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Flights had been booked long before the FA decided to decline England’s allocation of tickets for the Euro 2004 qualifier game in Skopje against Macedonia, but obviously we’d go to the match regardless of that. I made contact with a journalist in Macedonia, who agreed to arrange tickets for my friends and I in the main stand, but the word was a large number of England supporters intended to get to the game via Greece or Bulgaria and the locals were happy to feed demand for tickets.

Our flight arrived in Thessaloniki, Greece, via Austria, and through the various England fans networks we became aware of a luxury coach being organised from the main station on the day of the game. It was perfect because we knew we’d be travelling in numbers. The Hotel Rex turned out to be as dodgy as it sounded, but it had its plus points, namely being right next door to a lap-dancing bar. The weather was hot and the beer was cold, so there were few complaints.

The morning of the game arrived and a few faces gathered at the station – we all greeted each other with the usual nods of approval. After a short wait the coach arrived and, as the doors opened, we were greeted by the sight of a naked Leeds lad, clearly enjoying the effects of an early start on the beer and well up for a day of adventure! We then discovered that the ‘luxury’ transport was in fact nothing of the sort – we had a bucket for a toilet and ‘slopping out’ duties had to be shared at regular intervals as we made our way towards Skopje.

A card school was quickly set up on board and the chat centred around who did and who didn’t have tickets – but those without didn’t seem overly worried. The coach was almost full and, as ever, lads from many different clubs were represented: Southend United, Charlton Athletic, Crystal Palace, Chesterfield, us lot from Derby and the naked Leeds United fan, to name just a few. At the Macedonian border we joined several hire cars and other minibuses full of England lads and we all spilled out to stretch our legs and have a beer in the sunshine before setting off again.

A three-hour journey had taken almost five, which meant we were running dangerously low on refreshments, so we asked for the coach to pull into a petrol station on the outskirts of Skopje to replenish our stocks. We bought every last bottle of beer they had and loaded all the crates aboard, before heading off across town towards the stadium.

We’d been told that the driver had arranged a police escort to the stadium, which had been booked an hour before kick-off, so we decided to stay on the coach. A fair few had decided to catch taxis from the petrol station instead of waiting, leaving about 25 of us still on the coach – some with tickets, some without. Sure enough, two coppers appeared to escort the coach as planned and, although we went round the houses to get to the ground, we finally pulled up in the main stadium car park and the coach doors opened.

I’d already phoned the journalist, who was waiting with our tickets and could see me. Then, as soon as we stepped off the coach, loads of Macedonians suddenly surged towards us in an attempt to sell spare tickets – we wondered why so many people had been waving at us as we pulled into the car park. I spotted the journalist as the crowd of locals surged forward again, at which point the old bill seemed to think a riot was about to take place – they quickly cordoned us off, then forced us back on the bus, batons at the ready. Ironically it probably would have kicked off because the locals looked incensed that they weren’t able to offload the tickets they’d hoped to make a killing on. There were about 18 of us who had been forced back onto the coach and a stand-off situation seemed to be taking place. After a little while an interpreter came aboard and explained that the police wanted us moved away from the ground because the crowd had become increasingly restless. It was really frustrating because we were right outside the ground with hundreds of tickets up for grabs just three feet from our bus – including the journalist who was still waiting for me.

With kick-off just 15 minutes away, and on strict police orders, the coach started, and began to pull away. Although we knew there was still plenty of time to get in, we seemed to be getting further and further away from the stadium. I then received a text from our ticket contact advising us that he’d gone into the game, but could I send him the money for the tickets? Yeah, sure mate! As soon as it became apparent that our coach driver had no intention of stopping, let alone heading back towards the football ground, a big row started. You’ll believe me when I say that the driver quickly got the message that he should pull over immediately, but by that stage we were on the Muslim side of the city and there wasn’t a car in sight, let alone a taxi. The coach driver was also in no mood to take us where we wanted, despite our threats.

What happened next was surreal. I can’t recall who took the lead, but everyone got off the coach, leaving the bemused coach driver scratching his head, and headed for a farmhouse. Our progress towards the building was being closely monitored by the farmer and his family, who had been eating a meal in their garden, but who were now just staring at us. As we got closer, one of the lads noticed an old tractor with an attached trailer in the field, and ‘negotiations’ commenced regarding how much the farmer would charge us to borrow it. He didn’t understand a word, though, and the poor guy was clearly astonished at the sight of 18 urgent-looking English blokes wandering onto his land and pointing at his tractor. But in true bulldog spirit, one of our lads reckoned he would be able to drive it. Just imagine the bragging rights if we’d been able to drive back to the match singing “In-ger-lund! In-ger-lund!” on the back of a tractor, I thought to myself! Sadly, a deal was not struck and several police vehicles suddenly arrived, presumably ordered by our idiot coach driver, and we were reluctantly tempted back aboard through a combination of methods. When the offer to take us to a local hotel to watch the game on TV didn’t work, gun waving seemed to do the trick.

At the same time the match would have been kicking off we struck up a loud rendition of the National Anthem aboard the coach, led by the Leeds United lad who had thankfully found his clothes again. Infuriatingly, despite our persistent protests, we were given an armed escort back towards the Greek border. News of the game came to us via text messages and phone calls, but all was not lost, at least the beer bought from the petrol station earlier kept our spirits high. It was also clear that our non-stop singing clearly pissed the driver off to the extreme, which cheered us up a little. At the border we were handed over to the Greek plod, who had arrived in even greater numbers, and escorted us all the way back to Thessaloniki  – even the owner of Hotel Rex was surprised to see us. “You’re back?!” he said, dressed in his string vest with a fag hanging from his bottom lip.

An early flight via Milan was quickly arranged for the following day, which even gave us time to leave the airport for a stadium tour of the San Siro. One of the lads who came with us on that trip still gives me stick about how he’d been to five different countries, seen two different stadiums, but not witnessed one minute’s football during the whole trip. Still, the lads who missed the Macedonia game and travelled by coach with us that day have an unforgettable story to tell. If only we could have commandeered that tractor…

Steve Ramage

We will be doing the usual blogging, blogging and podcasting – all on the Beesotted channel in association with our other channels Football FanCam and The72 Review – as Beesotted travels around France.


With tickets all the way through to the final – assuming England qualify – plus other random games here and there, it’s going to be an action packed month.


You can check our blogs on the Beesotted website.


You can also check our our videos on our Euro 2016 Video page and podcasts on our Podcast page once the tournament starts.