This article first appeared in RedMatchday Magazine, Aberdeen Football Club's award-winning publication, on December 23, 2007.The recent UEFA Cup tie against Atletico may not have been staged “Across The Pond”, but the pond was crossed as I joined the 6,000 Dons fans in Madrid. With a healthy contingent of friends in attendance, and one making the trip from the Middle East (let’s call him Ronny), it would have been unsociable of me not to show face.
The horrors of a 12,000 mile, 34 hour round trip emerged upon my arrival at Houston Airport the afternoon before the game. I took my place in the queue for hostage class on Air France’s Paris flight behind seemingly half the population of Mumbai, who were not only slow and incompetent but apparently carrying their entire life’s possessions. There were more suitcases flying around than at the Esslemont & Mackintosh closing down sale. Eventually I reached the desk and was issued Seat 45C. This was going to be a gruelling flight!
Air travel in today’s climate is far from pleasant, but things were looking up as I boarded the plane and settled into my seat with my stash of reading material whilst the cretins around me jockeyed for overhead space. I should have known it wouldn’t last. Literally seconds before take-off, my legs were practically amputated by some bumbling fool. “I’m going there” he announced uninvited, barging across me before plummeting into the window seat. I wouldn’t have minded so much if he wasn’t a compulsive sniffer whose legs shook vigorously throughout the journey. This guy was twitchier than Harry Redknapp during a dawn raid.
By Thursday noon, I was at Barajas Airport and calling Ronny to hear about the previous night’s shenanigans. The Grim Reaper would have issued a warmer greeting. “I hope you’ve got money”, he mumbled, explaining that despite having forked out for our accommodation I would also be funding his weekend. His wallet had disappeared within hours of his arrival; a tale that would prove to be common amongst Dons fans.
With no cash for a taxi, he spent the early hours of morning wandering the streets in search of our hotel and only arrived back a few hours before me! It sounded like a definite case of one too many Bud Lites.
After obtaining our match tickets, we took the Metro to the Vicente Calderon keeping close guard of our belongings. Sadly, some others didn’t do likewise and there were sickening tales of families being unable to see the match as wallets, containing tickets, were snatched. We headed to one of the quieter bars behind the Atletico end of the stadium where Ronny offered to get the first round; very gracious considering I’d just given him 100 euros. He asks you to lend him cash and then buys you a pint – I didn’t realise I was on tour with Gordon Brown.
Despite being distant from the scuffles, we still had to navigate past the Polizia to reach our gate; no easy task as, having stood idly by as Dons fans were pelted with missiles minutes earlier, they had now decided to move in and swing their batons at anyone within reach. The shambolic organisation was further illustrated inside the ground with the non-existence of stewarding or clear labelling of sections, rows and seats meaning that fans simply sat wherever they could. At kick-off, with crowds still streaming in, the entrances to some sections became clogged with people trying to find a space.
A few minutes into the game, I headed to a kiosk and returned to find the stairwell being cleared by the Polizia in conventional fashion. With unsuspecting fans, most of whom appeared to be holding tickets for that section, being forcibly pushed down the stairs, I walked along the concourse and re-entered via another entrance before climbing back through the crowds to my seat. Plenty of others were becoming detached from friends in similar circumstances. To think, UEFA glibly hands out 5-Star ratings to second rate facilities such as these; it’s both farcical and frightening from a safety perspective.
At full time, most of us were relieved by the respectable scoreline despite an obvious gulf in class. The Red Army gave great backing throughout and contributed to a marvellous second half spectacle when the entire ground was bouncing and swirling scarves. Poor Ronny, who was nodding off towards the end, went straight to bed afterwards whilst I met the rest of guys near Puerta del Sol. Spirits remained high despite the defeat, and after a few beers we moved on to a club as night turned to morning.
The division between cool Madrilenos on the dancefloor and the dozen merry Dandies at the bar was eventually breached when (let’s call him) Sparky’s brother requested AC/DC, and “Highway To Hell” prompted a mini-invasion of the floor as the regulars wondered where their Euro-Pop had gone.
While his brother was reliving his youth before our eyes, complete with dodgy Angus Young impersonations, a reflective Sparky commented “You know what? I’ve been waiting since 1984 to hear Gold by Spandau Ballet in a nightclub”.
Minutes later that division had resurfaced as the deejay complied with our request: a move that sent stunned locals heading for the cloakroom whilst we jubilantly sang along with Tony Hadley. You wouldn’t hear quality like that in Tiger Tiger. Ah, the great European nights!
As the Red Army departed, Ronny and I had a couple of days to tick off some of Madrid’s finer sights such as Plaza Mayor, Palacio Real and Estadio Bernabeu; a blessing for me given that his idea of culture didn’t seem to be extending beyond drowning his sorrows in the Dubliner or O’Connell Street pubs.
He need not have been so disconsolate. As Mr. Hadley would undoubtedly say in the face of adversity, “Always believe in your soul, you’ve got the power to know, you’re indestructible…”
The horrors of a 12,000 mile, 34 hour round trip emerged upon my arrival at Houston Airport the afternoon before the game. I took my place in the queue for hostage class on Air France’s Paris flight behind seemingly half the population of Mumbai, who were not only slow and incompetent but apparently carrying their entire life’s possessions. There were more suitcases flying around than at the Esslemont & Mackintosh closing down sale. Eventually I reached the desk and was issued Seat 45C. This was going to be a gruelling flight!
Air travel in today’s climate is far from pleasant, but things were looking up as I boarded the plane and settled into my seat with my stash of reading material whilst the cretins around me jockeyed for overhead space. I should have known it wouldn’t last. Literally seconds before take-off, my legs were practically amputated by some bumbling fool. “I’m going there” he announced uninvited, barging across me before plummeting into the window seat. I wouldn’t have minded so much if he wasn’t a compulsive sniffer whose legs shook vigorously throughout the journey. This guy was twitchier than Harry Redknapp during a dawn raid.
By Thursday noon, I was at Barajas Airport and calling Ronny to hear about the previous night’s shenanigans. The Grim Reaper would have issued a warmer greeting. “I hope you’ve got money”, he mumbled, explaining that despite having forked out for our accommodation I would also be funding his weekend. His wallet had disappeared within hours of his arrival; a tale that would prove to be common amongst Dons fans.
With no cash for a taxi, he spent the early hours of morning wandering the streets in search of our hotel and only arrived back a few hours before me! It sounded like a definite case of one too many Bud Lites.
After obtaining our match tickets, we took the Metro to the Vicente Calderon keeping close guard of our belongings. Sadly, some others didn’t do likewise and there were sickening tales of families being unable to see the match as wallets, containing tickets, were snatched. We headed to one of the quieter bars behind the Atletico end of the stadium where Ronny offered to get the first round; very gracious considering I’d just given him 100 euros. He asks you to lend him cash and then buys you a pint – I didn’t realise I was on tour with Gordon Brown.
Despite being distant from the scuffles, we still had to navigate past the Polizia to reach our gate; no easy task as, having stood idly by as Dons fans were pelted with missiles minutes earlier, they had now decided to move in and swing their batons at anyone within reach. The shambolic organisation was further illustrated inside the ground with the non-existence of stewarding or clear labelling of sections, rows and seats meaning that fans simply sat wherever they could. At kick-off, with crowds still streaming in, the entrances to some sections became clogged with people trying to find a space.
A few minutes into the game, I headed to a kiosk and returned to find the stairwell being cleared by the Polizia in conventional fashion. With unsuspecting fans, most of whom appeared to be holding tickets for that section, being forcibly pushed down the stairs, I walked along the concourse and re-entered via another entrance before climbing back through the crowds to my seat. Plenty of others were becoming detached from friends in similar circumstances. To think, UEFA glibly hands out 5-Star ratings to second rate facilities such as these; it’s both farcical and frightening from a safety perspective.
At full time, most of us were relieved by the respectable scoreline despite an obvious gulf in class. The Red Army gave great backing throughout and contributed to a marvellous second half spectacle when the entire ground was bouncing and swirling scarves. Poor Ronny, who was nodding off towards the end, went straight to bed afterwards whilst I met the rest of guys near Puerta del Sol. Spirits remained high despite the defeat, and after a few beers we moved on to a club as night turned to morning.
The division between cool Madrilenos on the dancefloor and the dozen merry Dandies at the bar was eventually breached when (let’s call him) Sparky’s brother requested AC/DC, and “Highway To Hell” prompted a mini-invasion of the floor as the regulars wondered where their Euro-Pop had gone.
While his brother was reliving his youth before our eyes, complete with dodgy Angus Young impersonations, a reflective Sparky commented “You know what? I’ve been waiting since 1984 to hear Gold by Spandau Ballet in a nightclub”.
Minutes later that division had resurfaced as the deejay complied with our request: a move that sent stunned locals heading for the cloakroom whilst we jubilantly sang along with Tony Hadley. You wouldn’t hear quality like that in Tiger Tiger. Ah, the great European nights!
As the Red Army departed, Ronny and I had a couple of days to tick off some of Madrid’s finer sights such as Plaza Mayor, Palacio Real and Estadio Bernabeu; a blessing for me given that his idea of culture didn’t seem to be extending beyond drowning his sorrows in the Dubliner or O’Connell Street pubs.
He need not have been so disconsolate. As Mr. Hadley would undoubtedly say in the face of adversity, “Always believe in your soul, you’ve got the power to know, you’re indestructible…”
.jpg)
1 comment:
The boy 'Sparky' sounds a decent chap. :-)
Post a Comment