, the intention
being to check for any decent pubs ahead of any potential Scotland
games (spookily, a few weeks later, the DBU announced the 28th April
game on it’s website). The only non-restaurant pub we could
find was McGrath’s Irish Pub, so I fought my usual impulses,
and we headed in, but only for a half, mind! After sitting down
with my half of Tuborg, we got talking to the landlady – was
I here for the FCK-Rangers game on the Wednesday? I explained how
I was on way back from Oslo, and that she may want to take down
the tricolour flag and Celtic scarf ahead of Wednesday – and
would she like a Scotland France 98 scarf in it’s place? Well,
that was it – three hours and many rounds of free drinks (and
some “staff” polo shirts later”) and pidgin English
conversations (her husband Nils was half-Scottish, but didn’t
speak much English at all) later, we staggered out of the place
having bid our farewells. We headed for a recommended local restaurant
called Parnas, where I had fish and Helen had some kind of pork
crackling (against her better judgement). An abortive attempt at
another beer followed, before we headed back for that siesta (it
was now around 11pm), only to fall comatose and not make it back
out...
… which was not necessarily a bad thing, as we had a 1pm
rendezvous with Tam and Jane the next day, and somehow had to locate
Tam’s flat. After a breakfast stop in a bakery, we sat and
ate our cakes on the benches in front of the Town Hall, watching
some skinhead Brøndby fans with suspicion (with me glad my
FCK scarf was still in my bag). We found Tam’s flat with not
too many problems – it’s an absolutely gorgeous medieval
merchants house overlooking a peaceful square, and then we were
back out to meet with Tam’s pals. I have an old “European
Football: A Fans Handbook” rough guide (from around 1999)
that details most major European cities, and the Ultra Culture section
talks about the notable groups of fans at the big clubs –
Tam had been chuckling away when I showed him the bit about FCK
and the “Cooligans” – I didn’t realise that
he and his mates were members of this crowd, so it was quite humbling
to be made so welcome by everyone, including Michael from Greenland,
Nick and his girlfriend Tania. We had a couple at the Drop Inn before
the Maxi-Taxi pulled up to drive us to the suburb of Brøndby.
We got to the ground a good couple of hours before kick-off, and
after a quick browse of the mobile Super-Shoppen, we headed in for
a beer. This was the first major difference that struck about Danish
league football, and bear in mind we were at the biggest league
game there is – there was a choice of full strength beers,
and although they were served in the familiar flimsy plastic glasses,
they have these great cardboard contraptions that fold up so you
can carry 5 pints safely in each hand up on the terrace. We enjoyed
several beers before kick-off, and when the inevitable happened
and nature took it’s toll, the stewards behind us were on
hand to give us help up to the gantry where additional toilets were
located. The stewards had also helped some of the FCK fans to put
up their banners before the match. The game kicked off to a sea
of blue and yellow behind the far goal, and was entertaining enough,
with a lot of midfield play. FCK broke the deadlock midway through
the first half by springing the Brøndby defence so effectively,
and it turned out to be the sole goal of the match. To a constant
soundtrack of singing (as had been the case throughout), including
TA favourites such as “Everywhere We Go” and “We’ll
Be Coming”, and the sublime “We pay for your methadone”
(in Danish – had to be translated for us!), the FCK team was
cheered off the park and the fans filed out.
There had been some confusion over whether our cabbie would be
back for us, as he was a self-confessed Brøndby fan, but
he was waiting right where we expected him to be. The road into
town seemed much longer, and after a while we arrived at the Cooligan
pub – Sohesten. My memories of the place were a wee bit muddled,
it was quite dark inside and had a dog the size of a shire horse
running about. I was introduced to several more FCK fans, including
American Dane Todd, and was shown Tam’s corner, with Thistle
memorabilia and some articles about his daughter. By now, Nick,
who had been cracking jokes all day, was ribbing Michael and others
about missing the recent trip to Ibrox – “Even my imaginary
friend Harry was there!” After more than a few bevvies, it
was off into town to try and get something to eat, and cabs were
hailed to take us to the Dubliner.
The place was stowed out, with a British Navy ship in dock on exercises
and a large number of sailors (who, it has to be said, were all
surprisingly friendly) out on the town. We were lucky enough to
find some tables outside, and were joined by Andy Manson and Estelle,
who were also on their way back from Oslo and were staying at Tam’s.
After some fish and chips, and another beer inside, where we bumped
into the three lads from the ferry (Robbie, Bob and Michael), Helen
and I had to admit defeat (my stomach was in agony after several
days of pear cider and lager) and made our excuses and left. Thankfully
I had taken the FCK scarf off for the walk down Strøget,
as we managed to pass by a crowd of Brøndby neds peacefully.
Bolstered by an industrial amount of Rennie and some Zantac, we
were up and out to the Carlsberg (and Tuborg) brewery to the west
of the centre. The S-Tog (like a German Schnell-Bahn local train)
station is the wrong side for the Visitor Centre, but the walk around
the wall brought us through the famous ornate Elephant Gate. The
tour itself is very well laid out, and unlike the Beck’s Brewery,
is self-guided, so you can go at your own pace. Two beers are also
included at the end, as well as a visit to the well-stocked (and
pretty cheap) souvenir shop. Rather than walk all the way back round
(it was a hot day!), we caught a bus straight to Nyhavn, where we
took one of the DFDS Canal Tour boats. The cruise was well worth
it, but a little scary at times, having to duck to avoid being decapitated
by low bridges and the like!
After the boat tour, we had a quick (and pricey) beer in Fisken,
before walking round to find the Welsh Pub (well, have you ever
been in one? Apart from in Wales) Mick & Blodwyn’s, only
to find it closed on Sundays. The Dubliner was yet again too busy
(the Arsenal game was on), so we found a pizzeria for an early dinner.
Italiano restaurant is a lovely and popular pizzeria just off Strøget
opposite a church, and I opted for the anchovy pizza (still weaning
myself back on to fish), which was a wee bit on the salty side!
We then stumbled across McGinty’s pub in Vester Vølgade
– a very pleasant Scottish-owned traditional pub, just a few
steps north of City Hall Square, but one that doesn’t make
a real song and dance about itself. The pub was only open for the
Sky game, so we finished up and headed back out. Unfortunately,
my salty guts were now getting a wee bit restless, so a quick pit
stop back at the hotel was needed, before heading to Tivoli Gardens
– a mini theme park right in the centre of town. We had a
wee walk around, and a beer in a wee alley full of little bars and
restaurants, before Helen persuaded me to go on some of the more
tame rides. The first one – Minen – was a pleasant enough
log flume ride through a Dragon’s cave (without getting too
wet), however Valhalla Børgen was a different proposition
altogether. Coming across as a kind of ghost train, it turns into
a mental ride that turns you fully upside down (without actually
feeling it). After that, some more liquid refreshment was needed
– we were lucky enough to be in town for the Ølfestival
in Tivoli. Unfortunately, this seemed mostly to consist of Carlsberg
products, and Belgian Trappist beers, neither of which would sooth
my once-again painful stomach, so I stuck mostly to the Kriek (Belgian
cherry beer – one for the ladies, usually). There was just
time to catch the Illuminations show in the Tivoli lake before heading
back to pack and get some kip before our flight home the next morning
(which ended up 4 hours late anyway!). Spookily enough, I couldn’t
help get the feeling that we would be back quite soon with Scotland!
Back to top of page
|
After the success (holiday-wise, rather than result-wise) of our
trip to Lithuania, hot on the heels of the Iceland home match, we
decided to mirror this for the trip to Germany. Given our love of
Germany, and the fact that the Ruhrgebiet would be (a) full to the
brim with Tartan Army, and (b) not the best place in Germany to
spend a whole week, we decided on a three-city tour.
This worked in well with our flights to Glasgow on the preceding
weekend for the Faroes game: we left the car at Gatwick and flew
up on the Friday night, watched Scotland scrape a win against a
brave Faeroese side, and took an early night, then Glasgow to Heathrow,
followed by Heathrow to Hamburg, where we were a wee bit surprised
to be the only Tartan Army on the plane. The plan was to spend two
nights in Hamburg, two in Dortmund, and then finish off the trip
with three nights in Munich.
Back to top of page
We arrived in Hamburg on the Sunday night, and made our way by
bus and S-Bahn to the St Pauli Landing station, which was overlooked
by our hotel – the imposing Hotel Hafnia. After eventually
finding the front door and checking in, we were more than happy
to have a harbour view. A quick bite of fish and a couple of beers
in the cosy, tavern-like hotel bar, followed by another beer in
the eighth-floor tower bar, and then it was out for a stroll on
the Reeperbahn. The glitzy, seedy area is not what I was expecting
– it seemed far safer, although some of the drunker sailors
did add a slight air of menace (not that we felt threatened). I’ve
never seen such aggressive working girls, mind – some of them
literally had prospective punters by the throat as they propositioned
them – I was quite glad to be walking with Helen! A couple
of beers followed in a Sports Bar in Grosse Freiheit (the street
the Beatles made famous), and around the corner on the Reeperbahn
itself, and then it was back to the digs.
We got up at a reasonable time, keen to see some sights, and to
get our tickets for the following day’s train to Dortmund.
We opted for a combined ticket on the open-top bus and harbour tour,
and despite feeling like obvious tourists, really enjoyed it. The
harbour isn’t particularly picturesque (it’s not an
open sea harbour – Hamburg is several miles inland on the
River Elbe), but is very interesting, and is certainly still very
busy. We then made our way into the centre of town and spent a good
30 minutes trying to negotiate the queues at the Hauptbanhof ticket
office, before heading back out to St Pauli to check out the Millentor.
The Millentor Stadium, home to St Pauli, is pretty central –
a mere stone’s throw from the city end of the Reeperbahn across
a big dusty car park (used for beer festivals and the like). The
ground is pretty run-down, but the commercial operation is very
slick, which suited us, but we found out later has started to drive
away some of the club’s more alternative fans (towards an
even lower league side – Altona ’93). We wanted to get
a drink in the clubhouse, and ended up doing our usual – trying
a promising looking door, before eventually finding an unlit room
with a bar and one old guy drinking coffee. Thankfully, the place
was open, so we took up seats at the bar and admired the pennant
collection behind the bar: a gift of a NATA pennant was reciprocated
with some stickers, and a few minutes later with a St Pauli pennant
(freshly obtained from the club shop). We then wandered around the
backstreets of the St Pauli/Reeperbahn area for a few hours, and
chanced upon a couple of decent bars, before nipping back to the
hotel to freshen up and drop off our purchases.
Neither of us were particularly up for a big night, so we ended
up just having a quiet few around the Schanzenviertel area, and
getting an early night. All went well until 7am the next morning,
when we were both woken by the sound of a military brass band. After
a little initial confusion (we were on the 5th floor of a posh hotel,
looking down a cliff towards the harbour), I looked out of the window
and saw a Brazilian Navy boat (we’d seen it on our harbour
boat tour the previous day) setting sail to a musical accompaniment.
Back to top of page
We were at Hamburg Hauptbanhof in good time, and had pizza slices
for breakfast before making our way down to the platform. Against
all anecdotal evidence, the train was actually late (albeit 10 minutes
or so), and we seemed to find ourselves in the midst of dozens of
German OAPs. Despite them shouting at everyone else in the carriage
to move, somehow they left us alone, and the train set off, first
for Bremen and then down to the Ruhr valley. The train eventually
pulled in to Dortmund around an hour late, which didn’t leave
us too much time to join up with the Loony Alba coach for the trip
to the Under-21s game. A swift taxi ride to our hotel, on the outskirts
of the city, but very handy for the Westfalenstadion, and another
cab back into town shortly after left us time for a quick beer (and
to buy a carry out for the bus), and we were off. In addition to
most of the LA party, Ally & Sue and a few others were jumping
a lift to the game.
The driver found Ahlen quickly enough, but dropped us off around
10 minutes from the ground, and we were left to find somewhere to
spend the 3 or so hours until kick-off. The first licensed place
we found was a small, white-tiled pizzeria, so a few of us (Ally,
Sue, Craig, Gavin, Helen and me) grabbed the last two tables and
ordered some beer and food, thinking we could move on somewhere
else after that. The relentless stream of fellow fans coming back
from the “centre” confirmed that options were pretty
thin on the ground, so we opted to stay put (despite the dwindling
alcohol supplies in the place). It turned out there were a couple
of other options, most strangely a tapas bar that Kevin, Simon and
some of the others had found.
We got to the ground in what we thought was good time, only to
be confronted by huge queues. Eventually, after brass-necking it
in what everyone thought was the “ticket-only” queue,
we made it in with no time to spare. The crowd must have been near
capacity, and a decent number of Scots (maybe 1,500) had made it
in in pretty good voice. It turned out we had chosen to stand next
to the Ahlen Ultras, a group of around 20 young lads, one or two
of whom looked genuinely scary, whilst the rest looked about 12.
All a very genial atmosphere, and few in the ground could believe
that Scotland escaped with a 1-0 victory, given the pressure heaped
on the defence and goalkeeper right up to the final whistle.
We caught the bus, which had thankfully been moved much closer,
in good spirits, and finished the carry out on the journey home.
Getting back to Dortmund was a bit of an anti-climax, as many decent
looking pubs were shut, and the streets were filled with vomiting,
swaying footsoldiers, and those who were trying to get back to neighbouring
towns. We eventually found an open, and popular bar, and stayed
for a couple, getting a cab back to the hotel around 1am.
The next morning, when we realised just how close we were to the
ground when we could see the yellow meccano set stand rising above
the surrounding buildings and trees. We had a midday rendezvous
with Ally and Sue, and on our way from the hotel to the metro, we
spotted a promising looking wee bar just next door. At the main
square, just by the tube station in the centre, we spotted the Milngavie
Tartan Army’s flag in prime position, and Sumo guarding it
whilst the others (Fraser, Colin, Peter and Ally) got hold of a
carry out. As we were running slightly late, we let Sumo know where
we going (the Hövels Hausbrauerei), and set off for some beer
and food. We met Ally and Sue on the way, and were soon joined by
Kevin, Gavin and Kev’s Austrian pal Robert (who we had met
before in Lithuania). We had managed to get a table in the huge,
but ridiculously popular Hövels, but were told it was reserved
from 4pm onwards. No problem, we thought – it’s only
half-twelve. Three hours later, they’d opened up a new room
for us downstairs! In the meantime, Raz, Brian, Helmut and the rest
of the extended Worthing Tartan Army came and went, as did Scott
Paterson, Tam Coyle and many others. Ally and Sue had made their
excuses and left, whereas the Milngavie boys had suffered enough
in the rain, and had made their way in, via a 2-mile detour courtesy
of Peter’s navigational skills. We’d also been joined
Craig, his old University pal Ally Ewan, and Ally’s wife Elaine.
We’d already decided that getting out near the ground early-on
was the way forward (we were right by all accounts – just
an hour after we left the metro was chaos), so we upped and decamped
to that wee bar we’d seen next to our hotel. As the ten or
so of us walked in, we must have doubled the clientele and completely
filled the place at the same time: we took seats around the bar
as Craig made his way hurriedly to the gents. “No, no! Not
that way – that is my bedroom” shouted the “mature”
barmaid as Craig. “Okay, give me a minute or two and I’ll
see you in there” came the reply. It wasn’t long before
the Milngavie boys were making full use of the newly fired-up hot
dog stand out the front, and we were moving onto the Schnapps. After
drinking the bar dry of “Dirty Harrys” (a nice, liquorice
flavoured number, weighing in at a mere 20%), there was no option
but the dreaded Jagermeister. All the while, we were prevented from
having more than one beer in front of us at a time, as the place
was already drastically short of glasses, and the already mature
barmaid was forced to co-opt her elderly mother into service, as
yet more and more people squeezed in, and she waved her hands to
indicate there was nothing she could do until people started drinking
up! A cracking atmosphere developed, with the whole bar joining
in a rendition of “Ein Berti Vogts”, although the barmaid
was less than impressed when a stray rocket balloon ended up behind
the bar.
After a thoroughly enjoyable few hours (looking back, Germany has
to be one of my favourite pre-match warm-ups), we made our way to
the ground in what we thought was plenty of time: it was only a
15 minute walk away. When we found our turnstiles, we were confronted
by snaking queues for the Scotland end. Things weren’t looking
good, but somehow we found ourselves in a much shorter queue at
a less used turnstile, and we were in. The trek was far from over,
as we climbed and climbed, only to eventually find ourselves in
the second-back row of the entire stadium, behind the goal line
at the side (i.e. if we looked forward, we looked down on the Scottish
fans behind the goal) – one of the strangest views I’ve
ever experienced. Ally and Elaine were just the other side of a
small fence, and Ally & Sue were 20 yards to our left (they
joined us at half-time to escape the moaning of one of their previous
neighbouring fans). The game was watched, and lost, and we were
blissfully unaware of the media backlash to Christian Dailly’s
outburst (although we did start hearing murmurs the next morning)
as we made our way out through the crowds. My one abiding memory
of the game was the endless trip to the toilet at half-time, someone
speaking to me, and me replying “Der fussball paaarrrrttyyyyy!
Ist gut, ja?”, only for the guy to turn to his mate, shrug,
and say “another German in a kilt – there’s dozens
of them!”
After swimming against the human tide for ages, we (Ally &
Sue, Ally & Elaine, Helen and me) eventually found our way back
to the underpass leading to the wee bar, only to find it shut (probably
drank dry!). No problem, we thought, and popped into our hotel –
the queue for the bar was almost out of the door! Downhearted, and
thirsty, we wandered down the road until we spotted salvation –
a pizzeria. A couple of beers and a pizza later, and plans were
made to meet up with Ally and Elaine in Munich the following night
(they were actually catching a train at 2am that night/Thursday
morning). Off to bed for us, only to wake up in a cold sweat around
6am with a burning desire to double-check our flight arrangements
– I knew it was at some point that afternoon after 2pm. What
I found was actually two times on two separate emails – the
first said 2.30pm, the second 3.30pm, along with more detail –
basically, “please return your flight tickets to us with 48
hours so they can be reissued with the correct details on. Failure
to do this will result in cancellation”. A quick check of
the flight tickets revealed they were still for the original times
– in fact, the first time I’d read the “small
print” about the time change was that very moment, and a dreadful
realisation dawned on me. Not what you need for a hangover, really.
Back to top of page
After a few more hours of bad dreams and cold sweats, we woke up
and I broke the news to Helen. Thankfully, there was a clear fall-back
option – there were regular fast trains between Dusseldorf
Airport and Munich (albeit at three times the price of our Deutsche
BA flight), so all was not lost. Anyway, we decided our first strategy
would be to simply turn up at the airport for the original flight
time and claim that the second email.
There were plenty of Tartan Army milling around Dortmund railway
station on their ways to various connections and further adventures
(Pete and Mac on their way to Amsterdam, Carey off to Prague), and
we caught the next train to Dusseldorf Flughafen. Some trains do
this journey in typical Die Bahn comfort and speed – 30 minutes
or so with padded seats and plentiful toilet facilities. Unfortunately,
ours was a local S-Bahn, clocking in at almost 90 minutes for the
journey, by the end of which the uncertainty on what would happen
next was beginning to take it’s toll. Thankfully, and unbelievably,
the woman at the enquiries desk just apologised for the mix-up and
knocked out a new ticket – no problems!
There were a few other Scots on the flight - possibly even the
ones who had spoken to me in the stadium toilets, as they tried
to engage me in German conversation at one point (despite the kilt),
but we didn’t see them again after Munich airport. We made
our way into town, and to the Le Meridien Hotel by the Hauptbanhof,
with an arrangement to meet Ally and Elaine in the Hofbrauhaus around
8pm. We were out pretty sharp-ish, and were planning on finding
something to eat, yet every promising establishment was packed to
the gunnels. After a fruitless search, we reasoned the only way
to still be on time would be to bite the bullet and try and get
fed at the Hofbrauhaus itself. Despite the downstairs hall being
rammed with Australian tourists, there was sanctuary upstairs in
the wee restaurant bit – ideal for us, given our need for
food. Ally and Elaine found us quite easily, and the only drawback
of the whole thing was that Masses (1 litre measures) were not available
in this civilised section of the beer hall. After eating and several
beers, and reasoning the crowds downstairs should have thinned,
we resolved to go down and experience the madness (not the first
time for Helen and I, after our previous visit in May 2003). We
eventually found a table towards the back, next to some older men
who claimed to be Schalke fans who had attended the game the night
before in Dortmund, and had come down for a weekend on the beer.
They’d obviously had quite a few, and were quite taken by
Helen and Elaine, whilst Ally and I looked on, him resplendent in
his “Escape to Victory” top.
After the Hofbrauhaus drew to a close around midnight, we headed
over the road to one of our favourite bars in Germany – the
Landhaus, complete with own papier mache tree trunk at one end of
the bar. We arranged to text each other the following day, as meeting
depending on whether or not Helen and I made it down to the mountains.
When Helen was younger and on a German exchange trip, she’d
been taken to the Alps and went up in a cable car, and she was keen
to repeat this on one of Germany’s most famous mountains,
the Zugspitze, accessible from Garmisch-Partenkirchen (around 2
hours south of Munich).
We duly got up early enough for the train, only to be confronted
with overcast, grey skies. After a discussion on the pros and cons,
we decided that we’d use the day instead to visit the zoo,
after picking up tickets for ourselves and Craig (who was arriving
on Saturday morning) for the 1860 München v FC Köln game.
We made our way down to the old Grünwalder Stadium, on the
south side of the city, where my four-year old copy of the Rough
Guide to European Football told me there was a ticket office and
club shop. We got there to find a perfectly fine, if a little scruffy,
ground – it’s still used for reserve, amateur and youth
matches – but no ticket office or other signs of life. After
peering through an iron gate, someone caught sight of us and allowed
us in to take photos – he actually disappeared under the stand
and came back with a postcard showing a game that took place in
the 1970s as a souvenir. He also helpfully explained that the 1860
headquarters was around 2km south on the main road, past a hospital
(thanks to Helen’s translating skills). After a 25 minute
walk through the drizzle, wandering how we might spot it, we came
across huge sky-blue and white gates and a big sign. The training
complex was pretty impressive, with a fair collection of floodlit
pitches, and a road leading up to a modern low-rise office complex.
Inside, we found a ticket office, and were able to get exactly what
we came for – three seat tickets under cover, as near to the
north curve (where the home fans congregate for 1860 games) as possible,
as well as free match programmes. A trip to the adjacent shop also
proved enlightening (and wallet-lightening).
Diagonally opposite the offices was a small building completely
out of context with the modern, sporty environment. This small kneipe
welcomed us in, and was insanely popular with the locals. Out attempts
at German went down very well, as did Helen ordering the sausage,
although she did get teased for leaving half of it, and I got quizzed
as to why I wasn’t one the eating it.
We tore ourselves away from the pub, as we still had a zoo to see,
and caught the tram two stops back to the metro station at the Grünwalder,
where we remembered seeing a taxi ride. The taxi took us through
some nice suburban (almost rural at times) areas, but seemed confused
when confronted with the zoom, eventually depositing us next to
the Isar River, where we found the back door to the zoo. Munich
zoo is famous for being a geo-zoo, where the animals are grouped
from where they come from, although this did lead to us missing
a couple of things. The trip was perhaps most memorable for the
children’s petting zoo – Helen ran away from the goats,
whilst they sniffed around for food (which you could buy from small
dispensing machines), whether it be from people hands, a baby’s
pram, or up my kilt.
We arranged via text to meet Ally and Elaine at the Löwenbrau
Keller – a large, multi-roomed beer hall on the corner of
the huge Löwenbrau brewery, just north-east of the station.
After initial confusion (we both found seats and ordered drinks,
before finding out we were in different corners of the place), we
met up and ate and drank the night away. One thing to watch for
if in Munich in the autumn are the brutal Festival beers, or Marzenbier
(March beer) – this is beer put away in the spring to mature,
and comes out a few months later in time for the Octoberfest and
the winter, clocking in at around 7-8%. I was promptly served a
litre of it, and had to struggle through this before I could get
started on the normal, far preferable Löwenbrau. On our way
back to the hotel, Helen and I popped into the 24-hour bar at Sendlinger
Tor (Ally and Elaine had a flight to catch the next day), which
is definitely worth knowing about.
On Saturday morning I popped across to the station to get hold
of a copy of Kicker, to double check the kick-off time, and bumped
into Craig at reception. After he’d checked in, we caught
the tube across to Marienplatz and got seats in the Hofbrauhaus
courtyard, thankfully just under the awning as the it started to
rain. We caught the tube out to the Olympic Stadium in plenty of
time, just one carriage down from a bunch of singing Köln fans,
and were thankful that there was a beer garden on our walk, and
that it had stopped raining. We got to the ground and round to our
seats with a few minutes to spare – we were about two-thirds
up the stand, behind the goal at an angle, and next to the terraced
North curve (the seats fold away for Bundesliga games, which lets
more people stand, and improves the atmosphere), and sat back and
enjoyed the game. Watching league football in an environment like
this is very civilised – girls walk around carrying trays
of salted pretzels and low-alcohol beer (the only type available
here, unfortunately), and there was a genuinely good atmosphere.
1860 took the lead, and went into half-time 1-0 ahead, and the fans
milled around and chatted. Someone along from me (the ground wasn’t
full, so there was space to spread out) asked if I was Scottish,
had I been at the game, and why was a Lions fan? I explained, as
well as I could, that yes, yes, and that the Scottish lion was very
similar to the Bavarian lion (the best excuse I could think of –
surely better than “you were the only game on”?). The
second-half brought a Köln equaliser, only for 1860 to snatch
victory in the last ten minutes. At the end, the players orchestrated
a team bow in front of the cheering and flag-waving fans, and I
found my face plastered on the jumbotron screen opposite. Then,
one of the biggest cheers of the day came when the scoreboard announced
that Bayern had lost away to Wolfsburg in the shock of the day.
The crowd burst into a familiar song, with even the grandmothers
in the crowd joining into sing: “Bayern, Bayern, who the f*ck
are Bayern?”
After the game, we strolled back to the tube station and headed
for the University area (bottom end of Schwabing) for another beer
keller and some food. After suffering again with industrial-strength
Löwenbrau, we resolved the best bet was to head for a tried
and tested beer at the Hofbrauhaus (for all it’s tourist trappings,
it does serve my favourite beer in Munich), and we settled into
a side room and let the beer flow. After leaving at chucking out
time, we made our way over to the Landhaus, where my 1860 shirt
drew approving glances and comments – it turns out a lot of
the HBH waiters, who frequent this place when their shift ends,
are 1860 fans, and everyone was happy at Bayern’s defeat.
After settling the bill (we had to wait for the landlady to finish
chatting to some guys towing illegally parked cars) it was back
to the hotel (via the wee pizza stall next door), ready for the
flight home the next morning.
Back to top of page
|
A weird week, all in all – and it all started on Thursday
13th November. We had always planned to drive up (with Christmas
presents), and we were going to leave around 4pm and plough northwards
to Burton-in-Kendal services, where we would break the journey.
A few weeks before this, Helen was offered free tickets through
her team (Upper Beeding) to see England Ladies v Scotland Ladies
at Preston that very night, so we secured half-day holidays and
set off at midday. We were in Preston a little after 5pm, where
we met up with Tam Coyle and Ian Black in Sumners, near the ground,
and made it to our seats just in time for kick-off. What followed
was a lesson in football, as England coasted to a 5-0 win with ease.
Up to Hampden for 3pm Friday to pick up our home game tickets,
where we met Mike and Suzanne and headed off round the museum. Then
back in Glasgow for our usual 8.15am start at the Iron Horse. In
an attempt to keep my alcohol consumption at sensible levels, I
was on bottled Beck’s (i.e. drinking half as much each round)
– this was to prove unwise. Over the road to Alfredo’s
around 10am, followed by a quick couple in The Vale, and a meeting
with Tom and Matty, before cabbing it to The Shed, which was eerily
quiet (although busier when we left at 2-ish). Mick from the Wee
Midges was able to sort out a ticket for Tom and Matty’s pal,
Murray, and the exchange took place in the Hampden car park whilst
Helen and I headed in to the South Stand to hit the pie queue. No
macaroni (a bad sign), so I made do with cheese and onion.
A very nerve-wracking 90 minutes later, in strange surroundings
bereft of kilts and the patter of the more anarchic North Stand,
we were celebrating what seemed the most unlikely of victories.
We headed for the post-match rendezvous of the Vicky Bar, only to
find the doors locked and a substantial queue outside. Round the
corner and into Allison Street, then, where several bars clustered
(we ended up in the Allison Arms). Another bottle of Beck’s
was handed to me, but it was already too late – my stomach
was in agony after all the acid I’d been knocking back all
day, and the tense match hadn’t helped. Two hours - and less
than half of that bottle – later, it was off for the train
back into town, and ultimately, home.
The journey back down the road was only eventful for the lack of
serious traffic we didn’t encounter. We eventually found out,
via text messaging (thanks to Ally & Craig) that the under-21s
had gone down 2-0 in Varazdin in the first leg of their play-off.
Back in time for Helen to pack, and then off to work for Monday,
before escaping at 4pm…
The airport was quiet… too quiet! We eschewed the lounge
in favour of the upstairs bar in the North Terminal and were surprised
that there were no fellow TA travellers in there. The flight was
late to be announced, and when it was it was at the furthest gate
I have ever, ever been to (and I’m there quite a lot). We
then had to grapple for hand luggage space with some mental day-tripping
shoppers, although we did meet Andy and Linda in the queue (they’d
been in the downstairs bar, in case you were wondering).
After 25 minutes taxi-ing to the terminal at Amsterdam (as Andy
put it – “I think we landed in Belgium and drove the
rest of the way”), we found ourselves pulling up at the same
time as Kevin and Craig’s delayed BMI flight. The four of
us grabbed a taxi in, and met up in O’Reilly’s Irish
Pub just around the corner from Dam Square around 11-ish. We had
loosely arranged a rendezvous in a Café near Rembrandtsplein,
so we jumped a cab there only to find it was shut. After a consolation
beer in a nearby bar, and a meeting with Munich Brian and Helmut
(who couldn’t stay awake), we headed back into town towards
the Spui area to meet with Ally & Sue. Their bar had just shut
(it was around 1.30am by now) and we wandered down Spui Straat looking
for some late night salvation. As is so often the case (?), that
salvation came in the shape of a lesbian punk café called
Café The Minds (a bit unfair – a normal, if anarchic,
bar, with a lot of lesbian punks in it – complete with boots
hanging from the ceiling. A few (very small – thanks Craig!)
beers were enjoyed, before turning in ahead of the big ticket queue
the next day.
Ally, Sue and Rich bumped into each other over brunch, and Helen
and I met them in front of Centraal Station (where we also bumped
into Mick and his pal). The train seemed pretty busy with Scots
also heading to get their tickets as early as possible, but thankfully
things were pretty organised. We were second in the queue for our
number range, and things seemed to move quite quickly. As we were
at the Arena, we took in the tour (Rich and I were on it for the
second time, having been in April 2000) – money well spent
yet again. A late lunch came in the way of a visit to a brewery-pub
just off Nieuwmarkt (The Berard Suster or similar), and then I suggested
we try a “Tasting House” just around the corner. Tasting
Houses are traditional stand-up bars where the Jenever (Dutch gin
made with juniper berries) distilleries sell their wares. The Wynand
Fockink house (in a small dead-end street leading to the shopping
arcade of the Kraspolosky Grand Hotel on Dam Square) is one of the
more touristy, given it’s location in the RLD, but well worth
a visit! We started on basic jenever, from young up to superior,
and were not too impressed – this didn’t put us off
trying out some of the more exotic liqeurs on the back shelves.
Many shots later (including banana – for Rich, of course –
butterscotch, apple tart, after-eight and “lotion of venus”),
we staggered out, foolishly agreeing to meet up again after brief
hotel stops in another tasting house – “Die Drie Fleisches”
in Gravenstraat (just behind Dam Square). We honestly intended to
stick to the beer, however we were soon lured on to “Boswandleig”
– a house speciality involving vodka, angostura bitters and
something else. The thing with these tasting houses is the weird
hours – this one shut at 8.30pm, all to do with tradition,
apparently – so it was back out onto Gravenstraat and into
the Belgian Café a few doors down. Several hours were spent
in here, trying out draught Kwak, bottled Gueuze and other such
delights, whilst speaking with Marky Adams and his father-in-law
(Jim), before we finally tore ourselves away to head for Hoppe.
Hoppe is a traditional brown café (sawdust on the floor,
no ladies toilet – it’s next door! – and a convivial
atmosphere), but is also a bit of a tourist trap, having been bigged-up
in many a guide book. Ally & Susan had headed into the RLD to
find Bryan and Trudie, but Chris had joined us with a pal, so the
5 of us headed across Spui Square searching for “Die Pilsener
Club”. This wee, out-of-the way café has no bar as
such, just pumps under the stairs serving great tasting beer (it’s
kept in draughting alcoves, not a cellar, so the beer travels a
shorter distance to the pumps). It also has great service, a nice
atmosphere, and massive plates of bar snacks (if you ask for them),
including raw meat! After several beers and three plates of cheese,
it was time for bed.
After waking up in a cold-sweat after suffering gouda-fuelled nightmares,
we were up and out of bed in time for a 12.30pm meeting with the
Milngavie boys (Colin and Sumo). After a brief exchange, we headed
back to O’Reillys with Ally, Sue, Bryan and Trudie for a spot
of lunch (fish and chips – I’m enjoying my new-found
fish freedom). Helen, me and the Milngavie Two then went for a wee
wander around the backstreets, before ending up in a surreally posh
shopping centre bar. We were heading back across to the Belgian
Café when we felt ourselves being drawn back in Die Drie
Fleisches (just for beer), before being led down the Boswandlieg
path again. Ally and Elaine Ewan, and then Rich, joined us within
a short while, and before long the bar was thronged by Scots, all
trying the house speciality. We tore ourselves away and headed for
the relative calm of the Belgian Café, where yet more Kwak
was consumed.
After a couple hours, we felt fortified enough to brave crossing
Dam Square (where we managed to pick up Chris Norton) and into Wynand
Fockink for some more sweet, sweet liqueurs. After a good five or
six rounds, punctuated by Ally Ewan being escorted from the premises
after bombarding the barman with beermats, we thought we better
stagger for the tube. We hit Niuewmarkt around 6.00pm, only to find
a packed (and immobile) train at the platform, with it’s doors
opening and closing like a giant blue metal goldfish (visualise,
visualise…). After a few minutes, panic set in that we were
not going anywhere, so we swiftly bolted for the exit (only to find
that the Milngavie Boys, Rich and Norton were nowhere to be seen).
Ally, Elaine, Helen and I searched vainly for a cab, before hitting
on a real inspiration – hang about outside a posh hotel and
jump in the first one that drops off. This reaped dividends with
5 minutes, and we were heading out to the Arena in comfort.
We got to the ground around 7pm, and simply strolled across the
coach park in the company of dozens of Dutch fans and straight through
the turnstiles, pausing only to pick up our free programmes. After
the mammoth climb to the top of the stairs, and desperate for sustenance
after the jenever session, I joined the queue for refreshments armed
with my Arena card that I had picked up the previous day (on the
tour). With no vegetarian options, and my decreased will-power (and
waning commitment to the vegetarian cause), I plumped for a hot
dog. Just to make sure, I then followed this with another two. They
were quite nice, and no, I am no longer vegetarian! Anyway, after
filling up it was up into the stands to take our seats. Like many
others, we found people in our seats, but they left without a struggle.
It soon became apparent that this was to not to be Scotland’s
night – aside from the farcical attempts at both national
anthems, the Scottish team was lacking the organisation and discipline
that marked Saturday’s triumph, and before long we were a
goal down to what looked like a preventable shot. Two headers from
set-pieces followed, and we sat and suffered until 70 minutes (2
minutes after the sixth had gone in) – Helen had actually
wanted to leave after 4, as had Simon Kellas, who we grabbed back
off the stairs and told him to hang on. I gave in to the pressure
after weighing up the pros and cons, and the likelihood of public
transport difficulties getting back in (given the chaos in getting
out to the ground) – the Milngavie two followed us out as
well. Anyway, why would I want to stand and applaud the team off
after a capitulation like that?
The train back into town was packed with likeminded fans (turned
out that the mass exoduses had staggered the journeys back so well
there were no real delays). Kellas, Helen and I got off at Nieuwmarkt
and had a Framboise each in the posh beer place (with a very sympathetic
and understanding waitress), before turning in for the night (Kellas
met up with the rest of Loony Alba and was drowning his sorrows
until the early hours). We made our way across a depleted, yet still
good-natured, Dam Square, pausing briefly to chat to Grant and Yan,
before getting into bed before midnight. When my Mum phoned at 1.15am
to commiserate, she was shocked that she’d woken me up!
Thursday morning and we were up bright and early (though not early
enough!) and out to Schiphol, bumping into Machar and Mirka at the
station. When I tried to check in (still 2 hours before take-off),
I was told that the flight was already overbooked and we were put
on standby. I’m quite philosophical about this – I travel
a lot, so it was bound to happen some time, and in any case, I’ve
waited longer for no money at all (there’s compensation for
being “bumped”). We then volunteered to get bumped again,
and eventually made it home on the 18.20 flight (4 hours late),
with substantial compensation in our pockets (to be put towards
a trip in 2004).
All that’s left now is to look forward to the World Cup qualifying
draw in December, and the fixture dates a month or so later.
Back to top of page
|
|
|