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NATA Diary
2003 |
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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