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Like many friendlies, the opposition and date bubbled away as a
rumour for many weeks before being confirmed, with the venue following
much later. With the school holidays in mind, mine and Helen’s
nerve buckled and we opted to go in via Brno in the east of the
Czech Republic (which had just started as a Ryanair route) and out
via Bratislava, figuring that this would do for three of the likely
four venues. Salzburg, Vienna or Graz would all be in easy striking
distance, and even the prospect of an all day train journey to Innsbruck
was tempered by the fact that the track cuts through alpine valleys,
and some carriages even boast extended windows.
When the game was confirmed as Graz, interest from other NATA members
increased, and soon a plan was hatched to meet up with Ally and
Susan in Vienna on the Tuesday, followed by Bruce and Sharon in
Graz on matchday, with all six of us heading back via Bratislava.
Our first (and to date, only) Ryanair flight went without a hitch.
I’d even go as far to say “pleasant”! It landed
on a grey day in Brno’s grey airport, from which we caught
a grey bus into town along a road completely full of car showrooms.
The olde worlde Grand Hotel was right over the road from the station
and easy to find, and soon it was out into the wide cobbled streets
of the old town centre for a few beers at the Adria café
and the packed brew pub Pegas. Pegas turned out to be the only pub
in the whole city with anything like a crowd on a Saturday night
– even Alterna, described as a rock and punk bar, was only
half-full at best, but we did have the pleasure of speaking to Lukaš
(who had spent the summer in Dundee), Martina and Andreas before
heading home for the night.
Sunday morning saw a visit to the Capuchin Monastery and its mummified
monks, before a walk up to the cathedral towering over the city
centre. After a quiet day soaking up the sights and a bottle of
Moravian wine over a pizza (at U cisare Leopolda), and a few low-key
beers in Elektra, it was back to the hotel in torrential rain.
The rain continued through the night, and come Monday there was
no sign of it letting up. After somehow managing to buy train tickets
to Vienna for the next day (using a mix of poor German and poorer
Czech), a tram journey took us round to the excellent Stare Brno
brewery. After working our way through the beers in the cosy brewery
tap pub (including the excellent dark cernoška), we reluctantly
tore ourselves away to head up towards the football stadium. Strangely,
and solely for the benefit of Czech television, 1 FC Brno were to
kick off against Slovan Liberec at 4.40pm – we hadn’t
believed this, but thanks to the help of Chris Norton and Worthing
Ian we were able to both locate the right stadium and make sure
we were there in good time. After splashing out all of £2
on the best covered seats (the rain still hadn’t let up),
we had time for a quick pint in the Spartak Restaurace right next
to the turnstile (and had the bizarre experience of seeing outside
of the pub on the telly in the pub during the warm up programme!).
Brno lost the game 1-0, having missed a penalty, and after “jeden
do ulice” back in the Spartak it was into town for beer and
nachos in the pretentious Potrefena Husa (a chain of Lloyds No 1
style pubs that has sprung up in recent years). By now, my kilt
was stiff as a board thanks to the constant rain – a texted
plea to Bruce for emergency Febreze yielded results on Wednesday
– so it was back to the hotel to pack in anticipation of an
early-ish train journey the next day.
Tuesday morning and still raining (36 hours and counting!) –
the wait at the station only brightened up by the sexiest train
guard I’ve ever seen (short, curvy, brunette, micro skirt!)
The train was pretty modern, and thankfully not too crowded, and
took us directly to Vienna’s Sudbahnhof where we had arranged
to meet Ally and Susan for the onward connection to Graz. After
a spot of confusion over where the real station and the subway were,
we got hold of some rolls for the train and boarded at leisure.
En route, I explained how bad my kilt was and the Febreze solution,
and Ally offered the use of his iron – after the customary
mickey taking, he assured me he was serious, and later produced
said iron once we’d checked into the Hotel Weitzer (where
it turned out the team were also staying).
After Helen had done the honours with the iron, making the kilt
a little more presentable and a lot more comfortable to wear, it
was out and about, walking the long way past the bizarre "Friendly
Alien" art gallery (which has to be seen to be believed) and
over the fast flowing Mur river via the brilliantly weird Murinsel,
a steel and glass “island” in the middle of the stream.
We rendezvoused with Ally and Susan in Flann O’Briens, which
by early evening Tuesday had already been firmly established as
TA HQ. After a beer and a bite to eat, it was off to find another
couple of pubs before heading back for the up-and-coming Glasgow
DJ’s set later that night. We passed the older, wiser and
more bitter TA members (the Chuckle Brothers, Tam C, Captain Vodka
and Ali Smith) by a pavement café and we headed into a small
wine tavern for a quick one. After several hours, and having been
joined by the others, as well as a couple of East German TA passing
through, we finally dragged ourselves away from the friendly but
mad locals and headed out en masse, finding ourselves in an over-40s
singles bar called Café Jeton.
Several hours of absolute bedlam followed, including lots of beer
(several freebies), the “mi-ah-hee” O-Zone song (Dragostea
– which became the anthem of the trip!), dances with the busty,
mature Norwegian barmaid on the street and much more drunken lunacy.
Ali Smith had stayed on to make the most of this as the others escorted
Tam back to the pub for his set, and it’s fair to say that
Ally and Susan had imbibed a fair amount of the party spirit! Time
was getting on, and we headed back to Flann’s, which was bouncing.
Dicko, an exiled Scot living in Graz who we’d met at the Future
Team game a few months previous, was outside ushering people in
(to avoid complaints from the neighbours – it’s his
mate’s pub.
Inside the place was bouncing, as was Helen with Craig and Pete,
to a number of punk favourites, whilst I sat and chatted to Coullzer
and pals and Tam Ritchie over a couple of Guinnesses. Helen sensibly
stopped drinking at this stage, and combined with her dancing, thankfully
managed to burn off most of the alcohol and avoid a hangover the
next day. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for all the
ladies in the company, as one felt rather delicate the next day,
having momentarily lost her balance in Flann’s! The night
ended with Helen and I on a fruitless search for water (ended up
with some fizzy stuff from a closing Turkish takeaway), whilst Ally,
who made it back to the hotel slightly earlier, managed to call
McCoist a cheat in front of the late night card school in the lobby.
Helen and I walked off a mild hangover on Wednesday morning around
the old town and up the hill to the cathedral and some other old
buildings (an apothecary, a town hall, a zzzz…) Architecture
was not the sole motivation here, as we were tracking down Dom Brau,
a brewpub with a life sized mural of Arnie on the wall. From here
we were able to direct Ally and Susan, and then Bruce and Sharon
(fresh off the direct flight from Stansted), whilst eating pretzels
and drinking lots of banana-tasting wheat beer.
As pretzels were the only food on offer, we decamped to the Stryian
Highlander pub down the hill and around the corner, where we had
what can only be described as Austrian Tapas. For some unknown and
foolhardy reason (the old “must try the local bevvy”
argument), Ally and I opted for the ominously named “Turbo
Most”. This fuel-injected jakey juice turned out to be mega-strong
cider of some description; whilst we were swilling this, Bruce –
sensibly eschewing the cider, excused himself to take some photos
of the lavishly appointed ladies lavatories (with a highland theme).
From here, having downed our complimentary kirsch liqueurs, it
was off to the Arnold Schwarzenegger Stadium in a couple of cabs,
which got us there in good time to pick up our tickets and join
the queue. We were nicely settled in for the anthems, quickly followed
by Kenny Miller’s opener, but a quick glance over the back
wall showed a decent-sized queue of latecomers still trapped outside.
A second goal followed shortly before half-time, which I managed
to miss as I was talking about monkeys to Bert and Aitchy, and then
a strong defensive performance in the second-half came undone with
minutes to go when Austria snatched an equaliser (and nearly a winner).
The aftermath of the match saw us make our way around to the Strum-Treff,
named as a rendezvous after a frantic text exchange with Doris and
Alex. Helen and I had met Doris and her sister Claudia in Mattersburg
a few months earlier and had spoken about meeting in Graz; Alex
was a late stand-in for a dog-sitting Claudia, and the whole meeting
had been thrown into jeopardy by me being a muppet and messing up
the international code on my phone! Thankfully Doris and Alex were
able to compensate for this and we met up as eventually planned.
By this point, everyone else was coming into their own, and our
table was being showered in roses (mostly courtesy of an amorous
beer kiosk attendant), while my cider hangover was fully kicking
in; everyone else’s enthusiasm (and all the sugar in the Coca
Cola) somehow kept me going.
An unusual shared taxi ride back into the main square followed,
and we reconvened and headed for an Italian bar for a quick one
before hitting the lunacy that was Flann’s. Tam was on the
decks and the queue at the bar was pretty formidable – Bruce
doing the honourable thing and heading into the fray to get the
round in. This left me with Sharon, Helen, Doris and Alex, all clutching
long-stemmed roses, much to Donnelly’s bemusement (“Hark
at Ladies Man Allison!”). We managed to find a free table
on the raised area in the far corner, where Helen and Doris proceeded
to dance the night away (at one point Helen managed to careen into
yet another rose seller, this time sending her beer all over her
t-shirted bosom. I stayed on the coke for the duration, and a wise
choice it proved to be, as Helen was overcome with tiredness and
emotion after the pub finally closed in the wee hours – I
still had to persuade her that going back to the hotel and not to
another late bar was the best choice!
On Thursday, despite Helen fighting a hangover of Bacchanalian
proportions, we somehow managed to drag ourselves from our pits
earlier than Ally, Susan, Bruce and Sharon, and were able to meet
Alex and Doris in the hotel foyer (where they kindly presented us
with some Burgenland wine) before heading off for a coffee at the
Murinsel café. The other four caught up with us there, where
Bruce (and camera) discovered the joys of the mirrored toilets (see
– it’s not just me who has this obsession!). Alex and
Doris made their excuses and left for Mattersburg, and the rest
of us headed up to the Schlossberg via the funicular railway. After
pottering around the top for a wee bit, we had lunch at the open-air
Aiola café, where a wasp developed an inordinate fascination
with Susan’s pasta, only for it to meet a sticky, vegetable
extracted end in her glass of coke.
Our descent from the Berg took us down the elevator, and getting
off halfway down meant we could examine the Star Wars like interior.
Helen and Sharon quickly spotted the Burgbahn, and we all boarded
the kiddie’s train for a horrific journey through a Brothers
Grimm inspired landscape (complete with ceiling clinging vampires).
After a stroll through the back streets, we settled in to an outside
table at brewpub Glocklbrau before rounding off the day with more
homebrew and food at Dom Brau.
Our last day in Austria saw us partake in our first (and only)
hotel breakfast of the trip, ahead of our early (and ultimately
delayed) train to Vienna. We bumped into Geebsie at the station,
who was on a cultural day trip, but unfortunately had to abandon
him when presented with the last available compartment on the Croatian
train (only six seats, see). Mine and Helen’s prior knowledge
of Vienna served us well, as we were easily able to locate the excellent
Bierkutsch’n to fill up before heading across to the Danube
boat pier. Ally and Susan had managed to pick up our ferry tickets
the previous weekend, and knew exactly where to go for the boat,
however none of us were prepared for quite how “leisurely”
the whole experience would prove to be. A full 90 minutes late before
we’d even left Vienna, we were all convinced the boat had
broken down when it moored up at the city limits and the crew all
got off to lounge on the grassy river bank for a smoke. However
it all turned out to be a traffic jam at the huge locks to the south
of Vienna, and once through the lock, the captain lifted up the
foil and really put his foot down.
We were still around 90 minutes late docking in Bratislava, however
the stunning sunset and views of Devin Castle went a long way to
making up for this. We were soon checking in to the Radisson SAS
(due to a mental internet deal we’d all booked on), only to
bump into TA veteran Ian Gillan. Ian ended up staying elsewhere,
but we swapped mobile numbers and agreed to meet up later, which
we did in Stanley’s Pub. Bratislava’s compact old town
was awash with British stag parties, and certainly felt a lot less
friendlier than my previous visit 18 months before; thankfully the
small and friendly Stanley’s Pub seemed to have escaped this
and we were rewarded with good beer, good service, and in Sharon’s
case, good cake. The next and final stop was the legendary underground
KGB, which kept Susan and Ally happy with mental rock music, before
bizarrely segueing into O-Zone’s Dragostea (as predicted a
few minutes earlier by myself, followed up with a Bon Jovi prediction
that led everyone to believe I’d bribed the DJ).
Despite having the earliest night, Helen and I were still slow
to rise, and we met the others in the pub over the road over some
Slang Toast. A wander through the old town got the six of us onto
the tourist train, and a walk across the bridge was ultimately fruitless
as the bridge tower lift broke just as it was our turn to go up
(even a drink in a floating bar didn’t give them time to fix
it), so it was off up the castle.
Despite catering for a wedding party, the Hradna Vinaren wine bar
was able to rustle up some food (eventually), and between us we
managed to cover most of the local specialities. Not all of it was
an immediate success – Bruce returned from freshening up to
announce that “two of the things I’ve eaten are explosive
when combined”. I didn’t escape either, as by the time
we’d walked down the hill (and passed my favourite Bratislava
bar Kastellan), I was feeling the effects and had to bow out early.
The others found the now disappointing Belgian bar before fending
off a variety of blood-sucking insects on a bar terrace.
Ally and Susan were away at the crack of dawn on Sunday for their
transfer to Vienna Airport, so it was more Slang Toast before the
four of us staged a second (successful) attempt to get up the bridge
tower. The views from the top were very windswept but worth it,
the UFO Bar (“photographs not possible”) less so, but
it does have some of the most spectacular urinals (angled ice buckets
in front of clear windows). With a few hours to kill before our
flight, we wandered through the park to Artmedia’s stadium
for photos (but didn’t venture into the Football Pizzeria).
In keeping with the weekend’s experiences in Bratislava, the
flight home was packed to the gunnels with stag parties.
Strangely, before the trip, we’d had Brno down as the real
gem, Graz as a mere necessity and Bratislava down as a sure-fire
banker to finish up on. Come the end of the adventure and Graz outshone
the other two, with Brno far quieter than expected (certainly when
considered that it’s only second to Prague in the Czech Republic!)
and Bratislava on a downward slope (or maybe it was just a bad weekend).
Perhaps a Scotland away trip to Slovakia will help sort that one
out?
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Some trips in the group merited a lengthier stay (in our opinion:
Moldova, Belarus and Slovenia), and some didn’t. Italy was
due to the timing of the game over the Easter weekend, whilst for
Norway it was a combination of high costs and the fact we’d
been in 2003 and weren’t overly impressed with what the city
had to offer.
So, a full year before the game (when the flights went on sale),
it was on to BA for a Tuesday afternoon to Thursday lunchtime trip,
and a bargain rate in the landmark Radisson SAS Plaza (right by
the station, and as it turned out, where the team were staying).
Having learned the hard way before, if all hotels are going to be
expensive, we may as well shell out slightly more for a better one
(and appreciate the air conditioning all the more!).
With such a short away trip planned, and work on the Monday (and
Tuesday morning for Helen), the Italy game on the preceding Saturday
didn’t really feel like part of a double-header. For starters,
keen to avoid the anticipated large movement of Italian fans through
Gatwick (no worry – only 400 fans travelled from Italy, the
rest of the small away support made up by UK-based Italians), Helen
and I flew up with Rich from Southampton Netley Abbey International
Airport! Saturday found us with a larger group (and kitty) than
usual, and proved to be almost “Tartan Army by numbers”,
taking in the usual haunts of The Iron Horse, The Shed, Baby Blue
and the Sports Café, but was enjoyed by all. A superb Scotland
performance resulted in a very creditable 1-1 draw with the Italians,
and after the game we worked up a thirst by marching the full distance
from Hampden to Baby Blue on Bath Street (around 4 miles). In fact,
such was the thirst that even Helen and I, notorious for early withdrawals
at home games, made it through until 2.15am!
Back to Southampton on the Sunday was followed with back to reality
at work on Monday, however come Tuesday it was on with the kilt
again…
We arrived early for our flight due to a distinct lack of traffic
en route (60 minutes from Brighton to Heathrow!), but as the airport
was mobbed we opted for the “elite” option and coughed
up for the Holideck Lounge. We certainly got our money’s worth,
Helen on the Bud and me on the vodka and apple juice, before moving
on the posh sherry (Helen reckoned it was just like tawny port).
Thanks to my mate Ian, we had advance warning of the delay to our
flight meaning more time of the lounge – knowing there was
no catering on the plane we felt safest filling up on fluids beforehand!
The flight took off around 5.30pm, and surprisingly wasn’t
full, despite a good 50+ Tartan Army on board. The banter around
us was good, meeting Colin from York and the Annan Boys, and stopping
for a chat with BigDaveJ on the way back from the inevitable lavvy
trip, although the head stewardess wasn’t overly impressed
with the singing! With no luggage we were able to step straight
onto a train and 40 minutes later we were in the hotel room.
Helen didn’t feel up to a night on the tiles, so I headed
out alone to meet Bruce and Sharon in Bohemen, arriving just after
10pm in time to see Craig, Kev and Jim Brown leave as Evil Scotsman
came on for the “fifth time in the last hour”. Stopping
just long enough for one pear cider and to hand over NATA and Worthing
scarves for the bar’s ever-growing collection, Bruce, Sharon
and I headed off to a “sports bar right around the corner”
to join up with the others. After being unsuccessful, we settled
for The Belfry, an English pub just off the main Karl Johan’s
Gate precinct. Despite the Union Jack plaque (proclaiming the pub
as a “Little piece of England in Norway”) and the England
shrine (literally, fenced off in an alcove in the deceptively large
downstairs area), the pub was very friendly and surprisingly quiet
(although it was to be packed all day on matchday). The only downside
was that pear cider was sold out, but the excellent Belfry Ale made
up for that (even at 54kr, or £5, a pint), as did the unfeasibly
busty Bulgarian beauty behind the bar. Kev, Craig, Jim and the Clan
Imlach (Loony Alba’s Stevie and his brother Colin, living
and working in Norway) soon re-joined us, only for Kevin and Sharon
to drop out just after midnight.
Despite being assured by The Belfry’s barman that last orders
would be 2.30am, I had serious doubts about this as the place was
empty – these fears proved to be unfounded as a late surge
of Norwegians, followed by the Armadale Sons of Wallace (fresh from
a sojourn to Cambridge whilst changing flights at Stansted) ensured
the pub stayed lively right to the death. One of the Norwegians,
Bjorn, sauntered over, looking a dead ringer for NATA’s Rich
(gelled hair, stubble, open-necked black shirt), only to turn out
to be the leading authority on Norwegian football and cheap city
centre pubs.
In Norway it’s standard practice to allow 30 minutes drinking
up time, so when the lights went up at 2.25am and the bar staff
informed us it was last orders, consent for “one last drink”
was forthcoming from Bruce and Craig. I duly stood my round, returning
the £5 pints to the table with a warning “at five pounds
a pint, don’t spill a f*cking drop!”. I needn’t
have worried in Bruce’s case, as he didn’t even bother
to pick the pint up – despite promises from the offender to
smuggle it clandestinely out of the pub for a cheeky al fresco drink,
my last view of it as I returned from the gents was the barmaid
picking it up and carrying it to the sink behind the bar. The scars
from this are obviously going to take quite some time to heal…
Craig’s late night kebab was enough to put both Bruce and
myself off, so we plumped for the £2 hot dogs, adding sauce
from the comedy swinging udders whilst trying not to choke as a
glamorous lady footsoldier informed the kebab-man that she “hates
hot dogs but loves sausage”.
Wednesday morning started around lunchtime for Helen and I, with
cheesy nacho balls and Mint Chocolate Baileys (an exclusive duty
free purchase) before heading up to the Panorama bar on the 34th
floor for the first pear cider of the day. A hungover Bruce and
a very hot Sharon, bemoaning the lack of air conditioning in their
room, joined us.
After a pizza stop at the 7-11, we were headed off by tram towards
the Oslo Mikrobryggeri, although we broke the journey for a quick
one at Olsen Café, a sparse Valarenga supporter’s bar
in the suburbs. We arrived in the Mikrobryggeri right ahead of Ally,
Susan, Kenny and Tanya, and proceeded to work our way through the
beers on offer. Neither Bruce nor I tried the pils, but between
us we covered the Steamer (a fizzy brown ale, like Newcastle Brown),
the Weizen (very nice and tasty wheat beer), the Porter (a very
fizzy black beer, but okay nonetheless) and the excellent IPA (15
minutes to pour, but worth the wait – just order it before
you’ve finished your current beer!). During the course of
this “tasting” session a few other determined Tartan
Army beer connoisseurs also found the place, most notably Derek
the brewer (Kelburn Brewing Company) and Norrie and Joan from Dunfermline.
After staying a wee bit later than intended, we piled out en masse
for a tram that would take us to Majorstuen T-Bane station (two
stops from the ground) – turned out the tram driver had been
in Bordeaux for the World Cup game! The T-Bane was absolutely jammed,
but somehow we all managed to squeeze on, and after walking round
to the turnstiles we were relieved to see that the queue was nowhere
near as bad as it had been in 2003, giving Bruce and I ample time
to finish our “Coke plus”.
Inside the ground was the usual sit anywhere disorganisation, so
we ended up back with Bruce, Sharon, Ally and Sue on the right-hand
side as you look at the pitch (with me somehow stood next to a solitary
middle-aged Norwegian). There was a good atmosphere before kick-off,
and both anthems were well respected, however within minutes of
the kick-off the ball was in the back of our net, only to be ruled
out (for what looked a pretty feeble nudge from where we were standing,
however no complaints!). Scotland settled after the early scare,
with Gordon looking confident and Hartley’s running and crossing
continuing to cause no end of problems. It was from one of Hartley’s
crosses, headed down by McFadden that allowed Miller to steal in
and dink the ball past the keeper with the outside of his right
boot for one-nil. Ten minutes later we were in dreamland, when an
over-hit forward cross from Hartley was inexplicably headed back
to Miller by a defender under no pressure, allowing Kenny to prove
his critics wrong and pick his spot for two-nil. Another chance,
deflected clear, fell to the new King Kenny seconds before he was
subbed with a minor injury, his job done.
The rest of the game passed pretty quickly, with Scotland absorbing
the pressure, but on the whole looking less likely to score. One
exception came in the last few minutes, when a diagonal pass played
Beattie clear down the right wing, only for his excellent low cross
to be nicked off the toe of Neil McCann, preventing a three-nil
lead. Instead, Norway broke up the park from this move, ultimately
resulting in their equaliser from a low drive on the edge of the
area in the 89th minute. For me, this was conclusive proof that
Scotland can’t hold a lead for toffee (in the last two games,
we were two-up against Austria and one-up against Italy, both into
the last 15 minutes, only to end up with two draws), and I duly
sunk into my seat, only to be rallied by the guys in front that
we’d be okay. Thankfully, they were right, and the cheers
at the final whistle were more of relief at holding on than pure
celebration.
After a wee singsong we headed out the ground towards the agreed
rendezvous with Kenny and Tanya, and then across the car park towards
the promised land of Berg metro station. Although a wee bit further
away than the Ulleval’s own station (1km instead of 100m),
there were none of the queues to get on the platform, and we got
a seat on the empty train that rolled in (it soon got busy when
we got to Ulleval!), getting us back into town in good time to track
down one of Bjorn’s recommendations from the previous night.
With Andy’s Pub already queuing at the door, we headed around
the corner looking for Pastiz and the promise of 38kr beer. The
older generation (Ally, Susan, Kenny and Tanya) lost patience and
headed for the comfort and culture (and expense) of an outdoor courtyard
bar en route, but we persevered and were rewarded with even cheaper
beer (32kr before 10pm!). Unfortunately it was Ringnes, which I
cannot physically drink (in common with a lot of Scandinavian lagers,
I find it far too acidic and tasteless), so for me there was nothing
but the 58kr bottles of pear cider.
At 10pm, with news of England’s failure to score filtering
through, the draught lager duly went up 6kr, however a conversation
with the delightful German barmaid (Me: “Why did you move
here from Germany?”, her: “Oslo rocks, baby!”)
revealed that bottled Carlsberg was on promotion at 19kr a bottle
until midnight. A stunned Colin confirmed this was indeed the bargain
it sounded, as £1.70 was pretty much the going rate for bottled
supermarket beer, and even Helen’s fears that it must be out
of date (a la Moldova) proved unfounded. The “olds”
joined us later, after the England result had come through on three
separate mobiles from three independent sources right on the dot
of the final whistle (thanks to Welsh Steve and Worthing Andy from
me and Helen) – Ally’s night was made when the bar they
were in started playing “Perfect Day” at this very moment
– and much Carlsberg was procured at the bargain price, lasting
everyone well into the next hour (well, apart from me on my mega-expensive
cider). As I replied when asked at work on the Friday about how
the England score was received in Oslo, “we didn’t let
it ruin our night!”
Sharon was feeling pretty ill by this point, and headed off early
with the half the crowd, leaving Helen and I, Bruce and the brothers
Imlach. The pub shut just after 1am – no-one had been buying
in the past hour due to stocking up when the beer was cheap –
but in spite of another two hours of drinking time, Bruce, Helen
and I opted to head home, leaving Stevie and Colin to stagger off
in the direction of The Belfry, dodging a runaway trolley en route.
The walk down Karls Johan Gate was a little like running a gauntlet
of drunks (of both nationalities) – most were very friendly,
including many Norwegians offering their congratulations, however
some were a little less so and best avoided. Nonetheless, we made
back safe and sound, and early enough for Helen to entertain setting
the alarm for breakfast.
And up for breakfast we were, and a lovely fry-up it was too. The
flight back was delayed an hour, and turned out to be packed full,
although everyone on stand-by did make it on eventually. Despite
the historic night, there was no singing as the collective hangovers
took hold, and the flight passed pretty much without incident until
we had to circle East London three times on our way in before getting
permission to land. The landing itself was bouncy to say the least,
followed by a slamming on the brakes and what felt like a handbrake
turn as we threatened to overshoot the taxiway off the runway. The
next announcement revealed we weren’t getting an air-bridge
(no bloody wonder – the tower probably saw the landing and
decided not to trust the pilot with parking near the terminal building!).
Then came the real fun and games – sitting on the tarmac for
40 minutes waiting for someone to drive the stairs up to the plane!
Thankfully for Helen and I, we had no connecting flights so could
sit tight and see the funny side, however dozens of people did miss
flights (the guy sat next to me was flying home to Atlanta via Washington!).
In the face of all this adversity, the atmosphere on the plane stayed
friendly and jovial; after all, things could have been much worse…
we could have lost to Northern Ireland!
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- 1,061
- days since last competitive away win (2 years, 11 months
since Scotland 2 - Iceland 0, Sat 12th Oct 2005)
- 46 -
hours spent in Norway by Paul and Helen
- 34
- floors up - the Panorama Bar in the Radisson SAS Plaza
- 5
- games unbeaten since Milan (Moldova H, Belarus A, Austria
A, Italy H and Norway A)
- 4 -
different beers tried at the Oslo Mikrobryggeri (Steamer,
Weizen, Porter and IPA)
- 3
- number of consecutive Scotland games that Kenny Miller
has scored in
- 1
- whole pints left on the table by Bruce
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Travel plans were set months in advance, but for once, not actually
booked. We’d decided to go via Munich, where a direct train
could whisk us cheaply (even more so with our German railcard discounts)
to Ljubljana (LJ) in just 6 hours, and would allow for a stop-off
in Salzburg on the way back (the hills are alive, you see!). All
our ducks were lined up – BA flights to Munich Sunday-Sunday,
one night’s hotel in Munich near the station, four in central
Ljubljana and two in a posh, posh hotel in Salzburg – the
one exception was the train, which could only be booked a couple
of months in advance.
Six weeks to go, and a protracted telephone call to Bahn UK revealed
that summer floods in Austria had washed away no less than one-third
of the entire track, adding on a couple of service bus journeys
and around three hours to the now-unreservable journey. A quick
Expedia search threw up a £90 return flight from Munich to
LJ, and so Plan B took shape.
First up was the small matter of Belarus at home on the Saturday
– all we had to was win to make sure the battle for second
place went to the wire. Naturally we lost 1-0 with an absolutely
dire performance in front of a full yet funereal Hampden. It’s
fair to say our chips had been well and truly pissed upon, and even
a trip through the beers of the world at the Allison Arms failed
to raise our flagging spirits.
Sunday: Glasgow – Heathrow – Munich. Heathrow was in
the throes of the BA food strike, but at least we could spend our
£5 vouchers on beer in the funky new Tin Goose bar in Terminal
1. As our flight to LJ was on Monday lunchtime, we’d chosen
to cancel our city centre hotel and instead stay on the airport
itself. To be frank this wasn’t a great hardship, as the posh
Kempininski Hotel on site was only a short stroll away from Europe’s
only airport brew-pub, the superb Airbraü, home to Munich’s
cheapest beer (at €2 for a half-litre).
We were on the second of Monday’s two Adria flights to from
Munich to LJ, due to leave just after 2pm, however we had trouble
checking in even before midday. It turned out the earlier flight
had been cancelled, and instead the two flights were being combined
onto a single larger plane. Nonetheless, our boarding cards could
not be issued until the flight opened for boarding, so a nervous
wait ensued. The tension was alleviated somewhat by bumping into
Hammy from Preston, and we blethered all the way to the plane.
We were in perfect time for the bus at Ljubljana airport, however
it certainly took the scenic route to the main station. Our hotel,
the Best Western Slon, was a short walk away. We were soon out and
about, bumping into Ally and Susan in Prešernov Square before
heading off to the Cutty Sark to meet Kev and Craig. Bruce and Sharon
had soon joined us, having arrived off the Easyjet flight from Stansted,
however not before the champagne had been broken out (need to perpetuate
these elite stereotypes!) in celebration of a new job. Craig led
the way to a superb pizzeria he’d eaten lunch in (Ljubljanski
Dvor), and we followed this up (now with Jim Brown and Kev in the
company) with a drink in a wee coffee bar called Mokarabia before
heading over the river for a swift nightcap.
After a lie in and a McDonalds breakfast (yep – one of those
trips again!), we bumped into Bruce and Sharon in Prešernov
Square waiting for the “tourist train” to take us up
to the Castle. Once up there we bumped into Ally and Susan (who,
true to form, had taken the long way up on foot) and the travelling
contingent of the Notts Scots (minus the Numpty Brothers, who were
still en route). After a brief jaunt around the tower, it was back
down on the train and into a wee bar called Collegium (with a barman
who didn’t even seem old enough to be at college!), before
heading next door to Sokol, recommended by Anne from the Notts Scots.
Ally and Susan, and then Stevie Imlach, caught up with us again
and we all tucked into plates of ham, cheese and olives, washed
down by mugs of the house beer (actually brewed by Adam Ravbar on
the edge of town, but still very good!). Getting carried away with
the convivial atmosphere, yet only on my first beer of the day,
I somehow contrived to spill almost an entire bottle right down
my kilt.
We were soon on our way, stretching our legs (and in my case, airing
my clothes), and after bumping into Mirza and his pals in Prešernov
(obviously the main meeting point in town!). After a brief hotel
stop (to wring out the last of the beer), which everyone else spent
in the gaudy Gaudi Café around the corner, we set off in
search of the Kratchowill brewpub. No sooner had we made past the
packed Holidays bar when we stumbled upon a supermarket with its
own en suite pub! Provisions for rooms were requisitioned as we
took a pit stop in the attached Santana Café, much to Stevie’s
bewilderment and Bruce’s disgust.
Kratchowill proved to be an anomaly – an empty bar with great
beer and very cheap pizzas. The only compatriot we saw there was
Neil (aka Sexpest) who was just on his way out having enjoyed a
pizza of his own when we rolled up. We ended the night halfway back
at the hotel in an English themed pub called “Sir Williams”
before Stevie and Bruce wandered off in search of more beer.
The first hotel breakfast of the trip was a necessary stomach liner
ahead of Scott Kelly’s “scenic” bus tour. Bruce
was in sensible mode, convening our minibus with the likes of Machar
and the Family Smith, the NATA contingent and the KELTA boys (Kirkcaldy
Exiles London Tartan Army), who none of us really knew. First stop
was a petrol station to stock up on beer, then Bled Castle, where
Drew Lilley (and luggage) joined up with the other bus following
his own train trip from hell (well, Zurich actually). The highlight
of the castle stop, besides the view over the lake, was the wine
shop where Helen and Sharon both wrestled with the bottling press.
Extravagant cream cakes and spilled Slovenian red wine followed
at the lakeside (the other bus were knocking back schnapps with
real fruit further up the slope at the time) before we headed to
our lunch date at the Marinšek brewpub in the village-cum-truckstop
of Naklo. Typically, both the slowest eaters in the party (Ally
and Helen) were the last to get served, and were less than halfway
through before we were reboarding the buses!
A sleepy journey back to LJ followed, where another couple of guys
(including Craig McD) were joining the bus following some no-shows
and problems with Kev’s bigger direct bus. After finally finding
our parking space by the ground it was off to the hypermarket to
experience more Santana Café supermarket swallying, this
time in the company of the Notts Numpties and various other faces,
including young and upcoming Glasgow DJ Tam Coyle.
As usual, there was a silly queue to get in (which gave us time
to inherit Pauline from a side-stand bound Marky Adams), but we
managed it in good time for the anthems, and we found ourselves
standing with the rest of NATA, plus Reeky and Fiona, Tartan Teddy,
Ray and family. The atmosphere all around was fantastic, buoyed
by the team’s superb performance as we cantered to a three-nil
victory crowned by three spectacular goals (including a long awaited
one by unsung hero Paul Hartley).
The bus trip back was in high spirits, tempered only slightly by
the news that England had won their group and Uzbekistan had surprisingly
lost out to Bahrain in the Asian play-off (for the right to lose
to Trinidad & Tobago, as it turned out). Back in town, we ducked
into the cramped Grunf Bar, which was allegedly closing at 1am.
We left at 1.30am, but Bruce and Ally confirmed the party was still
going strong until at least 3am.
One of the great polarising debates of our time centres around
the best Slovenian beer. In the green corner, the goat-labelled
Lasko Zlatorog (it’s actually a mystical chamois – ask
me about it if you’re interested in the full legend!) from
the sticks, and in the red corner, LJ’s own Union Pivo.
In an rare moment of a cliché imitating life, NATA (well
Bruce, actually) managed to organise a genuine piss-up in a brewery.
Bruce had been thoughtful enough to email the Union Brewery a couple
of weeks before we’d set off to see if there was any scope
to squeeze in a tour. “No problem” came the reply –
they had a tour of 20 on the Thursday at midday and they’d
be happy for the six of us to tag along. In fact, we could even
mention it to a few others. Which is just what we did. Which explains
why, at midday on Thursday the NATA six and the KELTA five (whom
Bruce had informed the previous day on the bus) were in the lobby
of the Union Brewery waiting for the other twenty to turn up. Ten
minutes or so later, a forlorn individual (who we came to know as
Cammy the Ref) in a Slovenia shirt and kilt came in and explained
that the other 19 hadn’t managed to crawl out their beds.
Don’t worry lads, you didn’t miss a thing…
The tour started with the gorgeous Tina showing us around the brewery
museum – one of the largest dedicated collections (boasting,
amongst other things, an olde worlde pub with non-electrical fridge
and a collection of World Cup 1974 Texaco glasses), before the equally
stunning Helena took over and led us through the actual production
side of things. We were all mesmerised by the cellophane wrapping
machine, and amused at the small plastic tube that transformed into
a plastic bottle, and the sheer size inside the warehouse (that
surely no-one in LJ could have missed from the outside!) was pretty
stunning.
The combined tour took around an hour, with Tina and Helena aided
by Branko; the three of them then led us to the on site brewery
tap, where as a group we were treated to some 4 litre giraffes of
beer and our choice from the bottled selection (the Pils was particularly
nice, as was the Crni Baron dark beer). For a full three-and-half
hours. The beer that had been set aside for the missing 19 (plus
the tour group of 40 that had failed to show the day previously)
was lavished upon us, fully compliments of the house. Much nonsense
followed, with group photos being taken, plastic bottle towers being
built and giraffe nozzles being tongued. There came a point around
halfway in where the giraffes has disappeared and Helen and Sharon
suggested we ought to call it a day, only for Branko to appear behind
me brandishing yet more bottles of Crni Baron and the girls struggling
out of the kitchen with replenished giraffes.
Three of the KELTA boys had made their excuses and left for their
flights, leaving Alan and Bill to carry on flying the flag valiantly.
Soon the time came (probably for the brewery to shut for the day,
given it had gone 4.30pm), and we (the NATA Six, Cammy the Ref,
Alan and Bill) bade our fond farewells and made our way back across
the tracks towards yet another, much smaller, brewing concern –
Kratchowill for some much needed food.
A strange affliction seemed to settle over me in Slovenia –
I was fine whilst I stayed on the bevvy, but the moment I tried
to do the sensible thing and eat something it all went wrong! There
had been talk of meeting up with Helena and Branko in the Cutty
Sark later that night to repay some of the hospitality, but Helen
and I had to bow out early after a quick stop in Grunf. Alan and
Bill had a dinner date on the other side of town and Cammy was determined
to meet up with a young lady of his acquaintance, but unfortunately
the depleted ranks of NATA failed to spot either Lena or Branko
(although Bruce did think he might of seen the back of Helena’s
head in the crowd).
My early night on the Thursday did at least mean a breakfast engagement
the next day, and from there it was off to the bus station to satisfy
Bruce and Sharon’s geological yearnings. Slovenia has two
of the most famous karstic cave systems in the world, and the most
developed of these, Postojna, was only a short bus ride away.
A whole industry has sprung up around the caves – the rest
of Postojna town is pretty unassuming – and the tourist dollar
is well and truly milked. Cave trains whisk you several kilometres
into the depths, then everyone gathers by big signposts signifying
linguistic groups, before being picked up by a guide. The tour was
genuinely very interesting, and the cooler temperatures certainly
suited me; the only real downside is the “no photography”
rule.
Back on the surface we resisted the touted cave restaurant and
instead headed to a recommended Serbian restaurant/pizzeria (Pizzeria
Minutka) where we had a spread of very filling specialities as recommended
by the waiter.
Back in LJ we rendezvoused in Holidays, by now over the main rush
caused by the Tartan Army. The draft Lasko Temno dark beer was very
welcome (“the best beer in Slovenia” according to the
barman, who was very impressed I’d ordered it instead of Guinness!),
yet still not enough to displace my overall loyalty to Union following
the previous day’s hospitality! Food was on everyone’s
agenda, so it was with heavy heart I dragged myself out of the womb-like
pub and across to Sokol. Despite (or is that “because of”)
having the full monty – house dark beer, soup in a bread,
pršut ham and gibanica cheesecake, the food and drink curse
struck again and I was soon struggling to keep pace. Bill and Alan
from KELTA walked in halfway through, having just returned from
a daytrip to Zagreb, and we all headed off down to the old town
proper, where we found a quasi-Mexican theme bar doing a roaring
trade with the remnants of the Tartan Army (some of whom were dancing
on the top bar).
By now, the food was taking it’s toll, and yet again I had
no choice but to beat an early retreat (well, it was around 11pm,
so better than the previous night), leaving the party in full swing.
After a leisurely breakfast and bus-ride for the airport, we breezed
through check-in at Ljubljana airport only to find out they’d
done it again – cancelling the early flight to consolidate
onto ours. No boarding card problems this time – in fact,
the only difficulty came at Munich airport where sheer will-power
was the only thing that kept me out of Airbraü.
Our hotel room was high above the station, and blessed with the
full Premiere football package, which made for a leisurely siesta
watching the Bundesliga goals as they happened. Sensibly eschewing
a proper meal in favour of fast food (given my recent form), we
headed south to the Isartor S-Bahn station, home to Isarbraü
– a well recommended, but ultimately packed and very food-oriented,
brewpub. Several scoops later, in the company of two very camp German
students, and it was back into town for the Paulaner-owned Thomasbraü
brewpub before yet another sensible evening retirement (back in
bed before the S-Bahn had even stopped running!).
This may have been our first ever Hofbraühaus-free visit to
Munich (after five trips!), but the braühaus fun wasn’t
over yet – there was still time for some kartoffelsuppe and
helles in Airbraü before the flight back to Gatwick on Sunday
afternoon!
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According to Paul, anyway...
Best away trip: Slovenia
Best away game: Norway (when
there was still hope!)
Best home game: Italy
Best night away on TA duty: Tuesday
night in Graz
Best away pub:
Cafe Jeton, Graz (followed by Flann O'Briens, also in Graz)
Best karaoke performance: Craig
McD “Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman”
Best pre-match home pub:
Three Judges
Best post-match home pub: Close
call between the Allison Arms (due to the back fridges) and the
Sports Café (thanks to Tam for pulling everyone together).
Best quote: "I'm surprised
he hasn't been harpooned" - Bruce, on hearing that Charlie
Miller's career lives on in Norway.
Best song: "We're going
to deep-fry your pizzas" - on the tram to the San Siro.
Best beer: Dom Brau, Graz
Most mental local firewater: Turbo
Most, Austria
Most boring location: Oslo
Drunkest NATA member: A
close call, but Susan’s Tuesday night in Graz edges it over
Helen on the Wednesday.
Favourite stadium visited: San
Siro (for the outside)
Favourite match venue city:
Graz
Best non-TA destination:
Düsseldorf
Best non-TA pub: U Cerveno
Vola, Prague
Best Brewery Tour: Union,
Ljubljana
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