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NATA Diary
2005 |
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Given the profusion of away trips in 2005, and Helen’s
lack of annual leave, there were always going to be a couple
of games that had to be cut short, and given the Italy game
was on Easter Saturday, and that leave is in short supply
due to the school holidays, we plumped for a quick-in, quick-out
trip from Good Friday until Easter Sunday (almost a complete
round 48 hours). As the Italian FA kept us guessing over
the venue, with strong rumours supporting anywhere from
Lecce in the deep south to Genoa, we played a cautious hand
and waited for the announcement, paying a premium as a result,
but at least safe in the knowledge we were heading in the
right direction.
As it happened, we got Easyjet flights direct from Gatwick
for around £130 each – more expensive than BA
from Heathrow, but much more convenient (no M25 at the Easter
Weekend!). Due to apprehension about the trip, we decided
to opt for a more luxurious hotel than normal, and inadvertently
booked ourselves into the landmark Gallia at a pricey £120
a night – still, at £250 each all-in for the
weekend and a wee bit of luxury for 2 nights (the hotel,
not Easyjet!) at Easter isn’t too bad.
So, the stage was set, and after a frustrating week at
work, growing continually restless at the thought of everyone
already on the bevvy out in Milan, it was off to Gatwick
on Friday morning…
The airport was heaving on Friday morning, as hordes of
“shell-suiters” queued up with screaming kids
in tow at the start of the school holidays. The Easyjet
desks were thronging with people heading for the likes of
Amsterdam, but we got checked in and through security with
a minimum of fuss, and were pleasantly surprised by the
relative peace and quiet of the upstairs Sports Bar (“No
Children Allowed” being a very welcome sign!). The
seats at the departure gate were filled with a mix of families
and English city breakers, who were no doubt in for a pleasant
surprise when they got to the Duomo later that day –
the 20 or so fellow footsoldiers on the flight would have
given them little warning of what was to await.
At the other end, having successfully (and eventually)
negotiated passport control and the maze of bus stops in
Linate car park, we were dropped off at Central Station
and wandered around to our hotel. Palatial would probably
be unfair – the Gallia is a bit of a landmark, and
we were rewarded with a balcony corner view and a chaise
longue (a first for me), to name but a few luxuries. A rendezvous
with Craig to hand over an emergency sporran led us to his
hotel bar, where we met a few of the Barnton Tartan Army
(they of the big flag at the Norway game), before heading
out on the metro towards the San Siro. We got off at Duomo
for our first and only glimpse of the square and the cathedral
(under scaffolding wraps) as we walked across to the tram
stop, where we met Al and Bev from Enfield (originally Dumfries
in Al’s case). At the end of the tram line and in
the shadow of the stadium – which is incredible from
the outside – they came along with us to Bar Trotto,
where Bruce, Sharon, Jim Carver and Vic were waiting, and
we all sank a few plastic-glassed Heinekens and shared stories
before bidding farewell to the two of them and headed off
to Lotto metro for the bus to Saronno.
Ally Maciver and John (aka Steel Peach, a Brummie now biding
in Lombardy) had organised a night of pizza, music and karaoke
in the small town of Saronno, around 20 miles north west
of Milan and home to the liquid marzipan liqueur, Amaretto
di Saronno. Around 30 Scots, including the eccentric Elvis
throwbacks, the Suspicious Minds Tartan Army, as well as
the Milngavie TA (represented this time by Sumo, Russell,
Ally Jones & Irene, Pete and Katy) made the trip out
– rendezvousing at the smallest McDonalds repetition
in the world for the bus. After around 30 minutes, the bus
pulled up in an empty side street leaving 30 bewildered
footsoldiers to stagger around to a small square with a
lit shop front proclaiming pizza and karaoke. When we got
in, it was apparent we were the only people there, but at
least we got served quickly (by we, I don’t mean Helen
and Craig, who had to wait almost 30 minutes after an opportunist
strike by an apologetic Sumo and Russell). An antipasto
starter plate including tuna and bacon rice (a little unusual)
followed, whilst Irene and Katy, both on their first trips,
tried to fathom exactly what was going on. Some Italian
easy listening followed before John took the stage, and
then the rest of the pub, and then the pavement outside
(with his roving radio mike), for a few Brit-rock songs.
The beer continued to flow for most, but Chris Norton, Diggie
Don and myself opted for a cheeky wee strawberry sparkling
number – only 7% but all the taste of cremola foam
(Ally M) or fizzy mad dog (as Sumo summed it up).
The karaoke soon followed, opening somewhat predictably
with Suspicious Minds, before moving on to more than I can
accurately remember as the place steadily filled up with
locals. Russell was up quickly to perform the topical “Billie
Jean”, and other Milngavie highlights include Pete’s
take on “Take On Me” and a Sumo and Katy duet.
Ally went solo on Yellow Brick Road, however disappointed
everyone by choosing “It’s still Rock and Roll
to Me” instead of “I Got You Babe” for
his double-act with Susan. Chris Norton rescued Pete Risk
by standing in for “That’s Life”, and
doubled up with me on Zucchero’s “Senza Una
Donna” (we had to abandon a plan for him to sing the
English when it turned out to be an all Italian version!).
That was my second attempt at Italian singing that night,
as I had earlier murdered Paolo Conte’s “Via
Con Me” (my excuse: the karaoke machine never highlighted
the words!), which at least contained some English in the
chorus (“I dream of you… chips, chips”).
With the strawberry wine soon drunk dry, various other
attempts to imbibe exotic plonk (alongside the Heineken,
mind) were made, with the likes of Mateus Rose and Landers
Portuguese wine passing lips, as well as a whole round of
amarettos towards the end of the evening. Ally remained
sensible and negotiated a good rate with the bar owner Tina,
and we piled out looking for the bus just before half-one.
A minor burger van dispute was taking place in the distance,
but somehow all of the troops were rounded up and shepherded
back on the bus for the noisy journey back to Central Station.
Sharon and Vic, who had been knocking back industrial strength
jugs of vodka and orange, were beginning to flag, and we
wandered round to Bruce and Sharon’s hotel in an abortive
attempt to find a nightcap, only to find the bar closed.
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A late and lazy start saw Helen and I head across to the
station at lunchtime, where we bumped into Akie hanging
around waiting for Vodka. After grabbing a bite to eat and
some wine from the supermarket (3 bottles, one of which
clocked in at €20!), and even finding a corkscrew,
on a very cheap swiss army style knife, it was back to the
hotel. After umming and ahhing about finding a bar, going
to the hotel’s “Baboon Bar”, or just necking
some wine in the room, our decision was made by Bruce and
Sharon passing our hotel and nipping up. After much effort,
and a nearly broken corkscrew, Helen managed to get the
cork out in instalments and we were rewarded with the fruits
of her labour – well, Helen and me at least; Bruce
doesn’t drink wine and Sharon was still at the “never
drinking again” stage.
After the bottle was finished, Bruce and Sharon headed
off to meet Chris, and Helen and I had decided to head to
the game with the bus tickets we had bought from Irish entrepreneur
Helen Donegan (through her website Italy With Us). Helen
D had arranged a number of buses, covering the U21 game,
transfers to Pisa airport and trips around Milan and to
Como, however most controversially, she had chartered 6
corporation buses to take fans from Central Station (well,
right outside our actual hotel) to behind the Scotland end,
returning after the match. Not to everyone’s taste,
and certainly a talking point on the Tartan Army Message
Board, Helen (my one) and me had decided to book these primarily
as insurance for getting home after the game. After all,
we’ve faced issues in the past (notably Brussels and
Valencia), and it would be no more expensive than one of
the rare taxis in the town. We had just over half-an-hour
before the bus was due to depart, so we made good use of
the classy (and pricey) Baboon Bar; a couple of cocktails
later and it was out to join the 4pm bus to the stadium;
our two bottle wine supply bolstered by the acquisition
of 5 mini bottles of “Beverino Rosso”.
The ride to the game was pretty comfortable, punctuated
with some great songs (“We’re going to deep
fry your pizzas”) and lots of friendly waves from
the locals. On disembarking at the south end of the ground
we headed around in the direction of the beer tents, stopping
to grab a bite to eat and a scarf. Outside the Forst Stadio
Bar we bumped into Wee Numpty of the Notts Scots, and were
soon joined by Big Numpty. After a round from the bar and
an attempt to open wine bottle number 2 – the corkscrew
snapped off in the cork this time, necessitating a trip
to the bar for Helen to flutter her eyelashes and leave
the job to the professionals – it was off to the Daily
Record’s much publicised “Tartan tent”
(which was neither tartan, nor much of a tent – more
of an awning, actually). A decent Scottish crowd were already
in evidence around the ground, and we were delayed only
long enough to decant our open wine into plastic glasses
(the third bottle and remaining 3 mini bottles were safe
in the ruck sack). The square surrounding Da Vinci’s
horse was pleasantly full (i.e. not uncomfortably) of Tartan
Army, and the flags hanging off the back of the coliseum-like
racecourse stand made for an excellent backdrop. The wicker
sofas scattered around were looking increasingly optimistic
given the darkening overcast sky above us, and the first
few spits of rain were being felt as we made our way under
the cover of the awning in the corner. The queue for beer
tokens looked pretty rough (we were okay given our “supplies”),
as did the secondary queue to turn the tokens into alcohol
– we drifted out the other side of the tent and found
ourselves in the company of Chris, Fran, Bert and his wife,
as well as Chris’ daughter and her boyfriend Matty
– all of them immensely proud of Bert’s “There
is a light…” flag, fluttering proudly in the
drizzle.
The heavier rain coincided precisely with a large influx
of fellow Tartan Army – Craig and Disco Keith turned
up minutes before Ally, Sue and Rich, by which time we were
huddling with hundreds of others in the bottom concourse
of the stand. The wine was shared amongst the gathered,
and only a text from Ally Ewan (promising more wine and
more plastic glasses) tempted us from our haven, with Craig
in tow keen to share a drink with his old college-mate.
The rendezvous was named, however on arrival at the now-packed
Stadio Bar, Ally was nowhere to be seen (a later shouted
phone call minutes after the final whistle revealed he had
been outside, possibly at the other bar), but some superb
negotiation from Helen secured drinks direct from the barman
(circumventing the time-consuming cassa system of pre-payment).
As the three of us supped our beers, Craig leaned over to
present a grinning midget ultra with a tacky “I’ve
met the Tartan Army” button badge. The ultra was very
grateful for this, and saluted Craig in a way that would
have made Di Canio proud (speaking of which, all the ultras
seemed to share Paolo’s taste in Planet of the Apes
sideburns), much to our bemusement. There only remained
time for an exchange of badges with John from the Shetland
Tartan Army (confused by my insistence that I had met him
in Pandoras – sorry John, I meant the Clockwork!)
before heading back round to the Scotland end. One final
beer stop (from a stall) remained, as well as another scarf
purchase (I was determined to ditch all my coins as a result
of the confiscation scare stories we’d heard), and
it was off to our turnstiles, meeting John “Steelpeach”
and the Milngavie Tartan Army on the way in.
After getting in, climbing the stairs and paddling in the
toilet, we all became separated as I queued for a box of
Tuc biscuits (sadly not the ones with a soft cheese filling)
– Helen and I made our way up to the back of our section
where we were soon joined by Sharon and Bruce, then Rich
(who had somehow ended up in conversation with a player’s
girlfriend in the front row). The section we were in behind
the goal filled up rapidly, and before we knew it the anthems
had been and gone. Scotland started solidly, if a little
hesitant to commit to all-out attack, and lasted well into
the first half before the injured (and soon-to-be-substituted)
Rab Douglas was caught out by a Pirlo free kick curled over
the wall towards Rab’s top right corner. Within a
few minutes Gordon was on, and Scotland remained steadfast
until the half-time break. Shortly after half-time Quashie
conjured up a great volley matched by a fingertip Buffon
save, and midway through the half Ferguson put Miller clear
only for the young striker to snatch at the one-on-one.
In amongst all of this the game was constantly punctuated
by a number of soft free kicks, mostly awarded in Italy’s
favour – for all their constant rolling around, the
physio was hardly on the pitch, yet it wasn’t until
the closing few minutes that Italy extended their lead;
Pirlo again, but with an inch perfect dead ball that left
Gordon blameless. Off the pitch, the second half was witness
to an incredible version of Doe a Deer that seemed to get
louder each time for around 15 minutes solid – some
of the Italians had tried to drown it out with jeers at
the start but soon gave up – and on the flip side,
a pitched battle between two opposing Italian ultra elements
in the stand beneath us, out of view to most Scots in the
ground but not on the telly.
Come the final whistle, almost every Scot in the stadium
took the two-nil defeat in a positive light – I certainly
feel it marks definite progress from the sort of capitulation
we could have been forgiven for expecting once the first
had gone in (for example: Paris, Cardiff, Amsterdam, even
Hungary and Sweden at home). The half-full San Siro may
not have met everyone’s expectations in terms of facilities,
atmosphere or even safety (as Helen’s bruised back
could testify to), but it was still a magnificent venue
to cheer on the team, and hopefully bear witness to the
initial shoots of recovery we so badly need.
Anyway, away from the match analysis (let’s face
it – not something these diary accounts are renowned
for!) and back to the blow-by-blow account… After
a wait of around 30 minutes or so, much of which was whiled
away singing and being applauded by some lingering Italian
fans, we were allowed out, and Helen and I made our way
down the never ending staircase keen to get seats on the
bus. Our buses were tucked just behind the trams, but we
were lucky to get straight on and sat down within minutes.
After a delayed departure, it took over 30 minutes of driving
just to get to Lotto metro (a 20 minute walk from the ground!),
although a couple of shouts from the back suggested the
driver had been going around in circles for a while. By
now, a combination of the late time, the excitement of the
game and the heat of the bus (and maybe, just a wee bit,
the amount of red wine I’d had earlier) conspired
to make me feel very ill indeed – the last 25 minutes
or so back to the station were spent trying not to breathe
too deeply, as not only did I feel ready to faint but explosions
from either, or both, ends felt uncomfortably imminent (sincere
apologies to the guy in the seat in front – I had
to keep leaning against the top of his seat back to stay
upright). No sooner had the bus stopped and I was back out
in the cool, fresh evening air and I was (nearly) as right
as rain – strangely, no-one else had felt the heat
to the same extent as me. Despite my swift recovery, it
was still felt prudent to beat the retreat back to the hotel
room, particularly as it was literally in sight of the bus
terminus, and the bathroom facilities were duly put to good
use as Helen crashed out in bed, curtailing any lingering
plans for a nightcap in the hotel bar.
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There was no escape from the heat in the hotel room either
– after waking up feeling decidedly unstable in the
wee hours, the only thing for it was to throw open the window/door
onto the stone balcony to cool the room down whilst I lightened
the room in the bathroom. The downside was the window's
positioning – facing the bus/tram terminus at the
station’s south-west corner – so the price was
increased noise. We may have lost an hour (due to the clocks
changing), but a late check out agreement and the early-ish
night meant we had clawed back some time, which at least
made my acidic, unstable stomach slightly more bearable.
Breakfast took the form of a McDonalds cheeseburger, practically
a national dish given the proliferation of the fast food
outlets on every corner, after which we bumped into Will
Fae Swindon and Leon heading for the Linate bus. The bus
trip and subsequent pizza and coke in the crowded airport
bar were relatively low-key, and despite the scores of Scots
at the airport, check-in, boarding and everything in between
went pretty smoothly (especially for Easyjet!). Even Shambles,
Russell and co who had a tight connection at Gatwick would
have struggled to have missed it, given the ease with which
everything happened.
All in all, a low key trip for us, as predicted several
weeks previously, but still very enjoyable. I’d recommend
the San Siro to anyone – just don’t expect any
prawn sandwiches!
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Keen to maintain our very rare 100% away attendance at
Future Cup matches, we booked up for Vienna as soon as the
venue (Mattersburg, a very small town in Burgenland) was
confirmed 5 weeks or so ahead of the game. I have to confess
I was a little hesitant about Vienna, despite the great
weekend we’d had in Innsbruck the previous summer,
due to its stuffy reputation (admittedly based on my image
of chalked wigs ballroom dancing to Mozart!). Nonetheless,
with the game on the Tuesday, we opted to spend the weekend
and the Monday in Vienna, then stay the night of the game
in Mattersburg’s only pre-bookable hotel before flying
back on the Wednesday.
We caught the mid-morning BA flight on the Saturday, and
arrived in Vienna’s modern airport early afternoon
after catching breath-taking views of the Alps due to the
clear skies. Having done our homework, we bought Vienna
Cards at the airport tourist office (sharp left out of the
Arrivals door) and therefore qualified for discounted express
train tickets for the posh double-decker train into town.
After catching two subway trains across town to Mariahilfer
Strasse, and then struggling up the slight hill through
crowds of shoppers in oppressive heat, we discovered our
hotel was actually right on top of the next tube station!
A walk along the shopping street of Neubaugasse ended in
disappointment, as the promised fan shop “Caledonia”
had changed hands and become an antique shop, and strangely,
all of the bars and restaurants were shut. In frustration,
our first beer in Vienna was in the historic Café
Eiles, served by a tuxedoed waiter. Again reaping the benefits
of having read the guidebook, we headed out to the suburbs
to try the cheap wine delights of the heuriger wine taverns.
Although Grinzing is the most famous area (especially for
tourists), we opted for the joys of Stammersdorf, right
on the north-eastern edge of the city, and more of a village
than a suburb. The main street was literally lined with
heuriiger taverns, where wine is served by waitresses in
250ml mugs for around £1.20 a go, and food is served
in a school canteen manner. After a small meal and what
must of amounted to more than a couple of bottles worth
of plonk each, we headed back into town on the tram and
were heading up the street towards the hotel when we spotted
another kilted footsoldier coming towards us.
After a quick introduction with Joe from Dundee and Leslie
from Sunderland, we all headed off to the Siebensternbrau
pub, only to find it was in the process of closing. After
blagging a quick half we popped into the small bar next
door for a couple. Helen was flagging badly after all the
wine earlier that evening, so we bid farewell and headed
off round the corner to our hotel.
It took a while to get into gear on the Sunday, as Helen
was feeling the after-effects of the night before. After
eventually dragging ourselves out, we headed down, via subway
and tram, to FK Austria’s ground in the Altes Landgut
area of the city. The “Violet’s” stadium
is on a motorway embankment, and by the time we’d
trekked from the tram stop through the pedestrian crossing
and up to the ticket office we didn’t fancy turning
back on ourselves to go to the pub. Helen did get a €5
“ladies” discount on her ticket, and with these
in hand we headed around to the turnstiles that were just
opening (around 90 minutes before kick-off), confident of
getting a drink inside. As it happened, the bar was a marquee
type affair with picnic tables inside, where Helen was able
to nurse a coke whilst I went on the prowl for pin badges
and sausages. On my travels I saw a superb poster advertising
fan travel for the UEFA Cup Quarter Final against Parma
the previous Thursday, promising a “Violette Parma
Invasion”, which brought all kinds of fantastic images
to mind; Helen, struggling badly to keep her coke down,
didn’t see the humour so well.
With the club anthem and various other soft-rock classics
still ringing in our ears from the DJ’s who had set
up in the marquee, we took our seats in the main stand and
watched the colourful display of flags from the main terrace.
Within minutes of kick-off, Casino Bregenz – a team
propping up the league, and 9-0 losers to FKA earlier in
the season – had the ball in the net to stun the home
crowd. A group of around 5 away fans danced in the far corner
of the ground, and Bregenz then set their stall out to defend,
and frustrate both the team and the fans. Despite a string
of sitters being missed, the teams went in at 0-1 for the
half-time break, with FKA’s Aussie keeper having to
be physically restrained from having a go at the linesman.
The second half continued with the Bregenz goal under siege,
until midway through the half when a dropping ball into
the six-yard box was bundled over the line, complete with
the Bregenz goalkeeper still clutching it in true 1950s
style. The game finished 1-1, and we were off and out back
down across the motorway junction towards the tram stop
and a couple of pubs recommended by the The Rough Guide
to European Football. One turned out to be closed Sundays,
so we made do with the other one – a typical central
European suburban drinking den. Helen was still feeling
rough, not helped by the resident dog running around her
feet, so we made do with the one and headed back towards
the hotel, with a quick wander around Stephansplatz (the
cathedral square), seeing as we had to change tubes there
anyway.
After freshening up, we headed around the corner and back
to the Siebensternbrau in much better time this evening.
A pleasant meal of schnitzel and apple strudel followed,
as I worked my way through four of the seven house brews
(chilli beer is a non-starter for me, hemp beer didn’t
appeal either and I’d had a small helles the day before),
and we made the decision to take an early night rather then
head on into the city centre.
The early night (still past 11pm, mind!) worked wonders,
and we were up bright and breezy and in good time to head
across the city to UNO City to get on the 11am tour of the
UN buildings (which was a lot more interesting than it must
sound!). We then walked through the high rise building to
the Danube Tower – it was a blustery April Monday,
so not too many other people had headed for the tower, meaning
we had the views mostly to ourselves. The outside viewing
platform was only just bearable, but seeing as were caged
in there was no worry about being swept over the side. The
bungee platform sticking out the side looked suspiciously
like a pirate ship’s “plank” and not something
you’d catch either of us on. The tower boasts a full-on
restaurant and a café quite content for you to sit
and linger over a drink as the whole section revolves. And
revolves at quite a speed it does too – in the time
we took to finish a coffee and an ice cream, we’d
done almost three laps!
Back down on terra firma and it was a short hop by U-Bahn
to the Prater Amusement Park, home to the iconic Riesenrad
(the big wheel immortalised by The Third Man). The wheel
took around 40 minutes to complete a stop-start journey,
but this may have been due to a quiet day; unlike the London
Eye, they stop the wheel to empty and fill each cabin, so
they may have been waiting for people to shuffle through
the turnstiles. The Amusement Park was pretty deserted and
only half-operational, but the excellent Schweizerhaus bar
was open – famed for huge pork dishes (we didn’t)
and foaming mugs of Buvar (we did). After tearing ourselves
away from the cosy bosom of said pub, it was a long and
fruitless walk round to the Ernst Happel Stadium; long as
we opted to take the road way around as opposed to cutting
past the back of the trotting stadium, and fruitless as
there was absolutely nothing of interest around the ground.
The one small reward was next to the tram stop (that would
take us back to the U-Bahn station) was an inviting yellow
coloured pub – now a proud owner of a NATA pennant.
After getting back to the Praterstern U-Bahn station we
stopped for a quick stand-up beer in a large corner bar
before heading into the centre proper.
We made our way from the Stephansplatz tube station to
the Esterhazykeller, a heurigen tavern in the city centre.
The top-notch wine still came in the half-pint tankards,
and only slightly more expensive than the suburbs of Stammersdorf,
although despite the more urbane setting, it was still school
dinner time as far as food was concerned. Eventually tearing
ourselves away from the welcoming wine-flavoured bosom,
we made it back up to the now dark surface and decided to
take the scenic route through the floodlit courtyards of
the majestic Hofburg before opting to carry on the wine
theme at the Eulennest Vinotheque (spurred on by our Vienna
Card discounts). The Eullenest turned about to be a small
wine bar/shop/delicatessen, where our tasting of five Austrian
wines turned in to a full-on session with extra wine and
lots of cheese and fresh parma ham from the deli counter.
We left there around 11-ish, determined to get a cocktail
as a nightcap from the iconic Loos Bar around the corner.
Adolf Loos is a famous architect who designed a small bar,
officially known as the “American Bar” with
lots of brightly coloured tiles and mirrors – well,
that’s all we could see when poking my head above
the thronged masses in the doorway. The mirrors make the
place look much bigger, but there can only be space for
around 25 people inside. Disappointed, but not defeated,
we headed back to Mariahilfer Strasse and the mega-trendy
cellar of the Bar Italia, where a Melon Colada sated my
cocktail desires. And that should have been that, however
stupidly I was inspired to try another, and went for a “Hemingway
Special”, thinking that dark rum is one of the safer
spirits for a man of my fragile constitution, before retiring
for the evening.
The cocktail had tasted pretty sharp on the way down, but
I had foolishly thought zantac would put out the fires.
This seemed to be the case when I first woke around 8am-ish
for a call of nature, although I was a little unsteady on
my feet at the time. When the alarm went off for real 2
hours later, things had got much worse, to the extent that
stripped naked and stood in the shower, it took just 30
seconds of staring at the shower machinery for me to decide
that standing up for long enough to complete the transaction
was beyond me. Helen was thankfully understanding, following
her own exploits two days before, and was able to negotiate
an hour’s stay of execution in the room.
So it was an hour later than planned that Helen and (a
very subdued) me made our way across Vienna to the Sudbahnhof
and the train to Wiener Neustadt (for a change of trains
to Mattersburg). Mattersburg station was a revelation –
two incredibly narrow platforms and a tiny building containing
toilets, a waiting room, and thoughtfully, a bar where we
were able to stop for a wee beer and a look at a map the
barmaid was able to pull out of a drawer of odds and ends.
I popped out to use the gents in the waiting room and came
back out to find Joe and Leslie (who we’d met on the
first night in Vienna) sat on benches finishing their drinks
from their train journey. After leaving a pennant behind
the bar, we set off together down the hill into the “town”
centre (in my opinion, 6,000 people constitutes a village!),
looking for our hotel and a decent spot for a rendezvous
– the latter turned out to be easy, as even a tiny
Austrian provincial community proudly boasts that keystone
of the local community: an Irish theme pub (called “The
Peacock”). Our hotel, the Florianihof, was just around
the corner, and Tam McGhee, Ian Carden and Lorraine (the
ONLY person we know to have a 100% B Team record, unlike
us away-game part-timers!) were already ensconced in the
bar. We dropped the bags in the room and headed back out
to meet Joe and Leslie, having passed news of the meeting
point to the three musketeers.
It didn’t take long for the travelling Tartan Army
to converge on The Peacock – when Ian arrived shortly
after us, Joe and Leslie, he proudly hung his “Blackpool
Tartan Army” flag on the wall, quickly followed by
Tam bedecking the pub’s frontage with his much bigger
“Twa Tams TA” flag (cue loads of jokes about
where the Twa Tams pub actually was). Ludo heralded his
arrival with his bugle, then proceeded to tell us about
his eventful hire car journey up from Graz, which had already
cost him one wing mirror, and it wasn’t long until
Dunfermline boys Tartanpar (Stewart) and Jock Villa, along
with Will from Swindon hit the pub. Tam had organised a
sweepstake to see who would get the total number of Scotland
fans at the ground (€1 a head), and the late arrivals
had already ruled a few out of the running. Around 30 minutes
before kick off the 11 of us set off for the ground, and
narrowly averted heading into the nearby Sports Bar for
“just a wee one”.
The ground itself was in the shadow of the famous railway
viaduct (Mattersburg’s star attraction!) and hosts
a moderately successful provincial top division club. Strangely
the team regularly draws in crowds of 8,000+, and is therefore
big enough to hold everyone in the town with room to spare.
We were in the main stand, but not actually under cover
(and it did look ominous). We were treated to an appalling
rendition of Flower of Scotland (the band must have listened
to the same dodgy 78rpm record at the wrong speed they had
in Mannheim!), and the game kicked off at a relatively sedate
place. The game remained goal-less for the first thirty
minutes, the only real moment of interest being shuffling
Sam Parkin’s substitution for the infinitely more
mobile Shaun Maloney. Austria took the lead from a soft
goal from a free-kick and we went in one-down at half-time.
By the interval, a few more Scotland fans had drifted in,
taking our total to 19 (Tam had 18 in the sweep and duly
claimed his winnings). In addition to three guys who pretty
much kept themselves to themselves (one in a kilt and one
in a WESTA t-shirt), Dave from Dundee joined the throng
just after kick-off, as did Mark (aka “Dicko”)
and his pal Kev had driven up from Graz – the final
two pieces of the jigsaw were their pal Colin (I think!?)
and his son Jamie. Later reports from the train suggested
that “two Germans in the press box were supporting
Scotland” were rejected (as they weren’t in
the Scotland “end”).
Half-time brought some unusual entertainment – as
the marching band made their way on to the pitch, Ludo was
eyeing up his bugle. Somehow he managed to get permission
from the stewards and took his place in the ranks of the
marching band, much to the crowd’s hilarity. After
marching along (just!) to one tune he made his way back
across the pitch to rapturous applause from the Austrian
crowd. In the ensuing media frenzy he had to pose for endless
photos with local children as the second half kicked off,
although he was rewarded with a professional press photograph
of his moment of glory.
Unfortunately, Ludo was the only Scotsman to really get
such a reception that night. Scotland fell two behind on
the hour, and an excellently taken goal by Craig Beattie
(following a rocket-like \severin shot coming back off the
post) proved only a consolation. On the final whistle it
was back downstairs and into the packed clubhouse bar with
most of the TA, although Joe, Leslie, Lorraine, Ian, Jock,
Stewart and Will all had to head away for the last train
less than an hour after full-time. I started on the beer,
but on finding that wine was only €1 a glass (and the
fact that the beer was being served in flimsy plastics at
a 50c deposit a time), I quickly switched. The train posse
headed off, and left Dave, Tam, Helen and myself to spend
Tam’s sweep winnings. Tam was next to go, feeling
a little tired and emotional, with just Helen and I to witness
Dave’s charm offensive on the local ladies. It turned
out that the SV Mattersburg is one of the main social hot-spots
for all the surrounding villages, and as a result had over-staffed
heavily for the occasion, which is why Doris, a young blonde
would-be barmaid, pulled up a seat at our table and engaged
us in conversation. Her and her sister Claudia decided to
join us for a last drink at The Peacock, which was very
handy as it meant a lift – by now, the skies that
had looked so ominous had opened, and the rain was bouncing
off the streets.
The Peacock was surprisingly busy (for midnight on a Tuesday
in provincial Austria), but we managed to get space at the
bar. Claudia and Doris promised to meet us in Graz for the
full-team game in August before making their way home to
get up for work in the morning. After another couple of
nightcaps, we made our way round the corner to the hotel.
The killer hangover on the Tuesday forced me to take things
easily on match day, which in turn led to us waking up fresh
as daisies on the Wednesday morning. We had mentioned to
Tam and Dave we were planning to get the 12.59 train, but
didn’t really expect to see either of them still around.
True to form, they were both in the hotel bar, Dave with
a small beer, Tam nursing a coffee. The train journey back
was pretty uneventful, save for catching a double-decker
train from Wiener Neustadt straight to Wien Mitte (for the
airport train). Our ambitious plans to see a last few sights
in Vienna went out the window and the four of us headed
across from the station to the Bierkutsch’n for radler
and turkey kebabs before catching the train to the airport.
So that was that – much like Innsbruck the year before,
Austria proved a real surprise and I’m certainly looking
forward to going back in August.
-
2,700 – official attendance
-
19 – Scottish fans in Mattersburg (Lorraine,
Ian Carden, Jock Villa, Stewart aka tartanpar, Willfaeswindon,
Ludo, Joe, Leslie, Tam McGhee, Dave from Dundee,
Mark aka Dicko, Kev, Jamie, Jamie’s Dad, 3
guys I don’t know, Helen and me)
- 5
– Scottish fans stayed overnight in da ‘Burg
(Tam, Dave, Ludo, Helen and me)
- 4
– Scottish fans who already live in Austria
- 1
– wing mirrors left on Ludo’s hire car
- 1
– Scottish bugler on the pitch at half-time
- 0
– number of Immodium taken by Paul
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This is a long one, so I've split as follows: Prologue,
Mincing in Minsk and Brest
and Beyond
Every year I need to take a two week block off my work
– I know I shouldn’t moan, given how much leave
I get throughout the year, but it’s still a chore.
I certainly try and avoid spending it at home, so the Belarus
trip was the one chosen for the break. The original plan
was to fly down from the Moldova home game to Heathrow on
the Sunday and catch the afternoon flight to Riga. One night
in Riga then Air Baltic to Minsk on the Monday, then train
down to Brest (on the Polish border) on the Saturday for
two nights, then moving on by train to Warsaw for a few
days before ending up in Krakow, flying back on the Sunday,
giving a full two weeks in Eastern Europe.
Flights were booked well in advance (a bargain £120
“open jaw” BA ticket into Riga and out of Krakow!),
only for a catastrophic chain of flight amendments to mess
the whole plan up, starting with the Riga flight moving
to 10.30am, too early for any BA flights to Heathrow on
the Sunday! Coupled with Helen having less leave than me,
and her wanting to make sure she kept some back for the
play-offs (ever the optimist!), we decided to cut the trip
shorter and come home on the Tuesday.
The Riga change meant the only way to travel to Heathrow
on the Sunday ahead of the connection was to leave Glasgow
on the 0630 bmi flight (which thankfully clocked in at £30
each one-way) – we didn’t fancy stressing about
getting back to the airport after the match on the Saturday,
and in any case, the hotel at Glasgow airport was far cheaper
than a night at Heathrow.
So… the morning of Moldova game saw a more sensible
build-up than we’re used to, meeting up with Gav and
Annie (at her first Scotland game) and soaking up the atmosphere
at The Shed nightclub. A goal-less first half left feeling
a little nervous at half-time, but a quick goal followed
by a late clincher led to an ultimately comfortable two-nil
win. A few drinks and lots of laughs in the Allison Arms
followed before Helen and I went back to the hotel for a
few hours kip ahead of our early start the next day…
In spite of the ludicrously early flight time, everything
went smoothly and we arrived in Riga on time. We shared
a people carrier taxi into the centre with some other Scots
from the flight and checked in to our 17th storey room with
a view across Riga’s old town from the Reval Hotel.
After a cocktail in the SkyLine bar it was off into town
with the intention of revisiting some old haunts, although
we only really made it as far as the massive beer tent on
Livu square before being waylaid for several hours. The
long day’s travelling had tired us out, so it was
one in an empty, closing Runcis and then back to the hotel
for the sleep of the just.
Any other time, a lunchtime flight would have seemed early,
but after the two previous mornings it was a luxurious lie-in
by comparison. At the airport we met fellow Scotland fans
Graeme and Dasha (Graeme’s Latvian-Russian wife),
and on arrival at Minsk we were very grateful for Dasha’s
Russian getting us through passport control and customs
without a hitch. They very kindly offered to share the pre-booked
cab with us, so we found ourselves at the Hotel Belarus
much quicker and with much less hassle than expected, and
after around 30 minutes at reception where several butch
looking women were called over to scowl at our reservation
and berate the male receptionist in Russian, we were finally
handed our slip of paper to give to the dezhurnaya on the
15th floor in exchange for the key to our “junior
suite” in the apex of two of the three “arms”
of the tower block.
After a few minutes “adjusting” to the soviet
realism of our bathroom, and the tiny size of the alleged
double bed, we’d unpacked and were on our way downstairs.
A quick recce of the hotel turned up the top floor bar/restaurant,
a closed bar on the 6th floor, and amazingly, a 24 hour
bar on the 13th (unfortunately we never actually made it
in here for a drink, much to my disappointment as I’ve
heard the tadpole rolls were a real treat!), before ending
up in the Pool Hall bar on the 1st floor. Big Dave J had
tipped us off about this place whilst we were checking in
(he’d managed to catch the “24 hour” currency
exchange in a rare open moment!), and he was in there with
a number of the Heb Bar TA, including Bridie Boy (Allan,
minus his trademark hat). Waiting for a beer was a laborious
process - the marked shortage of glasses being exacerbated
by the barman’s insistence on chilling them in the
freezer before pouring – and after a couple we headed
downstairs. We only made it as far as the Smirnoff restaurant
for a quick one sat at the bar whilst admiring the glitter
ball, before heading off to find the Rakowski Brovar for
a rendezvous with Ally, Susan and Rich.
We managed to find the brewpub without too much difficulty,
and were very impressed with the place (it wasn’t
to be a good indication on the rest of the pubs!). Ally
and Susan already had a table just across from Wee John
and some of the Perthshire Boys (we could hear the odd rendition
of “There’s a moose, loose, aboot Belarus”
drifting across the pub) – John later filled us in
on the story of the border crossing (someone inadvertently
walked into and smashed a closed glass door BEFORE passport
control!), and the arrival in the city (with people on the
roof of the bus, narrowly missing the overhead trolleybus
lines). Rich finally made it after taking the slow bus in
from the airport (he’d come via Warsaw), shortly followed
by Mike, Suzanne, Bert, Joey Deacon and friends. In the
meantime Norrie and Joan had been, gone, and come back again,
bemoaning the opening hours of the other pubs they’d
found in their brief sojourn. We left ahead of closing time
to wander back to the hotel and opted to have a nightcap
in Panorama on the top floor, which was still pretty quiet
– this part of the evening was most memorable for
a conversation Rich had in the gents with the guy stood
next to him: “When did you come over?”, Rich
was asked; “I was sat next to you on the flight”
was the truthful answer!
A pre-U21 lunch meet had been agreed in the now familiar
surroundings of Rakowski Brovar, and the lack of working
phones (seemed all Orange phones were incompatible in Belarus)
meant we couldn’t afford to be late. It didn’t
help that we were accosted by an eager badge-seller as soon
as we stepped out of the hotel, but stopping to buy badges
did mean we met up with Mike, Suzanne and Bert and strolled
through the reconstructed old town (“Trinity Suburb”
on the way to the pub.
No sooner had we crossed the Svisloch River than the clouds
had rolled in, and the heavens opened when we were but 100
yards from pub door. After seeking shelter under an apartment
block balcony (along with several locals), we made a run
for it when the rain eased off to a steady downpour. We
weren’t the last to make it to the pub soaking wet
– Disco Keith turned up 30 minutes later looking frankly
ridiculous in sunglasses and wringing wet shorts. After
several beers and some food, it was clear there was dissension
in the ranks around heading for the U21s – Ally, Susan
and Kev were definitely going, whilst the more fair-weather
amongst us (Mike, Suzanne, Bert, Craig McD, Jim Brown, Rich,
Helen and me) opted to stay dry and central by going on
a pub crawl.
Ironically, by the time we’d extricated ourselves
from the bosom of Rakowski Brovar the sun was shining again,
so we made the most of this by enjoying some of the cheapest
beer of the trip in one of the beer tents on the terrace
of the Rakowski shopping centre. The drawback of this approach
became apparent when Rich had to lead an expedition to the
toilets, a good 600 yards away on a different floor. Pit
stops were made in a café with a heart on the sign
(no local beer, only warm bottles of Heineken!) and the
Air Grip café in a cinema complex (Bert ended up
in the film theatre after taking a wrong turning to the
Gents), before we ended up at our destination: Stary Mensk,
opposite the still active KGB Office on Skoriny. Stary Mensk
failed to live up to expectations – it was effectively
a beer tent set on a wide pavement (with no toilets!), and
this offered scant protection from the rain that was once
again bouncing off the pavement. We were re-joined here
by Kev, who had changed out of his sodden shorts following
another drenching at the U21 game, and met up with Clarkston
Chris and his pal Dave for the first time on the trip, as
well as Graeme and Dasha again briefly.
Hunger was setting in by now, and Craig, Kev, Jim, Helen
and I set off in search of food whilst Mike, Suzanne and
Bert made their way back to Rakowski in a cab and the young
‘uns went off to look for a club. After a pizza and
some wine (Helen and me were dining in the company of the
cultured end of the TA wedge here!) we made our way back
towards the Hotel Belarus, minus Craig. Kev remembered the
old town was a hive of drinking activity back in 1997 and
was disappointed by its quietness this time around –
we made do with the tiny Café Banana. This was a
wee bit of a find – a genuine Arabic bar in the middle
of Minsk, complete with waterpipes and drapes. The evening
was certainly brightened up by one of the girls dancing
at the bar: a stunning, 6 foot-plus blonde who was a dead
ringer for Species actress Natasha Henstridge. After finishing
up here we headed back to the Hotel Belarus, where Jim and
Disco, living up to his nickname, headed off to Westworld
whilst Helen and I headed for bed.
Having seen how quickly the weather had changed the day
before, and not wanting to catch my death of cold (didn’t
stop it!), I decided on a Valencia-style strategy and donned
trousers for the only day on this trip. Without the aid
of mobile phones, it was very difficult to coordinate any
kind of meet-up, so Helen and I opted to check out the Minsky
Brovar, a short walk away through the churchyard next to
the hotel.
Minsky Brovar was a far cry from the “brewpub”
described in the SFA notes – it was the brewery tap
of a fully-fledged industrial brewery (Alivariya –
the red/yellow coloured label adorning many of Minsk’s
riverside beer tents). We’d only been in around 30
minutes when a couple of the Loony Alba boys (Tevo and Kellas),
along with Drew Lilley and his “uncle”, Derek
the brewer, were ushered through the bar and into a curtained
off area. It turned out that they had been in the day previous,
and had been invited for a tour, tasting session and lunch
by the Chief Executive.
A variety of luck and limited texting through Helen’s
phone resulted in Kev, Craig McD and Rich finding their
way there, and after several hours we left in order to make
our way towards the ground. Craig invited us all back to
his room at the Hotel Minsk (staggering distance from the
ground) to polish off a bottle of Rosé (like I said,
cultured!) and listen to St Etienne on his mini-iPod, and
Helen repaid this hospitality by locking the bathroom door
from the outside!
We got split up walking to the ground after a couple of
abortive attempts to get served (all the pubs seemed to
be on “no alcohol” instructions from the police),
and Helen and I got in nice and early before meeting up
with the rest of Loony Alba on the very edge of the Scotland
section. The game turned out to be an entertaining goal-less
draw with plenty of chances for both sides (and plenty of
singing from the locals), although Alexander’s drive
was so close to clinching it near the end there were twinges
of it being a “moral defeat”. For once the other
results weren’t quite as helpful, and we were left
rueing what could have been had we snatched the win. After
a lengthy wait to leave our section, and a lengthier wait
in the toilet queue (I’d given up at half-time having
seen the queue), we made our way back round and through
the town. The hotel foyer was rammed, and on getting to
the room all intentions of going to Westworld fell by the
wayside as we realised how tired we were – Ally and
Sue made it as far as the foyer again, only to reach a similar
conclusion.
Thursday was put aside for a sightseeing minibus trip that
Scott Kelly and Singing Phil had arranged, and the rendezvous
was early doors in the Hotel Minsk. Opinion was divided
on whether Rich would make an appearance (a veteran of several
missed trips in the past), but impressively he reported
for duty earlier than bus convenor Scott. The bus had a
strong NATA bent – aside from Scott and Phil, Taffy
and Chris’ mate Dave were the only non-NATA bods on
board, and our sensible/hungover (delete as appropriate)
demeanour possibly contributed to the quieter than normal
atmosphere (by that, I mean less singing!).
After a carry-out stop at a supermarket on the outskirts
of Minsk (where the cash machine helpfully dispensed a single
$100 note to Scott in place of local currency), it was off
to an ethnographic village museum (bottles of beer in hand
around the exhibits). Our guide Anna was fluent in English
and even managed to grasp most of the humour on the go,
unlike the local museum staff who eyed us suspiciously for
the duration. Finishing off here it was back on the road
towards Mir Castle, with a lunch stop to find.
The Westa Hotel appeared on the roadside like a mirage,
and having spotted the hotel name, Phil started negotiations
to appear on the balcony above the sign for a photo opportunity.
A meal of borsch (why did I ask for the cold stuff?) and
something like pork followed (along with a swift dose of
immodium), photos were taken, and we were back on the bus
(in my case, praying the medicine would kick in and do its
job).
Mir Castle is a genuine tourist attraction, hamstrung by
its location a bit further away than the middle of nowhere.
Nonetheless, for the purposes of this diary, a castle's
a castle, even if the toilets are in a bomb shelter that
you have to buy tickets from a box office to enter! After
a brief stop at the Victory Monument (which is in sight
of Lee Harvey Oswald’s house, no less) the tour concluded
at the door of the Minsky Brovar. Thankfully everyone was
suitably impressed with my suggestion, and after a few beers
and some food Phil’s bemused Belarussian colleague
joined us. In search of that famous “better bar around
the corner”, we went next door on leaving the Brovar,
which proved to be an invaluable insight into Minsk’s
drinking culture.
If the Brovar was the brewery tap, then the bar next door
was its factory outlet – the place knocked out bottles
for buttons, and offered utilitarian benches to all (and
was bizarrely non-smoking). The local jakies made a beeline
for us, but some quick footwork managed to deflect the worst
their affection, at least until chucking out time at the
ridiculously early time of 10pm (i.e. still light!). Once
outside, Belarussian Alex told us it was the most “democratic”
place he’d ever been in. After a ten minute walk to
Stary Gorad, a restaurant on the edge of the old town, Helen
and I decided to beat a retreat back to the hotel, firstly
to, ahem, take care of some unfinished business (immodium
only lasts so long, you know), and then to try and get some
food. Unfortunately, by the time I’d dropped off my
luggage, the only food options were the expensive, glitter
ball-strobed, and suspiciously empty Smirnoff restaurant,
or Panorama. Panorama turned out to be far busier than the
Monday night, and we waited (boy did we wait!) for our food
suffocating on the dry ice smoke whilst being serenaded
by a very, very bad covers band. Still, beggars can’t
be choosers, and the shaslyk was very good when it finally
arrived.
After a lie-in, we opted to head for the railway station
to get hold of our ticket to Brest for Saturday’s
early train, but after crossing the Svisloch we noticed
the tourist office next to the Yubliyena Hotel would do
the same job and was much closer. After around 15 minutes
of pidgin Russian later, we were the proud owners of two
first-class train tickets for the 0830 train the next day.
Feeling buoyed by this success, we headed for the metro
for our one and only trip – this took us all of one
stop to McDonalds on Skoriny.
We headed down to the stadium for a look at it in the sober,
cold light of day, and were caught in a passing shower whilst
all the market traders rushed to get their counterfeit sportswear
under cover. Dynamo Minsk boasts a souvenir shop of sorts
– no shirts, but you can buy a tracksuit – we
opted for a scarf and a pin badge, before heading back up
towards the main drag and into Café Mistral, which
we soon recognised as one the places we were knocked back
from immediately before kick-off on Wednesday. No sooner
had we taken our first sip of beer than Helen received a
text from Rich stating he was at the stadium – we
talked him in and joined us ten minutes later. Moving on
we had a quick one in a posh restaurant and then caught
up with Ally and Susan in Traktir Na Marxa, where they were
ensconced with EASTA’s Davie and The Claw.
After a visit to Patio Pizza we rejoined Ally, Susan, The
Claw and Davie and headed back towards the Hotel Belarus
whilst Rich headed back to his hotel to freshen up before
hitting the bright lights once again. After a stop-start
walk, being stopped by several locals for photos, we bumped
into a friendly Belarussian “fixer” on the bridge
desperate to change a Scottish £20 note as no exchange
would accept it. We were able to oblige, and ended up heading
to Staravilinskaya , a riverside bar in the old town, with
him and his glamorous girlfriend (Claw and Davie knew him
from the hotel anyway). After the totally surreal sight
of a live Peruvian panpipe band serenading us on the decked
terrace, we made our excuses and left for a respectably
early night ahead of our trip to the border the next morning.
By Saturday morning it was now apparent that the niggling
cough I’d had for a few days had become a full-blown
summer cold, as I really wasn’t feeling on top of
my game. I had just enough strength to barter with the taxi
driver for a fare to the station, and we arrived in good
time yet still thankful we had already booked both our tickets
and our compartment.
The train was a suitably sturdy soviet iron horse, and
our carriage’s provodnitsa showed us to the end compartment.
The logic for paying extra for first class (only a few pounds)
was for the peace of mind of having our own compartment
(second class has three bunks). I settled down and slept
for most of the 4 hour journey, having left a pair of boxers
at the top of my bag specially for this purpose –
no point battering the kilt any more than necessary!
The train terminated in Brest, and despite it not being
particularly busy (it had come from Moscow, and most people
seemed to have alighted in Minsk) the narrow platform was
rammed with families meeting people. After negotiating the
scrum we headed out onto the street, but found out we were
completely lost and after a while waiting for a bus that
never came we admitted defeat, walked into the nearest hotel
and asked for a taxi. The taxi was in the form of a meter-less
20 year-old Capri-style car (complete with flame detail!),
and the surly driver dropped us in front of the Intourist
hotel for the bargain price of 5,000 rubles (less than £1.50),
which strangely seemed to be under police/secret service
guard.
We had to wait a short while for our room to be cleaned,
and spent the time trying, and failing, to buy an onward
ticket to Warsaw the next day from the in-hotel tourist
agency. Despite my best Russian (which isn’t very
good) and Helen’s best German (which is better), the
end result was that they would be unable to guarantee a
ticket for a weekend international train until two hours
before the train departed. Disturbed that this could leave
us scratching around in Brest we opted to head for the local
train instead, which should connect on the Polish side with
a Warsaw train.
We headed out the hotel (another very real does of soviet
bathroom realism!) and off towards Brest Fortress, the main
reason for stopping over. A long, long walk along a very
straight, very long, very boring road was momentarily enlightened
by the sight of an open-air train museum (closed, mind),
until the monumental gate of the fortress loomed into sight.
Brestkaya Krepast heroically held out against the Nazi advance
for weeks in 1941, and was accordingly awarded formal “hero”
status within the Soviet Union – this entailed building
a huge star-shaped gate at the entrance, and erecting an
obelisk and a stunning sculptured rock called “Valour”.
We visited the museum, where the reason for the earlier
security at the hotel became apparent; a Japanese trade
delegation was being guided around by local dignitaries.
We didn’t fancy the long walk back, so waited for
a bus instead, riding it past the hotel to the Zio Pepe
pizzeria. After eventually finding the way in past the metal
detector, we were confronted by a massive empty multi-purpose
room, complete with stage, dance floor and seating area
(the bowling alley was downstairs). Getting served wasn’t
a problem, given the ratio of waitresses to us, and even
by the time we’d finished our pizza and beer there
was no sign of any other customers (although to give them
the benefit of the doubt, it was only 6pm and the place
still had another 12 hours to drum up some trade. We wandered
up the main precinct and back down, attracting bemused glances
from the locals, before settling for a beer on the terrace
of a wee pub opposite the cinema. My cold was more like
flu by now, and with Helen also lacking the energy for a
night out, we admitted defeated and were back in the hotel
room just after 8pm!
The one advantage of the early night was an early start,
and we headed up to the station. It certainly took time
– to-ing and fro-ing between windows to get the tickets
(60p each for the 18 minute journey to the EU) and to change
our roubles into something a little more useful (Euros it
was, as I didn’t fancy the £50 or $100 notes
the exchange girl was insisting on, and they had no Zloty).
Negotiating customs and passport control proved another
challenge, but after a wee while we were through and on
the next train to Terespol.
Crossing the border this was is one of the most unforgettable
experiences of my life for far too many reasons to go into
– let’s just say it was very strange. Unfortunately
no photos exist of this part of the trip as it really wasn’t
the right time to take out a camera, although the images
are burned permanently onto my consciousness! Suffice to
say when the machine gun-toting Polish border guards checked
our passports and let us off the train, we could have kissed
the platform! Nothing against Belarus (we loved our time
there), but it really was a relief to be back in the “western
world”; of course, the thought of Poland representing
normality is funny in itself given our first experience
for a week back in 2001.
Anyway, enough occidental-centric rambling! We opted for
first class tickets to Warsaw, as we reasoned the packed
train we’d just arrived on would also be heading to
the capital on the same train, and in any case the tickets
were just £9 each for the 3 hour journey. We shared
our carriage with a wee old guy for around 30 minutes, and
a tall, pretty brunette for 90 – right through to
Warsaw when she suddenly engaged us in conversation, then
led us through the underground warren to our bus stop before
going and buying us a tickets! To cap it all, she then gave
me her phone number – good to see I hadn’t lost
my touch with Polish women, despite being full of the cold!
The Le Meridien hotel was unbelievably posh – the
sort that does a double-take when you walk in with a kilt
– but we’d managed to get a really cheap internet
deal. The luxury (a shower, man, a shower!) was more than
welcome after the double whammy of the Hotel Belarus and
the Intourist in Brest, but we headed out to grab some food.
After a good meal in Der Elefant we headed back towards
the station for the top floor bar of the Marriott, where
I could only manage one very slow beer – at least
I had the excuse of having to negotiate a heavily armed
border crossing in trying circumstances – and another
moderately early night loomed.
A long lie failed to rejuvenate my illness-ravaged body,
and after dragging myself up and around the towering Palace
of Culture and Science (aka Stalin’s birthday cake),
it was back to the hotel for an afternoon nap. Well, when
you get to my age…
Upon getting up for a second time, we strolled up to the
reconstructed Old Town where we bumped into a glamorous
young couple from Motherwell. A beer for Helen in the old
New Town Square followed (soft drinks for me all day, I’m
afraid!) before an excellent and filling meal of Pierogi
(Polish ravioli) in the Pierogarni restaurant, with the
friendliest waitress in the world. We had time to round
off one-and-a-bit very low key beer with one last beer for
Helen at the Pub Pod Barylka before catching our third ridiculously
early night in a row. All in all I was very annoyed with
my performance since Friday, but what can you do? And in
any case, I knew I had a trip to the Confederations Cup
in Germany on the Wednesday, when I would no doubt come
under intense peer pressure to stay on the batter until
the early hours, so I did desperately need to recuperate
in the next two days! It’s fair to say I was happy
to heading home (even if just overnight) the next day and
not heading down to Krakow as originally planned.
And so it was off to Warsaw’s Okeice airport at the
crack of dawn for our marathon journey home: bus to the
airport at 8am, getting to the wrong terminal and having
to lug our bags 500 yards through a car park, meeting a
Scottish couple who’d been down to Krakow after the
game, flight to Luton, rammed bus to Luton Airport Parkway,
train to Gatwick, bus to long stay car park, car home. We
got in the door around 4pm, and I was out it again at 6am
the next day on my way for a flight to Cologne, but what
a trip that turned out to be! And the best news? A night
in my own bed managed to dispel my lingering cold, leaving
me clear for beer aplenty!
- 7
different beds in…
-
8 consecutive nights (from Friday 10th in
Minsk to Saturday 18th in Cologne: Minsk, Brest,
Warsaw, Worthing, Cologne, Hanover and Cologne).
Okay, so two trips ran into one…
- 7
airports in one trip (Gatwick, Glasgow, Heathrow,
Riga, Minsk II, Warsaw and Luton)
-
6 NATA members in Belarus
- 5
countries in one week (Sun-Sun: Scotland, England,
Latvia, Belarus, Poland)
- 2
westerners on the Brest-Terespol shuttle we fled
the country on (Helen and me)
- 1
day without a kilt. Matchday, as it happened.
-
0 late nights enjoyed by Paul and Helen
-
0 the number of beers had by Paul on the
last day of the trip
|
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Like many friendlies, the opposition and date bubbled away
as a rumour for many weeks before being confirmed, with
the venue following much later. With the school holidays
in mind, mine and Helen’s nerve buckled and we opted
to go in via Brno in the east of the Czech Republic (which
had just started as a Ryanair route) and out via Bratislava,
figuring that this would do for three of the likely four
venues. Salzburg, Vienna or Graz would all be in easy striking
distance, and even the prospect of an all day train journey
to Innsbruck was tempered by the fact that the track cuts
through alpine valleys, and some carriages even boast extended
windows.
When the game was confirmed as Graz, interest from other
NATA members increased, and soon a plan was hatched to meet
up with Ally and Susan in Vienna on the Tuesday, followed
by Bruce and Sharon in Graz on matchday, with all six of
us heading back via Bratislava.
Our first (and to date, only) Ryanair flight went without
a hitch. I’d even go as far to say “pleasant”!
It landed on a grey day in Brno’s grey airport, from
which we caught a grey bus into town along a road completely
full of car showrooms. The olde worlde Grand Hotel was right
over the road from the station and easy to find, and soon
it was out into the wide cobbled streets of the old town
centre for a few beers at the Adria café and the
packed brew pub Pegas. Pegas turned out to be the only pub
in the whole city with anything like a crowd on a Saturday
night – even Alterna, described as a rock and punk
bar, was only half-full at best, but we did have the pleasure
of speaking to Lukaš (who had spent the summer in Dundee),
Martina and Andreas before heading home for the night.
Sunday morning saw a visit to the Capuchin Monastery and
its mummified monks, before a walk up to the cathedral towering
over the city centre. After a quiet day soaking up the sights
and a bottle of Moravian wine over a pizza (at U cisare
Leopolda), and a few low-key beers in Elektra, it was back
to the hotel in torrential rain.
The rain continued through the night, and come Monday there
was no sign of it letting up. After somehow managing to
buy train tickets to Vienna for the next day (using a mix
of poor German and poorer Czech), a tram journey took us
round to the excellent Stare Brno brewery. After working
our way through the beers in the cosy brewery tap pub (including
the excellent dark cernoška), we reluctantly tore ourselves
away to head up towards the football stadium. Strangely,
and solely for the benefit of Czech television, 1 FC Brno
were to kick off against Slovan Liberec at 4.40pm –
we hadn’t believed this, but thanks to the help of
Chris Norton and Worthing Ian we were able to both locate
the right stadium and make sure we were there in good time.
After splashing out all of £2 on the best covered
seats (the rain still hadn’t let up), we had time
for a quick pint in the Spartak Restaurace right next to
the turnstile (and had the bizarre experience of seeing
outside of the pub on the telly in the pub during the warm
up programme!).
Brno lost the game 1-0, having missed a penalty, and after
“jeden do ulice” back in the Spartak it was
into town for beer and nachos in the pretentious Potrefena
Husa (a chain of Lloyds No 1 style pubs that has sprung
up in recent years). By now, my kilt was stiff as a board
thanks to the constant rain – a texted plea to Bruce
for emergency Febreze yielded results on Wednesday –
so it was back to the hotel to pack in anticipation of an
early-ish train journey the next day.
Tuesday morning and still raining (36 hours and counting!)
– the wait at the station only brightened up by the
sexiest train guard I’ve ever seen (short, curvy,
brunette, micro skirt!) The train was pretty modern, and
thankfully not too crowded, and took us directly to Vienna’s
Sudbahnhof where we had arranged to meet Ally and Susan
for the onward connection to Graz. After a spot of confusion
over where the real station and the subway were, we got
hold of some rolls for the train and boarded at leisure.
En route, I explained how bad my kilt was and the Febreze
solution, and Ally offered the use of his iron – after
the customary mickey taking, he assured me he was serious,
and later produced said iron once we’d checked into
the Hotel Weitzer (where it turned out the team were also
staying).
After Helen had done the honours with the iron, making
the kilt a little more presentable and a lot more comfortable
to wear, it was out and about, walking the long way past
the bizarre "Friendly Alien" art gallery (which
has to be seen to be believed) and over the fast flowing
Mur river via the brilliantly weird Murinsel, a steel and
glass “island” in the middle of the stream.
We rendezvoused with Ally and Susan in Flann O’Briens,
which by early evening Tuesday had already been firmly established
as TA HQ. After a beer and a bite to eat, it was off to
find another couple of pubs before heading back for the
up-and-coming Glasgow DJ’s set later that night. We
passed the older, wiser and more bitter TA members (the
Chuckle Brothers, Tam C, Captain Vodka and Ali Smith) by
a pavement café and we headed into a small wine tavern
for a quick one. After several hours, and having been joined
by the others, as well as a couple of East German TA passing
through, we finally dragged ourselves away from the friendly
but mad locals and headed out en masse, finding ourselves
in an over-40s singles bar called Café Jeton.
Several hours of absolute bedlam followed, including lots
of beer (several freebies), the “mi-ah-hee”
O-Zone song (Dragostea – which became the anthem of
the trip!), dances with the busty, mature Norwegian barmaid
on the street and much more drunken lunacy. Ali Smith had
stayed on to make the most of this as the others escorted
Tam back to the pub for his set, and it’s fair to
say that Ally and Susan had imbibed a fair amount of the
party spirit! Time was getting on, and we headed back to
Flann’s, which was bouncing. Dicko, an exiled Scot
living in Graz who we’d met at the Future Team game
a few months previous, was outside ushering people in (to
avoid complaints from the neighbours – it’s
his mate’s pub.
Inside the place was bouncing, as was Helen with Craig
and Pete, to a number of punk favourites, whilst I sat and
chatted to Coullzer and pals and Tam Ritchie over a couple
of Guinnesses. Helen sensibly stopped drinking at this stage,
and combined with her dancing, thankfully managed to burn
off most of the alcohol and avoid a hangover the next day.
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for all the
ladies in the company, as one felt rather delicate the next
day, having momentarily lost her balance in Flann’s!
The night ended with Helen and I on a fruitless search for
water (ended up with some fizzy stuff from a closing Turkish
takeaway), whilst Ally, who made it back to the hotel slightly
earlier, managed to call McCoist a cheat in front of the
late night card school in the lobby.
Helen and I walked off a mild hangover on Wednesday morning
around the old town and up the hill to the cathedral and
some other old buildings (an apothecary, a town hall, a
zzzz…) Architecture was not the sole motivation here,
as we were tracking down Dom Brau, a brewpub with a life
sized mural of Arnie on the wall. From here we were able
to direct Ally and Susan, and then Bruce and Sharon (fresh
off the direct flight from Stansted), whilst eating pretzels
and drinking lots of banana-tasting wheat beer.
As pretzels were the only food on offer, we decamped to
the Stryian Highlander pub down the hill and around the
corner, where we had what can only be described as Austrian
Tapas. For some unknown and foolhardy reason (the old “must
try the local bevvy” argument), Ally and I opted for
the ominously named “Turbo Most”. This fuel-injected
jakey juice turned out to be mega-strong cider of some description;
whilst we were swilling this, Bruce – sensibly eschewing
the cider, excused himself to take some photos of the lavishly
appointed ladies lavatories (with a highland theme).
From here, having downed our complimentary kirsch liqueurs,
it was off to the Arnold Schwarzenegger Stadium in a couple
of cabs, which got us there in good time to pick up our
tickets and join the queue. We were nicely settled in for
the anthems, quickly followed by Kenny Miller’s opener,
but a quick glance over the back wall showed a decent-sized
queue of latecomers still trapped outside. A second goal
followed shortly before half-time, which I managed to miss
as I was talking about monkeys to Bert and Aitchy, and then
a strong defensive performance in the second-half came undone
with minutes to go when Austria snatched an equaliser (and
nearly a winner).
The aftermath of the match saw us make our way around to
the Strum-Treff, named as a rendezvous after a frantic text
exchange with Doris and Alex. Helen and I had met Doris
and her sister Claudia in Mattersburg a few months earlier
and had spoken about meeting in Graz; Alex was a late stand-in
for a dog-sitting Claudia, and the whole meeting had been
thrown into jeopardy by me being a muppet and messing up
the international code on my phone! Thankfully Doris and
Alex were able to compensate for this and we met up as eventually
planned. By this point, everyone else was coming into their
own, and our table was being showered in roses (mostly courtesy
of an amorous beer kiosk attendant), while my cider hangover
was fully kicking in; everyone else’s enthusiasm (and
all the sugar in the Coca Cola) somehow kept me going.
An unusual shared taxi ride back into the main square followed,
and we reconvened and headed for an Italian bar for a quick
one before hitting the lunacy that was Flann’s. Tam
was on the decks and the queue at the bar was pretty formidable
– Bruce doing the honourable thing and heading into
the fray to get the round in. This left me with Sharon,
Helen, Doris and Alex, all clutching long-stemmed roses,
much to Donnelly’s bemusement (“Hark at Ladies
Man Allison!”). We managed to find a free table on
the raised area in the far corner, where Helen and Doris
proceeded to dance the night away (at one point Helen managed
to careen into yet another rose seller, this time sending
her beer all over her t-shirted bosom. I stayed on the coke
for the duration, and a wise choice it proved to be, as
Helen was overcome with tiredness and emotion after the
pub finally closed in the wee hours – I still had
to persuade her that going back to the hotel and not to
another late bar was the best choice!
On Thursday, despite Helen fighting a hangover of Bacchanalian
proportions, we somehow managed to drag ourselves from our
pits earlier than Ally, Susan, Bruce and Sharon, and were
able to meet Alex and Doris in the hotel foyer (where they
kindly presented us with some Burgenland wine) before heading
off for a coffee at the Murinsel café. The other
four caught up with us there, where Bruce (and camera) discovered
the joys of the mirrored toilets (see – it’s
not just me who has this obsession!). Alex and Doris made
their excuses and left for Mattersburg, and the rest of
us headed up to the Schlossberg via the funicular railway.
After pottering around the top for a wee bit, we had lunch
at the open-air Aiola café, where a wasp developed
an inordinate fascination with Susan’s pasta, only
for it to meet a sticky, vegetable extracted end in her
glass of coke.
Our descent from the Berg took us down the elevator, and
getting off halfway down meant we could examine the Star
Wars like interior. Helen and Sharon quickly spotted the
Burgbahn, and we all boarded the kiddie’s train for
a horrific journey through a Brothers Grimm inspired landscape
(complete with ceiling clinging vampires). After a stroll
through the back streets, we settled in to an outside table
at brewpub Glocklbrau before rounding off the day with more
homebrew and food at Dom Brau.
Our last day in Austria saw us partake in our first (and
only) hotel breakfast of the trip, ahead of our early (and
ultimately delayed) train to Vienna. We bumped into Geebsie
at the station, who was on a cultural day trip, but unfortunately
had to abandon him when presented with the last available
compartment on the Croatian train (only six seats, see).
Mine and Helen’s prior knowledge of Vienna served
us well, as we were easily able to locate the excellent
Bierkutsch’n to fill up before heading across to the
Danube boat pier. Ally and Susan had managed to pick up
our ferry tickets the previous weekend, and knew exactly
where to go for the boat, however none of us were prepared
for quite how “leisurely” the whole experience
would prove to be. A full 90 minutes late before we’d
even left Vienna, we were all convinced the boat had broken
down when it moored up at the city limits and the crew all
got off to lounge on the grassy river bank for a smoke.
However it all turned out to be a traffic jam at the huge
locks to the south of Vienna, and once through the lock,
the captain lifted up the foil and really put his foot down.
We were still around 90 minutes late docking in Bratislava,
however the stunning sunset and views of Devin Castle went
a long way to making up for this. We were soon checking
in to the Radisson SAS (due to a mental internet deal we’d
all booked on), only to bump into TA veteran Ian Gillan.
Ian ended up staying elsewhere, but we swapped mobile numbers
and agreed to meet up later, which we did in Stanley’s
Pub. Bratislava’s compact old town was awash with
British stag parties, and certainly felt a lot less friendlier
than my previous visit 18 months before; thankfully the
small and friendly Stanley’s Pub seemed to have escaped
this and we were rewarded with good beer, good service,
and in Sharon’s case, good cake. The next and final
stop was the legendary underground KGB, which kept Susan
and Ally happy with mental rock music, before bizarrely
segueing into O-Zone’s Dragostea (as predicted a few
minutes earlier by myself, followed up with a Bon Jovi prediction
that led everyone to believe I’d bribed the DJ).
Despite having the earliest night, Helen and I were still
slow to rise, and we met the others in the pub over the
road over some Slang Toast. A wander through the old town
got the six of us onto the tourist train, and a walk across
the bridge was ultimately fruitless as the bridge tower
lift broke just as it was our turn to go up (even a drink
in a floating bar didn’t give them time to fix it),
so it was off up the castle.
Despite catering for a wedding party, the Hradna Vinaren
wine bar was able to rustle up some food (eventually), and
between us we managed to cover most of the local specialities.
Not all of it was an immediate success – Bruce returned
from freshening up to announce that “two of the things
I’ve eaten are explosive when combined”. I didn’t
escape either, as by the time we’d walked down the
hill (and passed my favourite Bratislava bar Kastellan),
I was feeling the effects and had to bow out early. The
others found the now disappointing Belgian bar before fending
off a variety of blood-sucking insects on a bar terrace.
Ally and Susan were away at the crack of dawn on Sunday
for their transfer to Vienna Airport, so it was more Slang
Toast before the four of us staged a second (successful)
attempt to get up the bridge tower. The views from the top
were very windswept but worth it, the UFO Bar (“photographs
not possible”) less so, but it does have some of the
most spectacular urinals (angled ice buckets in front of
clear windows). With a few hours to kill before our flight,
we wandered through the park to Artmedia’s stadium
for photos (but didn’t venture into the Football Pizzeria).
In keeping with the weekend’s experiences in Bratislava,
the flight home was packed to the gunnels with stag parties.
Strangely, before the trip, we’d had Brno down as
the real gem, Graz as a mere necessity and Bratislava down
as a sure-fire banker to finish up on. Come the end of the
adventure and Graz outshone the other two, with Brno far
quieter than expected (certainly when considered that it’s
only second to Prague in the Czech Republic!) and Bratislava
on a downward slope (or maybe it was just a bad weekend).
Perhaps a Scotland away trip to Slovakia will help sort
that one out?
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Some trips in the group merited a lengthier stay (in our
opinion: Moldova, Belarus and Slovenia), and some didn’t.
Italy was due to the timing of the game over the Easter
weekend, whilst for Norway it was a combination of high
costs and the fact we’d been in 2003 and weren’t
overly impressed with what the city had to offer.
So, a full year before the game (when the flights went
on sale), it was on to BA for a Tuesday afternoon to Thursday
lunchtime trip, and a bargain rate in the landmark Radisson
SAS Plaza (right by the station, and as it turned out, where
the team were staying). Having learned the hard way before,
if all hotels are going to be expensive, we may as well
shell out slightly more for a better one (and appreciate
the air conditioning all the more!).
With such a short away trip planned, and work on the Monday
(and Tuesday morning for Helen), the Italy game on the preceding
Saturday didn’t really feel like part of a double-header.
For starters, keen to avoid the anticipated large movement
of Italian fans through Gatwick (no worry – only 400
fans travelled from Italy, the rest of the small away support
made up by UK-based Italians), Helen and I flew up with
Rich from Southampton Netley Abbey International Airport!
Saturday found us with a larger group (and kitty) than usual,
and proved to be almost “Tartan Army by numbers”,
taking in the usual haunts of The Iron Horse, The Shed,
Baby Blue and the Sports Café, but was enjoyed by
all. A superb Scotland performance resulted in a very creditable
1-1 draw with the Italians, and after the game we worked
up a thirst by marching the full distance from Hampden to
Baby Blue on Bath Street (around 4 miles). In fact, such
was the thirst that even Helen and I, notorious for early
withdrawals at home games, made it through until 2.15am!
Back to Southampton on the Sunday was followed with back
to reality at work on Monday, however come Tuesday it was
on with the kilt again…
We arrived early for our flight due to a distinct lack
of traffic en route (60 minutes from Brighton to Heathrow!),
but as the airport was mobbed we opted for the “elite”
option and coughed up for the Holideck Lounge. We certainly
got our money’s worth, Helen on the Bud and me on
the vodka and apple juice, before moving on the posh sherry
(Helen reckoned it was just like tawny port). Thanks to
my mate Ian, we had advance warning of the delay to our
flight meaning more time of the lounge – knowing there
was no catering on the plane we felt safest filling up on
fluids beforehand!
The flight took off around 5.30pm, and surprisingly wasn’t
full, despite a good 50+ Tartan Army on board. The banter
around us was good, meeting Colin from York and the Annan
Boys, and stopping for a chat with BigDaveJ on the way back
from the inevitable lavvy trip, although the head stewardess
wasn’t overly impressed with the singing! With no
luggage we were able to step straight onto a train and 40
minutes later we were in the hotel room.
Helen didn’t feel up to a night on the tiles, so
I headed out alone to meet Bruce and Sharon in Bohemen,
arriving just after 10pm in time to see Craig, Kev and Jim
Brown leave as Evil Scotsman came on for the “fifth
time in the last hour”. Stopping just long enough
for one pear cider and to hand over NATA and Worthing scarves
for the bar’s ever-growing collection, Bruce, Sharon
and I headed off to a “sports bar right around the
corner” to join up with the others. After being unsuccessful,
we settled for The Belfry, an English pub just off the main
Karl Johan’s Gate precinct. Despite the Union Jack
plaque (proclaiming the pub as a “Little piece of
England in Norway”) and the England shrine (literally,
fenced off in an alcove in the deceptively large downstairs
area), the pub was very friendly and surprisingly quiet
(although it was to be packed all day on matchday). The
only downside was that pear cider was sold out, but the
excellent Belfry Ale made up for that (even at 54kr, or
£5, a pint), as did the unfeasibly busty Bulgarian
beauty behind the bar. Kev, Craig, Jim and the Clan Imlach
(Loony Alba’s Stevie and his brother Colin, living
and working in Norway) soon re-joined us, only for Kevin
and Sharon to drop out just after midnight.
Despite being assured by The Belfry’s barman that
last orders would be 2.30am, I had serious doubts about
this as the place was empty – these fears proved to
be unfounded as a late surge of Norwegians, followed by
the Armadale Sons of Wallace (fresh from a sojourn to Cambridge
whilst changing flights at Stansted) ensured the pub stayed
lively right to the death. One of the Norwegians, Bjorn,
sauntered over, looking a dead ringer for NATA’s Rich
(gelled hair, stubble, open-necked black shirt), only to
turn out to be the leading authority on Norwegian football
and cheap city centre pubs.
In Norway it’s standard practice to allow 30 minutes
drinking up time, so when the lights went up at 2.25am and
the bar staff informed us it was last orders, consent for
“one last drink” was forthcoming from Bruce
and Craig. I duly stood my round, returning the £5
pints to the table with a warning “at five pounds
a pint, don’t spill a f*cking drop!”. I needn’t
have worried in Bruce’s case, as he didn’t even
bother to pick the pint up – despite promises from
the offender to smuggle it clandestinely out of the pub
for a cheeky al fresco drink, my last view of it as I returned
from the gents was the barmaid picking it up and carrying
it to the sink behind the bar. The scars from this are obviously
going to take quite some time to heal…
Craig’s late night kebab was enough to put both Bruce
and myself off, so we plumped for the £2 hot dogs,
adding sauce from the comedy swinging udders whilst trying
not to choke as a glamorous lady footsoldier informed the
kebab-man that she “hates hot dogs but loves sausage”.
Wednesday morning started around lunchtime for Helen and
I, with cheesy nacho balls and Mint Chocolate Baileys (an
exclusive duty free purchase) before heading up to the Panorama
bar on the 34th floor for the first pear cider of the day.
A hungover Bruce and a very hot Sharon, bemoaning the lack
of air conditioning in their room, joined us.
After a pizza stop at the 7-11, we were headed off by tram
towards the Oslo Mikrobryggeri, although we broke the journey
for a quick one at Olsen Café, a sparse Valarenga
supporter’s bar in the suburbs. We arrived in the
Mikrobryggeri right ahead of Ally, Susan, Kenny and Tanya,
and proceeded to work our way through the beers on offer.
Neither Bruce nor I tried the pils, but between us we covered
the Steamer (a fizzy brown ale, like Newcastle Brown), the
Weizen (very nice and tasty wheat beer), the Porter (a very
fizzy black beer, but okay nonetheless) and the excellent
IPA (15 minutes to pour, but worth the wait – just
order it before you’ve finished your current beer!).
During the course of this “tasting” session
a few other determined Tartan Army beer connoisseurs also
found the place, most notably Derek the brewer (Kelburn
Brewing Company) and Norrie and Joan from Dunfermline.
After staying a wee bit later than intended, we piled out
en masse for a tram that would take us to Majorstuen T-Bane
station (two stops from the ground) – turned out the
tram driver had been in Bordeaux for the World Cup game!
The T-Bane was absolutely jammed, but somehow we all managed
to squeeze on, and after walking round to the turnstiles
we were relieved to see that the queue was nowhere near
as bad as it had been in 2003, giving Bruce and I ample
time to finish our “Coke plus”.
Inside the ground was the usual sit anywhere disorganisation,
so we ended up back with Bruce, Sharon, Ally and Sue on
the right-hand side as you look at the pitch (with me somehow
stood next to a solitary middle-aged Norwegian). There was
a good atmosphere before kick-off, and both anthems were
well respected, however within minutes of the kick-off the
ball was in the back of our net, only to be ruled out (for
what looked a pretty feeble nudge from where we were standing,
however no complaints!). Scotland settled after the early
scare, with Gordon looking confident and Hartley’s
running and crossing continuing to cause no end of problems.
It was from one of Hartley’s crosses, headed down
by McFadden that allowed Miller to steal in and dink the
ball past the keeper with the outside of his right boot
for one-nil. Ten minutes later we were in dreamland, when
an over-hit forward cross from Hartley was inexplicably
headed back to Miller by a defender under no pressure, allowing
Kenny to prove his critics wrong and pick his spot for two-nil.
Another chance, deflected clear, fell to the new King Kenny
seconds before he was subbed with a minor injury, his job
done.
The rest of the game passed pretty quickly, with Scotland
absorbing the pressure, but on the whole looking less likely
to score. One exception came in the last few minutes, when
a diagonal pass played Beattie clear down the right wing,
only for his excellent low cross to be nicked off the toe
of Neil McCann, preventing a three-nil lead. Instead, Norway
broke up the park from this move, ultimately resulting in
their equaliser from a low drive on the edge of the area
in the 89th minute. For me, this was conclusive proof that
Scotland can’t hold a lead for toffee (in the last
two games, we were two-up against Austria and one-up against
Italy, both into the last 15 minutes, only to end up with
two draws), and I duly sunk into my seat, only to be rallied
by the guys in front that we’d be okay. Thankfully,
they were right, and the cheers at the final whistle were
more of relief at holding on than pure celebration.
After a wee singsong we headed out the ground towards the
agreed rendezvous with Kenny and Tanya, and then across
the car park towards the promised land of Berg metro station.
Although a wee bit further away than the Ulleval’s
own station (1km instead of 100m), there were none of the
queues to get on the platform, and we got a seat on the
empty train that rolled in (it soon got busy when we got
to Ulleval!), getting us back into town in good time to
track down one of Bjorn’s recommendations from the
previous night. With Andy’s Pub already queuing at
the door, we headed around the corner looking for Pastiz
and the promise of 38kr beer. The older generation (Ally,
Susan, Kenny and Tanya) lost patience and headed for the
comfort and culture (and expense) of an outdoor courtyard
bar en route, but we persevered and were rewarded with even
cheaper beer (32kr before 10pm!). Unfortunately it was Ringnes,
which I cannot physically drink (in common with a lot of
Scandinavian lagers, I find it far too acidic and tasteless),
so for me there was nothing but the 58kr bottles of pear
cider.
At 10pm, with news of England’s failure to score
filtering through, the draught lager duly went up 6kr, however
a conversation with the delightful German barmaid (Me: “Why
did you move here from Germany?”, her: “Oslo
rocks, baby!”) revealed that bottled Carlsberg was
on promotion at 19kr a bottle until midnight. A stunned
Colin confirmed this was indeed the bargain it sounded,
as £1.70 was pretty much the going rate for bottled
supermarket beer, and even Helen’s fears that it must
be out of date (a la Moldova) proved unfounded. The “olds”
joined us later, after the England result had come through
on three separate mobiles from three independent sources
right on the dot of the final whistle (thanks to Welsh Steve
and Worthing Andy from me and Helen) – Ally’s
night was made when the bar they were in started playing
“Perfect Day” at this very moment – and
much Carlsberg was procured at the bargain price, lasting
everyone well into the next hour (well, apart from me on
my mega-expensive cider). As I replied when asked at work
on the Friday about how the England score was received in
Oslo, “we didn’t let it ruin our night!”
Sharon was feeling pretty ill by this point, and headed
off early with the half the crowd, leaving Helen and I,
Bruce and the brothers Imlach. The pub shut just after 1am
– no-one had been buying in the past hour due to stocking
up when the beer was cheap – but in spite of another
two hours of drinking time, Bruce, Helen and I opted to
head home, leaving Stevie and Colin to stagger off in the
direction of The Belfry, dodging a runaway trolley en route.
The walk down Karls Johan Gate was a little like running
a gauntlet of drunks (of both nationalities) – most
were very friendly, including many Norwegians offering their
congratulations, however some were a little less so and
best avoided. Nonetheless, we made back safe and sound,
and early enough for Helen to entertain setting the alarm
for breakfast.
And up for breakfast we were, and a lovely fry-up it was
too. The flight back was delayed an hour, and turned out
to be packed full, although everyone on stand-by did make
it on eventually. Despite the historic night, there was
no singing as the collective hangovers took hold, and the
flight passed pretty much without incident until we had
to circle East London three times on our way in before getting
permission to land. The landing itself was bouncy to say
the least, followed by a slamming on the brakes and what
felt like a handbrake turn as we threatened to overshoot
the taxiway off the runway. The next announcement revealed
we weren’t getting an air-bridge (no bloody wonder
– the tower probably saw the landing and decided not
to trust the pilot with parking near the terminal building!).
Then came the real fun and games – sitting on the
tarmac for 40 minutes waiting for someone to drive the stairs
up to the plane! Thankfully for Helen and I, we had no connecting
flights so could sit tight and see the funny side, however
dozens of people did miss flights (the guy sat next to me
was flying home to Atlanta via Washington!). In the face
of all this adversity, the atmosphere on the plane stayed
friendly and jovial; after all, things could have been much
worse… we could have lost to Northern Ireland!
Back to top of page
- 1,061
- days since last competitive away win (2 years,
11 months since Scotland 2 - Iceland 0, Sat 12th
Oct 2005)
- 46
- hours spent in Norway by Paul and Helen
- 34
- floors up - the Panorama Bar in the Radisson SAS
Plaza
- 5
- games unbeaten since Milan (Moldova H, Belarus
A, Austria A, Italy H and Norway A)
- 4
- different beers tried at the Oslo Mikrobryggeri
(Steamer, Weizen, Porter and IPA)
- 3
- number of consecutive Scotland games that Kenny
Miller has scored in
- 1
- whole pints left on the table by Bruce
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Travel plans were set months in advance, but for once,
not actually booked. We’d decided to go via Munich,
where a direct train could whisk us cheaply (even more so
with our German railcard discounts) to Ljubljana (LJ) in
just 6 hours, and would allow for a stop-off in Salzburg
on the way back (the hills are alive, you see!). All our
ducks were lined up – BA flights to Munich Sunday-Sunday,
one night’s hotel in Munich near the station, four
in central Ljubljana and two in a posh, posh hotel in Salzburg
– the one exception was the train, which could only
be booked a couple of months in advance.
Six weeks to go, and a protracted telephone call to Bahn
UK revealed that summer floods in Austria had washed away
no less than one-third of the entire track, adding on a
couple of service bus journeys and around three hours to
the now-unreservable journey. A quick Expedia search threw
up a £90 return flight from Munich to LJ, and so Plan
B took shape.
First up was the small matter of Belarus at home on the
Saturday – all we had to was win to make sure the
battle for second place went to the wire. Naturally we lost
1-0 with an absolutely dire performance in front of a full
yet funereal Hampden. It’s fair to say our chips had
been well and truly pissed upon, and even a trip through
the beers of the world at the Allison Arms failed to raise
our flagging spirits.
Sunday: Glasgow – Heathrow – Munich. Heathrow
was in the throes of the BA food strike, but at least we
could spend our £5 vouchers on beer in the funky new
Tin Goose bar in Terminal 1. As our flight to LJ was on
Monday lunchtime, we’d chosen to cancel our city centre
hotel and instead stay on the airport itself. To be frank
this wasn’t a great hardship, as the posh Kempininski
Hotel on site was only a short stroll away from Europe’s
only airport brew-pub, the superb Airbraü, home to
Munich’s cheapest beer (at €2 for a half-litre).
We were on the second of Monday’s two Adria flights
to from Munich to LJ, due to leave just after 2pm, however
we had trouble checking in even before midday. It turned
out the earlier flight had been cancelled, and instead the
two flights were being combined onto a single larger plane.
Nonetheless, our boarding cards could not be issued until
the flight opened for boarding, so a nervous wait ensued.
The tension was alleviated somewhat by bumping into Hammy
from Preston, and we blethered all the way to the plane.
We were in perfect time for the bus at Ljubljana airport,
however it certainly took the scenic route to the main station.
Our hotel, the Best Western Slon, was a short walk away.
We were soon out and about, bumping into Ally and Susan
in Prešernov Square before heading off to the Cutty
Sark to meet Kev and Craig. Bruce and Sharon had soon joined
us, having arrived off the Easyjet flight from Stansted,
however not before the champagne had been broken out (need
to perpetuate these elite stereotypes!) in celebration of
a new job. Craig led the way to a superb pizzeria he’d
eaten lunch in (Ljubljanski Dvor), and we followed this
up (now with Jim Brown and Kev in the company) with a drink
in a wee coffee bar called Mokarabia before heading over
the river for a swift nightcap.
After a lie in and a McDonalds breakfast (yep – one
of those trips again!), we bumped into Bruce and Sharon
in Prešernov Square waiting for the “tourist
train” to take us up to the Castle. Once up there
we bumped into Ally and Susan (who, true to form, had taken
the long way up on foot) and the travelling contingent of
the Notts Scots (minus the Numpty Brothers, who were still
en route). After a brief jaunt around the tower, it was
back down on the train and into a wee bar called Collegium
(with a barman who didn’t even seem old enough to
be at college!), before heading next door to Sokol, recommended
by Anne from the Notts Scots. Ally and Susan, and then Stevie
Imlach, caught up with us again and we all tucked into plates
of ham, cheese and olives, washed down by mugs of the house
beer (actually brewed by Adam Ravbar on the edge of town,
but still very good!). Getting carried away with the convivial
atmosphere, yet only on my first beer of the day, I somehow
contrived to spill almost an entire bottle right down my
kilt.
We were soon on our way, stretching our legs (and in my
case, airing my clothes), and after bumping into Mirza and
his pals in Prešernov (obviously the main meeting point
in town!). After a brief hotel stop (to wring out the last
of the beer), which everyone else spent in the gaudy Gaudi
Café around the corner, we set off in search of the
Kratchowill brewpub. No sooner had we made past the packed
Holidays bar when we stumbled upon a supermarket with its
own en suite pub! Provisions for rooms were requisitioned
as we took a pit stop in the attached Santana Café,
much to Stevie’s bewilderment and Bruce’s disgust.
Kratchowill proved to be an anomaly – an empty bar
with great beer and very cheap pizzas. The only compatriot
we saw there was Neil (aka Sexpest) who was just on his
way out having enjoyed a pizza of his own when we rolled
up. We ended the night halfway back at the hotel in an English
themed pub called “Sir Williams” before Stevie
and Bruce wandered off in search of more beer.
The first hotel breakfast of the trip was a necessary stomach
liner ahead of Scott Kelly’s “scenic”
bus tour. Bruce was in sensible mode, convening our minibus
with the likes of Machar and the Family Smith, the NATA
contingent and the KELTA boys (Kirkcaldy Exiles London Tartan
Army), who none of us really knew. First stop was a petrol
station to stock up on beer, then Bled Castle, where Drew
Lilley (and luggage) joined up with the other bus following
his own train trip from hell (well, Zurich actually). The
highlight of the castle stop, besides the view over the
lake, was the wine shop where Helen and Sharon both wrestled
with the bottling press.
Extravagant cream cakes and spilled Slovenian red wine
followed at the lakeside (the other bus were knocking back
schnapps with real fruit further up the slope at the time)
before we headed to our lunch date at the Marinšek
brewpub in the village-cum-truckstop of Naklo. Typically,
both the slowest eaters in the party (Ally and Helen) were
the last to get served, and were less than halfway through
before we were reboarding the buses!
A sleepy journey back to LJ followed, where another couple
of guys (including Craig McD) were joining the bus following
some no-shows and problems with Kev’s bigger direct
bus. After finally finding our parking space by the ground
it was off to the hypermarket to experience more Santana
Café supermarket swallying, this time in the company
of the Notts Numpties and various other faces, including
young and upcoming Glasgow DJ Tam Coyle.
As usual, there was a silly queue to get in (which gave
us time to inherit Pauline from a side-stand bound Marky
Adams), but we managed it in good time for the anthems,
and we found ourselves standing with the rest of NATA, plus
Reeky and Fiona, Tartan Teddy, Ray and family. The atmosphere
all around was fantastic, buoyed by the team’s superb
performance as we cantered to a three-nil victory crowned
by three spectacular goals (including a long awaited one
by unsung hero Paul Hartley).
The bus trip back was in high spirits, tempered only slightly
by the news that England had won their group and Uzbekistan
had surprisingly lost out to Bahrain in the Asian play-off
(for the right to lose to Trinidad & Tobago, as it turned
out). Back in town, we ducked into the cramped Grunf Bar,
which was allegedly closing at 1am. We left at 1.30am, but
Bruce and Ally confirmed the party was still going strong
until at least 3am.
One of the great polarising debates of our time centres
around the best Slovenian beer. In the green corner, the
goat-labelled Lasko Zlatorog (it’s actually a mystical
chamois – ask me about it if you’re interested
in the full legend!) from the sticks, and in the red corner,
LJ’s own Union Pivo.
In an rare moment of a cliché imitating life, NATA
(well Bruce, actually) managed to organise a genuine piss-up
in a brewery. Bruce had been thoughtful enough to email
the Union Brewery a couple of weeks before we’d set
off to see if there was any scope to squeeze in a tour.
“No problem” came the reply – they had
a tour of 20 on the Thursday at midday and they’d
be happy for the six of us to tag along. In fact, we could
even mention it to a few others. Which is just what we did.
Which explains why, at midday on Thursday the NATA six and
the KELTA five (whom Bruce had informed the previous day
on the bus) were in the lobby of the Union Brewery waiting
for the other twenty to turn up. Ten minutes or so later,
a forlorn individual (who we came to know as Cammy the Ref)
in a Slovenia shirt and kilt came in and explained that
the other 19 hadn’t managed to crawl out their beds.
Don’t worry lads, you didn’t miss a thing…
The tour started with the gorgeous Tina showing us around
the brewery museum – one of the largest dedicated
collections (boasting, amongst other things, an olde worlde
pub with non-electrical fridge and a collection of World
Cup 1974 Texaco glasses), before the equally stunning Helena
took over and led us through the actual production side
of things. We were all mesmerised by the cellophane wrapping
machine, and amused at the small plastic tube that transformed
into a plastic bottle, and the sheer size inside the warehouse
(that surely no-one in LJ could have missed from the outside!)
was pretty stunning.
The combined tour took around an hour, with Tina and Helena
aided by Branko; the three of them then led us to the on
site brewery tap, where as a group we were treated to some
4 litre giraffes of beer and our choice from the bottled
selection (the Pils was particularly nice, as was the Crni
Baron dark beer). For a full three-and-half hours. The beer
that had been set aside for the missing 19 (plus the tour
group of 40 that had failed to show the day previously)
was lavished upon us, fully compliments of the house. Much
nonsense followed, with group photos being taken, plastic
bottle towers being built and giraffe nozzles being tongued.
There came a point around halfway in where the giraffes
has disappeared and Helen and Sharon suggested we ought
to call it a day, only for Branko to appear behind me brandishing
yet more bottles of Crni Baron and the girls struggling
out of the kitchen with replenished giraffes.
Three of the KELTA boys had made their excuses and left
for their flights, leaving Alan and Bill to carry on flying
the flag valiantly. Soon the time came (probably for the
brewery to shut for the day, given it had gone 4.30pm),
and we (the NATA Six, Cammy the Ref, Alan and Bill) bade
our fond farewells and made our way back across the tracks
towards yet another, much smaller, brewing concern –
Kratchowill for some much needed food.
A strange affliction seemed to settle over me in Slovenia
– I was fine whilst I stayed on the bevvy, but the
moment I tried to do the sensible thing and eat something
it all went wrong! There had been talk of meeting up with
Helena and Branko in the Cutty Sark later that night to
repay some of the hospitality, but Helen and I had to bow
out early after a quick stop in Grunf. Alan and Bill had
a dinner date on the other side of town and Cammy was determined
to meet up with a young lady of his acquaintance, but unfortunately
the depleted ranks of NATA failed to spot either Lena or
Branko (although Bruce did think he might of seen the back
of Helena’s head in the crowd).
My early night on the Thursday did at least mean a breakfast
engagement the next day, and from there it was off to the
bus station to satisfy Bruce and Sharon’s geological
yearnings. Slovenia has two of the most famous karstic cave
systems in the world, and the most developed of these, Postojna,
was only a short bus ride away.
A whole industry has sprung up around the caves –
the rest of Postojna town is pretty unassuming – and
the tourist dollar is well and truly milked. Cave trains
whisk you several kilometres into the depths, then everyone
gathers by big signposts signifying linguistic groups, before
being picked up by a guide. The tour was genuinely very
interesting, and the cooler temperatures certainly suited
me; the only real downside is the “no photography”
rule.
Back on the surface we resisted the touted cave restaurant
and instead headed to a recommended Serbian restaurant/pizzeria
(Pizzeria Minutka) where we had a spread of very filling
specialities as recommended by the waiter.
Back in LJ we rendezvoused in Holidays, by now over the
main rush caused by the Tartan Army. The draft Lasko Temno
dark beer was very welcome (“the best beer in Slovenia”
according to the barman, who was very impressed I’d
ordered it instead of Guinness!), yet still not enough to
displace my overall loyalty to Union following the previous
day’s hospitality! Food was on everyone’s agenda,
so it was with heavy heart I dragged myself out of the womb-like
pub and across to Sokol. Despite (or is that “because
of”) having the full monty – house dark beer,
soup in a bread, pršut ham and gibanica cheesecake,
the food and drink curse struck again and I was soon struggling
to keep pace. Bill and Alan from KELTA walked in halfway
through, having just returned from a daytrip to Zagreb,
and we all headed off down to the old town proper, where
we found a quasi-Mexican theme bar doing a roaring trade
with the remnants of the Tartan Army (some of whom were
dancing on the top bar).
By now, the food was taking it’s toll, and yet again
I had no choice but to beat an early retreat (well, it was
around 11pm, so better than the previous night), leaving
the party in full swing.
After a leisurely breakfast and bus-ride for the airport,
we breezed through check-in at Ljubljana airport only to
find out they’d done it again – cancelling the
early flight to consolidate onto ours. No boarding card
problems this time – in fact, the only difficulty
came at Munich airport where sheer will-power was the only
thing that kept me out of Airbraü.
Our hotel room was high above the station, and blessed
with the full Premiere football package, which made for
a leisurely siesta watching the Bundesliga goals as they
happened. Sensibly eschewing a proper meal in favour of
fast food (given my recent form), we headed south to the
Isartor S-Bahn station, home to Isarbraü – a
well recommended, but ultimately packed and very food-oriented,
brewpub. Several scoops later, in the company of two very
camp German students, and it was back into town for the
Paulaner-owned Thomasbraü brewpub before yet another
sensible evening retirement (back in bed before the S-Bahn
had even stopped running!).
This may have been our first ever Hofbraühaus-free
visit to Munich (after five trips!), but the braühaus
fun wasn’t over yet – there was still time for
some kartoffelsuppe and helles in Airbraü before the
flight back to Gatwick on Sunday afternoon!
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According to Paul, anyway...
Best away trip:
Slovenia
Best away game:
Norway (when there was still hope!)
Best home game:
Italy
Best night away on TA duty:
Tuesday night in Graz
Best away pub:
Cafe Jeton, Graz (followed by Flann O'Briens, also
in Graz)
Best karaoke performance:
Craig McD “Sometimes it’s hard to be
a woman”
Best pre-match home pub:
Three Judges
Best post-match home pub:
Close call between the Allison Arms (due to the back
fridges) and the Sports Café (thanks to Tam for pulling
everyone together).
Best quote: "I'm
surprised he hasn't been harpooned" - Bruce, on hearing
that Charlie Miller's career lives on in Norway.
Best song: "We're
going to deep-fry your pizzas" - on the tram to the
San Siro.
Best beer: Dom Brau,
Graz
Most mental local firewater:
Turbo Most, Austria
Most boring location:
Oslo
Drunkest NATA member:
A close call, but Susan’s Tuesday night in Graz edges
it over Helen on the Wednesday.
Favourite stadium visited:
San Siro (for the outside)
Favourite match venue city:
Graz
Best non-TA destination:
Düsseldorf
Best non-TA pub:
U Cerveno Vola, Prague
Best Brewery Tour:
Union, Ljubljana
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