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Diary 2006 |
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It all started just before Christmas, when a poster on
the TAMB called Tartan Tokyo mentioned he’d heard
a rumour from a Japanese journo pal that Scotland were to
be invited to play in the Kirin Cup. It was pretty much
dismissed as wishful thinking and not really spoken about
for a few weeks, until it resurfaced again. A few calls
were placed to the Japanese and then the Bulgarian FA, and
after weeks of rumours and refutations, it emerged that
the SFA were indeed in negotiations.
Some people jumped the gun and booked early, others (myself
included) preached restraint less we end up with return
flights to Japan whilst Scotland are playing elsewhere.
Due to some skilful manipulation of BA Miles, I established
I was able to use these for booking the trip in a cancellable
way, coupled with a sympathetic boss, and so the reservation
went in near the end of March, one week before Scotland’s
participation was confirmed. Several hundred Scotland fans
booked, probably around half of those who would have done
so had the announcement been made sooner.
Due to work commitments and flight availability, we booked
Tuesday (arriving Wednesday) to the following Tuesday, along
with two nights in Kobe and four in Tokyo – the counterweight
was having to cut our planned 10 days in Germany for the
World Cup down to two weekends.
After a largely sleepless night for me (two lots of 30
minutes before waking up sweating), not helped by spilling
red wine right down my front early into the 12 hour flight,
and loads of sleep for Helen (about 7 hours!), we found
ourselves at Tokyo Narita Airport. We’d bumped into
Will (from Swindon) at Heathrow the day before, and he ended
up just behind us in the passport queue at Narita airport.
After bumping into a few other Scots, including Will’s
pal Greg, Freda and Ronnie McDevitt, we picked up our JR
rail passes (after much umming and ahhing, we’d opted
for Green Car passes, the equivalent of first class) and
headed into Tokyo Central where we’d agreed to meet
Ally, Susan, Kenny and the WESTA/LA combination trip (Tam
Coyle, Elise, Kev and Craig, Jim Brown and Niall) before
catching the Shinkansen bullet train down to Kobe.
After bumping into Singing Phil McFadden on the airport
train (literally, his booked seat was in the row behind
us), we met up with the others and I invested in a bento
box on the railway platform, as despite the jet lag I was
keen to dive headfirst into the local cuisine and culture.
Unfortunately, I’d inadvertently chosen the seafood
version, complete with whole baby octopus looking up at
me as I opened the lid. My short-term recall was really
suffering, and trying to hold even the simplest of conversations
was a laborious process; it’s fair to say my equilibrium
was not helped by the regular appearance of Coyle’s
jowly face over the seat in front trotting out poor, poor
one-liners (example: “Octopus is cheap here; three
for a squid”). Somehow I remained conscious and sane
all the way to Kobe and to the Holiday Inn Express hotel
near the station.
After a quick doze and a shower, it was out and about in
the Kobe rain with Ally, Susan, Kenny and Phil. Before we’d
even reached the first pub, we had to cross the most mental
footbridge I’ve ever seen, and halfway across, with
me lagging at the back of the group, I thought I was having
some kind of turn as the ground seemed to be moving under
my feet (I found out the next day that was a design fault
of the bridge and not my jet lag). After a full-size Izakaya
meal which involved trying everything on the menu (not least
of which the salted prunes) – Kenny reckoned the enterprising
waitress was using us a chance to get shot of any food no-one
else would eat – we rounded off the meal in cavalier
fashion with a watermelon (forgetting all the horror stories
about the price of the fruit). After settling the bill (which,
despite our fruit-based extravagance, was still in the realms
of reality) it was out and about to a couple of pubs gleaned
from the guidebook. First up was the Polo Dog, a hidden
gem in a shopping centre, followed by the pricey but nice
German-style brew-pub, the New Munchen. Well, it would have
been expensive had it not been for the free and discounted
beer the owners insisted on plying us with.
After finally managing to tear ourselves away, we made
it to Ryan’s Bar, the ubiquitous plastic Irish pub
that the Tartan Army had designated base camp. Now, it’s
well known that I’m not a fan of Irish pubs, but this
one really took the biscuit: aside from it’s authentic
setting (the seventh floor of an office block above a McDonalds
and overlooking a busy traffic junction), the landlord had
woefully underestimated the amount of beer, and when they
ran out of draught they carried on knocking out bottles
for the same price as pints – when these were 500ml
bottles, fair enough, but when they moved on to warm 330ml
sizes that just wasn’t on. I partly had myself to
blame for over-exposure, as we had actually left the pub
earlier with Ally and Susan (who were planning an early
morning excursion on the train to Hiroshima), but then rode
the lift back up to carry on drinking. Thankfully, I’d
found a kindred spirit in fellow Irish pub hater Chris Houston,
and between us we managed to help effect a mini-exodus across
the road to a wee Japanese local. It’s fair to say
the wee pub wasn’t expecting us, but put rose to the
challenge admirably, knocking out beer and cook-on-the-counter
noodles. The final straw was not Houston’s impromptu
version of the Court of King Caratacus but rather an over-enthusiastic
display of gratitude (and, it must be said, genitalia) by
one of the Highland contingent.
Thankfully, Ali Nish – glamorous friend of Chris,
Stevie Imlach and Andy Mac and fluent Japanese speaker –
had by this time arranged a two-hour stint in the karaoke
lounge opposite, so we all piled in there, dragging the
“flashing blade” with us. These karaoke lounges
are a strange arrangement – everyone piles into a
sound-proofed room together, and there’s a catalogue
of thousands of songs (usually performed by session musicians
over the same soft-rock, one-size-fits-all video backdrop).
Meanwhile, beer is included in the price – just pick
up a phone, speak in Japanese and ten minutes later a waiter
magically appeared. The fifteen or so of us had a fantastic
time, but in my befuddled mental state (not just beer, remember,
but serious sleep deprivation as well by this stage) I failed
to realise just how amazing the whole experience was, not
to mention how lucky we all were to have Ali on hand to
take the lead and do all the talking. Thanks!
After a brief discussion about whether it was worth staying
up to 6am (Japanese time) to see Middlesborough in the UEFA
Cup Final (it’s where Helen was born), we wisely opted
for bed. We had actually suggested to Ally and Susan that
we may just make it up in time to accompany them down to
Hiroshima Peace Park before we had bid them farewell just
after midnight. When we made it back to the hotel four hours
later, getting up for an 8.30am train no longer seemed so
appealing, so it was with considerable effort that I somehow
managed to not only write a note but slip it under the correct
hotel room door (okay, it was the room next to us, but I
really was “tired and emotional” for once!).
Thursday morning came and went, and our meeting with Kenny
and Phil had to rely on the “fallback” plan.
We eventually made it out of the hotel and down towards
the centre with the intention of finding the team hotel
and picking up tickets, with a quick food stop in McDonalds
(which seems to double as power-napping venue for the locals).
After finally working out the ticket machine with a lot
of help, and then managing to lose my own ticket en route
to the destination station and having to run the barrier
(with lots of bells and whistles and disbelieving stares
from the locals), we rolled up at the team hotel and picked
up our briefs from the lovely Angela.
After a civilised coffee and an abortive attempt to find
beer, Kenny wandered off for some fresh air and we bumped
in Ally and Sue who were now back from their Hiroshima trip,
followed by meeting McFadden-alike Lawrie, a lad from Dundee
who was teaching English on Japan’s south island and
was only recently off the boat. Beer (and iced coffee for
me, jet lag and all that…) was eventually sourced
in a shopping centre café, before we piled in to
two cabs for the short trip to the Kobe Wing Stadium. Unfortunately,
Lawrie, Helen and I ended up in the back of a cab driven
by a guy who clearly didn’t know where he was going,
and as a result had to tailgate the cab in front! Nonetheless,
we rolled up in front of the stadium in good time and we
were in the ground well in time for kick-off (even after
having to decant my bottled water into the supplied paper
cup).
The Scotland “end” was behind one of the goals
in a single tier stand – the big sweeping stands are
along each side – and the Bulgarian contingent (which
basically looked like embassy staff and possibly a handful
of ex-pats) were away to our left along the touchline. There
were a good smattering of locals amongst the 5,000-plus
crowd (which was still rattling around inside the 53,000
capacity Kobe Wing Stadium!), including a bunch of young
Vissel Kobe “ultras” behind us, complete with
Japanese-language banners and songs (they were nice though,
and happy to swap a scarf with me!).
The game itself was a bit of a blur; irrespective of the
fact I was still suffering from the tail-end of jet-lag,
I think any Scotland fan would be a bit bewildered following
that performance! Fresh from beating the Japanese hosts
2-1 two days earlier in nearby Osaka, Bulgaria found themselves
two-one down at half-time to a Kris Boyd brace either side
of their goal. The verdict as the teams ran out to start
the second-half: Sofia, so good! Boyd’s replacement
McFadden made it 3-1, before another debut brace in the
last 10 minutes, this time from Rangers winger Chris Burke,
turned the game into a rout. If only Boyd and Burke had
been ready for the first team sooner…
With the statisticians among us quickly working out that
even a narrow defeat to Japan would be enough to clinch
the cup, much celebrating followed, including the obligatory
“pose with the Kirin Cup” (well, a paper beer
cup with the Kirin logo on it anyway!) photos followed,
before the baffled stewards finally managed to get the celebrating
Tartan Army out of the concourse almost an hour after the
final whistle.
Helen and I had spotted a couple of wee pubs over the road
from the ground from the taxi in, so we led a few people
over in order to wait out the “rush” on the
tube back into town. As we set-off in the opposite direction
from the rest of TA, we discovered in addition to our kitty
(Helen and me, Ally and Susan, Singing Phil, Kenny and Lawrie)
there were another dozen or so. Not a ordinarily a problem,
however the Playboy bar was full with less than half of
us inside the door! Somehow we all squeezed in, however
Helen’s initial order of 10 beers (she had the kitty
pikachu at the time) caused the landlady to panic –
they only had 10 in stock. Her husband was swiftly despatched
for supplies, and staggered back a few minutes later toting
a bucket full of beer bottles. For the next couple of hours,
beer supply was magically solved.
Stevie and Andy thought it would be good idea to call Bruce,
slaving away at his civil service desk in London, and the
pub duly sang along to Andy and Helen’s mobiles. At
some point Wilf (from Swindon) took off his hat (following
a chorus of “he’s got a tea cosy on his head”)
only to put it on again swiftly after being belted with
“He’s got a permed f*cking mullet”, and
another member of the party left arm-in-arm with a local
to a blast of “to get his hole, to get his hole…
he’s going to get his hole” (said member re-appeared
around 90 minutes later, whilst the local lassie was keeping
his hotel bed warm!). After a team photo and several free
cigarette lighters later (we literally had them thrust upon
us by the grateful landlady), we arranged a fleet of cabs
back to downtown Kobe.
After touching down at the big junction where Ryan’s
perched in it’s olde worlde quaint tower block, Lawrie
(who was by now, quite frankly, tired and emotional to the
extreme) discovered he’d left his mobile somewhere.
Even the offer of more beer could not cheer him up: “In
Japan, without your mobile, you’re nobody!”
(which basically meant that apart from Helen and Andy, ALL
of us were “nobody”. Well, apart from Tam Coyle,
more on that later…). As Lawrie drifted off disconsolately
to mourn his loss, I rejoined the rest of them in Ryan’s,
to bump into Chris urging me to move on ASAP. With the elevator
doors starting to shut, my cat-like reflexes kicked in and
I leapt majestically across the small entrance area to gallantly
stop the doors closing with my outstretched leg. Well, according
to witness reports, I attempted a kung fun kick, slipped
on my trailing leg (there was a small step!) and ended up
flat on my back with my right leg half-way up a closed lift
door and my kilt akimbo, whilst Stevie stood at the door
with his hand in the way looking down at me with a bemused
expression. After reassuring everyone that I had not, in
fact, fractured my lower spine as first feared (as Helen
said: “You’ve got less far to fall when you
fall on it”) it was out into the backstreets of Kobe
once more, leaving the masses to over-priced under-cooled
lager and a sleeping (but still lethal) Kevin Donnelly).
Between us (Ally, Singing Phil, Chris and myself) we found
a posh wee pub with a Buddha on the bar, before Ally tracked
back to Ryan’s to get Helen and Susan (who were still
finishing their beer). Chris decided to dabble with the
local firewater – not Sake but Shochu, which he soon
declared was “chewy”. After stealing to the
lavvy, ditching it down the sink and topping it back up
with tap-water, he was soon faced with another dilemma when
we explained his new drink was potentially far more damaging
than what he’d just poured away (“But I can’t
not drink it – that would be an insult!”). Soon
after that it was out and into a taxi for Helen, me, Ally
and Susan, and the last laugh of the night; despite me patiently
asking (five times no less!) for “Hoteroo Holiday
Inn Express” (hotel in Japanese being pronounced “hoter-oo”),
I eventually gave up and sharply said “horror-day
inn expless”, at which point the cabbie went “Ahh,
horror-day inn” and Ally started crying with laughter
in the back.
The Horror-Day Inn reception looked like a tartan refugee
camp on the Friday morning, with Andy Maclean wandering
about bleary-eyed in his pajamas and people coming and going
in various states of hangover. Rather than rush up to Tokyo,
we decided to spend a few hours looking around Kobe. Helen
and Kenny were keen to take in the rope-way up to the peak
(as were half the school children of Japan, by the looks
of it), and on the way back down (we side-stepped the confusing
skyscraper this time) we made our way down to the old colonial
area of Kitano, where we bumped into Jack.
Jack was a very friendly American who now lived in Kobe,
having married a local lady. He explained that he was retired
from the US Foreign Service and was full of stories, as
well as being interested in what we were all doing there.
He insisted on treating us to a beer, and as he led us to
his plush members club (the Kobe Club), he proudly explained
that there was a Scottish Freemasons’ Lodge in the
car park (and no, he wasn’t joking!). We were introduced
to Paul, his pal from Essex, and the two of them were a
real double act as they entertained us over a beer. It was
very difficult to leave, but with booked seats on the Shinkansen
we had no choice – in the end we had to get two very
confused taxis across town to the hotel and then back to
the station (I had to stay with the cabbies and wave my
hands around a bit whilst everyone else retrieved the luggage).
The Green Car carriage was pretty
empty, apart from the seats directly opposite us from Osaka
onwards; rather than sit a seat away and allow us to keep
the seats facing (Shinkansen trains have a pedal that allows
the seats to swivel, allowing them to face one way or the
other), they insisted on sticking to their assigned seats!
Nonetheless, the journey did allow for me to slip off my
ailing kilt and sit back whilst Helen performed her seamstress
act. On arrival in Tokyo we arranged to meet up with Kenny
in the Ginza Lion Beer Hall, and Ally, Susan, Helen and
I squeezed onto a rush hour tube train (not too bad –
apparently much worse in the mornings) and headed across
town to our mega hotel – the 1,600 room, three building
Hotel New Otani.
After unpacking and freshening up, Helen and I headed out
to meet up with the other three. Ginza subway station offers
a myriad exits, and unless you have an ability to navigate
by neon, heading above ground to get bearings is a futile
exercise. Our joy at finding an underground entrance to
the Ginza Lion was tempered by the fact that no-one else
showed up (making explaining to the waiter why we needed
a table for 5 when there was in fact only 2 of us rather
difficult). Undaunted, Helen and I sampled the beer and
food and then headed back on the underground towards the
ex-pat disco inferno district of Roppongi. The Hobgoblin
had been designated as the TA HQ, mainly thanks to the sterling
pre-trip work of Scottish ex-pat and part-time Harry Hill
impersonator Tartan Tokyo, however when Helen and I rolled
up around 9-ish it was hoaching. Decrying the choice of
venue (“I live in England, I can go in an English
pub any time”), we co-opted “Save The Whale”
Chris Houston and headed over the road to a German pub instead.
On arrival in Bernd’s Bar, the owner was so taken
with the kilts that he bought us the first round of beers
on the house. More rounds followed as we fell into conversation
with the other customers, a range of German ex-pats including
none other than ex-international and (then) current Urawa
Red Diamonds manager Guido Buchwald. After much drunken
lunacy and tales of culture shock (including the one about
the elderly Japanese bather saying to one of the German
guys: “Next time, we’ll leave the Italians out
of it”), we headed back across the road to the Hobgoblin.
By now the crowds had subsided a little, leaving a trail
of bewildered locals in their wake and, at the back of the
pub, Walter Smith, Jim Duffy and Ally McCoist holding court
(and happy to pose for photos). Ally, Susan and Kenny had
also arrived, fresh in from the other Ginza Lion Beer Hall
and keen to know why we’d stood them up.
As the Hobgoblin started to shut up shop, we headed en
masse for an alternative, eventually stumbling into a packed
Motown House bar where we found Akie and co. By the time
Ally had fought his way back from the crowded bar with a
round of Heinekens, we decided to take our chances outside
and finished our beer on the streets before hailing a taxi
back to the New Otani.
The late night took its toll, so after a lie in, Helen
and I headed out with Ally and Susan to the Yebisu Beer
Station for some local produce. The Inverurie Two headed
back into the Hobgoblin after a meal, whilst Helen and I
were taking it easy with a stroll around the museum (and
the prize of a tasting pallet at the end). By the time we
made it to the Hobgoblin, Ally and Susan had already headed
out to the ground and the pub was filling to bursting point.
By now the heavens had opened and the local transparent
umbrella sellers were doing a roaring trade, particularly
as Paul Baker contrived to purchase half a dozen. Helen
and I decided to make an early break for it to beat the
crowds and beat an early retreat out to Saitama for the
match. The train filled up as it neared the stadium, but
we were the only Scots in sight. The rain was getting heavier,
so we sought out some full length plastic rain jackets (casper
the ghost numbers), bought the required towelling souvenir
scarf and headed into the stadium for some shelter (albeit
only in the concourse, as the ends were open to the elements.
The scene in the concourse was like something from a refugee
camp, with hundreds upon thousands of Japanese teenage girls
sat cross legged on blankets on the concrete floor, sharing
picnics and generally being a fire hazard. We bumped into
an exasperated Ally and Susan, who confirmed that the scene
before us had changed little in the past hour, much to their
bemusement. After some initial confusion as to which section
we’d been allocated, the Scotland support began to
congregate and Cammy the Ref produced his camera for the
obligatory “smiling with the home fans” shots
(including a bunch of Dundee FC supporting locals).
We took our seats in the corner for the game, wrapped up
us much as possible (my proper waterproof jacket was bound
around my rucksack to try and limit the damage). After having
Flower of Scotland massacred by a Japanese opera singer,
the home anthem was sung by cheeky looking gent who proceeded
to flash the inside of his jacket to display the JFA crest.
The noise from the home fans was absolutely amazing, putting
to shame anything else I’d encountered, although as
the first half wore on it became apparent it was all a little
choreographed and bore little relevance to actual events
on the pitch.
Although the game itself ended in a goalless draw, it was
a very different Scotland performance from the rampant attacking
against Bulgaria, and that itself was exceptionally satisfying.
Denied the services of Kris Boyd, and with Burke inexplicably
left on the bench, Scotland sought to restrain the hosts
and did so very effectively. Although a two goal deficit
would have left us in pole position, we hung on desperately
to the draw and it took some last gasp defending in the
final moments to preserve the equilibrium. Then the final
whistle blew and those of us lucky enough to be there realised
that we’d just seen Scotland win a trophy on foreign
soil (we’re actually now the first British nation
to win a regularly contested international trophy on non-British
soil!). With all the surrealism of a Tarrant on TV clip,
the trophy and a large cheque was presented on pitch to
a baffled Davie Weir (who, having swapped his shirt in the
immediate post-match formalities, was forced to don Gary
Naysmith’s for the sponsors photos!). After letting
it all sink in, it was out of the ground and in with the
thronging hordes towards the station.
After an age of shuffling forwards with what must have
been twice the official crowd of 68,000, waiting, shuffling
some more and waiting some more, we finally boarded a Tokyo-bound
train with Ally, Susan and Iain from Paisley. Everyone else
headed to the Hobgoblin (where else?) in an attempt to catch
the Scottish Cup Final (or in the West Ham fan’s case,
the English FA Cup), Helen and I decided to jump off near
the hotel for a nightcap. After wandering the streets for
a while, we happened across a Ramen place and had some of
the trademark pork and noodle soup before turning in early
(well, earlier than the night before) at around 2am.
Our discussions with Guido on the Friday night had revealed
that his Urawa side were to play a local derby away at Yokohama
F Marinos on the Sunday in the cup. We knew that FC Tokyo
had a game the same day, but as it’s not every day
you get a chance to see the Japanese league leaders play
away in the 2002 World Cup Final venue, we’d agreed
to head down to Yokohama with our shiny Green Car passes.
Despite an abortive attempt to leave the hotel early to
see the freak parade at the temple (a Sunday morning fixture)
due to the ramen soup providing an encore (Ally: “Did
you know there’s a new 100 metre record?”, Paul
“I know – I broke it this morning running for
the loo”), we finally made it out of the hotel and
rendezvoused with Ally and Susan at Tokyo Central station.
We followed the crowds past the knock-off football shirt
sellers and managed to get hold of some good second tier
tickets for a few quid each. After a quick scoot around
the Yokohama club shop we headed in, and to our surprise,
found the concourses deserted. Strangely, Urawa had set
up their own official shop in a disused refreshment kiosk,
so after buying and donning scarves we headed up into the
seats. We had specifically asked to be in with the away
fans, and to be honest, we had made the right choice. Although
the crowd of 25,000 or so was lost in the expanses of the
80,000 capacity bowl, the Diamonds’ fans outnumbered
the home crowd by around two to one. Much to Ally’s
approval, Urawa play in red whilst the Marinos wore blue,
white and red (and to rub salt in the wound, the fans sing
a song not dissimilar from “We arra peepul”).
Urawa ran out winners; more comfortably than the 2-1 scoreline
suggested, and after the game we decided to head straight
back to Tokyo rather than explore Yokohama further. We hopped
off at Shinjuku station (famous for being the busiest station
in the world) and were in time to head up the Metropolitan
Tower for a great view of the Tokyo skyline (Ally and Susan
also managed cocktails in the Park Hyatt “Lost in
Translation” bar later in the trip). After spending
loads of money on a metal badge machine in the toy shop
at the top of the tower, it was back down to street level
and into a Kirin Beer Hall for a couple. After a fruitless
wander around the Golden Gai and the Kabuki-cho area (most
things were shut as it was Sunday), we headed into the unassuming
Champion Bar (with it’s 500-yen price promise).
The Champion was a real find, with non-stop karaoke, mad
regulars (Brad and Pedro) and scurrilous graffiti in the
toilets (complete with the number of Tam Coyle’s rented
mobile phone). The only downside was that some of the local
karaoke singers were really, really good, compared to the
drunken yeti chanting that we came up with. After staying
on until the bitter end, it was back in a surprisingly cheap
taxi to the hotel and to bed.
After securing our bus tickets for the journey to the airport
the next day (it’s all about planning, kids!), Ally
and Susan joined us on our expedition to Akihabara’s
“Electric Town” to procure a new memory card
(having caned three already on this trip). Being the panic
merchant everyone knows and loves, I also wanted to use
BA’s Online Check-In to make sure our prime seats
were still ours. Despite rumours of free internet terminals
being liberally sprinkled around, this was easier said than
done and, as a result, I am now a proud member of one of
Akihabara’s many internet and manga cafés.
Thankfully, membership was free (although they did need
to photocopy my passport), and the seats were confirmed
with no further pain.
With all the essentials out of the way, it was onward to
the sedate Asakusa district and a cruise down the river.
This turned out to be much more fun than it sounded and
took us right down past the famous fish market to the harbour
proper. Once back on dry land, and with the new memory card
having been given a full workout taking photos of the Asakusa
River’s famed bridges, we headed for the Phillipe
Starck designed Asahi Brewery. The tower boasted a top floor
bar in the Sky Room, and we set up shop by the windows to
watch dusk fall over Tokyo (with the beers flowing, of course),
before heading downstairs to the designer beer hall proper.
The food and beer was great, but the Star Trek themed toilets
really took the biscuit here.
Suitably refreshed, we bowled up the hill to the famous
temple for some photos in the dark, before finishing off
with a nightcap in the hotel’s own tower-top bar.
Helen and I headed down to the hotel’s very own bus
station in good time for our airport transfer, only to be
met by the bizarre sight of 5 busloads of Japanese wedding
guests in traditional clothes queuing in perfectly orderly
fashion before filing silently onto the waiting coaches.
The view from our elevated seats on the journey along the
raised motorway viaducts around Roppongi was certainly an
eye-opener, as was the rural surroundings we hadn’t
had much to chance to notice on the train on the way in.
The Tokyo airport experience was particularly painless,
and the highlight of the flight home was the crystal clear
view of the arctic which I managed to catch on camera from
the galley as the rest of the plane slept.
All in all, a fantastic trip, but more for the football
(and the sights) than the actual drinking.
-
3 – World Cup stadia visited (Kobe,
Saitama and Yokohama)
-
5 – bullet/express train journeys
- 60
minutes - the total sleep by Paul on the plane over
(in 2 shifts of 30 minutes)
- 6
hours - the total sleep by Helen (all in
one go)
- 16
Beers (+ 1
cider):
· Yebisu
· Yebisu Black
· Major Weiss (at Sapporo Museum)
· Major Ale (Museum)
· Sapporo
· Kirin
· Kirin Black
· Braumeister
· Heartland
· Kobe brew-pub beer
· Asahi Super Dry
· Asahi Kuronama Black
· Kohaku no Toki (ale-ish)
· Juksen (Asahi Premium) – (hoppy &
pale)
· Fujisan (really crips & pleasant)
· River Pia (Tokyo brewed wheat beer)
· Nikka Cider
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Helen and I got lucky on the FIFA website
last year for a pair of tickets for what turned out to be
Poland v Ecuador in Gelsenkirchen (at the time we found
out it, was "Team A3 v A4 in Match 2", so we watched
the draw in December with interest!), then found out in
February we'd been lucky in the next ballot with tickets
for tickets to Czech Republic v Ghana.
We had planned to spend Thursday 8th - Sunday 18th out in
Germany, and right up until April we had hotels booked the
length and breadth of the country (Gelsenkirchen - Dusseldorf
- Heidelberg - Augsburg - Mainz - Rudesheim - Koblenz -
Dusseldorf), some around match venues and some along the
"Romantic Rhine". As it turned out, two events
conspired to curtail our World Cup adventure to just two
weekends - reporting deadlines at my work changed (very
boring - I'm a Compliance Manager!) and Scotland played
in the Kirin Cup in Japan (which changed our holiday priorities!).
A very understanding boss agreed to a change of holiday
plans at short notice, and so our football (watching) season
was extended right through the summer, enabling us to watch
Scotland lift their first overseas trophy and still get
to the greatest show on earth.
On Friday 8th June we flew out to Düsseldorf and headed
up to Gelsenkirchen for 2 nights. The Thursday night was
great fun, and ranged from quiet drinks in a station pub
to being treated to Deutsche Bahn hospitality at a nearby
brewpub with the station manager and the architects (they'd
been celebrating the opening of the new station since 10am
that morning!). On the Friday Gavin (another Tartan Army
pal with a ticket) came up from Düsseldorf and we had
a few beers and watched the opening ceremony and first half
of the Germany game (with the Fortuna connections, and my
frequent travel there, Germany are naturally my national
second team after Scotland). The Polish fans during the
day were pretty unfriendly, unlike the exuberant and generous
(we were offered two free tickets to the game, which we
declined) Ecuadorians, so we were quite happy when Ecuador
sprung a surprise. The tram back into town was slow and
hard-going, due to a tram crash three trams ahead causing
a massive log-jam, but it did give us a chance to chat to
Colin, John, Ross and Kirk of the Larbert Tartan Army, fellow
Scots over for the first weekend.
Saturday saw us off down to Düsseldorf to check in
to a new hotel, before donning my Trinidad & Tobago
shirt with my kilt and heading up to Dortmund. The train
was packed, but we got chatting to a Trinidadian couple
and Chris (England fan) and Cameron (an Aussie). Once in
Dortmund we wandered around taking in the atmosphere (a
sea of yellow from the very friendly Swedes, and certainly
no animosity towards my T&T shirt) before settling in
a pub to allow Helen to watch the England game. The day
was a bit of a blur, but involved meeting Scots supporting
England (admittedly through marriage), a group of Watford
fans, who left shortly before father and son Luton fans
took their place and, come evening and the third match,
a large group of Everton and Liverpool supporting mates
and all the accompanying banter. By now, the bar (the Kronen
Pils Bar) had laid on a DJ and he was trotting out the likes
of Ferry Cross The Mersey and You'll Never Walk Alone (a
big favouite of the Borussia Dortmund supporting locals).
We left the pub just before 1am, somehow managed to ride
a big wheel in the funfair on the way to the station, before
staggering onto a Düsseldorf-bound train. Luckily that's
where the journey terminated, as we both had to be shaken
awake by a concerned train guard (it was all the emotion
of the day, honest!).
Sunday saw a later start than planned, but it was off down
to Cologne to meet back up with Gav (who'd been to Hamburg
for Argentina v Ivory Coast on the intervening day, getting
good value from his German Rail Pass) and another London-based
pal, "Disco" Donnelly. We didn't stray far for
the first game of the day, watching the Holland-Serbia game
on the station pub's big screen, before I lead the way to
a couple of good local brew-pubs (despite Düsseldorf
and Cologne being rival cities, I know them both equally
well). No sooner had we found a seat in the second brewpub
when Disco's phone rang - it was one of his fellow Chelsea
fans with the chance of 60 Euro tickets for Angola v Portugal
at just a 20 Euro mark-up. Helen and I weren't too fussed
about actually getting into the game, as we had an early
flight Monday and wanted to beat the crowds heading back
up to Düsseldorf, but Disco and Gav took them and were
soon off to snap them up. By now, we'd actually rendezvoused
with yet another Tartan Army regular, Jim Brown, who works
during the week in Cologne and commutes back to Glasgow
at weekends (where he somehow finds time to act as Chairman
of the West of Scotland Tartan Army!). Jim, Helen and I
wandered back towards the station, taking in the first half
of Angola v Portugal on the screen of a riverside pub before
heading back to the station pub for the second half, enabling
an easy get away.
Monday's flight back to Heathrow from Düsseldorf (which
was actually the outbound section of a new return flight,
having booked the original ticket back in January for the
full 11 days) was a mixed bag of German businessmen and
English fans, and after a hectic few days back in the office,
this trend was repeated in reverse on Friday afternoon.
Whilst the first weekend saw me travel in my kilt and wear
it throughout, I was a little more apprehensive for the
second weekend. With England's game in Nuremberg on the
Thursday, it stood to reason that their travelling army
would start heading for Cologne in the intervening period
before the Sweden game the following week, and despite the
reported mproved behaviour, I was in no mood to mark myself
out as a possible target. Friday evening was a relatively
quiet affair, taking in the end of the Mexico-Angola game
in a wee lokal near our hotel before settling in to the
Schumacher brew-pub for a few late night beers (the köbes,
or barmen, have started recognising me in there as it's
my favourite pre-Fortuna game haunt).
Saturday saw us up bright and early on a mission to track
down some late World Cup souvenirs; despite coming to Germany
on average every two months, hence savouring the build up
from a very early stage, there still seemed to be the odd
knick-knack or special edition t-shirt we haven't yet bought!
After running into a group of kilted Aberdonian fans in
Ghana shirts and comedy wigs on the platform, the train
to Cologne got us in just after 2pm, which was perfect timing
for us to find a seat in front of Cologne station Kolsch
pub's tried and tested screen to watch the first half of
Portugal-Iran before heading out to the ground in good time!
By doubling back over the Rhine and catching the tram from
Deutz, we had the pick of seats - just 2 stops later it
was standing room only. Yet another unexplained tram hold-up
later, we were standing out in front of Cologne's Rhein-Energie
Stadion. Being the ground-hopping football anoraks we are,
both Helen and I had taken in games here the previous summer
in the Confederations Cup, including Germany's sell-out
win against Tunisia. Somehow this managed to count for nothing,
as the vast lawns in front of the stadium's north stand
were taken up by swathes of white tarpaulin for hospitality,
and the central path was flanked by a variety of stages
and stalls plugging everything from soft drinks to tyres
to mobile phones.
Despite leaving the kilt hanging up at home, I had opted
on the day to sport a retro Scotland shirt, with a tastefully
chosen Hawaiian shirt to deflect attention from it if necessary.
The adornment was Helen's Worthing FC flag (which could
be confused for Austria at distance), and we headed in to
our seats earlier than usual to try and find a prime spot
to hang it. We knew we were in Row 1, and I was pretty certain
from my internet research we were in the upper tier, but
how much opportunity we'd have to get the flag up was uncertain
as our tickets were actually the lowest of the low - 27
Euro Category 3 Restricted View. No problems at all on this
front - we secured both the Worthing flag and a smaller
"Netley Abbey Tartan Army" saltire with the help
of some shoelaces and a generous portion of masking tape
(thankfully not confiscated at the turnstiles).
The fans (as opposed to the prawn-sandwich inflated "attendance")
would have been around 60% Czech, 10% Ghana and 30% Germans/neutrals
supporting Ghana. We seemed to have ended up in an unofficial
"home" end, as all the "Viva Colonia"
chants started around us (much to my chagrin, as a Fortuna
follower, and Helen's amusement). Ghana played superbly,
ending up deserved 2-0 winners against a largely clueless
Czech side missing their main threat in Koller, although
to their credit the Czech fans were very sporting and were
very keen to instigate the swapping of shirts and scarves
with the victors.
More over-heated, over-loaded stationary tram fun awaited
us on the journey home, and Helen and I found ourselves
around 8 yards apart, separated by several dozen other fans,
including a group of 5 mates from Manchester (one of whom
worked for the UK Government out in Accra). Despite having
to suffer stripped sweaty torsos brushing against me as
yet more fans swapped shirts, I found myself cheek to armpit
with one of the English guys. He took time to explain to
me he was just here to enjoy the football and the carnival
spirit, but he had timed his visit to avoid the main influx
of English fans for fear of being caught up in any trouble
and getting tarred with the same brush; this is reminiscent
of two lads from Bolton I met in Montpellier at France 98,
as they explained they'd left Marseille for the very same
reason. Although my tram travelling companion's fears have
thankfully proved to be largely unfounded, it did hammer
home that there were many fans just like me, English, Scottish
and from all points north, east, west and south, who are
basically the same in sharing a passion for both football
and their own country.
The light that shines twice as bright shines for half as
long, and as we'd shone so brightly up to this point, Helen
and I decided an early-ish night was called for. So, after
stocking up on cured ham, cheese and Tuc biscuits at Dusseldorf's
always dependable station supermarket, we settled down in
front of the hotel telly for a picnic and German TV World
Cup coverage.
Despite our flight home being on the Sunday afternoon, the
Tartan Army connection wasn't over yet. Craig and Simon,
yet another pair of economic exiles to London, had flown
to Frankfurt on the Friday to take in Portugal-Iran and
also had tickets for Switzerland-Togo on the Monday in Dortmund;
unable to find accommodation in Dortmund, and inspired by
my constant recommendations, they had decided to bide in
Dusseldorf on the Sunday night. After getting up at the
crack of dawn on the Sunday morning, failing to get any
breakfast (except for a Weissbier) on the ICE train up,
and then getting lost in the station and having to ring
for directions to their hotel (one street away!), the two
of them made it to the Schumacher Stammhaus for our lunchtime
rendezvous. Helen and my planned departure to the airport
slipped from 2pm to 3.30pm ("hey, it's the World Cup
- let's treat ourselves to a taxi!") as we whiled away
the afternoon, before we reluctantly bade farewell. Despite
a solid diet of German football songs on the car CD player
on the drive back from Heathrow, it couldn't quite make
up for the realisation that the World Cup is still going
on without us. We did however promise ourselves that if
Germany do make to the final, we'll go back to Düsseldorf
and watch in a pub there in our Germany shirts and kilts,
unless it's against England...
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Over the past few years, some kind of hysteria, perpetuated
by the popularity of the TAMB, has developed around booking
flights and accommodation for Scotland games; as if something
isn’t booked then and there, prices will rocket. Whilst
this may hold some truth for the likes of Iceland, Faroe
Islands, Kazakhstan, Georgia etc, for almost every other
European country there are numerous travel options. When
the original meeting between all of the nations in our group
reached an interim agreement, the SFA (in retrospect, unwisely)
published the provisional fixture list on its website. Subsequently,
it came to light that Oleg Blokhin had been on a plane at
the time, the Ukrainian FA refused to ratify the fixture
list and UEFA stepped into the breach, handing Scotland
a far better set of fixtures (the only drawback being a
free fixture on the very last day in November 2007).
Thankfully I was in Germany when the phantom fixtures were
announced, thus removing any possible temptation to join
in the booking frenzy that was sweeping the TAMB. My only
concession was to book a (cancellable) hotel room, but this
was more a legacy of having been bumped at the last minute
from a room in Vilnius in 2003. When the fixtures proper
were announced by UEFA the following month, I had by this
time managed to swing a day off work and sat diligently
in front of my laptop, ready to pounce in case of the nightmare
scenario: Georgia and/or the Faroes away in 2006. As it
happened, Lithuania was a pretty straightforward option,
and I was in early enough to snaffle up Club Europe seats
for the outbound leg (though not for all four of us travelling).
A hotel recommendation from Ally, following his route through
Vilnius to Minsk the previous summer, and we were all set.
The Saturday before the trip saw the Scotland circus take
place at Parkhead, with Hampden being rented out by the
fat dancer from Take That. Pre and post match rituals were
disturbed by the change of venue, and the Barrowlands gig
proved a bar too far for us before the game. None of that
put the team off their stride as we raced into a five-nil
first half lead; in fact the only downside was the thousands
of fans missing the first couple of goals due to struggling
to get in through Celtic’s ludicrous automated ticket
gates despite having arrived in good time (we were lucky
– our stand had no queue).
A Sunday visit to my Granny’s for sponge cake and
a lift to the airport from James and Lynne later and we
were enjoying the hospitality of Glasgow’s Executive
Lounge. Due to the number of early flights from Gatwick
the next day, the Travelodge proved very popular with the
travelling Tartan Army (although the hour-long wait for
luggage had worn us down and we retired to bed straight
away).
To add insult to the injury of the draconian hand luggage
restrictions in place at the time, the check in queues were
almost out the door due to broken conveyor belts. This is
where our Club Europe tickets came into their own with a
dedicated check in line, and we were soon through and in
the lounge. Despite the offer of free bevvy in the lounge,
I opted to stay dry so as to make the most of the complimentary
champagne on board, and this was duly caned all the way
to Vilnius (despite the shortages sweeping the rest of the
plane, Club Europe was thankfully unaffected!).
Ally, Susan and Kenny arrived just minutes after us on
the KLM connection from Amsterdam so we agreed to wait for
them in the Arrivals Hall. As we waited, the heavens opened
outside and the waiting Tartan Army scuttled into a number
of taxis and buses, leaving us to linger while Ally found
to his horror that his bag was still sitting at Schiphol
Airport. We beat a retreat to the upstairs bar restaurant
to discuss tactics and wait for the weather to subside,
eventually opting to barter with the profiteering taxi drivers
rather than try and get all seven of us onto a bus.
We were having a beer at the hotel bar, having already
checked in, when Rich appeared – he’d planned
to leave us a message as his work mobile wasn’t working.
The eight of us headed off en masse – the plan was
to strike for Avilys brew pub for some food, but we diverted
into Busi Treacas for some of their home brewed cherry beer.
Avilys was dependable (and expensive) as ever, and Rich
and James were made up with the “Beer hive”
5 litre giraffe measures. After a few hours we moved on
– the rain was back on now, and some doorway hopping
brought us into a weird and wonderful student bar (which
we managed to drink dry with just one round!) and then onto
the all night refuge of Transylvania and the first pear
ciders of the trip.
Tuesday morning saw Helen and me head to the nearby bus
station to get some provisions for the room (after late
night munchies having to go unsatisfied the previous night).
On the way back, we made time to visit two wee bars –
one full of stuffed animals and shell suited jakies, the
other a nice, shiny (but very small) sports bar sporting
a Chelsea Headhunters scarf (and now, Worthing and Netley
Abbey Tartan Army ones). After dropping off the crisps in
the room, we headed up Pylimo in search of a bar we’d
found back in 2003 with the Milngavie boys – it had
stuck in our mind thanks to the appearance of an entire
military brass band marching through it. The bar/pizzeria
in question was still there, and we settled in for a few
beers and a pizza as gradually everyone else gathered there:
Bruce and Sharon (who’d just flown in that day and
used our taxi price as a guide to ensure they didn’t
get charged double, as originally quoted!), Ally and Susan,
and eventually, Craig, Kevin and Wolfie (from Austria).
No brass band this time, but a wake! We were politely ushered
out to the wooden terrace, and thought it best to drink
up and leave (otherwise we’d have to weave between
the mourners to get to the gents!). Next on the agenda was
posh bikers’ bar Harleys, before a backstreet expedition
(without Kev and Wolfie) taking in a hotel’s cellar
bar (that we again drank dry, this time of pear cider) and
a traditional restaurant (for Zeppelins). Tam Coyle had
been doing his best to perpetuate a rumour of some secret
gig for one of the charter companies, but when we stumbled
across him later on that evening he was looking forlorn
– there was no PA but the barstaff had offered to
put his CDs on for him, one album at a time!
With the game to look forward to the next day, and the
Loony Alba bus setting off early, everyone turned in for
an early-ish night around 1am. Well, almost everyone…
Waking up early on Wednesday morning, I found Helen was
already up and out, having been called upon to “talk
in” a tired and emotional footsoldier who was evidently
unable to discern which way to hold his map, having enjoyed
a late night drinking session with Fast Ted and Andy Mac,
amongst others. Said footsoldier proceeded to take to his
bed for the rest of the day, leaving his good lady to accompany
the rest of NATA on the bus to Kaunas. Pear cider rations
were procured at a local supermarket, and the convoy of
buses took to the road a mere 20 minutes late; the only
blow to our bus convenor’s planning was the lack of
a CD player to entertain us with his specially selected
compilations (one for a win, one for a defeat!).
The bus dropped us by the ground and almost everyone headed
down the hill to the city centre. Having been in Kaunas
in 2003 and being distinctly underwhelmed by the experience,
I was in less of a rush, and instead the NATA contingent
(Ally, Susan, Sharon, James, Lynne, Helen and Paul) headed
into the open stadium for photos before spotting a small
bar (Komanda) in the outside wall. In a rare departure from
tradition, everyone bar Ally and Susan, opted to stay put
and have something to eat in the bar, and we were still
there hours later when the Inverurie Two returned from their
successful foray for vegetarian food. In the interim we’d
joined by Auld Andy and Scott, Phil and Roisin from Loony
Alba, and by the time Gav, Craig T and Kellas had joined
the fray a case of lager had appeared on the table.
Mindful of the fun and games we’d all faced 3 years
previous, an early approach to the turnstiles was called
for. Thankfully the Lithuanian FA had managed to properly
sort out segregation (must have been all that extra money
they’d charged a large proportion of us) and there
was no repeat of the problems we’d faced before. Our
£30 seats were along the touchline at the end of the
main stand, and were right where Kenny Miller ran to celebrate
his goal. After romping into a comfortable two-nil lead,
we were pegged back in the last five minutes and had to
endure a spot of hanging on until the final whistle. Being
penned in for a while by the local polis was a lot more
bearable this time around with a win to celebrate.
Jubilant, relieved, and six points to the good, we made
our way back to the Loony Alba Bingo Bus. Not letting the
lack of a stereo stifle our enjoyment, the back of the bus
was a non-stop sing-along to the likes of “Star Trekkin”,
“The Gambler” (we were all singing this for
the full trip – apparently the Celtic Park DJ had
played it at half-time!), and thanks to Sharon, “Man-a-man-ah”
from the Muppets. Once back in Vilnius, we did head to the
“Man in Barrel” pub on the main square but were
beaten back by the chronic lack of service and again headed
for an early night. Still, not as early as some, eh Bruce?
With this trip being mine and Helen’s fourth visit
to Vilnius, we felt compelled to actually make the effort
to see some of the surrounding attractions and decided to
strike out for nearby Trakai, home to an historic castle
and the erstwhile capital city. The rest of NATA (bar Rich
and the absent Clarkston Chris) tagged along too, and somehow
we all managed to shoe-horn into a cramped and fragrant
minibus for the 30 minute journey to Trakai’s forlorn
bus station.
Trakai is basically a long peninsula into a lake, with
the train and bus stations at the southern tip (where the
“mainland” is) and the castle built on a small
island in the lake at the northern end. We wandered up and
through the ruins of the old castle, pausing at the Kybynlar
restaurant for the traditional Karaite dish of Cornish pasties.
The Karaites were a tribe from Iraq who had been hired by
the old Grand Duke back in the good old days, and had swapped
desert life for castle-guarding duties in the Balkans. Trakai
is the site of one of their few temples (it’s a semi-Islamic
religion), with others in Vilnius, Turkey and the Crimea.
Fed and watered, we wandered down and over the bridges
to the pink hued castle itself, getting the obligatory Susan-in-stocks
photos, before heading back to the station via a wee pub
(complete with loads of owl symbolism) on the way back down.
Having scratched (and sniffed) the surface of real Lithuanian
bus travel, we decided to take our chances on the trains;
there’s only a handful of trains a day, taking 45
minutes or so, but we were in luck time-wise. The rolling
stock itself was typical ex-Soviet – massive and sparsely
furnished, but it did the trick.
Back in Vilnius we headed up to Lokys, or the Bear Restaurant
as Kenny Hamilton (who had by now joined the fray) described
it from his last visit. A meal of beaver, bear and such
like later and four of us (Ally, Susan, Helen and me) headed
around the corner to Aukštaiciai In search of Rich,
who had been ringing me on Dave the Spy’s mobile.
We’d missed Rich but were in time to see a spot of
improvised singing from Dave’s table before heading
off into the night.
Ally had managed to organise a bus tour to Grutas Parkas,
a theme park (of sorts) created by Lithuanian entrepreneur
who had snaffled up all the unwanted Soviet monuments in
the early 1990s. The park is a good 80+ miles from Vilnius,
down near Drusininkai, hence an early start was required.
Unfortunately, my bowels had started even earlier, and instead
of accompanying Helen on the “Elite Tours” bus
(complete with side-expanding seats), my morning was spent
on another kind of seat instead.
When things started drying up and I felt suitably confident
to wander away from the safe proximity of the hotel bathroom,
I headed out into Vilnius. Right before the trip I’d
got it in mind to propose to Helen, and given her first
ever Scotland trip had been to Vilnius back in 1998 (in
other words, pretty much exactly 8 years ago given the timing
of both matches), I thought a tasteful amber ring would
be appropriate to actually do the proposing with (besides,
Helen’s far too fussy for me to chance actually choosing
a proper engagement ring on my own!). Tasteful and amber
rings are usually mutually exclusive terms, however after
a spell of mooching around Vilnius’ posher shops I
managed to find the perfect ring (three stones, one for
each game in Lithuania…), and after picking up an
Orthodox icon of St Elena (as a good luck charm for the
car) from the Orthodox Cathedral, my work here was done.
With an afternoon to kill before the bus was due back I
decided to head out towards the TV Tower to see what I could
see. The bus stops in front of Vilnius railway station are
a bit of a free-for-all, so after studying a route map I
made my way down to the next stop. The Tower itself is a
fair bit out of the centre, and the only route from the
bus stop means heading through a less than salubrious housing
scheme, but the views from the revolving restaurant are
worth it. After consulting the map again, I could see a
bus that went from the Tower to the Zalgiris stadium, so
I caught that to see if the old Antalya bar was still open.
It wasn’t, however posters at the stadium did declare
that the FC Vilnius v Zalgiris Vilnius local derby was scheduled
for the next day (not the Sunday as our cursory pre-trip
research had suggested). A beer in the second of the stadium
bars later, having swapped a NATA badge for a set of official
FIFA referees’ cards, I was on my way back across
town to meet the returning Helen.
With the most of the others in the hotel foyer, we all
headed back out and round to the Sports Bar Helen and I
had discovered on the Tuesday. Again we were made to feel
very welcome, despite the cramped surroundings, but with
so many pubs and such little time, we were soon off again
– next door to the “Russian Jakey Bar”.
Of course, with Scotland having been in town for a week,
the jakies in residence weren’t Russian this particular
Friday night: two lads, clearly tired and emotional, were
completely out for the count at a table near the door, much
to the amusement of the bar-staff and the locals. We settled
in for possibly the cheapest beers of the trip, having posed
for photos with the ropey barmaid (and dissuaded her from
stealing one of the sleeping Scots' Glengarries) before
heading once again to the mythical “bar around the
corner”. This particular one was called Labyrinth,
and seemed to be a favourite with local dope smoking Goths.
As one would expect from such passive smoking, we soon had
the munchies and Cili Pica opposite the station came into
play.
After scooting up the new funicular to take in the view
from Gedimino’s Fortress, Helen and I met up with
Rich (and eventually, a hungover Ally and Susan) in Avilys
ahead of the game. We met James and Lynne up at the ground,
and with our plastic-cupped beer in hand, took our £2
seats in the centre stand. A dire 0-0 draw between two very
poor teams was enlivened by two young girls (around 8 years
old) coming and asking Rich who he was supporting. After
giving them saltire button badges, they returned at the
start of the second half each bearing a beer for Rich (to
add to the one I’d got him at half-time).
As the teams filed off the pitch at the end of the game,
Rich had the audacity to stand by the players tunnel to
shake hands with the home team as they passed. A quick badge
buying session later and it was off to Po Grin Dis, another
old haunt from the U21 game in 2003. A Russian meal in a
shopping centre restaurant followed before we headed up
to the Sky Bar on the top floor of the Reval Hotel for some
cocktails and views over the darkening skyline.
Another early-ish night made for an early rise, and we
headed out to the airport by taxi. Despite having the chance
of free bevvy in the lounge before the flight and no work
the next day (I was between jobs – due to start a
new one a week later), I didn’t really feel like drinking
(much like the whole trip, to be honest!) so we had a quiet
one. In any case, the following week would be mostly spent
in Germany, with two Fortuna games and a Rot Weiss Essen
match to look forward to, along with the small matter of
getting engaged.
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Another trip that was booked the day
the fixtures were formally announced, meaning we could sneak
in and get direct BA flights at the cheapest price. Not
that the price was particularly cheap (and not Club class
either, this time!).
Much like the Lithuania game a month previous, the Wednesday
away game was preceded by a home match. No Faroes this time;
we were playing host to World Cup runners up France with
a 5pm kick off. Now, to be honest, this has to be my favourite
time for a football game to kick off, as it allows just
the right opportunity to make full use of the pre match
hospitality whilst still leaving plenty of options for later
on. A decision was made to miss The Shed, and instead we
headed up Bath Street after leaving the Iron Horse at 11am,
taking in The Griffin (full of friendly French fans) and
the more sedate State Bar before grabbing a taxi to the
Allison Arms.
One Gary Caldwell goal and a lot of singing and celebrating
later, we were all back in the Allison Arms for several
hours before managing to catch a bus within a street of
the Sports Café. Unfortunately (for us) the Sports
Café was too mobbed to be comfortable, so after a
couple we headed back to our Clydeside hotel, amazed at
how much the win had fired the celebrations of the usually
non-plussed (with Scotland, anyway) locals.
We flew down the next morning with Bruce and Sharon, and
after giving a Bruce a lift back to Merstham for him to
swap luggage, it was off to the Holiday Inn Ariel at Heathrow
and a pint of Guinness in an England souvenir glass.
Helen and I have these cards that allow us to get into
Airport Executive Lounges around the world, and for a mere
£15 we can take in a guest. The challenge was now
to ensure that Bruce drank enough to get his money worth,
so we hit upon the Balieys with gay abandon. By the time
the flight was called around 9am we’d already demolished
several large measures each, which was handy as it lined
my stomach for the booze on board.
The flight was pretty much 50% Tartan Army, with many familiar
faces (including James and Lynne, who’d transferred
from Glasgow that morning) on board. We’d managed
to snag the very back row of the flight; handy for the toilets
and the stewardesses. And handy for them to keep supplying
the red wine. I’d chosen wisely, as almost everything
else ran out – I was unperturbed, as 7 wee bottles
later (or the equivalent of just over 2 normal sized bottles)
the flight touched down in Kiev. We’d been warned
to expect hideous delays at passport control and customs,
but Bruce, Helen and I just sailed through. Not so for James
and Lynne – a system crash paralysed the queues for
a good 45 minutes just after we’d got through, so
as they stayed in line, we waited it out in the Arrivals
Hall with our circus strongman lookalike driver.
James had managed to organise a transfer in the hotel minibus,
easily big enough for all of us and our luggage, and straight
to the hotel as well. The President Hotel Kyivsky overlooked
the stadium from a hill, and offered easy walking access
to both the match venue (10 minutes) and the city’s
main drag (10 minutes the other way, with Independence Square
another 10 minutes along). After an orientation beer in
the hotel’s pricey bar, we headed out for a look around,
getting as far as Chateau (or, as everyone else thought
it was called due to its Cyrillic sign, “WATO”).
We made the classic mistake of taking seats on the pavement
terrace, meaning our drinks took several days to arrive
and three of the party had died of hunger by the time the
food arrived in mid-December, but nonetheless the beer and
food were good. After a few hours some space had opened
up inside, so we headed on up and joined Mike, Suzanne,
Bert and co at a well placed table within easy striking
distance of the bar. The clientele was taking a definite
turn to the tartan variety as the night wore on –
a few of us were even questioning the need for hotel given
the place is open 24 hours a day (and is its own microbrewery
to boot – I must be dreaming…), but all good
things must end, and with a brewery tour to look forward
to the next day it was off for some shuteye.
Following on from the success of Bruce’s Union Brewery
tour in Ljubljana, KELTA had vowed to return the favour.
Using Steve’s fortuitous job title (Beer and Wines
Buyer for a major retailer), KELTA’s Simon had managed
to arrange not just a free tour of the Slavutych brewery,
but even a free bus pick up from the centre! Yet again,
Bruce had failed to make a bus rendezvous, but the rest
of NATA were there in force to don the white coats for the
technical tour of the brewery. Unlike Union, where the beer
was kept flowing in their own purpose built pub, we were
entertained in a conference room complete with a powerpoint
presentation, but nonetheless it was a good way to spend
an afternoon.
The driver dropped us back in Independence Square and we
wandered through the market stalls, picking up ever cheaper
Dynamo Kiev souvenirs (and the odd fridge magnet of Ukraine’s
gorgeous but controversial ex-PM Julia Timoschenko) before
being shanghaied by a TV crew wanting opinions on the game
and the country. Feeling a warm glow of Ukrainian hospitality
(and the warm glow of free beer), I enthused about both
in my tourist Russian, which immediately piqued their interest
(before they quickly learned that “Ja gavaru tolke
nyemnoga pa-Russkye” – “I only speak a
little Russian” is my most used phrase!). It’s
okay, I thought – I wasn’t interesting enough
for TV, and even if they did show it, no-one I knew would
understand any of it anyway! I later heard from a couple
of people that they’d returned exhausted and drunk
to their beds, switching on the telly at two in the morning,
only to be confronted by me speaking in Russian!
Anyway, back to the present – after the market we
headed in the rough direction of Andrew’s Descent
only to spot a likely candidate for food. “Sunduk”
(or “The Chest”) was a cellar restaurant and
pub, but despite an extensive menu, only served two or three
dishes. Still, that was all that was needed, and Bruce soon
arrived along with WESTA regulars Jen, Janis, Dot and Craig.
Back out on the street and we met a number of other familiar
faces at the top end of the square before setting off on
a quest to find a “bar around the corner”. A
Czech themed pub provided the obvious choice for a stop,
and the NATA/WESTA group (now boosted by Jim Brown and Tam
Coyle) headed in for a beer before checking out the café
bar opposite. It was at this stage when reports of the trouble
in the square began to reach us – an unspecified number
(estimates varied from 30 to 300) of local hooligans had
ran out of the subway and rushed the unsuspecting Scots,
delivering a few blows before scurrying off down the side
streets. This put a bit of a downer on the night, and as
half the group went around the corner to regroup with pals
who had been caught up in it, the rest of us headed back
in the direction of the hotel and away from the centre.
Although we could, in theory, have picked up our match
tickets on the Tuesday afternoon, we headed to the Hotel
Sport at Wednesday lunchtime to pick up the briefs, along
with the rest of the Tartan Army. The SFA’s pre-match
research had been successful in identifying the smallest,
most impractical hotel foyer to use, so we decided to have
a strategic lunch and come back when we could actually get
in the door. With Helen on Lonny Alba committee duty (having
been elected as Membership Secretary at the end of September)
on the restaurant terrace in a pre-St Andrews Night meeting,
the rest of us (Ally, Susan, Bert and Chris Houston) had
a meal of posh pasta in the Nobel’s. When we got back
to the Sport after 3pm, the queues had subsided slightly
but it still took around 40 minutes to get hold of the tickets.
By this stage, I’d had enough of the shambles surrounding
the stadium and headed into the centre for a quiet drink
(Ally and Susan also decided this was a wise strategy, but
somehow we lost Bruce on the way). We managed to find an
alleyway with a couple of bars – one a café
bar that existed more in a marquee than a building, and
the other turned out to be Eric’s Bierstube, another
marquee effort (upstairs anyway) with friendly service and
a lot of local Ukrainian fans.
We hopped on the metro back to the ground and could see
the notable police presence. The atmosphere, both at the
metro station and on the road to the ground (once we’d
found out that the access gates at the Hotel Sport were
bolted and we were all being channelled in via the main
entrance) was drunkenly abusive rather than actually intimidating
(at least for someone who had been at the Dynamo Dresden
v Fortuna game a few weeks previously!), and we managed
to get through the multiple layers of stewards with little
incident (although I don’t know why my rucksack was
searched three times whilst almost everyone else wandered
through unmolested!). The toilets were aromatic and, as
the American students would say, co-educational; the dividing
wall seemed to have been removed many moons ago. Most frustratingly,
they were a good 100 yards from the Scotland section. Of
course, the complete lack of any refreshment facilities
at least meant there was nothing inside the ground likely
to require anyone to have to expel it in toilets in the
first place.
Kiev’s Olympic Stadium may be impressive from a distance,
but up close it’s a peeling, fading dinosaur of a
ground. The Scotland fans had a curve of several sections,
with Ukrainians above us (despite assurances this would
never happen); despite the acres of empty seats around the
bowl, we were tightly packed in thanks to the local FA selling
tickets at a tenth the price the SFA were charged, then
letting all Scots with local tickets into the SFA section.
The game was lost on the pitch thanks in part to some gamesmanship
from Shevchenko (who certainly didn’t turn a performance
worthy of his price tag). Having said that, 2-0 to the hosts
wasn’t entirely unreflective of the way the game went,
and to come out the first four matches with 9 points from
a possible 12 is not too bad a return at all.
The atmosphere at the final whistle was a little subdued,
although being kept in our section for a good 30 minutes
did give an opportunity for a bit of terrace humour at the
expense of a couple of hapless locals on the running track.
The police then moved us down the stairs and through the
car park in instalments, apparently whilst clearing any
lingering hoolies out of our path. We ducked out of the
city-bound march once we had reached the path up the hill
to our hotel, however the search for a late night beer (or
even a water, given how dehydrating the stadium had been)
in the Hotel Rus next door proved fruitless.
Chris Thomas had managed to arrange a bus trip to Chernobyl
for the Thursday, so an early start from the Hotel Sport
was called for. A chance conversation across the Sports
Palace forecourt led to Bruce realising his passport was
essential and he had to turn back and face the climb back
up to the hotel again to fetch it whilst I sourced some
(non alcoholic) drink for trip. A brief meeting with Andrew
from Moldova (well, Russia, but living in Moldova) followed
– he had to catch a bus down to Odessa that day, and
we were about to depart for the second pick up. Once everyone
was on board (with only one drop-out), the guide Sergei’s
appeal to treat the trip with the solemnity and respect
it deserved was rendered slightly surreal by the radio blaring
out “Man-ah-man-ah” (shades of the Kaunas bus
trip!).
The trip was better than I can possibly describe here –
better to look at the gallery and see the photos –
but I’ll try and condense it anyway: sat on bus, had
passport inspected, had photo taken in front of Chernobyl
Welcomes Careful Drivers sign, wandered around Chernobyl
visitor centre car park, drove to power station, got out
of bus in power station car park, listened to museum curator
show us scale model of reactor (complete with reactor core
crazy golf flags), got told off by museum curator for taking
photos from upstairs, took more photos, got back on bus,
went to Pripyat (deserted town), carefully stepped over
the brand new childrens’ doll poignantly placed in
Pripyat by a previous tour guide (think “Drop the
dead donkey”), went to a restored church, had a four
course lunch (I had no idea you could do that many things
with beetroot), got bus home.
Chris’ party had been supplemented by a handful of
stragglers, including a couple of Moldovans (I’m sure
someone must have asked them if they though Pripyat was
nicer than Chisnau!) and the tallest American I’ve
ever seen; all 9 foot 7 of him was squeezed into an orange
body warmer and a pair of green satin flares like some kind
of grotesque circus costume. After lunch I braved the sanitary
facilities in the Chernobyl town canteen – shortly
before I did, someone (presumably from our bus) had got
there first and disposed of what can only be described as
some highly radioactive waste in one of the two pans. Unfortunately,
said pan was not plumbed in (although a hose pipe was hanging
flaccidly from the wall), so the offending excretia was
left in the open to ripen. There was also no door on the
cubicle, so whoever laid the golden egg obviously wasn’t
shy. Suspicion, perhaps naturally, fell on the jolly green
trousered giant, but later intelligence revealed he’d
been merrily using the Ladies (which had a similar “open
plan” aspect) at the time, much to Michelle’s
consternation.
After gasping for air outside, it was back on the bus for
the long drive back to Kiev. Once back in town and changed
back into our kilts (long trousers were an essential for
Chernobyl) we headed out for a beer, eventually meeting
Ally, Susan, James and Lynne downstairs in Eric’s
Bierstube, along with a couple of Dutch guys they’d
met and dragged along with them. Unfortunately we’d
missed Rich that evening, but did hear second hand of his
views on Star Wars: “I’d love an Imperial Storm
Trooper uniform, but I’ve nowhere to wear it”.
After politely declining an invitation from two friendly
hooligans to join them in their pub over the road, and listening
to the grumpy owner of the Irish Pub near Independence Square
putting the world to rights, we still managed to find time
for a local jakey to be magnetically drawn to Ally’s
glaikit grin and try and follow us home. Thankfully, my
Russian does extend to the sort of vocabulary that makes
a jakey review his life choices, and after a brief exchange
he turned tail and headed off into the night, much to everyone’s
stunned amusement.
Thanks to Rich’s enthusiasm for the subject, Andy
Dougan’s book “Dynamo: Defending the honour
of Kiev” had been required pre-trip reading for most
of us. We’d arranged to do a wee tour of Kiev’s
grounds in order to pay homage and agreed to meet at the
gates of Dynamo Stadium (the closest one to the city centre)
on the Thursday lunchtime. The only no-show was Chris, but
he hadn’t read the book anyway, so after a brief stop
in Dynamo’s club shop (shockingly overpriced compared
to the other outlets in the city, but we think that’s
intentional so they can sting the gullible; Rich, proud
owner of a £39 Dynamo shirt, disagrees!).
Dynamo Stadium, a surprisingly compact and low-rise ground,
is set in a park, and has a long shaded approach from the
road, guarded at the end by a manically determined security
guard. He knocked back our initial approach, and then tried
to chase us away from the FC Start memorial statue before
an impressively pin-striped bodyguard sort shooed him away
and escorted us into the ground before allowing us on the
pitch for a team photo. From here it was onto the main station
as a gateway to the CSKA Stadium. Finding the back door
to the stadium was easier said than done, so after a drinks
stop at the Parasol restaurant bar it was the long way round
over the flyover to the stadium. The ground is a crumbling
relic with no sign of any facilities whatsoever, however
a poster did proclaim that Arsenal Kiev were hosting Metallist
Kharkiv the next day. We knew that Obolon Kiev were at home
in the second division at the same time, however given the
choice of seeing a top division game or wandering out to
the northern suburbs to see a brewery side, we (probably
unwisely, in retrospect) opted for the former.
Next on the agenda was Start Stadium, a good 25 minute
hike from CSKA along the congested rush hour streets, At
least out here in “real” Kiev, away from the
city centre, people seemed a lot friendlier and many of
the idling cars tooted and waved in greeting. Start Stadium
still stands, but given the state of the pitch doesn’t
get much match practice. Athletes were using the track for
running, and the single stand had a number of other people
chewing the fat. After another photo session it was back
to a metro station and for Rich, James and Lynne, off to
the Babyn Yar Memorial in the north, Bruce had a flight
to catch, and Ally, Susan, Helen and myself headed for pizza.
For the second trip running, I wasn’t really in the
mood for mental drinking, so we settled for a nightcap at
the Indigo pub near Olympic Stadium and an early night.
The Arena entertainment and shopping complex seems to have
been built with the sole intention of laundering as much
money as possible. Nonetheless, it does boast it’s
own German style microbrewery, so a late morning drink was
on the agenda for Helen and I. With the main street cordoned
off by police due to simultaneous right and left wing rallies
taking place, we opted for the backstreets and managed to
find the hidden gem of the Baraban Pub – pretty much
unmarked and in a small courtyard. We met James and Lynne
in the Parasol bar and headed round to the CSKA Stadium
for the match, with Ally, Susan and Rich giving the game
a miss. Despite the free entry, I’d say they made
the right choice – nil-nil flattered both teams, and
the crowd was outnumbered by two youth teams using the pitch
immediately after the main game. Hard to believe that this
was top division football!
After a quick one on the way back towards the station,
we met Ally and Susan back in Baraban (who we’d managed
to direct there) and we settled in for the night. They even
had veggie burgers, but unfortunately ran out of burger
buns so we had to settle for sliced loaf instead! When the
last beer just wouldn’t go down (“it was like
trying to fit an Obolon into a round hole”) I knew
it was time for the fat lady to sing.
The A Team van had been booked for the return airport transfer,
with Ally and Susan taking Bruce’s place. Unfortunately
Kiev airport operates a strict no-checking in policy until
2 hours before the flight, but at least this gave time for
me to try the Ukrainian staple of borscht in the 24 hour
restaurant beforehand. No sooner had the food gone down
than it was time to start standing in line. It seems the
Soviet tradition of queuing in order to join a queue is
alive and kicking in Kiev Borispol Airport! For one of the
few times on a Scotland trip, I was genuinely glad to be
homeward bound, and almost regretted spending a week there
(especially as holiday allowance is now at a real premium
for me).
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Following on from last year's "awards",
here's Paul's choices for 2006:
Best away trip: Japan
Best away game: Scotland
5, Bulgaria 1
Best home game:
Scotland 1, France 0
Best night away on TA duty:
Thursday night in Kobe
Best away pub: Avilys,
Vilnius (but only for the want of something more worthy!)
Best karaoke performance:
Kenny Hamilton singing The Gambler, as recorded and sent
by Bruce (closely followed by Ali Nish singing in Japanese)
Best pre-match home pub:
The State Bar
Best post-match home pub:
The Allison Arms
Best quote: Bruce
(walking past Worthing's only gay bar and looking in the
window): "There's an awful lot of women in this gay
bar", Helen: "Yes, but they don't normally have
their curtains open like that"
Best song: “So
Japan-easy, oh this is so Japan-easy”
Best beer: Avilys
Honey Beer, Lithuania
Most mental local firewater:
Japanese Shochu (as tasted by Chris Houston - "Taste
this - it makes your teeth chewy... I can't eat this")
Most boring location: Chernobyl
wasn’t really buzzing (just glowing), and Kaunas isn’t
my favourite.
Drunkest NATA member: Bruce,
Tuesday night/Wednesday morning in Vilnius. Next question…
Favourite stadium visited:
The Kobe Wing Stadium (edges it over Saitama due
to the roof!)
Favourite match venue city:
Tokyo
Best non-TA destination:
Düsseldorf (again)
Best non-TA pub:
Schumacher’s Stammhaus, Düsseldorf
Best Brewery Tour: Slavutych,
Kiev (thanks to KELTA)
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