Internationally speaking, I’ve never really felt as drawn to England in the same way many of my other football-loving mates have. Whether it’s been down to the lack of Sunderland players generally featuring, or the countless moments of heartache that were just too much on top of following SAFC, I’m not sure.
In terms of football shirts, I was given a England top as a child, and bought one in a sale a few years back, too, but I’ve owned countless other national shirts in the meantime; Croatia (x2), USA, Brazil and even The Republic of Ireland’s colours have all bejewelled me, whilst I’ve struggled to maintain a fleeting interest in my own country’s fortunes. Sure, it’s easy to get into during the main tournaments, but watching them struggle along in the farces now billed as friendlies holds little interest to me.
Even when internationals have been played at the Stadium of Light, I’ve rarely been tempted, mainly put off by the exorbitant ticket prices. Indeed the only international I’d attended until recently was a friendly between Estonia and Macedonia in Tallinn.
So when, after getting involved with the Northern Irish fanzine, Happy Days, that’s designed by ALS, I was invited across to Belfast to have a bit craic for the game against Wales I jumped at the chance. It would beat watching David Beckham masquerade as an inspirational leader in a pub, not caring what happened.
As I got into the car for the drive up to Stranraer (unfortunately the ALS-mobile can’t fly yet, so it was a ferry for us), it dawned on me that we had more people in the car than we did tickets. Aston was happy to watch it in the pub, but I was personally more interested in watching the match in the flesh. So began one of the most thorough ticket searches ALS has ever seen for a football ticket.
Even Norwich away a couple of years ago wasn’t as intense. Having checked with the supporters’ clubs, we rang the IFA several times, speaking to various people, as well as calling half the Northern Irish squad (interrupting their dinner in the process) begging for tickets. With our search looking doomed, we put it on hold for a Friday night out to attend a fans’ charity do at a posh country club type place just outside of Belfast.
Although we were apprehensive at first of paying hotel drinks prices (take the boy out of Hebburn and all), you can imagine our delight on arrival at finding the beer on special offer at £1.50 a pint and everyone stormed the bar. Half an hour later and the cheap beer had gone, and it was a transition onto cheap alcopops on offer, then the pricey beer as the night took a very surreal turn.
We entered a raffle which was never drawn, witnessed an auction that never was, then proceeded to gamble our money on a computer generated race of blokes running down the streets with bombs. Ironic, or what for a country famed for terrorism?
The drunken Ulstermen then embarked on a sing song and although there were only a couple of hundred fans in the room, they made enough noise to rock the posh place to its foundations. It was impossible not to join in even if we didn’t know all the words. We stumbled out of the place half pissed, half stoned and not entirely sure what the hell had just happened.
During the course of the evening we picked up a drinking partner who was hotel-less such was the Welsh invasion of Belfast, so we decided it would be rude not to offer him a space on our floor. But on arriving back at base there were two bouncers at the door of our hotel who acted like mental militia men, refusing entry to anyone above the number booked into the rooms. Despite explaining that our new friend was a journalist from the Daily Mirror, and showing press passes to prove it, they wouldn’t accept that we simply wanted to go to our rooms, and we were turfed out. We headed back into town for a few more drinks, before drawing straws for who would sleep in the car.
I have to say that, despite its critics, the ALS Mobile is a comfy vehicle in which to spend a drunken kip, and when I was woken at 6am and informed the bouncers were gone I was half tempted to stay as I was. On the other hand, having slept in a position only David Blaine would find comfortable, I was back in the hotel in no time.
When the chamber maids came around at half seven and started to make as much noise as humanly possible outside our door we decided enough was enough. Despite the city being full of Welsh fans, we managed to smile sweetly enough to a girl at Belfast’s tourist office, who managed to blag us a room at a smart hotel in a trendy part of the city, without any mental doormen treating the place like a nightclub.
Still with sore heads (and sore everything for me) we headed off to Windsor Park to help sell Happy Days (which work wise was our excuse for going and getting hotel and ferry paid for). Pitching up along side a dog show (shame on the Happy Days editor who rushed straight round to see me after receiving my text message claiming there were dirty bitches nearby), we resumed the search for tickets.
We asked passing fans if any were going, but it was clear that the game was a sell out with hardly anyone passing up the chance to watch the all-British contest. So, as I began to locate the best boozer in Belfast to watch the match in, my phone flashed up with a message…Got ya a ticket.
And after a few more hastily arranged press passes, we were all in. I rushed round to the other side of Windsor Park to collect my ticket from my fellow magazine sellers and ran back round to the turnstiles and got through just in time to see the game kick off.
Windsor Park is a funny old stadium. A bit run down, but for a small country such as Northern Ireland, it’s homely, does the job and reminded me of Roker Park. There’s a new stadium been mooted for a while now, but I think there’ll be a few Norn Iron fans sad to leave if and when the time arises.
The game itself was a rather thrilling affair; with our very own Carl Robinson putting Wales deservedly two goals ahead after Simon Davies had opened, with the Welsh cruising into half time well in front. They could have had a third, too, had John Hartson not fired his weak as piss penalty straight at Maik Taylor. As I headed for a half time drink, the Northern Ireland fans, optimistic having been in good form of late (after beating England), seemed to have resigned themselves to another defeat. It appears watching Northern Ireland mirrors life as an SAFC fan, really. The occasional glimpses of glory to keep you hooked, but the rest of the time they’ll just let you down.
Declining another beer, I headed back up to my seat, which was a good job, as the home side had pulled two back within five minutes. Firstly ex-mag Keith Gillespie pulled one back with a smart finish, before Steve Davis smashed in an equalizer that had the ground rocking. Buoyed on by the fans, the home side surged forward trying to grab a winner, only to be undone by a piece of Ryan Giggs magic.
The winger curled a free kick home, and despite more pressure from the Northern Irish, they couldn’t find another equalizer. It was a good effort, and a great spectacle, and I headed off to locate the rest of the Happy Days crew and have a few drinks, which quickly turned into a lot.
We ended up at a bar that, remarkably, stocked everybody’s favourite beer, which in theory seemed brilliant, but remembering what you were ordering in a round was virtually impossible, considering there were so many of us, all with different tastes. Although some were keen to move on, I was happy to head back to the hotel and have a proper night’s sleep, so, having engaged the shortest member of our group talking to a 6”8 Welsh bloke, I slipped out into a crisp Belfast evening and went in search of some kip.
Having woken on Sunday, the sore head told me it was time to go home. Having consumed some 20 pints over the weekend, with various spirits and a couple of bottles of red wine (it took one of those convince me to sleep in the ALS mobile) along the way, it was a very delicate trip to the ferry, which was aided no end by one of the roughest sea crossings I’ve ever encountered. Back in Stranraer port, we again looked for any relatives of Kevin Kyle (he used to work on the ferry yer knar), but similarly without success.
Having arrived home, I reflected on a rather enjoyable weekend. Having watched a decent game, with ‘my team’ gamely beaten, several drinks drowned the sorrows adequately. It was like awaydays should be. And with various budget airlines making the cost similar to a coach journey to a London away game it’s something I’m looking to do again in the future. In fact the first thing I did when I got home was book a flight for their next game against Portugal.
Lawrie Sanchez’ Green n White Noisy Army…
Andy Fury
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