Travelling for Kicks

Sunday, 3 April 2011

Saturday, 5 February 2011

Thailand v South Korea U19, Thai Army Stadium, Bangkok

To believe the tabloids, anyone visiting South Africa for the World Cup would be robbed, beaten up, shot, murdered several times, given AIDS, beaten up again and then shot once more for good measure. And that would be before clearing immigration at O.R. Tambo. None of that happened to me though. Partly it was because I’m experienced enough to avoid tricky situations, but mainly because I cancelled my trip. Due to South Africans having convinced themselves that the average football supporter owns his own yacht and sprinkles ground banknotes on his cornflakes in the morning, I cut my losses on $900 worth of tickets, and in a fit of pique, booked myself a three week trip to Thailand instead.
Bangkok does have a certain reputation. When western tourists are lured by bright lights and find themselves in the company of 18 year old young men, typically there’s a rather alarming element of surprise to the proceedings. Luckily for me, my encounter was purely intentional, and strictly above board – the lure of floodlit football.

Keen for my World Cup substitute trip to also include something of a football fix if possible, I scanned the internet for any games in the country during my stay. There wasn’t a lot on, it has to be said. The Thai League isn’t the most vibrant, but even that had finished by the time of my visit, but there was a Thailand v South Korea fixture on. Great! Except it was the U19s. Ah.

But I wasn’t going to let something like a possible low quality game being played in from of a small crowd in a basic stadium deter me. Oh no. In some ways the novelty value made it more appealing. At least that’s what I convinced myself of while having a bottle of Chang or two in a Bangkok bar before heading to the stadium.

And the bars there can certainly be interesting. I recall one bar offering not only very cheap beer for happy hour, but also the chance to watch the Merseyside Derby on the big screen. As every single person in Thailand, by law it seems, supports either Liverpool or Manchester United, interest was high. All the workers in the bar were watching avidly, and were all female. The bar had something of a cowboy theme, and the cowboy hats and boots looked authentic enough, although it’s hard to remember bikinis typically featuring in too many westerns. At one point I turned from the screen to notice that the workers had discarded the less authentic parts of their outfits, and certainly weren’t now dressed in a way I recall from any John Wayne films of my youth – and funnily enough, for some reason I did seem to get distracted from the events at Goodison Park for a while.

The Thai Army Stadium, venue for my game for the evening, is well off the usual tourist route, tucked away next to a quaint and picturesque 16-lane multi-level highway leading to the old airport and all routes north. Luckily I didn’t have to cross this road. Dignitas could no doubt send their clients here and give them a more interesting exit than a weekend in Switzerland. I did, however, have to negotiate the typically Thai labyrinth of side-streets to get from the metro stop to the stadium. Losing my bearings slightly, and the impossibility of rushing to do anything in the Bangkok clinging humidity, meant I arrived just as the teams kicked off.

Unlike my world cup tickets, where I’d paid $160 for some games, entry here was priced at just 50 Baht, about £1. The price, and “AFC U19 Qualifier” were all I could read on the ticket, bought from a man sat by the door at a trestle table, as if selling tickets for a school disco. I half expected him to put a stamp on the back of my hand in case I wanted to come back later.

Inside, before I’d even had a look round, I was able to make my usual scarf purchase, even if a foreigner, a “farang” as Thais have it, supporting the Thailand U19 side might look a little unlikely. Unusually for a football scarf, it was of the synthetic “fake silk” variety favoured by 80s new romantic bands. Even more unusual was that the flip side of it featured Thai script and love hearts, which I later found to say “We love the King”, which isn’t that surprising in a country where the King is the Queen Mother, Lady Diana, The Beatles, and any other cherished icon you can think of, rolled into one. The Thai royal family has always been revered. It used to be unthinkable for a member of the public to even touch a member of royalty, which had tragic consequences in the 19th century when locals thought it an unforgiveable breach of etiquette to touch the Queen, even when she was drowning in a river.

With my scarf – no programme sadly, even though it would have been utterly indecipherable – I took my seat. The lateness of my arrival, and a crowd better than I’d expected, meant I was confined to Row B. The stadium itself was fairly basic. An oval around a running track, about 15 rows deep, with bare concrete deemed adequate in lieu of anything resembling actual seats. The main stand, where I, and virtually all of the other spectators were sat, was the only covered part of the ground, and was more or less full of surprisingly enthusiastic fans, banging drums and singing away to cheer their team to victory.

The crowd were in full voice, and soon the sound became something of a visual spectacle as well, with the arrival of a giant flag unfurled over the seats. The guy who brought the flag also handed out specially printed Thailand headbands to all those in the front rows, including myself. I could have tied it banzai style around my head, but didn’t, partly because I thought it’d make a good souvenir, but mainly because I thought I’d look a right tit.

The farang contingent also doubled, as another western tourist arrived, looking thoroughly cheesed off as he saw me, seeing that he wasn’t the only westerner at the game. He walked the other direction, avoiding me, perhaps not wanting the pair us of to look “same same” as the ubiquitous Thai-English phrase goes. Maybe he even took the extra step of wearing the headband, as that would make us, as the Thais also uniquely say, “same same, but different.”

As it happens Thailand didn’t actually need to win the game. They were already top of their group, which was one of several round-robin groups played over a week and a half in the same Asian city. Second placed South Korea had already surprisingly lost to Vietnam, who were third in the group. Thailand just had to avoid defeat in this, the final game, to qualify. South Korea needed to win to make qualifying certain, but if they won, and Vietnam also won, then Vietnam could pip Thailand for the 2nd qualifying spot. It would go down to the head to head scores. Vietnam had beaten South Korea 1-0. Thailand had beaten Vietnam 1-0. A two goal win for South Korea would knock Thailand out, but a 1 goal win, in which both teams scored, say perhaps 2-1 to South Korea, would guarantee both Thailand and South Korea qualified on goals scored. I don’t want to ruin the surprise, so I’ll dwell on this no more.

Much more important was my surprise at how good the play was. The Thais might not be giants on the field (or indeed off it) but the U19s exhibited levels of ball control and skill that belied a nation who thought employing Peter Reid and Bryan Robson as national coaches would improve their game. And if a few cynical souls had predicted an obvious outcome to the match based on the situation, the Thais certainly hadn’t read the script, going at the Koreans and full pelt. It was no surprise that Thailand took the lead, with the ball being bundled in in uncharacteristically untidy fashion, given the play so far, to be greeted with a mix of a roar and of a squeal of youthful exuberance. The fans, and the players deserved more, but it didn’t come, so it was just a one goal lead at half time.

I was feeling slightly peckish so I went in search of food, but found nothing I could identify. Buying food you can’t identify can be an adventure, but unpleasant when it goes wrong, such was the time, gasping with thirst, that I accidentally bought a bottle of tonic water in Budapest. In Thailand I’m a bit more wary though. An incident on a previous trip caused by something odd I ate, made me temporarily lose 90% of my hearing and vision, beyond bright lights, on parts of a very unpleasant journey home. And as delicious as the street food probably was there, I only had to look at it to have visions of my hotel toilet turning from a casual acquaintance to an earnest and trusty friend. At least (and apologies in advance to anyone eating lunch) they have an alternative to toilet paper in such cases, which might as well by industrial strength sandpaper after a day or two of such a scenario. They don’t go the whole hog Japanese style, with full electronically controlled bottom valet service, but they do provide a hand-held jet-wash, rather like the extendable soft drink dispensers they have in pubs. I don’t think they have a Coke, Sprite or Fanta option, but they are welcome all the same.

For the second half, I, like several other fans, opted to forsake the cosy confines of the main stand and seek alternative viewpoints. While not fit for the King, the main stand area was palatial in comparison to the rest of the stadium. The concrete had a kind of gritty patchy black coating which is the kind of look that haunts neglected cheap 1960s stadiums the world over. Maybe being an army stadium, it’s intended for hardy souls who regard such conditions as being the sort of thing to put hairs on your chest, while lesser civilians only worry about black marks on their clothing.

The first half had been something of a black mark against South Korea, who’d barely competed at all. Either there had been some very strong words in the dressing room at half time, or an envelope stuffed full of used high-denomination Baht banknotes was slipped under the Thai dressing room door, as the second half was completely different. Gone was the enthusiasm and competitiveness from the Thai players so evident in the first half. It was South Korea, as if suddenly realising the ramifications of losing, who came out playing all the football. My decision to move behind the Thai goal was now something of an act of folly, as all the play was up the other end in the distance, with a backdrop of the curious Army club behind the goal, with its sloping curved roof looking like it had escaped from a Dali painting.

On the hour Korea levelled the scores, sending the South Korea fans present into a frenzy. Their drums beat out on the far side of the stadium, making as much noise as seven people with two drums between them are ever feasible likely to make.

This minor set-back seemed to inspire Thailand for a while, and those who’d lumped their savings on that ever-so-possible 2-1 South Korea victory were starting to get nervous every time the ball crossed the half-way line. It didn’t last though, and South Korea pressed again. As time ticked on their play went from urgent to desperate, and local bookmakers started to anticipate the flutter of discarded betting slips. South Korea couldn’t have been more camped in the Thailand half if they’d pitched tents and cooked dinner on a barbecue, but that elusive goal just wouldn’t come.

A late chance for them came two minutes from time. A free kick, fairly central and a few yards outside the box, presented a great opportunity. The kick was hit with power over the wall. Either side of the keeper and it would surely have been a goal, but the kick taker decided he’d seen a gap where the goalkeepers hand would be, and aimed there instead. It was an inspired decision, as the ball went straight through the keepers hands as if his palms were made of barley sugar, powering into the net.

So 2-1 it was. A script as predictable as a Roger Moore era Bond movie, complete with late against-the-clock drama to avoid disaster. The Buddhist Thais would no doubt just claim it was fate, and as the Vietnamese qualified anyway as best third-place finishers, probably no complaints there either.

With qualification assured, both teams left the field to almost embarrassed delight. The seven-strong travelling army cheered away, and the pink-clad stewards had an easy afternoon coping with the not-quite-sure-how-to-react crowd. There was a palpable sense of anti-climax, tempered by qualification, which the prospect of sticking around for the bottom-of-the-table clash between Bangladesh and Laos would do little to ease. That 3800 of the slightly ambitiously stated 4000 crowd chose to not stick around to witness that game wasn’t a surprise. Even later drama there saw Bangladesh score two very late goals, going from last place to the giddy heights of fourth in the process, while condemning Laos to the wooden spoon. Like 3799 others though, I wasn’t there to see it. Those less traditional bright lights can only appeal for so long.

The travelling army make themselves heard, just.

Early action, when Thailand in blue were dominant.

South Korea stun the football world tucking away the completely unexpected winner, although you might need to trust me on this with this photo.

Soi Cowboy, where men are men, and perhaps some of the women are too.

Tuesday, 28 July 2009

Japan - Urawa Red Diamonds

Outside Saitama

“Delicious Sandwich” said the writing on the box of the half time snack I purchased at Saitama Stadium. Now I could hardly have argued that it wasn’t tasty. The filling, I think some kind of pork in a thick sauce covered batter, had plenty of taste. It was just a taste that didn’t, to my western palate, belong in a sandwich. Food, or the mystery of having no real idea what you are about to eat, is one of the joys for the tourist in Japan. Restaurants almost never have English menus on display, and those that do often have translations such as “Fried Cartilage of the Cock”, which hardly you tempt you inside. My knowledge of Katakana, one of Japan’s three “alphabets”, usually reserved for words borrowed from other languages, allowed me to identify “ramen” - noodles bars, but my one ill-advised foray into one meant I wouldn’t try again. I’ve heard it said that the Japanese, although perhaps amused, aren’t concerned about westerners lacking chopstick skills, and in fact rather like appreciating a dog walking on its hind legs, marvel that it is done at all rather than complain about it being done badly. But although I can use them in a functional manner, I wield them with the elegance of a one-armed man doing the breast stroke, and as I struggle to eat spaghetti with a fork, noodles with chopsticks was like asking me to nail blancmange to a tree.

Being an experienced Japan-o-phile, on my second trip and with over three weeks of Japan experience under my belt, it would take more to surprise me. More to evoke that “what on earth are they thinking of?” feeling which is such an enjoyable part of experiencing Japan, Tokyo in particular. The most extreme example on this trip was in Akihabara, the district famed for selling electrical goods, where my own purchase of a UK/Japan plug adapter was decidedly at the lower end of the food chain. No sooner had I left the station than I was accosted by a gauntlet of suitably attired women handing out restaurant flyers. Suitably attired, that is, for a Merchant-Ivory production about domestic servants, as these young women were dressed as French maids, handing out flyers for “Maid Cafes”, where similarly dressed women will attend to (almost - they are apparently above board and distinctly above the waist establishments) every need for their customers, most of whom, I’d image, were missing the point when advised that they should get out more. That I’d been singled out as a potential customer was perhaps slightly disconcerting, but I guessed they just weren’t choosy. The cafes did look kind of interesting, but I wasn’t tempted to venture in. And not just because I couldn’t read the Kanji-symbol map, oh no. But that wasn’t what got me. I had heard of maid cafes before. What got me was the manga comic book shops also endemic in the neighbourhood.

I’ve never been into manga, or any comic books for that matter, since about the age of 11, but I thought I’d find what all the fuss is about. I was expecting lantern-jawed superheroes, perhaps with capes and masks, fighting villains and evil. The books here seemed to feature covers with wide-eyed young girls whose fighting characteristics seemed to involve looking disturbing in a school uniform. And then I saw the basement section, for over 18s only, and like approaching a motorway car-crash, I felt compelled to look. All I can say is that I now understand why they are referred to as “Graphic Novels”, as believe me, the stories on display were about as graphic as you can imagine. In honour of those café maids in the area, I picked up an issue featuring similar types on the cover, albeit with rather less of the uniform on show, and other than a few pages which somehow featured aliens, I can’t really describe anything here. All I can say is that being a Japanese book, with the spine on the right as you’d view the cover, the Japanese certainly know what they are doing, as anyone who read the story would be turning the pages with their left hand as they did so.

As for eye-opening surprises of a rather more footballing nature, given how young the league is in Japan, many from the “established” footballing nations would be surprised how popular the league is, and in particular that one team, from a place they’ve never heard of, can average 50,000 fans at their games. The Urawa Red Diamonds scarf I purchased before the match v Oita Trinita

hailed the team from this distant northern Tokyo suburb as being “The Pride of Urawa”, and without being too unkind to the area, after passing through it on the train and stopping off there to buy a ticket at the club shop on an otherwise rained out day, you kind of wonder what they were proud of before the club came along. Regardless, the club shop staff were very helpful and chatty, and I’ll even forgive them for using a “simplified map” for the website directions to the shop, on the grounds that I actually found it. Simplified maps belong in the lowest pit of Dante’s inferno in my book, as someone who has travelled a fair bit and had to rely on them for direction to hotels etc, I’ve never grasped how anyone can believe that taking a genuine street layout and redrawing it in such a way that it no longer resembles the unfamiliar streets someone is about to try an navigate will in any way help they find their way. But find the ticket shop, I did, as do thousands of others ever week.

I was offered the use of the shuttle bus from Urawa, but not only would that not exactly be handy from my base in central Tokyo, just north of an area called Roppongi (a very friendly area where as any foreigner will know, you can’t walk 10 yards without meeting a new friend who wants to invite you into his club, at a special price, just for you) but I would also be going to the game after a day-trip to the small northern suburb of Kawagoe, which is architecturally much nicer, with loads of pleasant old buildings and shops, and a very friendly small museum about the Kawagoe parades held every year. So pleasant and friendly were the staff inside, as they uncomfortably switched to their very best English to try and explain about the floats used and the tradition behind them and make sure I got the very best of the museum experience, that I felt compelled to nod and be as outwardly appreciative as possible, just to try and hide the fact that I wasn’t really that interested in the Kawagoe parades, and I’d only gone in because I was dying for a crap.

From there it was a relatively simple, if not exactly speedy, route to Saitama Stadium, and slowly, stop by stop, the train began to fill will red-shirted people on their way to the same place as me (oh, and if by some slim chance anyone from Japan Railways is reading this, it would be nice if you thought less about whatever tune you could play next when a train arrives at a station, and more about providing information such as, ooh, I don‘t know, perhaps where trains stop other than the terminus station, it would be much appreciated. Plans which involve changing trains at a particular station become somewhat easier if you know trains stop there before you board).

I said I’d been to Japan before. The previous time had been in August, when the weather feels like you are being breathed on by a pack of giant dogs. September, on the other hand, must have been a whole 2 C cooler, and although still rather uncomfortable to someone used to English weather, it was quite bearable as long as you weren’t directly in the sun for too long. It was perhaps less than ideal then that the game was scheduled for 2pm on a baking hot day. Even less ideal was that although the stadium does have its own station, it’s a full km from the stadium itself. A km isn’t far in most countries, but the heat and humidity had me redefining what a long way was. Anything over 300m had me looking for a public transport option. 1 km on the completely shadeless route was like crawling over hot coals, and I began to wonder if fanning myself with the branded fan handed out at the station was making me hotter than the fanning action was cooling me down. I’m glad to see I’m not the only one suffering. Some of the locals actually look worse, and give the impression they’ve been breaking rocks all morning, or just use an exceptionally bad brand of deodorant.

But then, after a pocari sweat o.d. in an effort to stop my brain frying, you turn the corner and see the stadium. Wow. The place is huge, impressive, and the risk of dehydration all seems worth it. Despite all the great sights I’d seen over the prior two weeks of travels, this was something I was really looking forward too. I bought a scarf and a 99% unintelligible match day programme, and made my way inside. Some crazy people sat happily drinking away in the completely open beer garden, but I was after the coolness of the stadium’s shade.

Some big stadiums can be a little disappointing and bland, but there’s still nothing like that buzz of seeing the vista of a large stadium open up before as you make your way out to your seat for the first time. It reminded me of the big new grounds I’d seen in Germany at the world cup. Not so much in design, but in style. In felt open and spacious, and for a 6 year old stadium, it somehow also felt like they’d only taken the wrapper off that morning. The huge roofs on each side hung weightlessly over the seats, and although perhaps those at the back of the top tier may disagree, everyone looked to have a good view.

All around me were red-shirted people, none more so than in the home end, where if there was a seat occupied by a fan not in a red shirt, I didn’t notice. Unlike England, where away shirts are common even at home games, I didn’t see one. I don’t know if have Urawa even had an away shirt, but my guess is that if they do, then it’s red as well. It certainly makes for a far more impressive spectacle than at many English games, where the number of “lads” who think wearing colours is uncool is depressingly high. And I have to say, the atmosphere and noise generated by the Urawa fans was terrific. So what if its all very organised and orchestrated. They made a heck of a racket, and with their willingness to jump up and town and sing to a man, they could certainly teach a lot of English fans a thing or two. Other than for a short peculiarly silent period about 10 minutes before kick off (I actually wondered if someone had died and there was a minute’s silence, but nobody was standing) the atmosphere was building. The teams took the field. Flags waved, the not full, but nonetheless considerably large crowd sang and roared. And then the game started. Oh dear.

Critics of the game will often tell you that there can be nothing more boring than a 0-0 draw. Supporters will respond, accusing the critic of being unable to appreciate a sport that doesn’t have scoring every few minutes, and that the “nearly” moments of the game as an integral to the excitement of the game as the scoring. We’ll even say that some 0-0 draws can be terrific games, and they can. Privately though, we’ll admit that a lot of 0-0 draws are about as welcome as a visit from Jehovah’s witnesses. I wish I could tell you I this 0-0 was one of the better ones. I did enjoy the experience, but the game itself was an absolute turd.

It didn’t help that the game kicked off during the hottest part of the afternoon. Such conditions seldom produce flowing open football, and the tactic for both teams seemed to venture little beyond getting to half time and having a drink. Urawa did put one shot into the side-netting after about 7 minutes, but both seemed to regard that as probably more than enough excitement for one half. Oita took advantage of some lethargic defending to register a tame shot of their own, but that was about it.

The second half wasn’t quite as bad, although that’s a bit like saying Malaria

is better than AIDS, as the shade of the main stand now covered the whole pitch, and the grinding poverty of ambition was now tactical rather than partly enforced by the conditions. There were shots in this half at least, and you have to admire the confidence of players sometimes, as this clearly was a game that was only going to be opened up by a terrible rick at the back or a piece of magic, but you’d think a player might realise that if he’s played all day as if his feet were numbed with cortisone injections, then going for the dramatic shot into the far corner every time isn’t perhaps the best option.

Despite Oita having a game plan which clearly revolved around them having their families kidnapped and threatened with execution if the game didn’t end 0-0, they actually went closest to scoring, having one header come back off the post, and forcing a full-length diving save from the Urawa keeper, in perhaps the only genuinely exciting moments of the match. Urawa’s response was to substitute attacking midfield Robson Ponte. He was furious, probably because he knew it meant he’d have to watch the rest of the match. The Urawa fans, to their eternal credit, did their best to rouse the team. If their team had had the fan’s energy and drive they’d have won easily, but they just continued to stroll around with the urgency of a child on the way to the dentist.

Had the game been a farm animal it’d have been taken out to a barn and shot. Urawa’s manager Gert Engels, who looks like Vladimir Putin’s uglier brother, but without the sunny laughter-filled side to his character, later commented that the 0-0 draw wasn’t two points dropped, and this was probably best summed up when Urawa had a great chance of a break in the second half, but when the ball had reached the Oita area, Urawa still had eight players back in their own half as the midfield slowly walked out from their defensive positions.

Eventually the ref put everyone out of their misery. The Urawa fans stopped dead mid-chant as soon as he blew and the ground fell strangely silent again. True, there wasn’t a great deal for the crowd to applaud, and it did seem appropriate that such a non-event of a match should be greeted with an absolute non-reaction from the fans, but it was a trifle odd to say the least.

Any thoughts about the slim possibility of taking in a second match, kicking off two hours later in the western suburbs, were conclusively buried by the huge amount of time it took to get back to the station, let alone get back to central Tokyo, as 46,000 people shuffled like zombies down the one path that lead back to the station. OK, it hadn’t gone quite to plan, but it was fun all the same. Time now to think about getting something to eat and having a night out. Fried cock cartilage, anyone?

The red army behind the goal, showing a hint of a slight tendency to wear replica shirts to home games.

It's a bit of a blur, as nearly the only moment of excitement in the whole match comes and goes with the Urawa keeper doing an oustanding impression of a Subbuteo goalkeeper.

Maid Cafe land - Akihabara.

Shibuya Crossing

Japan - Sagantosu

Sagantosu Stadium - handy for the station.

Six short hours from Tokyo on the Shinkansen is the island of Kyushu, the westernmost of Japan’s large islands. Nearly 800 miles as the crow flies (albeit rather more slowly than the Shinkansen) away, it can feel, if not quite a different world, almost like a different country. Certainly the pace of life is a lot slower. Even the Island’s big city, Fukuoka, doesn’t have the same feeling of walking the streets with the people coming at you like the over spilling bubbles from a shaken cola bottle that Tokyo has. What it does have, although I’m sure it’s not as a direct swap, is musical pedestrian crossings with two tunes. One is a jolly little tune, albeit of the sort that a precocious 12 year old would have played on a Casio

VL-Tone in the 1980s. The other, for crossing in the other direction, is a dirge that Morrisey would reject as too depressing, and I’d imagine is directly responsible for a large portion of Kyushu’s suicide rate, as depressed types hear it and walk the other way, hoping a nice bus will be coming along. You have to also pity anyone who works with earshot of one, and probably hears the tunes several hundred times every single day of their working lives. I’m sure Yakuza hitmen have been hired for lesser crimes.

Other than Koreans it seems, not too many tourists venture down this way, which is a shame as the island has a lot to offer. Fukuoka is pleasant enough, with plenty of bars among the stereotype neon backdrop by the river, even if the thinness of the crowds on some nights makes you wonder how they survive. The sculptor of a pleasant little statue of two Geisha girls by the river hadn’t thought about the effects of pigeons, however, and a few unfortunately placed calling cards from them had looking like they spent the day being the unwitting stars of a bukakke video.

There’s also the “hells” at Beppu, the multi-themed and often multicoloured cluster of volcanic springs. Unashamedly touristy, and tackier than a council estate’s pub carpet in places, some of them are quite stunning in their beauty. Towards the far end of the island is Huis ten Bosch, a vast Dutch theme park, where a Disney-style vision of a Dutch canal town, windmills and pointed gable townhouses et al, is dumped among the rugged hills of the region. Given that Holland is like a billiard table in real life, it just adds to the odd charm of the place. It is very pleasant, just incredibly strange. Chris England, in his fine book “No more Buddha, only Football” about his time in Japan for the 2002 World Cup, likened it to the village in Patrick McGoohan’s cult 60s series “The Prisoner”, and it did have enough of that surreal edge to it, particularly on a very non-busy like when I was there, to wonder if my “escape” over the footbridge to the Huis ten Bosch station would be stopped by The Prisoner’s giant white balloon “Rovers” before I made it to the other side.

It was returning from another day trip, to Kumamoto, that I took in a game while on the island. Kumamoto itself, apart from a fine large black castle, also has a 350 year old garden, Suizenji-koen, about a mile to the south east. Not really being one for gardens usually, I only went there on the grounds that if I was seeing the castle, I might as well see it as well while I’m there. I was even slightly put out that I had to pay to get in, but I was so glad I did as the place was stunning. It was like something out of a fairy tale, but without being overdone. Every single piece was just right and you felt you could be in no other place in the world but Japan. If only someone would be considerate enough to take a wrecking ball to the few ugly boxy buildings which poke into view over the tree-tops, then the place would be perfect.

Directly on the route back to Fukuoka is the town of Tosu, and close enough to the station to hear the train announcements is Sagantosu’s Best Amenity Stadium. Which amenity in particular the stadium was best at wasn’t specified, although “handy for the station” must be a likely candidate, nor why the stadium’s name was spelled out in English on the wall that clear, given that apparently most people in the country don’t speak English. It was something that as English speaker was something that took a while to notice as it doesn’t stand out - the overwhelming amount of English text that is everywhere is Japan. I’m not just referring to signage, but adverts, shop names and a whole host of things where there doesn’t seem to be any need to not write in Japanese. For whose benefit are commuter trains in Kyushu labelled “Kyushu Commuter Train”? Why is Japan Railway named using two words, neither of which are Japanese, and why did the “Yellow One Man Diesel Car” I saw in Tosu station need to be explicitly named as such?

I just wished they’d saved a little bit more English for the Sagantosu ticket window, where I realised that colour-coded areas marked on the ground plan would be of little use to someone such as myself who’d not learned the Japanese for “yellow”. It still might not have helped, as I’d already realised that small deviations from the correct pronunciation can still leave Japanese scratching their heads in befuddlement (my attempts at ‘Hikone’ completely stumped a ticket collector at Maibara station, despite the town being about 5 miles away and the destination of nearly every single tourist who gets off at the station) . Maybe I could have pointed at the yellow one man diesel car, but as it happened pointing and the power of mime was enough to overcome the language barrier and get my ticket.

Tosu’s stadium is a modern ground, but unlike quite a few, particularly in England sadly, that from the outside look like a warehouse or possibly a multiplex cinema, there was something unmistakably “football-ish” about the place. Maybe that was its best amenity.

Walking up to the entrance I passed some people handing out free gifts of some sort. As I got nearer I realised it was just the standard flyer packs of free tissues, so I wasn’t too bothered, but one of the women handing them out seemed quite insistent, so I took one. At pretty much the other end of the spectrum from the maid café tissues I’d been handed a few days earlier, they were for a performance of Noh Theatre*. I’m not sure if football fans are typical watchers of Noh Theatre or not, but there can’t be too many westerners who go along. Even guide books, which usually praise any local culture to the skies, tend to err on the side of caution that westerners would find a Noh performance “challenging”, which is a polite way of saying “It’ll bore your tits off”. Personally I think I’d be able to appreciate its artistic merit for a good 10 seconds at least, but as much as I’d rather not knock someone’s traditional culture, it sounds appalling. Traditional Japanese singing and music, to me, sounds like a banjo player falling down the stairs in slow motion. I’m sure someone from Japan could be just as scathing about, oh I don’t know, Morris Dancing or English folk music, be at least we hate that as well.

At least the second set of freebies were OK - a free match programme (read “one sheet of colourful A4) and a free fan, although the evening was pleasantly cool for Japan. The ground itself was just as good inside as it looked from the outside. Double-decker stands all the way round. Terraces at both ends. Cover down both sides, and a slightly asymmetrical look about it to stop it being monotonous. What more could you ask for? Well, a few more fans being honest. Crowds, as far as I could tell, seemed to be typically around 5000, which is a shame for such a decent stadium. I had high hopes when I first arrived, about an hour before kick-off, as there seemed to be quite a few already in, but they seemed to stop coming in with about half an hour to go. Those that were in, despite the thinness of there numbers, had just enough there to give it a go, and give it a go they did, singing away and waving their flags, and you couldn’t help but wonder what it’d be like if they could tempt more along.

Maybe it’s the club badge. There can be few clubs around the globe who have turquoise and pink as the club colours, and the club slogan “True champions in the hearts of all who love Sagantosu” (in English, naturally) comes across as a polite Japanese way of saying “we’re shit, and we know we are”. Maybe pink doesn’t have quite the same connotations in Japan as in the west, and Sagantosu’s keeper seemed more than happy to dress from head to toe in a completely pink kit including some fetching pink leggings (either that or he’d stolen the legs of a sunburned Scotsman). The fans, and the rest of the team, opted for the turquoise option.

The game started to a fair degree of enthusiasm, with both team whipping the ball about with purpose and energy, and no little confidence about their moves. That can be a good thing, but very quickly it became clear that on this night the players’ minds were writing cheques their abilities couldn’t cash all too often, and I could feel my English hackles rising and I kept finding myself wanting to shout at them to keep it simple, but I calmed and tried to enjoy the different style. The approach play was good, no doubting that, but from 30 yards it was all Hollywood passes executed with sub-Bollywood

ability. Even after about 20 minutes, it had that worrying look of 0-0 written all over it, and even the fans to my left were noticeably subdued. That half time arrived without either keeper having to do too much wasn’t exactly a shock.

For the second half, sensing that things might not get much better, I vacated my lofty main stand seat with its excellent view on the grounds that their hadn’t been too much to actually view, and went behind the goal with the noisy fans themselves. They were great. I can’t praise them enough. English fans would have been booing at half-time, but they were so bright and cheery you’d think the food kiosk offers shots of prozac to all who need them, and soon enough they were gearing themselves for another 45 minutes of hard effort in the hope that the team might follow suit. I was surprised at just how many women were among them. They even had a chant that was predominantly sung by the women, with the guys providing a kind of “backing vocals” after their bit, which was certainly a first for me.

Alas the second half started much as the first did, as a distillation of confidence and incompetence, with the shots not so much raining in as being an occasional light shower. Pretty soon it was obvious that tactics were unlikely to provide a breakthrough, and if there was to be a goal it would take an absolute defensive howler or a real piece of magic to get a breakthrough. With around ten minutes to go, and my deciphering of the Katakana on the team-sheet disappointingly revealing that neither side featured a David Blane or Copperfield among their line-ups, the other option of a defensive howler took centre stage.

I could be possibly be being unkind, as it was down the far end and my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but it looked like the classic situation which causes fans to watch the game through their fingers as they see the horror unfolding in front of them. A high ball bounced towards the Tosu keeper at the far end with defender and attacker giving chase. Now we all know it should be an easy thing to defend, but experience tells us that in those situations keepers and defenders tend to react with the agility of oil tankers, and like an indecisive couple perfectly tuned to be unable to decide what to do together, they both leave then both go for the ball in alternate seconds, allowing the striker to take advantage of the confusion and chip in an easy gift to put the visitors ahead. If my reading of the goal was right then it’s a shame I wasn’t at the other end as I can imagine I could have learned the Japanese phrases for “gosh, that was a silly thing to do wasn’t it” and “yes, we must try harder to not make such mistakes in the future”.

Normally I’d have imagined that would be the winner, but that goal was like applying cardiac paddles to the Sagantosu side, who burst into life with a zeal and enterprise that didn’t seem possible before. The ball barely left the Kofu half after that, as Sagantosu poured forward. Pressure told and after one or two near things, a half-cleared corner was turned back in, perfectly placed, and even the defender on the line couldn’t stop it floating right into the top corner. The end went crazy. Perhaps a little higher pitched crazy than I’m used to, but crazy all the same. The singing and jumping grew as Sagantosu went on the hunt for the winner that they deserved, on the grounds that they were the only team that had looked dangerous in the whole match, even if it had been only for the last five minutes. They pressed forward. More corners. More pressure. Into injury time, and a shot came in, and it just looked in. The keeper was beaten, but somehow , almost unbelievably, it just went the wrong side of the post. Then deep into injury time, the ball broke again. A Tosu forward, 12 yards out, just the keeper to beat, volleys towards goal. Anywhere but directly at the keeper and it’s the winner. But, sadly, the forward seemingly thought he’s spotted a hole in the keeper’s stomach and aimed for that. Five and a half thousand heads go into eleven thousand hands. That was the chance, and everyone knew it, and also knew there wouldn’t be another. The whistle went but seconds later.

Such is football that a match that is pretty dire for 80 minutes can leave you feeling you witnessed a great game at 90 if things go right. It was a terrific finish, and even if it lacked that winner that would really have made it perfect, I still sensed that people went away happy rather than disappointed. The crowd gave them a rousing send off. True they didn’t win, but perhaps it is true, that in the hearts of those who love Sagantosu, it was enough to make them seem like champions. As my souvenir scarf say, they were proud to say “We are Sagantosu”. I’m still not sure about that pink though.

* While doing the bare minimum of research for writing this, I was pleased to noticed that the main actors in a noh performance are called “the shite”, so if you were to ever meet a small time noh actor and said he put in a shite performance, he’d be quite pleased.

Anyone wondering about the musical crossing…
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=h5Vk4h...eature=related

And here’s the depressing one…
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=ommgK1...eature=related

Behind the goal with the fans who are not afraid to wear turquoise and pink.

Sogantosu's late equaliser

...and very nearly the injury time winner.

One of the steamy "Hells" of Beppu.

The surreal Huis ten Bosch.

England (Non-League) - Windsor & Eton

Even in defeat, the joy of playing is clear for all to see in the Burnham keeper.

Supporters of the smaller clubs in the game will tell you with pride that they support their local team, and will often sing about the fact whenever playing "the big boys", and their presumed travelling support from all over the country. The truth is, this often isn't exactly 100% accurate. I live, as the crow flies, about 12 miles from the Madejski Stadium, yet there must be at least a dozen other clubs physically closer to me. And this is just senior clubs, even if some of them get crowds where the players and officials rival spectators for numerical supremacy. The difference is that they are all non-league clubs. Now I'm all for non-league football. I follow the leagues quite keenly and have a fair degree of interest, but, and it's quite a crucial but, it's incredibly rare for me to feel tempted to venture out and actually go and watch.

Now and then, with Reading away somewhere or not playing, I get a slight urge to check a game out. Almost always something persuades me that there are better alternatives. Woking is a place I've fancied going a few times as they are still at a decent level, but they seem to be perpetually at home to Northwich Victoria, which isn't a fixture to get the pulse racing. A week before Christmas though, and the home match of Windsor & Eton just piqued my curiosity enough to make me feel like venturing the 10 miles or so to their game.

Windsor is known around the world and is a tourist hotspot - whether you want to pay a "bargain" £12 to see the castle (£40 million repair bills don't repay themselves, especially when one neglects to take out fire insurance), take a stroll around the historic cloisters of Eton College, or just want to walk around the historic old town and see the house where Nell Gwynne offered her ripened jaffas to the king, it's a fine place to go. Naturally enough, the football ground is absolutely nowhere near any of that stuff and is of rather less obvious appeal.

One big plus of local football is that you don't have spend 15 minutes finding somewhere to be overcharged to park, half a mile from the ground. I was at most 40 yards from the turnstile, but I headed just slightly further in the other direction first, as Windsor's place is very near a decent real old pub - the kind that achieves the look of tradition without at any stage look like it's trying to be traditional. It even had a proper English barmaid too - the kind that is friendly, slightly dappy, slightly hung over, slightly less than professional, and attractive enough to be pleasing to the eye, but you'd think you are still in with a chance after a couple of beers or four.

The pub, in some ways, was the driving force behind me venturing out. Reading were playing at Birmingham and it was live on SKY. Not having SKY at home, a double dose of football gave me the chance to make a day of it. The first half certainly went swimmingly, with a comfortable as you can hope for away win made all the sweeter by a Guinness or two and a fine large all-day breakfast. The pub, virtually empty when I arrived, slowly began to if not fill, certainly get less capacious, and many seemed to be off to the game later as well. One group, whose numbers swelled one by one as individuals in various states of post-inebriation unsteadiness arrived, talked enthusiastically about the advertising campaign they'd done for local radio advertising the club using ex-BBC

commentator Barry Davies

. Finding out later that he's Windsor's club president made it slightly less of a coup, but it was interesting, to me at least, that they spent all their time talking about fundraising rather than the actual football. And this from a group of young lads too, although I admit that I'm at an age when a few football club managers, let alone players, look young to me.

Fortified with three points and three pints, I made my way to the ground. One of the things that's often put me off non-league football is that the romantic idyllic charm is usually rather trampled by the brutal reality of it. You imagine leafy landscapes poking over quaint enclosures, and get faced with 8 foot high concrete fencing being overlooked by modern housing and industrial units, covered terraces that make you suspect a line of commuters in the town are puzzled as to why anyone would steal their bus stop, and the inescapable fact that unless you are one of those people who really enjoys the pitch side view, you really aren't going to be well catered for.

To mock though, it too easy. I felt in generous mood. It was certainly a welcoming place. I passed through the turnstile (singular) into a place where the club seemed genuinely pleased that you were there, where the people doing jobs seemed to want to do their jobs, and where a huge number of the fans seemed to know each other. The ground itself wasn't even that bad. Sure, the Castle doesn't need to worry about Stag Meadow becoming a rival attraction, but a curious small and pointy church and a backdrop of Windsor Great Park behind the far goal added something to the setting. It even had a view steps of terracing. True, not enough to get a sense of watching up on high from a kop end, but enough to get a sense of how watching such games could be improved for the non-league spectator if only glam rock and outrageous platform boots made a comeback in the fashion world. For those who can't wait for the second coming of Marc Bolan

for a half-decent view, the main stand is a better option. It may be slightly reminiscent of something out of a Subbuteo set. It's seats may be faded, and a good proportion of them all but unusable due to the once transparent glass screen ends not having been cleaned since fish came off the ration, but it was enough to give an "angle" on the pitch to see the play develop, as well as nice view into Windsor Great Park during the less interesting moments.

Another thing that had attracted me to this game was a Reading connection. Not only are Windsor & Eton known as the Royalists, to Reading's "Royals", but the manager and one player are both Reading old boys - Keith Scott

and Martin Williams respectively. Neither are names known much beyond those that saw them play regularly, and neither excelled at Reading either during a "difficult" (OK, rubbish) period for the club. Keith, according to wikipedia, was on the books of no less than 19 clubs during a 16 year career. He was signed by the late Tommy Burns

for £250,000, and for all of Tommy's other talents, prudence wasn't among them, as Wycombe were considering giving him a free transfer at the time. Williams, known as "skittles" to Reading fans for his tendency to fall over like one without due reason, stuck around rather longer without ever becoming a permanent fixture in the side.

Facing Windsor today, having made an even shorter journey than myself, were Burnham, just 6 miles away across the boxy expanse of Slough's trading estate - an area most famous for featuring in the opening credits of the Ricky Gervais' "The Office". Less well known is that Thunderbirds was also made there, and it's easy to see the inspiration for Tracey Island, as it's exactly what Slough doesn't look like. Burnham itself is undoubtedly not as grim, but however pleasant Burnham village may indeed be, return there would be about the only joy the visitors would have on this day.

Knowing Keith Scott's playing style, with the finesse of a cement mixer and only slightly more mobility, it was quite a pleasant surprise to see that as a manager he had Windsor trying their best to knock the ball about on the floor and play a bit of football. I'd seen the odd game at this level, the British Gas League Division 1 West (Windsor are a mere 6 promotions from league trips to Old Trafford), before and the tactics then seemed to revolve around aiming the ball in the general direction of the opposition goal at any height that was deemed appropriate, so this was a welcome change. OK, it didn't always work, but full marks for effort. Even Martin Williams appeared to have shrugged off his banana-peel slapstick ways, and was operating down the wing, controlling the tempo of the game as an "experienced head".

The league table suggested the Windsor were one of the best teams in the league, but a relatively low goal total hinted that they don't make things easy for themselves, and that was to be the feature of the game. Windsor's keeper could have taken out an easel and painted a nice picture of the park or the planes from Heathrow flying overhead, so rarely was he called upon. Burnham's keeper was much busier, but nowhere near as busy as he ought to have been, such was Windsor's inability to fashion a decent chance when one seemed likely. Approaching half time it was still 0-0. A palpable hush has fallen over the ground as people contemplated what to do with the next 15 minutes of their lives during half-time. A few shuffled towards the tea bar. One or two other retrieved match programmes from coat pockets in readiness, but one or two Burnham defenders appeared to be mentally already seeking the warmth of the dressing room, allowing a Windsor player enough time and space in the box to have planted an allotment of vegetables unhindered if he'd wished. Instead, he took the option of calmly passing the ball across the keeper, who could only watch, expletive ready but unused on his lips, as it rolled slowly into the corner of the net.

Opting for the main stand view in the second half, avoiding the seats reserved for officials, those requiring a degree of x-ray vision to see the goals, and those seeming popular with the local pigeon community, I settled in readiness for the second half with a quick read of the programme, and noticed that the club's patron was Prince Phillip. The lack of the royal standard being flown from the corner flags suggested that he wasn't in attendance today, and it's kind of hard to imagine him popping down too often. That's a shame, as apart form offering the chance of the incongruous sight of a member of the monarchy queuing up at the tea bar for a coffee and chips, his stereotypically tact-free comments could be interesting to hear, particularly if an angry opposition manager overhears and realises who is giving stick back to mid-sentence. Instead all in the stand were treated to the combined wit and wisdom of a huddle of pre-pubescent boys at the back of the stand. Fair play to them for their enthusiasm for their club, and even the humility which had them singing "We're by far the greatest team The British Gas (league) has ever seen", but mostly their shouts from the back had me wanting to weep for the future of the country. Then again, if I'd popped a few miles up the road and listened to the 12 year olds at Eton, who one day probably will be running the country, then I'd probably be really worried.

Windsor had scored a minute from half time, and effectively killed the game with another goal a minute after. Martin Williams, who'd stayed uncharacteristically upright for 46 minutes so far, was challenged in the box and went down. The ref looked briefly towards his linesman, a sickly child of a man, thin and awkward, and with a complexion pale beyond even English winter standards, before deciding he'd give the penalty regardless. No messing about, the penalty was whacked low and hard into the corner, with the keeper, an ex-Windsor player, taking just as much of a wrong direction in goal as he looks to have in his career.

The goal took all the wind of of Burnham's sails, although they weren't exactly the Cutty Sark beforehand, and they all but settled for defeat from that point. They only had one more effort on goal, and that was right at the end when they were probably just trying to do something to keep warm. The only mystery was why Windsor didn't add any more goals. "Their forwards not being all that good" is the most obvious answer on this game's showing, but the Burnham keeper just seemed to benefit from all the practice he'd had throughout the game and made a smart stop or two.

So the game drew to a close, 2-0 to the hosts, with the Royalists watched by a princely, if not exactly royal, 201 people. I didn't come to Windsor as a true convert to the non-league game, and despite viewing the game slightly rosily after Reading's earlier result, I still wasn't sold on the idea that what the game lacks compared to the professional game, it makes up for in other areas, but to those who do go, full credit to them, it probably doesn't matter. At a normal, for want of a better word, football match most see the final whistle as their cue to leave, but many today, if not most, instead made their way to the sizeable clubhouse to extend their evening. Maybe at this level what goes on in the social club is just as much part of the club as what happens on the pitch, and the fans can really feel part of their club in a way that even supporters of the league's smaller clubs can't imagine, and that really is the appeal.

Martin Williams (No.8) in unaccustomed upright position, as the church steeple prepares for lift off.

A kick from the Burnham keeper poses a threat to flights leaving Heathrow.

Windsor seal the points. At least one person behind the goal looks excited.

Holland - Philips Stadion, Eindhoven

UEFA Cup Final, Middlesbrough v Sevilla.

Like many fans around the country, Reading fans don’t have much of an opinion of Middlesbrough. As a club they are neither big enough to evoke admiration or envy, nor small enough to feel respect or empathy with. There’s no rivalry at all between the clubs, and few memorable games between the two. For Reading fans the one that they’d most readily associate with Middlesbrough would be the 3-2 win on the opening day of Reading’s first premiership season. For me though, the club trouble me with bad associations.

Part of it is down to the way the town of Middlesbrough itself partly nipped a short-lived fling with a Greek girl in the bud. One of a series of interviews she attended in England when planning to move over was in the town. An Athenian girl, she was very used to Athens’ warm café society and dramatic backdrop. I did try and warn her that the city wasn’t England’s most beautiful, and the interviewer did do his best to show her the sights, but being used to sitting outside a café and seeing the Acropolis, with the hills in the background, somehow the Riverside Stadium and the Transporter Bridge didn’t quite cut it. Although Leeds and other grim northern towns near where her sister lived were more to blame, I still bear a slight grudge towards the town over her decision to stay in Greece.

Part of it though, not Middlesbrough’s fault at all as it turns out, was that seeing a UEFA Cup match involving Middlesbrough in Eindhoven wasn’t quite the trip I was hoping for.

Early in 2006, I’d noticed quite by chance that UEFA were running a ballot for 6000 neutral tickets to that year’s UEFA Cup Final in Eindhoven. I applied and didn’t think too much of it, assuming it’d be hugely oversubscribed, but my luck was in, even if I did get bumped up to one of the rather eye-watering 110 euro tickets.

I arrived in Eindhoven in the early afternoon before the game, fresh from a day in Amsterdam, where I’d learned just how much of a racket a few hundred drunk Northerners could make as they leered their way round Amsterdam’s most notorious tourist attraction. I’m not going to claim any moral high-ground, having been around the same mind-boggling and body-oggling walk on a previous trip, but the canals I was looking forward to walking around were the stunningly beautiful and peaceful ones that were just a few hundred yards away on the other side of the city, but which felt like a few hundred miles away. I seen the area briefly before, when paying a visit to the Anne Frank

House, where I realised the aesthetic appeal of the district perhaps outweighed my sense of history, as I looked out of the window of the small attic where Anne and seven other were forced to hide in fear of their lives, and couldn’t help but think that “this would be a great place to live”. The whole area is about the most pleasant morning stroll as can be imagined. I also got to see a multi-storey bike-rack, which isn’t high on any tourist’s agenda, but does make you appreciate that the Dutch love their bikes almost to a degree of fetishism.

Travel to Eindhoven was thankfully by train rather than bike, and after dumping my bag and hopelessly unneeded coat at my hotel (an act that would have unfortunate repercussions later), I made my way into the city.

Everyone was clearly there with the intention of enjoying themselves, and it was very relaxed with no hint of tension – either in the match nerves sense of any niggle between the two sets of supporters. Two fan camps had been set up in the centre. The one for Sevilla fans did look a slightly more rewarding part of town, but the Middlesbrough one had plenty of room, and plenty of people pouring beer as fast as people could order it, so everyone was happy. The DJ certainly knew how to get the party atmosphere going on a warm afternoon, and everyone was happy, with the consensus being that after their remarkable semi-final comeback against Steaua Bucharest (winning 4-3 on aggregate after being 0-3 down), Boro’s name was on the cup, with 2-1 being the scoreline of choice.

The lack of genuine “facilities” in the fan zone mean that many were having to dispose of the after effects of all that beer in the none too discreet confines of an alfresco urinal, looking like a 6 foot tall elongated orange-squeezer. Having seen these before, incongruously once in the middle of a footpath near the Amsterdam Arena for example, I got the impression that the Dutch clearly were rather less delicate than some about such matters.

I wanted to get to the game early, to savour the atmosphere and take a few pictures, and left with just over two hours before kick-off, for the 20 minute walk to the ground. Initially everything was great. I walked round the stadium, took a couple of pictures, then went to one side which, across a couple of lanes of traffic, backed onto the railway line. It would be a good spot to get a picture getting the whole stadium in. I was about to take a picture when I noticed a line of Sevilla fans getting rid of the remnants of the beers they’d drunk earlier in the bushes lining the fence between them and the railway line. Maybe it was psychosomatic, because although I had partaken in a few beers (of a low enough alcohol content to make them barely the legal side of the trades descriptions act, it has to be said) and it had been a longish walk from the fan zone, I was hardly crossing my legs in desperation, but something inside me just took the suggestion that it could be worthwhile doing similar while I was there. Let’s just say it was something of a mistake.

I heard a voice requesting I stop, and realised a policeman had chosen me at random from the rogue’s gallery by the fence. Apparently using the giant lemon squeezer things, virtually on public display to all is fine, but being discreet by a bush is right out. OK, the only thing for it was to be very cooperative and appeal to his reasonable side. He did seem a reasonable kind of guy at first, almost apologetic for putting me in this spot. After establishing I had a ticket for the match he then asked for some ID. Now I’m English, above a certain age. Nobody has picture ID, except of course when travelling abroad. Except of course my passport was in my coat pocket, back at the hotel. If I’d had my passport, he explained, I could have just paid a 40 euro fine and that would have been that. “Without it…”, and these are words you don’t want to hear at any time, particularly not relatively shortly before trying to see the most expensive game you’ve ever bought a ticket for, “…you are in a lot of trouble.”

With a whole police van to myself for the sort journey to Eindhoven police station, I did try and point out it would be a lot easier all round if we just drove to my hotel and got my passport, but somehow he seemed to regard this suggestion with an incredulous all-knowing laugh, as if it was some kind of elaborate escape plot and I’d dug tunnels called Tom, Dick & Harry underneath my hotel room’s minibar. Instead I found myself a few hundred yards away being photographed, parted with my shoes and personal effects, and invited to share a large cell with several Middlesbrough fans, all of whom were there for similar threats to the very fabric of society as my own.

I wasn’t too worried at first. There was still an hour and a half until kick-off. Just how slowly can the wheels of justice turn in modern day Holland? Very slow indeed was the answer, as it turned out. In fact it would require time-lapse photography to detect any turn at all. On what promised to be one of Eindhoven police station’s busiest nights of the year, they only seemed to have two women to take all the statements of everyone who’d been brought in, and they both dealt with each case together. As time ticked by, the beer I didn’t manage to dispose of by the fence started to make its presence felt. They allowed me out to use the toilet across the hall, but with a cream-covered slice of irony, considering why I was there in the first place, they insisted that I couldn’t shut the door so I’d be visible.

The cell itself wasn’t too bad. It was reminiscent of a large modern bus shelter, but enclosed on all four side, with the kind of seating that designed to be just uncomfortable enough to deter winos from spending the day and night there. One surprise addition, outside the cell and inaudible, if perfectly viewable, from within, was a plasma screen tv tuned in to show the match. While thoughtful, it actually became quite a torture seeing it there, knowing the stadium is just a few hundred yards away, and there’s nothing you can do about it. As each minute ticked away, you had to reassess you chances of making it there in time, until the crushing moment when you were now reassessing how much you’d miss. And further still, when it hits you that you may see none of the game at all.

That was how I felt at half time, and then suddenly my name was called and I was whisked off to a small interview room, where I attempted to give the world’s fastest confession. I did object at one point, to when my crime was described as “urinating in the street”, as if I was an cocking my leg like incontinent dog with a superiority complex, trying to mark every landmark as his territory, but I realised any argument would just delay things. With a sign of relief it was over – or so I thought. I may have given the statement, but I couldn’t go until they’d confirmed my identity. Put back in the cell and asked by an officer who seemed to be getting off on the fact that those were locked up were missing the game – perhaps the only chance in their lives they’d ever get to see Boro in a European final – I was told I’d need to wait for the British consulate to arrive before I could go. Missing the game was now taken for granted. I was worried now that I’d miss my flight home in the morning.

Luckily the guy must have either being wrong, or indeed just enjoying annoying the fans too much, as about five minutes later I was ushered out to pay my fine – now up to 100 euro – and re-united with my belongings. I was off to the match!

If there is one thing to commend getting to match late, it’s the almost poetic sound of a crowd you get from outside the stadium. It seems almost alive, as if the stadium is a living creature. All the cheers, roars and gasps of excitement take on an almost heightened quality that make you appreciate just what a special place a sports stadium is. Nowhere else sounds like that. It makes you want to be inside, and if I could only find a damn turnstile that was open, I soon would be.

I was in the top tier, but I bounded up the stairs like an excited child to find my seat, not wanting to miss another second, as I’d missed quite enough seconds already. Despite having a supposedly neutral ticket, the area I was in was to a man purely Middlesbrough. I knew Boro were a goal down, but I couldn’t tell what sort of game it was from the soundless pictures I’d seen. The sea of glum faces, such a contrast from the joy of a few hours earlier, told me all I needed to know about how well Middlesbrough had played so far. The Sevilla fans, on the other hand, were loud and clearly confident. Getting in with little over 25 minutes left, my hope was for extra time. I’d been similarly late for a match before, once arriving at Swansea with half an hour to go due to getting very stuck in traffic, and the final whistle in such a case feels hugely unsatisfying, but at least both teams had had the decency to wait until we turned up before scoring both of the goals that evening. The confidence of the Sevilla fans, and the fact the Middlesbrough were attacking with a frequency that made ice ages seem common, didn’t leave me with too much hope I’d get my wish.

The hope lasted barely a quarter of an hour. Even with the limited football I’d seen, it was clear that Sevilla were the far better team on the night, and with Schwarzer unable to parry a shot to safety, Vicenzo Maresca turned in the rebound to all but end the game as a contest with 12 minutes to go. The joy pouring down from the Sevilla stands was a stark contrast to the sullen end I was in. If there were any lingering doubts or hope, they were comprehensively extinguished five minutes later, when a poorly hit shot, again from Maresca, somehow found its way into the bottom corner. Caught pushing forward, Middlesbrough were now a boxer flat out on the canvas, completely beaten. You felt it should have been stopped as a contest, and despite a few towels clearly being thrown in by the Boro players who no longer wanted to be out there, Sevilla kept going, with Kanoute bagging a fourth which felt like an insult. A few tempers cracked in the Boro end – not violently by any means – although the one or two Sevilla fans who celebrated by running through the walkway directly in front of the Middlesbrough fans might have found little sympathy in some quarters if one or two had decided to let them know how classless such a gesture was. There was nothing like that though. The fans were just too crushed, and I realised that despite how bad my evening had gone, I was probably about the most cheerful Englishman in the place.

Not knowing the number for the Samaritans in Holland, I felt the only thing for it was to try and get the feel of the Sevilla celebrations. They did look a very worthy champion, after all, and despite being stage-managed, the celebrations did manage to avoid the cheesiness they can sometimes seem, and had a good authentic feel. It also allowed me to take in the stadium a bit more. In other circumstances it would probably have ranked as one of my favourites, looking far larger than the 36,000 it holds, yet with everyone close enough for it to feel intimate. The steep stands almost give the impression that the crowd is leaning over the pitch, and the deep guttural roar of encouragement which greeted every Sevilla attack, poured down the stands like dry ice. A real cauldron of a ground, and despite my deep empathy with those who surrounded me, I did selfish enjoy the sound of the late goals crashing in – and not least the fact that I was actually there to see them. At 37 euro per goal, and about 4 euro per minute, I really needed to get my money’s worth.

The Middlesbrough Fan Zone

Outside the stadium, shortly before it all went a bit wrong.

A lesson in celebration and annoying the cleaners.

Sevilla fans fly the flag

What it was all about

The other side of Amsterdam

Now where did I park my bike again?

Czech Republic - Slavia (again), Ceske Budejovice & Viktoria Zizkov.

Midfield action at Ceske Budejovice

Things don’t always quite go to plan. Most people use trips abroad for a bit of rest & relaxation, but when I was thinking “what am I doing here?” on my first full day of this trip to the Czech Republic, it wasn’t a question of spiritual awareness, but a reflection of walking back empty handed from a fruitless trip through one of the less enticing parts of a small provincial town in the pouring rain.

A football themed long weekend in Prague had offered the opportunity of three matches, the second of which was due to have been watching my Czech favourites, Bohemians, in Mlada Boleslav. The home side had only offered Bohemians 330 tickets, for sale to season tickets holders only if I guessed right from the ticket details in Czech on the Bohemians web page. My plan was to go up to Mlada Boleslav, buy a ticket (even if in the home ends), before nipping off to another town nearby that I’d planned to see, before dashing back for Slavia v Zlin in the evening. It wasn’t the ideal way to spend the first full day, but the weather forecast had been poor for the morning so it wouldn’t be total waste.

My plans unravelled as soon as I reached the station. I had allowed an hour to walk the 800 yards or so from the station to the stadium, get a ticket, and come back. There seemed no problem with that. Unfortunately there was. Although I had looked at a map of the town and noted quite rightly that the stadium is just up the road from the station, when I peered out down the road from the station, rather than the road to my right that I expected, there was just a dead end leading to some farm buildings. I had read the map quite correctly, but not closely enough to realise the station I was currently in wasn’t the one on the map. That was Mlada Bolestav Mesto (town centre), whereas the station I was in, Mlada Boleslav Hlavni Nadrazi (main station), was in the middle of nowhere, as confirmed by the woman in the station’s ticket office. At least she gave me a map of the town, carefully ripped out the yellow pages (or Gold Pages, as they are in the Czech Republic), in case I ever made it to the centre. While trains between the two stations weren’t quite every third Tuesday in infrequency, they didn’t exactly rival the Tokyo Metro at rush hour either, and the next was over 45 minutes after I arrived.

The second problem was the rain. The forecast had said rain, but being English I’m used to a spot of rain so I can put up with it. Unfortunately this wasn’t a little bit of rain, though. It was the sort that makes you consider building an ark. Indeed, when I eventually found the train I needed to board, its isolation did make me wonder if I should start gathering animals two-by-two, even if its size, roughly akin to a slightly well proportioned minibus, would have required a few selective extinctions.

The train shouldn’t have been difficult to find. It was, after all, the only train in the entire station and completely visible, particularly as despite the station boasting a good half a dozen or so tracks, it only had one platform. I was used to larger stations, one’s that call themselves main stations in particular, having departures boards, stating train times and the platform the train leaves from. After hunting in vain for such information, I noticed that the isolated stubby carriage about four tracks away had a small wooden board beside it on the floor announcing its destination. Walking across railway lines anywhere else would have made me a bit nervous, but such was the state of neglect around the place that it made you feel no trains had passed through in the last 30 years, and Czech trains are so slow anyway that it’d be easy to walk away from danger. Travelling on them makes you suspect they are powered by clockwork, and the driver spends the entire journey with his feet up reading the newspaper.

An incredibly wet and joyless walk from Mesto station found me outside Mlada Boleslav’s stadium, only there didn’t appear to be anywhere open. No ticket booths, no reception, nothing. A deeply unsatisfying walk around the perimeter yielded no results, but I spotted some people milling about around an office building of the club that had been locked earlier. I hoped the people there, probably players by the look of them, would understand my requests for a ticket. They didn’t, or at least didn’t care if they did. They did, however, know how to mime actions for instructing me to piss of out of the area, which didn’t help me sodden mood. I had to settle for taking a few pictures of the small ground, which was about as exciting as it sounds.

By the evening the rain had gone, and fortified with a meal and a couple of beers, I was in better spirits as I made my way up to the Strahov to watch Slavia for the second time. It hadn’t been a great experience previously. There’d been a very poor game to watch, a creaking 1-0 home win, in front of 2,500 souls lost in the ground that held eight times that number.

I went for the top seats in the main stand, even if finding out where exactly those seats were was none too easy with no ground plan outside. Paying just 150Kc (about £3.75) was very welcome. In an era when in cost per minute, premiership football is more costly than a premium rate phone line, with it being debateable which is more of a rip-off, paying prices similar to when I first starting going over 20 years ago was good indeed. Oh for the days when I wondered if I’d stop going if it ever started to cost £5 to get in.

The crowd was a good 50% higher than last time, and even though that still only amounts to around 3800, it felt considerably less empty. Reading the programme, however, or at least the bits I could read, I noticed that the three prior Slavia home games in the league accounted for a meagre three goals in total, and wondered if this match v Zlin might be similar to the game I saw last time. I hoped not.

After two minutes my fears were somewhat allayed. A nice exchange of passes around the box – a feature of Czech football that would impress me throughout the whole weekend - put a Slavia player through, and he finished with ease. At least it wouldn’t finish 0-0. Four minutes later I knew it wouldn’t finish 1-0 either, as another through ball resulted in a clinically finished one-on-one. On twelve minutes it was 3-0, with a poorly placed goalkeeper (although some might suggest just being behind the Zlin defence was poor positioning on this night) being well beaten at his near post. I’m not sure what the Czech for “You might as well go home” is, but it could have been such at the Zlin fans, who barely stretched to double figures in the away end, as a fourth went in just five minutes later, just the 17th minute – this time a weak punched clearance being headed back in from the edge of the area. There was a bit of respite, including a goal being disallowed possibly though pity as well as offside, before the pick of the bunch, just before half time – with everyone waiting for a cross, the ball was just chipped with pace to drop in at the far post.

Slavia were simply putting on an exhibition. 5-0 at half time and it could have been more, and was likely to be several more by the end of the game. Now I have a thing about seeing a team score seven goals. I’ve been to about 1000 games or so, and only seen more than six once (not counting a friendly in Holland, where Reading whacked 10 past a collection of players seemingly assembled from passers-by, where even Stuart Gray was able to shake off his granite-like immobility to collect four goals). I’d seen a team score six many times, but other than one hopeless 8-0 mismatch between Barcelona and a Matador Puchov of Slovakia, I’d never seen seven. It looked nigh on certain this evening, and I was starting to count my chickens when a cross was neatly tucked away for a 6th just five minutes into the second term. Zlin were being prised apart and exposed like a gynaecologist’s patient and that elusive seventh was surely a case of when, not if.

Maddeningly, the Slavia players and management had other ideas. Fair enough, with a champions league tie coming up, the better players would be subbed to rest them, but the rest, rather than going for the throat, went about performing party-pieces for what would be a disappointing party. The chances dried up, even if a Zlin defender did his best to enliven things but chipping his keeper, before amazingly getting back to clear from right under his own crossbar. A seventh goal eventually did come, but amazing it came from Zlin. A rare corner was flicked in, sending about 3 of the Zlin fans wild for a second of two. But with time running of, those Slavia players just showed what little teases they been, and another Slavia corner was headed in at the near post to complete the rout with just a minute left to play.

I was happy, and remained happy on the bus back to the metro station, even if I yet again demonstrated my ability to be a kind of magnet to drunken football fans who seemingly wish to sing loudly into my ear. We established quickly that I spoke no Czech, just as easily as I established he was a single man of no fixed opportunity, who no doubt possessed a nickname related to his drinking prowess. Saying that, he wasn’t the only one to reduce Praha to one syllable in a beery tribute to the might of “Slavia Praaarrr”.

With a trip to Mlada Boleslav being discounted as a possibility, what with it being too much of a risk to go without a ticket to such a tiny ground, and also having no desire to contribute in any way to the wages of the Mlada Boleslav players I’d met earlier, I chose to travel down to the town of Ceske Budejovice in the deep south of the country, and see the home team take on SAID Most. Their ground there wasn’t that much bigger, but with the two clubs occupying the bottom two places in the division, I didn’t anticipate getting in being much of a problem.

Ceske Budejovice isn’t an amazing town, but it’s pleasant enough. For starters you arrive by bus at a bus station which sits on top of a brand new shopping mall, which is something of a shock compared to other Czech bus stations, which look like they should smell of turds and rust. I’m convinced Prague’s Holesovice station, pronounced “holleyshevitza” is an incorrect spelling of “shitholevitza”, for example, so grim and neglected does it look.

Nobody visits for the bus station though, it has to be said. In fact most don’t visit at all, and just move on to the almost absurdly picturesque Cesky Krumlov down the road, but having already been there, I made for the centre. Even if there’s not a huge amount in the rest of the town, Ceske Budejovice’s main square is a gem, as well as being the biggest in the Czech Republic, and is also overlooked by a high medieval tower, the likes of which I always feel compelled to climb.

It perhaps not best to visit Ceske Budejovice on a Sunday though. While it may be free of crowds, none of the restaurants around the square seemed to be supplying what I’ve previously assumed to be the most basic pre-requisite of a restaurant – namely food. Eventually I did find one, in a hotel on the square, and as fine and authentically Bohemian as any meal from a hotel restaurant could ever be, it did put me back on my schedule for the day. Not that that was exactly a serious blow though. OK, I had to forego a visit to the small torture museum en route to the stadium, but I doubt it’ll be the main regret of my life when I’m on my death bed.

I didn’t expect a big crowd for this match, but it did strike me as odd that as I walked to the stadium, there didn’t seem to be anyone else doing likewise. I had a horrible feeling that this game might have been re-arranged at very short notice too, something of a feature of Czech football that makes arranging football weekends a tad problematic, and as I didn’t have a ticket back to Prague until over 3 hours later, it would not have made my day. I’ve seldom been so pleased to see a programme seller as I was that day – the game was indeed on, even if nobody else seemed to be going.

Armed with a main stand ticket (a mere 120Kc) I tried to purchase my usual souvenir scarf from the club shop, only to be thwarted as they’d sold out. That was a bit of a surprise, as absolutely nobody, apart from a couple of kids, seemed to be wearing one. Maybe the print run was very limited. The lack of popularity might have been due to the colour. It seems that until recently Ceske Budejovice played in black and white. Certainly the badge was that colour (even if the stadium is blue), but there appears to have been a bit of “re-branding” along the line somewhere, and the club colours can perhaps best be described as “dark pink” (with the badge now dark pink and black), and for some curious reason this didn’t seem to have been universally accepted by the terrace regulars. A dark pink and black scarf would have been “interesting” to say the least, although I’d have to remember to take it off before I went back to Prague, lest I got beaten up by thugs thinking I’d just come back from a gay pride march.

Three sides of the stadium were clearly new, and looking very much like the smart but basic one-tier tier stands at Mlada Boleslav, albeit about twice the size. They even had the same blue vaulted roofs over the stands and blue seats. I guess they don’t do them in dark pink. One end was much thinner than the others, with only five rows of seats, behind which was a sort of cheap imitation gothic tower of no apparent purpose. I was hoping to see a fan watching for free out of one of the windows, but nobody did.

The game itself would have to go a long way to follow on for the Slavia one, but for a while it looked like it might. Again, some very slick passing and movement around the area created a number of early openings, but failings in front of goal, more comical than clinical, were reminders that these were the division’s bottom two. Slowly but surely the passes got a little longer and a little less considered, until at times it resembled a stereotypical match from the English lower divisions, but with less idea of actually how to play a longer game. Luckily, as the game seemed to be drawing to its inevitable goalless conclusion, both sides were struck by an invigorating bout of panic and desperation, as if they’d been informed there were snipers on the roof ready to take action if it ended 0-0. Just as I was considering ducking out a shade early to make sure I caught that 7.30 bus, with the walk back to the station looking like being at least 10 minutes longer than the 15 I’d imagined, a messy cross dropped for a Ceske Budejovice player to turn in the box and scuff a shot past the keeper and just inside the post for an 87th minute winner.

In truth it was still an awful game, but the icing of the goal made it a much more palatable cake, and the two and a half hour bus journey home seemed a lot less long than it could have done. But then again I wasn’t one of the many unlucky ones who had to stand for the whole trip, and at least there was an “in-drive” movie. OK, it was in Czech, and I couldn’t see any of it because the aisle was chock full of people, but it did at least sound interesting.

My last game of the three was the following evening in Zizkov, the slightly ragged around the edges district of Prague behind the main railway station. The ground is overlooked, or at least appears to be before you try walking there up the hill, by the Zizkov Tower. The sleek grey three-legged 700 foot tall television transmitter does look somewhat out of place in the heart of this residential district, and the decision, several years after it was built, to soften the imagine of it by liberally adorning the legs of the tower with models of giant climbing babies, is perhaps one of the more unusual decisions in the world of city planning.

I’d first seen Zizkov’s stadium on a non-matchday six years previously. Then it had no floodlights and only three sides, and two of those had terracing which could have been harvested, so copious was the foliage growing through the cracks in the concrete. Now it at least had four sides, and was, as are all Czech top division grounds, all-seated. Despite the parkland behind the main stand, the ground itself still manages to find itself shoe-horned in among the surrounding buildings as if needing to huddle up against them for warmth on the colder evenings. It certainly gave the ground a certain character that modern stadiums can seldom match, even if in a different setting the actual structure of it wouldn’t be anything to write home about. The new stand at the end added twelve rows of red seats that would have offered possibly the best view of any end in Europe, overlooking Prague’s old town against a setting sun, if only there wasn’t a damn great grey/brown office block in the way.

Those seats were in the open though, and as I’d purchased my ticket in advance on one of the earlier rainy days I’d opted for the cover of the “Hlavni Tribuna” or main stand (although I’d imagine that the “Hlavni Tribuna” at Mlada Boleslav is actually about 2 miles down the road from the pitch), a bargain 100Kc, or £2.50. The club official on duty, working out of a battered portakabin at the corner of the ground, can’t be used to people asking for tickets three days in advance, as he initially assumed I was after a tram ticket, and was directing me to the nearest tobacconists.

This game, between Viktoria Zizkov and Banik Ostrava, was thankfully better than the Ceske Budejovice match, but wasn’t close to the Slavia one. There were still plenty of nice touches around the box, but in a curious mix of genius and incompetence, they weren’t coming off. A Zizkov winger with white boots, nearly always the sign of a player who’ll flatter to deceive, clearly thought himself to be the Czech Cristiano Ronaldo, but while his footwork could be impressive, the direction of his crosses often implied that it wasn’t white boots he needed so much as a white stick. It was interesting, but not quite exciting. Indeed, for the first half the most entertaining thing was the Banik Ostrava fans themselves, who made far more noise, without so much as a hint of roof, than I’ve ever heard 400 or so fans make.

The second half kicked off with it being 6.15, with the gloom of dusk descending. By 6.30 it was becoming apparent that they really out to have turned on the floodlights by now. As neither the scoreboard, nor any of the lights in the stand appeared to be functioning either, I did wonder if someone had forgotten to put a few crowns in the meter. I hadn’t seen football played in such darkness since evening games of my youth, and I was just about expecting the players to be called in by their mothers when one by one, the bulbs in the floodlights flickered into life. At about the same time the scoreboard came back to life, with the time clearly being bumped along manually until the time caught up.

The game improved a bit after Banik Ostrava took the lead – sidefooting a cross in, which seemed to take everyone by surprise. Viktoria Zizkov doubled their efforts and things got a bit heated. This prompted an odd sight after a Zizkov foul lead to the Ostrava physio coming on. Usually a club physio wears a track suit or similar, like a subliminal message that he’s part of the team. The Banik Ostrava physio (I assume that was his job) was more in keeping with the uncompromising image of their supporters, rushing on in jeans and an eastern cut leather jacket, and you felt somewhere an all-night taxi was missing its driver.

Right at the death the game was sealed for the away side, when a cross was met with a shot which took a horrible deflection past a stranded keeper. Banik Ostrava probably deserved it. Their fans certainly did, but with my usual nominal support for the home side it was ever so slightly disappointing. 2-0 it finished. There would be no Viktoria for Zizkov tonight.

The wet and miserable Mlada Boleslav