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With my new job in September last year coming with a severe decrease
in holiday, taking week long excursions for each away game is now
a thing of the past. And with no less than five away trips in 2007
(plus the remaining outside possibility of a friendly in November
when everyone else in our group is finishing their fixtures), something
really was going to have to give. In this instance, it was the trips
to Italy, the Faroes and France – all places I’ve been
before and am not that struck on - thus leaving the best part of
a week for exploring Georgia. This doesn’t mean that I’m
eschewing the other trips in their entirety; instead I’m limiting
myself to two days off (the Wednesday and the Thursday) in each
case.
With that decided, the problem with Italy remained the uncertainty
over the venue. Whilst Rome and Milan offer a multitude of transport
connections, and even Florence or Naples are within striking distance
of several airports, rumours had been circulating for some time
that the game was likely to be played in Bari, an outpost way down
at Italy’s heel. The Italian FA were their usual considerate
selves, and duly named Bari as the venue with just days to spare
before FIFA’s 60-day deadline. Less than a month later, all
of this was again thrown into doubt following the serious rioting
in Sicily, however after a week of scare-mongering rumours, it was
confirmed Bari’s ground would have the necessary improvements
in place come kick-off.
In order to manage the trip with just the two days off, we opted
to fly via Cologne from Gatwick with EasyJet on the Tuesday night,
flying on to Bari with Hapag Lloyd Express on the Wednesday lunchtime.
Our return to Cologne was 25 hours after landing, however taking
into account transfer and airport time, we were due to spend less
than 20 hours in downtown Bari. With some rare foresight, and after
undertaking some serious research into hotel room availability in
most of the possible venues, we’d actually booked a (cancellable)
room in Bari through Expedia a month before the fixture was confirmed!
After a sensible night in Cologne (just the two pubs – Malzmuhle
brewpub and the Biermuseum), we were up bright and breezy and off
to the airport. HLX allowed web check-in in advance the day before,
so it was straight through security and into the lounge for a couple
of drinks. A few texts to Bari brought back mixed messages around
the touted alcohol ban (in keeping with how the ban panned out),
so we opted to airlift in supplies, with a couple of bottles of
red wine and a box set of German fruit schnapps making the cut.
A number of other Scots were on the plane across, and we landed
in Bari in good time and with no passport checks to slow us down
(Italy and Germany both being within the Schengen Zone). After some
initial confusion over transport into town, we settled for a taxi
with a decent price (after bartering) and made our way into the
Hotel Victor in downtown Bari. After checking in at the same time
as a job lot of Passport Travellers, and surrendering our passports
for registration, we dumped the bags, grabbed the carry out and
met up with Ally, Susan, Bruce and Sharon in reception before heading
out in search of food and whatever booze was to be had.
Despite Italy’s famous restaurant culture coming to a grinding
halt between 3pm and 6pm, we did find a small café prepared
to sell us all of the remaining pizza and even a beer to wash it
down with, although he did become very jumpy about the beer as soon
as the pizza had been finished! By now, Rich, James and Lynne had
arrived on the scene, and it was at this juncture that I realised
the passports that had been handed back to me by the hotel receptionist
were no longer with me, and after a mad dash back to the hotel,
I found them sitting on the side table where I had paused to pick
up a map! Everyone else found this hilarious, as being known for
my less than enthusiastic outlook on all things Italian, the thought
of being stranded was pure anathema to me and pure entertainment
to everyone else.
Kicked back out onto the street after finishing the pizza, we opted
to blitz the carry out in the park. The sun was shining, the shade
was pleasant and the fruit schnapps were like petrol – all
in all, an ambience that prompted Bruce to remark we should all
chuck in work and do it every day! I’d managed to score some
tickets for the Italian transfer to the ground from in front of
the railway station, and carry out suitably dented, we headed off
early doors, pausing only to have some of the worst pizza in Italy
at a fast food place opposite McDonalds.
The bus to the ground was friendly enough, with a fair mixture
of home and away fans, although the walk around the ground took
a lot longer than planned, due to being stopped by so many locals
for photos. The dregs of the carry out were finished outside the
perimeter, and after yet more photos (Rich posing rock-star like
in front of hundreds of screaming schoolgirls!), we were past the
supposedly formidable security without so much as a ticket check!
After the alcohol ban in the town, we were a little baffled at the
beer for sale inside the ground, although at €4 for a 330ml
can, it may have been an attempt at Scandinavian style aversion
therapy!
Having arrived in such good time to avoid any security queues,
we found ourselves with the pick of the seats, and opted for the
front row next to the stairs, allowing a good view of the ground
as it filled up. Being next to the stairs meant a handy escape route
to the gents when needed (although one or two more inebriated footsoldiers
were relieving themselves at the back of the lower section), but
what a smell!? I swear you could chew on the stench in the subterranean
toilets!
The game itself went to form, and was surprisingly similar to the
one two years previously in Milan. We lost 2-0. We had a handful
of chances. One-nil would have been fairer, yet the second seemed
a goal too far. After a late trip to the toilet, I watched the last
10 minutes from the near-empty lower tier in the company of Tam
McGhee. Unfortunately this was to result in a spot of confusion
when it came to meeting up later (despite me believing I’d
given clear directions to a fellow toilet tripper!). Nonetheless,
we eventually rendezvoused with the help of some shaky mobile phone
connections and eventually made it back into town on the last bus
making the journey.
Bruce and Ally were adamant that a visit to the Paulaner Bar was
called for, and with it being right around the corner from the hotel
it sounded an ideal shout. Yet more pizza was procured, and with
one of the most beautiful barmaids in the world, it wasn’t
a bad shout at all! Of course, by now the red wine (my own personal
kryptonite) was taking the toll, so with some of beer remaining
I beat a retreat back to the hotel.
The next morning we were up and on the bus to the airport for our
3pm flight. We were lucky to get some of the last seats, and the
emergency exit stairs were soon commandeered as a luggage rack by
the other Scots on board. The airport itself was like a tartan refugee
camp, with several Passport charters lining up to check in, although
it did prove very sociable, with Big Jim, Tam McGhee, James and
Lynne and the entire Prestwick Tartan Army all in attendance. Thankfully,
our HLX tickets gave us priority security, much to the chagrin of
the queuing masses, but once airside, the queue for the café
(also the only source of bottled water) was around 50 deep! Thankfully,
a spot of quick thinking allowed me through passport control to
the much quieter section, where I could buy a couple of bottles
and then simply stroll back through the passport booths!
The flight back to Cologne passed quickly, with us sat right next
to Tam Ritchie, with Donny Stevenson and Stevie Imlach in the rows
immediately behind us, and whilst Donny, Stevie and friends headed
into Cologne for several more days of debauchery, and Tam headed
back to Manchester, Helen and I settled down with a few Kolsch beers
ahead of our late flight back to Gatwick.
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The midwinter announcement of the end of season trip to Vienna
was greeted with glee at NATA HQ: ever since passing through en
route to Mattersburg in 2005, Helen and I have been keen to return
to what must be one of Europe’s most diverse and intriguing
capitals. A quick check of the Fortuna Düsseldorf fixture list
revealed we could top and tail 5 nights in Vienna with a weekend
in Hamburg for the Holstein Kiel game rounded off with a weekend
in Düsseldorf for the last game of the season AND the annual
Japanese fireworks display.
After meeting up with our German pal Achim on the train through
to Kiel, and then bizarrely bumping into a Kiel journo mate of Iain
Gillan’s at Kiel’s stadium, we watched Fortuna stumble
to yet another away defeat before softening the pain with a few
beers back in Hamburg ahead of our flight the next afternoon to
Vienna.
After touching down in Vienna in the early evening, we agreed a
rendezvous with Ally and Susan in the Siebenstern Brewpub near Mariahilferstrasse.
After a couple of beers there, and a few doors down the street,
we headed our separate ways with a plan to meet at the Hundertwasserhaus
on the Monday before heading out to one of Vienna’s famous
wine suburbs.
The Hundertwasserhaus is one of those weird examples of Austrian
eccentricity, where surreal modern far-out architecture is plonked
down next to day-to-day buildings (see: Loos Haus in central Vienna,
the municipal incinerator, Graz’s Kunsthaus and even Innsbruck’s
Goldener Dachl). The building’s weird curves and gaudy colours
were a big appeal to me, possibly to the bemusement of Ally, Susan
and Helen, and when it came to the “Toilets of Modern Art”
in the shopping arcade over the way, I was in raptures!
After eventually tearing myself away, I led the charge to Prater’s
Schweizerhaus pub for schnitzels and Budvar beer. There then followed
a debate as to where to head next, following texts from Craig and
Reeky advising that a base camp had been established in Flanagans
to watch the English Championship play-off final. We decided to
stick with Plan A, and made our way by train and tram to the remote
suburb of Stammersdorf for some of the local wine.
Vienna has more vineyards within it’s boundaries than any
other capital city in the world, and the local produce is drunk
with abandon in small, family-run taverns called Heuriger, usually
clustered near the vineyards in certain suburbs. Whilst Grinzing
is the best known, and is a favourite with bus trips, Stammersdorf
is more one for the locals, hence the general bewilderment that
met our kilted excursion. After sheltering from a monsoon downpour
in the first heurigen we came to, we made short work of a litre
of wine (with a matching litre of sparkling water – this local
wine is pretty rough stuff!) for the princely sum of 10 euros (for
the lot!). By the time our wine tavern crawl had come to an end,
4 hours, one lot of Austrian tapas, several heurigen and lots of
wine later, the total impact on the kitty was less than 55 euros,
or put another way, around £10 a head!
The night was still young (in a relative sense, anyway…),
so we headed south towards the Salm Brauhaus where Craig, Kevin
and Robert the Rapid fan awaited. Kevin was already quite tired
and emotional, and excused himself shortly after our arrival, however
Craig led us on a circuitous route to Flanagans, where Reeky was
still holding court at the bar with a few other well kent faces,
including a Heb Bar deputation, Ron and Wullie and the rest of the
Sporran Legion.
Tuesday began with the tinge of a hangover, however Helen and I
blew away the cobwebs with the double whammy of some Kozel in the
Czech pub opposite the hotel and beer and burgers in the excellent
Wiedenbrau brewpub around the corner.
We’d agreed to carry on the wine theme with Ally and Susan
by using our Vienna Card vouchers in the Eulenest Wine Bar, however
our plan for a mid-afternoon start was scuppered by the late return
of the patrons from holiday. Helen duly translated the sign as a
delayed opening, so we adjourned to the nearby iconic Loos Bar (or
the “American Bar”, to bestow its rightful title upon
it) for cocktails before heading back for the wine session.
After a cultured hour and half tasting top-notch Austrian victuals,
we decamped to the ATAC Fans Embassy around the corner in the palatial
Marriott Hotel’s sports bar. At some point Bruce, Chris Norton
and Vic joined the fray, and we all piled into taxis for food at
Siebensternbrau. Eating was essential in order to fortify ourselves
for the TA party at Shebeen, hosted by some up and coming Glasgow
DJ whose name escapes me…
The “ten minutes around the corner” turned out to be
a lot further (but only half as far as it was on the way back at
4am…), but when we arrived at Shebeen it was nigh impossible
to get in. Ally and Susan managed to find some breathing space,
possibly the same space vacated by James and Lynne who joined us
in finding a small café around the corner for a quieter beer
before pitching back into the lunacy. This brief sojourn was only
memorable for a stern barmaid admonishing a singing Norton with
the rebuke: “Quiet! You are not Majorca now!”
Meanwhile, back at Shebeen, the wheat was being sorted from the
chaff, and our second attempt saw us safely ensconced downstairs.
Norton was whisked away beerless by a concerned Vic, leaving the
rest of us to throw ourselves wholeheartedly (and shirtlessly) into
the evening. The litany of shame veered from excessive nudity to
extreme minesweeping, and the nagging guilt lasted well into the
next day…
… which began in Wiedenbrau, around 2pm. In the rapid social
whirl of the night before, arrangements had hastily been made with
Bert to meet up ahead of the game. As an ex-Vienna resident, Bert’s
expertise with the local transport scheme (not to mention his eagerness
to impress the discerning members of NATA…) meant he was the
first in the pub by a good 30 minutes, followed by Paul and Helen,
Ally and Susan, and finally James and Lynne.
After more beer-and-burger action and a halfway beer at the Czech
pub on the way to the U-bahn station, we hit Hütteldorf on
the early side. Eschewing the bar in the station due to the unwelcoming
stares from the local boneheads, we chanced on the same Beisl (trans:
local bar, as in the German “Kneipe”) that Craig and
Kevin were due to meet Robert and Wolfie in. We settled in the garden,
although I was treated to a beer by Wolfie whilst talking Kevin
in from the railway station opposite.
Bruce joined us after a while, having slept away most of the day,
and after some bizarre exchanges with some Rangers-shirted locals
on the way out of the pub, it was off around the corner to the turnstiles.
Helen and I had to pick our tickets up from the SFA kiosk (due to
our extended route out to Vienna), but soon enough we were in the
ground and “enjoying” an alcohol free beer (I would
have had diet coke, but it was full sugar or nothing… which
may have helped as it transpired!).
As the game to-ed and fro-ed, the Rapid Vienna fans behind the
goal provided most of the entertainment with a changing selection
of political banners baiting the Austrian FA and their ex-player
Ivanschitz. Garry O’Connor stole the show with a well-taken
winner early in the second-half, however I don’t remember
too much due to taking a bit of a funny turn through lack of sugar!
Back in town the plan was to head to Flanagans via the 1516 brewpub
over the road. Despite somehow shoe-horning the group into a table
and getting hold of some of their great beer, I was still suffering
from what I now know to have been a diabetic hypo, and had to beat
an early retreat.
After a late checkout, following a night of cold sweats, hallucinations
and a morning altercation with a spider hiding in our suitcase,
we caught the airport train with Tam McGhee, Tartan Taunton, Coullzer
and pals. Our Air Berlin flight to Düsseldorf was on time and
allowed us to enjoy the rarity of a free beer and a schnapps in
our favourite brauereiausschank (as we’d told the waiters
it would be a few months before we were back).
Friday was spent with a day in Wuppertal at the zoo (and the brewpub!),
and Saturday saw us watch Fortuna tonk Borussia Monchengladbach
reserves 4-1, although I did miss two of our goals due to the beer
queue! We met up with Achim in the clubhouse after the game, a surreal
evening of beer gifted by an ex-player, blagged corporate hospitality,
being mooned at in Auberge and watching the Japanese fireworks from
the riverbank followed, ahead of our flight home from Cologne on
the Sunday evening.
One of the best things about German third division football? The
close season only lasts from early June to late July!
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When the draw for the Euro 2008 Qualifiers was made, there were
more than a few groans that the Faroes had come out of the hat.
Never mind the fact that in three previous visits to the islands,
we’d only won once, for many of the long-standing travellers,
they’d had enough of the place (this was the fourth consecutive
Euro campaign we’d drawn the Faroes)! Granted, Helen and I
had only been the once – for the 2-2 draw in the first game
of Berti’s regime – but seeing as I was off the drink
on medical advice for that trip, it’s fair to say I’d
seen the islands in the cold light of day and knew that they didn’t
offer much in the way of either activity-based or alcoholic diversions.
As a result, we were more than grateful to Chairman Jim for tipping
us off about the WESTA charter flight day trip, and so got our feet
in the door at the earliest opportunity.
After flying up to Glasgow after work on the Tuesday evening, we
checked into the Holiday Inn over the road from the airport for
what seemed like 20 minutes sleep. Up at the crack of dawn and onto
the back of the already sizeable queue (well, there were only 30-odd
people on the flight, and they were pretty odd…), only for
me to be called up first as the hand-written boarding cards were
being issued alphabetically (Helen was still travelling under her
maiden name at this stage, so had to wait for the “B”
group!).
With a couple of charters, plus the inevitable holiday flights,
all taking off around 7am, security was moderately busy, as was
the Duty Free shop (where quite a few small bottles of red wine,
complete with plastic glass/lid combo) were procured for the day
ahead. The flight was a little late in being called, and when it
was, it was via bus all the way to the far end of the airport where
our “executive prop plane” awaited. And very nice it
was too, with leatherette seats in a cosy 1-2 configuration and
a very friendly Aberdonian stewardess.
With Bruce in the single seat going into raptures at the views
of coastal Scotland, and James and Lynne sleeping in the seat behind,
we got torn into the complimentary wine (after the stewardess decided
we were civilised enough to warrant cracking open the bar trolley!)
as Bruce supped a beer and snapped away out of the window.
The landing at Vagar International Airport was less dramatic than
I remember from 2002 (although that was in a larger Atlantic Airways
plane, so we may well have been clipping the Fjord walls that time!),
and despite causing the border guard confusion by asking for a passport
stamp, customs was a breeze and our bus awaited. After a team photo
in front of the bus, it was onboard and en route to downtown Torshavn,
to a chorus of “Ole, ole, ole!” in honour of the bemused
driver Olly.
Jen and Jim had arranged with Florentz, the ex-manager of the famous
Café Natur (the only true “pub” on the islands)
to open her new Café Galleria Jinx early doors to give us
a base camp. Unfortunately the licensing laws prohibited alcoholic
sales until 11am, but a blind eye was turned to some of the “ribena”
that was being passed around before the deadline expired. After
11, it was straight onto the local Gull and Black Sheep beer, memorable
for Bruce studying the difference in the ingredients on the bottle
label – “This one has added asborbic acid – no
wonder the sheep’s shooting lightning bolts out of its arse!”.
The drinking soon moved outside, as the glass walls and roof of
the Café gave a serious greenhouse effect. More and more
fans were gathering, either having risen from their slumber (having
slept off a reputedly wild night in the local disco with a young,
upcoming guest DJ from Glasgow at the wheels of steel) or arriving
on different charters. Tam himself was spotted on the green in front
of the parliament shed, sporting a rather natty pair of fabric gingham
DM’s, presumably from his summer wardrobe. At one point, a
transit from the local brewery pulled up to deliver emergency supplies
to Florentz, only for a keg to go off in the back of the van, causing
me to jump not a little (and Helen to ridicule me accordingly).
Eventually the time came to head off to the ground, and with Jen
and Jim valiantly trying to corral the WESTA day-trippers (plus
some Loony Alba members taking up the empty bus seats) towards the
coach park (Bruce: “like herding cats”), we eventually
set off with Mick North Croy playing a compere role in the aisle
(having lost his seat). The red wine was flowing freely, at one
point right down Helen’s shirt (an authentic 1986 away shirt,
last worn by me when I was 12), and this was later to prove fatal
(well, it did look as though she’d been shot in the chest!).
A communal “watering of the flowers” brief kick-around
with a plastic football in a petrol station forecourt provided a
brief interlude, before the bus carried on towards Toftir, taking
the hill with ease (as the waterborne travellers struggled valiantly
up the mountainside from the jetty to the stadium).
After meeting, and no doubt bemusing with our incoherent ramblings,
many people outside the ground, we were in and behind the goal.
Unfortunately, the events from here on in are a little cloudy –
I remember Shaun Maloney’s free-kick and the second goal going
in, if not the exact events leading up to it, but then Helen and
I had a difference of opinion and ended up watching the rest of
the game from separate vantage points. All I can say to those around
us is “sorry” and “thanks very much for looking
after both of us” – I won’t name people individually,
but those involved know who they are.
Back on the bus, and with only a little more drink to go round
(trust me, this was now a good thing), Chairman Jim took the eminently
sensible decision to drop the Loony Alba members in Torshavn before
continuing straight out to Vagar and the hotel adjacent to the airport.
The Vagar Hotel was bouncing, with a handful of bemused locals watching
on as the Tartan Army besieged the bar (and the buffet in some cases).
We sat outside, as even though it was approaching midnight, the
night was light and clear and quite temperate (in contrast to the
scorching sun earlier in the day – several topless footsoldiers
ended up with sunstroke at the game!). We weren’t the only
ones to take advantage of the clear air – across the car park,
someone was completely out for the count on their back in the long
grass!
Again, Jim and Jen did a sterling job in getting us all across
to the airport building, and with the plane sitting on the tarmac,
we were simply waved through security without any boarding cards,
only to have our names ticked off at the door, school-register style.
What made this episode even more comical was the (admittedly unfortunate,
in a “there but for the grace of God go I” way) fact
that our sister charter plane had been commandeered by the SFA to
get the team home, leaving everyone stranded for an extra four hours
or so. Given they looked in a far worse state than us (we’d
only been dragged away from the hotel because we had to –
these guys were mostly out for the count on benches and the floor),
I’m not sure they all saw the funny side of ad hoc classics
such as “Where’s your aeroplane? Where’s your
aeroplane?” and “We’re going home, we’re
going home – you’re not, you’re not!”.
The flight itself was a relatively quiet affair, with most people
being lulled to sleep by the gentle hum of the propellers and only
the dedicated jakies taking advantage of the free-flowing wine (well,
I wouldn’t to stop now… I might get a hangover!). Much
to Helen’s eternal shame, after sleeping the whole flight,
and with only a few steps to go before the hotel room over the road,
she had to rush to the Ladies in the baggage hall to speak to the
big white telephone. A cancelled flight to Gatwick on the way home
(necessitating a last minute change to Heathrow and a National Express
bus) added to the farcical nature of the trip. Still, at least we
don’t need to go back for four years! As a footnote, this
was also a personal triumph for me, as the last away game I missed
was the Faroes in June 1999, marking 8 whole years of consecutive
away matches.
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