Post by Marky on Sept 15, 2004 14:20:35 GMT
This is what happened to WESTA's mate Drew Lilley in Spain recently.
Arrived Thursday lunchtime, got bus into centre of
>Valencia, then hailed an (incredibly cheap) Joe Baxi.
>Told the driver the name of the hotel, to be met with
>"Que?" "Which street?" How can yer mannie not know of
>this, our 5-star hotel? Turns out the place had only
>opened 3 days prior to our arrival, and was located,
>conveniently, on top of the Novotel and the Ibis...
>You got in round the back, then took a lift to the
>14th floor, where reception was... They were still
>installing light fittings and hammering at early hours
>of the morning, and were most chuffed to have 80%
>occupancy, almost solely due to the game...
>
>Went to Finnegan's (obligatory plastic paddy meeting
>place) then got a TAMB-organised bus to the U21 game,
>meeting a few auld acquaintances (Lorraine), making a
>few new mates (Ian, Jim - nice to see us English
>almost outweighing the Scots on this leg of the trip
>;-)), putting faces to names (Rossy, Scotty Pilmer)
>etc. Illicit smoking and drinking took place on the
>back row of the bus, fair taking me back to my school
>days.
>
>Pre-game involved a local bar-owner seeing us arrive
>and, in an attempt to curry favour, putting on a
>Rangers shirt he's been sent from some Govan penpal he
>has... My pidgin Spanish managed to explain "no somos
>fanaticos de la Old Firm", so he swapped it for an
>Athletic Bilbao one. He also had a statue of Elvis in
>front of his bar, which one of our number tried to buy
>off him. Turns out said statue had already attended a
>number of Primera Liga games, and the landlord had
>photographic evidence of Elvis' exploits.
>
>The game: of two halves, marred by the ref sending off
>one of Bonhoff's Babes just before the break, when we
>were 1-0 up. They then scored from a dodgy pen and two
>dodgy set-pieces... U21 games are great craic, as you
>are invariably within 5 feet of the pitch and can
>harangue officials and opposing players alike. Darius
>piped us through "Doe a deer" and "Flower of Scotland"
>for 90 minutes, and occasionally joined me in a cry of
>"Arbitro bastardo!", which is as far as I can get in
>Castillian. Out of order, however, was one touch-line
>spat which literally was a spat, as some wee Spanish
>loon, no more than about 12 by the looks of him,
>gobbed on Xander Diamond, I think it was, as the Dandy
>was engaging in a bit of handbags with one of his
>counterparts. The police, who were stationed all
>around us ("Er... Por favor, pal, no somos hooligans!
>Somos escoces, no somos ingles...") turned the
>expected blind eye to the kid's expectorating...
>
>The guardia civil then treated us once again like
>ingles at the final whistle, when we were penned in
>then herded out the back end "to avoid trouble". We
>therefore conga-ed our way out, via both corner flags.
>
>Back to Valencia, just as the heavens opened. Those of
>you who weren't there, well, if Friday's downpour was
>like Braga, then Thursday's was like Braga squared.
>Rain bouncing off the pavement. We got back just as
>Finnegan's was closing (d'oh! Mr Landlord - do you not
>want our euros?) so I started pegging it towards the
>main road in search of a taxi. After 5 minutes, I
>looked and felt like a drowned rat, so was most
>grateful when a passing car slowed down and offered me
>a lift. As you do, I did think twice, as it was a
>bloke driving, but presumed that it was merely another
>example of how wearing a kilt opens doors all around
>the world and invites friendliness... Ahem...
>
>First alarm bell rang when he asked me to pull my kilt
>up so as not to get the seats wet. I pretended to
>oblige but kept my sopping wet Royal Stewart (not
>black, saltire or anything else metro/faux-mo-sexual,
>I hasten to add) at knee length.
>
>Alarm bell number two. "Eres soltero?" Are you single?
>No mate, my mujer's waiting for me back at the hotel.
>Oooh dear... "Ah well, if she's safely back at the
>hotel," says my caballero in shining armour, "we can
>have a drink together then". Getting worried by this
>stage...
>
>Three strikes and you're out, so here it comes: "Eres
>grande?" Well, I'm about 1m80... "No, eres grande?" he
>says, gesturing above his lap with both hands as if
>he'd just caught a particularly impressive pike... At
>this point, he had to stop at some traffic lights, so
>I hot/wet-footed it away, leaving him pointing at me
>and doing lollipop-in-the-mouth gestures and making a
>noise like weans playing at red indians...
>
>The not-quite-finished hotel's door didn't work, to
>make things worse, but my mujer (that's my wife, not
>my mother, for those not of a linguistic, ahem, bent)
>deigned to let me in. She, somewhat surprisingly
>considering it was 2am and I was soaking wet, declined
>any lollipop/red indian fun...
>
>Friday, the game. Met up with a good crowd in the
>lobby (14th floor) of the hotel: Harry, Jim and June,
>Dave the Blacksmith with hair like a cludgie brush,
>Rob the baby squid eater and a couple of Partick fans
>whose names escape me, I'm afraid. We made our way to
>the stadium via a series of beer/whisky/gin and tonic
>stops and a leisurely tram ride, the precise route of
>which had been meticulously planned in advance and
>left nothing to chance by my newly acquired drinking
>companions.
>
>Leaving nothing to chance myself, I parted company
>with them an hour before the game to make sure I could
>pick up my ticket from Alison of the STC. Having been
>sent from puerto cinco to puerto zero and back a dozen
>times, I finally found her, got my ticket, then
>realised, just as I was catching up with WESTA Glenn
>and Greg (and pushing into the monumental queue with
>them on the promise of a share of my hipper), that my
>wallet had been lifted. Wallet containing cash, credit
>cards, driver's licence, Swiss ID and, wait for it,
>passport. But not my match ticket, which I was still
>clutching in my hot little hand.
>
>I went back to retrace my steps, just in case I had
>actually dropped the wallet whilst trying to find
>Alison (aye right), and panic and realisation began to
>set it. At this point, someone called out to me,
>asking what was wrong. I think it was the
>aforementioned Harry, it might have been someone I ken
>from back in the day in St Galmier, I cannae really
>mind too well as it was beginning to dawn on me just
>how many objects I had managed to cram into my wallet,
>and hence lose. This Good Samaritan thrust 50 euros
>into my hand, to make sure that I could get back to
>the hotel alright, have a drink etc.
>
>I think it was Harry, but whoever it was, get in touch
>off line and we'll meet up in Moldova/Norway/Minsk/
>Italy/Germany future game and the drinks, meals, malts
>will be on me. I can't thank you enough, as it was all
>I had to my name at that precise point.
>
>Police declaration. Most unhelpful polis I've ever
>come across (and I lived in Paris for 10 years). Was
>doing a magazine crossword puzzle when I got to his
>van and looked most miffed that I'd disturbed his
>evening's entertainment. Wished my Spanish was a bit
>better and ended up filling the form in wrong which
>means my insurance might not work, but whatever.
>
>Pegged it out, got into the game in time to get stuck
>in the massive queue, outside and inside, which
>provoked cries of "what the f?ck, what the f?ck, what
>the f?ckin' hell is this?" which might have been what
>Artour and others could hear on the telly. Someone at
>the front of the queue ended up charging up the steps
>towards our seats and getting nabbed by los Rock
>Steadies, meaning we all filed past quite easily...
>
>Watched game, mind on other (lost) things, so much so
>that a guy next to me asked me how come my head was in
>my hands at half-time when we were actually beating
>Spain away! (He too offered me some dosh to make sure
>I could get a drink after the game. The Tartan Army
>certainly does follow the pay it forward principle...)
>
>Lights went out, followed by a few witty shouts of
>"Time gentlemen please", at which point I escaped,
>knowing I had five credit cards to cancel. At which
>point it of course began to pish it doon... If you
>look up the phrase "pathetic fallacy" in a dictionary,
>you'll see a picture of me, in Valencia, walletless
>and drenched.
>
>Impressions of Valencia: nice enough city, but rated
>behind many others and I wouldn't go back
>there/recommend it to anyone looking for a weekend
>away. Some lovely architecture but some very grotty
>parts.
>
>Recommendations: have your credit card companies'
>numbers programmed into yours and a mate's phones.
>Mate of mine back here in Switzerland got on the case
>for me, God love him.
>
>Questions: I'm sure most of us have at some point had
>something lifted from a sporran. What's the solution?
>For Moldova, I'm thinking of a bum bag around the
>stomach (a tum-bag, if you will. Should be the perfect
>match to a gay black kilt, dontcha think?) underneath
>the Scotland top. Any other suggestions? I might nick
>the "Unaccompanied minor" wallet that my son gets when
>he flies down to see me and has to wear around his
>neck, and stick that under my shirt...
>
>Thanks for reading, and most of all, thanks to Harry
>or whoever it was. I owe you one.
>
>Drew
>
>P.S. Picked up a copy of the local sports rag on the
>Saturday and perused it over my croissant and cortado.
>Thirteen pages about RC Valencia, then they finally
>mentioned the game, for three pages, on page 14 (and
>spent most of their time talking about the performance
>of the three Valencianos in the team). Of course, the
>TA got a mention, and who was there in the photo,
>showing off his back tatt? None other than Magoo... it
>about summed up my weekend...
>
>P.P.S. Jim and June: the card with your e-mail address
>is part of the booty that some little Valenciano rat
>lifted off me. Get in touch next time you're down this
>neck of the woods...
>
