"Re-enfranchised - England at Euro 2004"by Nick Gordon Brown(May 06) |
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Disenfranchised. That’s how I’ve felt as an England fan for most of my life. The feeling started in the 1970s when successive England teams were, frankly, crap. For those still questioning Michael Owen’s status as a striker of genuine international class, I give you Martin Chivers, Allan Clarke and Mick Channon. For those at odds with Sven for his alleged negativity, his determination to fit his most exciting midfield quartet into the starting XI come what may, I give you a succession of managers who couldn’t (wouldn’t) find a way to accommodate the mercurial talents of Bowles, Hudson and Worthington into their squads on a regular basis.
I can reel off the ’70 World Cup Squad, and the key members of most squads from 1980 onwards. But the 70s as a decade ? I have no sticker or coin collections to refer to because we never bleedin’ qualified. Didn’t Ian Gillard get a game or two ?
That was then, this is now
We had a few false dawns, of course. A Keegan-Brooking inspired 5 – 1 thrashing of the Scots at Wembley; a moustachioed David Johnson (I don’t suggest younger readers bother looking up his international career stats) scoring a brace as we humbled then World Champions Argentina 3 – 1.
And then came 1980. Ah, 1980…the year we qualified for the European Championship Finals. The year we exported fully-fledged hooliganism to the international stage. The year a generation of England fans became embarrassed to travel abroad, ashamed of the national flag, and generally bewildered by the morons intent on starting World War Three on the terraces of Italy’s finest stadia. We’d all seen it coming, of course. The seemingly unstoppable rise of domestic hooliganism (and the associated forays into European club competition), the far right’s adoption of the union flag – an international tournament gave both a chance to flourish in the type of surroundings they craved. Foreign soil. For tens of thousands of us, the sense of disenfranchisement was complete. What at club level was a sizeable, unwanted minority, but a minority nonetheless, seemed at England games to be a majority. Beer-swilling neo-Nazis R Us.
Cut to 19.35, June 13th, 2004.
After an eternity spent worming my way into the 2004 model Estadio da Luz (it seems the Portuguese spent so long building the magnificent stadium that they somewhat overlooked the practicalities of getting 60,000 or so people in there across a maze of busy highways), I catch my first glimpse of the ground’s interior. I am momentarily speechless (a rare thing, believe me), and my heart swells with pride.
To our immediate right, a corner of pure blue. Les Bleus are in town, and they are giving it a good old go. But everywhere else – everywhere else – is a sea of red & white, with more St. George flags than I’d ever imagined possible inside one football ground.
As we settle down to the game, we realise there are small pockets of French support amongst the English hordes. However, both inside and outside the ground, and later in central Lisbon, not a hint of trouble, even of hostility. All this despite the game’s ending, about which I suspect you won’t need a reminder. Fans of many different nationalities intermingle, and just talk football – even the English.
How did we get here ?
February 2004
My friend Jim gets in touch. He is offering me tickets for Euro 2004. I know he has been a regular attendee at all manner of big games over the years, including his annual pilgrimage to the Champions League Final, so I am not surprised he has been on the ball here, no doubt on some UEFA ‘super-fan’ database or other. I am equally unsurprised that he has had the foresight to book tickets for a multitude of games…. and that as a Scotland fan, he has chosen to sell on his week one tickets in favour of taking in games when the tournament begins to reach its proverbial business end (not that he misguidedly believes Scotland have a role to play in the tournament’s business end, you understand).
As Jim reels off the list of games for which he can give me tickets (many at the damn reasonable price of 35 euros), he saves the best til last. England v. France. England v. bloody France ! The undoubted highlight of the opening round of fixtures – and two tickets can be mine for the equivalent of £45 !!!! But I don’t bite his hand off. Instead, my knee jerk reaction is to start weighing up the chances of this being a trouble-free game…of Lisbon on that day being a trouble free town…of the tournament as a whole being trouble-free, and of a man in an England shirt spending a week at Euro 2004 without being on the receiving end of a Portuguese truncheon.
I choose to put this rampant paranoia to one side. I am being invited to a festival of football in a country I’ve always fancied visiting, and it looks affordable. Like many fans (especially those of Nationwide – sorry, Coca Cola - clubs), I have witnessed the recent emergence of a new generation of fans you wouldn’t take home for tea. Like many fans, I am convinced England’s trouble-free Japorea jaunt was primarily due to the prohibitive cost of the trip. But like most fans, I am hoping that finally, the decent fans are becoming a clear majority at England games, that the FA and government have done their job with the banning orders – and that I’m damn well going to Portugal.
March 2004
I have sounded various mates out about joining me on the trip. None even mentions a fear of trouble, but work and family commitments make it impractical for most at this notice. Pete, a fellow member of the self-employed, can make it. We select our games. We start off with England and France, then stay in Lisbon for Sweden v. Bulgaria on the Monday, before moving on to Porto for Germany v. Holland on Tuesday. Tickets for the first two games are 35 euros each. Less than I paid to watch a group game at Euro 96. Only 100 euro tickets are on offer for the Porto clash of the (ex-) Titans, but figuring it’s a mouth-watering prospect, and that in terms of overall budget we’d have happily paid the higher price for the England game, we go for it.
Tournament holiday diary
Saturday June 12th
With our evening flight from Birmingham having been switched to a lunchtime departure, we arrive at Faro at tea time and, after the all too predictable car hire confusion, set off to Albufeira. Once there, we drive around the pretty old town, chuckle as we see a huge Bristol City St George flag hanging from one apartment, then realise our hotel is in the built up bit down the coast.
Check in is a little glum, the Portuguese having just blown the opening fixture. We meet one other England fan at the bar, a West Ham wide boy who has paid £300 for his match ticket for the French game and has yet to work out how he is getting to Lisbon. He has been over a couple of days, and recommends this place called the Strip, where you can get “a steak ‘n’ chips that’s the nuts, proper, knowotimean ?”. We know what he means but choose to opt for a cheap local restaurant off the beaten track.
Sunday June 13th
Much of the land visible from the lengthy Algarve – Lisbon motorway seems entirely uninhabited. Scarves of many nations are spotted flying from windows on the quiet journey – quiet, that is, until we reach the toll booths at the end of the main drag, which sees a traffic jam absolutely rammed with travelling English fans. The heart begins to beat just a shade faster. We arrive at our hostelry early afternoon, check in, and head straight for the centre of town.
At first it’s a smattering of blue French shirts here, a gaggle of England fans there. However, once we reach Rossio Square, it hits you. The English are everywhere, St George flags advertising every corner of small town England adorn every available statue. The sun shines, the beer flows, the songs are sung lustily. I hover between pride and paranoia. Pride in the sheer numbers, paranoia fed by years of following England from my living room, hearing the lurid tabloid tales of how just one minor incident, one tiny misunderstanding, led to a riot. I recall the images of Charleroi four years previously, and pray that the sunshine mood isn’t spoiled by flying chairs and water cannons.
Thankfully we don’t hear “No Surrender to the IRA”, but passing French fans are being serenaded with chants of “if it wasn’t for the English you’d be krauts”. There may be a historical case for this, but the tone / language used, especially when repeated in that witty little ditty about the RAF shooting down German bombers, demonstrates that for many English fans, the international festival of football is still the perfect environment for a bit of entirely irrelevant war / empire – related bragging.
We adjourn to a nearby pizza-pasta bar for a bite to eat. It is full of England fans of every possible description. A pair of 60 something couples walk in sporting Three Lions t-shirts. We christen them ‘Saga on Tour’. Next up it’s a bunch of sandal-wearing, map-clutching types we refer to as ‘National Trust Barmy Army’. These, we conclude, are not prawn sandwich eaters, simply football folk who want to follow their national team abroad and have decided not to be intimidated out of doing so. Most of all, though, the restaurant is full of people like us. Dare I say it, normal football fans.
The Metro ride up to the stadium is buoyant as we swap tales with fellow fans. Most comment on the positive atmosphere, and hope it stays that way.
Out of the Metro and into a part-indoor / part-outdoor shopping centre in the shadow of the ground, where you can buy warm beer from coffee shops. We’re concerned by small pockets of Burberry-clad types doing the ‘no surrender’ routine for all they’re worth. One such creature makes a slightly drunken effort to intimidate some French teenagers, but is calmed down by his mates. The moment passes – and it has to be said the atmosphere is very much one of pre-big match anticipation and excitement, rather than one of “when / where will it kick off” tension.
The match itself has been reported on a thousand times, as has the fact that there was no trouble. I can honestly say that the volume of England fans present, and their for the most part exemplary behaviour through the day, especially at the point of heartbreaking defeat, so exhilarated me that I could even stomach those events in injury time (maybe partly because I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren I saw Zidane in the flesh). Outside the ground and back in town, it seems other England fans feel the same. Maybe the atmosphere is different in out of town campsites or on the late night trains back down to the Algarve, but I suspect not. It is hard not to conclude that the battle against hooliganism (or certainly stopping hooligans travelling in numbers with England) is being won. That we, the everyday fans, have got our national team back.
Monday June 14th
Yesterday Lisbon was red and white, today it is yellow and blue, as the Swedes make it their own. One of the themes of our week begins to emerge. Fans of the Northern European teams are, language / shirt colours aside, pretty interchangeable. The Swedes hang their flags up in the squares, they drink and sing loudly – even chanting good-naturedly at some passing Bulgarians “you’re shit and you know you are”.
Now we really begin to get into the much-vaunted festival of football spirit. Perhaps the English, like the Scots a long, long time before them, are finally beginning to reach the conclusion that it is a party worth joining rather than wrecking.
We make our way up to the Jorge Alvalade stadium. As with the Estadio da Luz, Sporting Lisbon’s new home is an architecturally impressive, shiny new pleasuredome. Fortunately tonight’s crowd is somewhat smaller, so whilst once again entrance to the ground is somewhat disorganised, it is relatively quick. I don’t know if it’s already Swedish school holidays, but we note the large number of families amongst their support. We take photos of them in their viking hats and wish them luck.
We are seated in a predominantly neutral area near the Bulgarian corner. “BULGARIE – UNITY !!!”, they chant remorselessly. It is hard not to get a little misty eyed, concocting tales of how this small, often downtrodden country is finding pride in its football team, of how the number of fans who have followed the team to the other end of the continent is proof of its new found economic strength. This is most likely all bollocks, but they are as passionate and entertaining as any other fans we witness.
For the best part of an hour, the Swedes are battered by the Bulgars. In particular, Martin Petrov on the left wing torments them (he later makes Mark Lawrenson’s team of the tournament, no less). “They need to score whilst they’re on top”, we opine, shortly before Ljunberg’s against the run of play opener. Just before the hour mark, Henrik Larsson (supported in the stadium not only by some 10,000 of his countrymen but also by a fair smattering of Celtic fans) notches a quick fire double. The Bulgarians collapse, the Swedes go on to score five. I spot the Sweden / QPR flag legendary to those of us who frequent Loftus Road. Result.
How often is the opening round of fixtures at a major finals dominated by dreary nil-nils ? We’ve seen eight goals in two games, with one of the most dramatic injury time comebacks anyone can recall, and an early contender for Goal of the Tournament from King Henrik. Phew.
Tuesday June 15th
The drive up to Porto is very straightforward, the car parking and subsequent search round the unmarked cobbled streets for our ‘Pensao’ (B&B) less so. Later than planned, we join the expected orange hordes for a quick pre-match drink. We’ve all seen it on TV at successive tournaments, but it is genuinely impressive when witnessed in the flesh.
Every single Dutch fan wears orange. For some it is a simple t-shirt adorned with a slogan such as ‘Totaal Voetball’, for others it’s the Nike replica top, while some brave souls go for the full Andy Pandy styled garb (orange clogs, natch).
By comparison, the outnumbered Germans, many favouring club shirts / banners over national ones, seem somewhat dull, especially given the monochrome nature of their strip. (Related footnote : I’m glad Umbro and the FA have decided all England away strips should now be red, and that they are the ones launched in tournament years – it makes our following look so much more effective than a bank of white would).
For the trip to the stadium, we opt for the brand new metro over the bus / taxi options. We soon realise it’s brand new as in finished last week. The tell tale signs are everywhere – a complete lack of advertising, random wires hanging out of walls, employees in spanking new uniforms explaining to confused locals how the ticket machines work.
Once on the packed platform, it soon becomes clear there is a delay. A helpful employee tells the Dutch (in English, of course) that hooligans have been fighting further up the line. First black spot of the week (but some relief it’s not the English…).
Then another dark moment. A couple of anonymous looking blokes who appear to be English but are fluent in German try to engage some German fans in banter about “your Jewish problem”. Fortunately the Germans, despite their “Essen crazy boys on tour” t-shirts, don’t seem too interested. One of these characters then screams some abuse in German at one of the hapless Metro staff. The target doesn’t understand what he is saying – the Dutch fans do, and seem shocked. Later we are to read that English voices were heard during the brief Dutch-German hostilities further up the line. If the hooligans don’t shame us, there will always be some far right nutters to take the role over…
More chaos getting into the ground, partly as the Dutch fans are inexplicably having their orange foam pint-glass shaped hats removed prior to entry.
The match itself is low on real quality but high on excitement. The crowd make up is somewhat similar to the England v. France game. Very few Portuguese are present, as Germans and Dutch have snapped up every available ticket, meaning large unsegregated areas of supporters. We witness no real hostility, though it is clear many Dutch have a pretty low opinion of all things German.
Back into central Porto after the game, and as with Lisbon on the previous nights, it seems the majority of fans must have opted for out of town accommodation.
Wednesday June 16th / Thursday June 17th
Our experience of live matches for the tournament now over, we shop til we drop in Porto, entertaining ourselves by watching the Greek and Spanish fans arriving in town. We then start the long drive back south.
Our overnight stopover is the mediaeval village (and tourist favourite) of Obidos. We find a bar showing Portugal’s must win encounter with Russia, and end up spending the evening drinking with a group of Bristol City fans. These boys are serious England fans, with years of proud service following England home and away. When tickets to games are limited, they’re deservedly at the top of the FA queue.
Naturally the subject turns to trouble – the lack of it thus far at this tournament, the likelihood of it at later games, in Germany 2006 and so on. The consensus is that the battle is being won, but not without an almighty struggle.
The BCFC boys recall their experiences at Euro 2000, when they spent 5 wonderful, trouble-free days in Eindhoven, but within minutes of arriving in Charleroi for the Germany game could sense trouble. They hope a similar flashpoint doesn’t occur this time round, then comment on the irony of the fact that the manager of the bar in which we are sitting has made us all welcome, but has apparently banned some Swiss fans (so much for neutrality).
The next morning we walk the village walls, take snapshots of the Croatian fans in this most unlikely of settings, then head off for Faro and home.
Back home
The media, not surprisingly, made as a big a deal as it could about the trouble in the Algarve. After what we witnessed in Lisbon and Porto, it’s hard not to subscribe to the view that this is more a seasonal “Brits on holiday who can’t handle their beer” problem then a football one.
From what we have seen, the English people who have been in Portugal specifically for the football have not only attended in numbers that dwarf those of any other nation bar the hosts, but have behaved just as well as (in some cases better than) their rivals. The red & white banks of shirts and flags all but match the Dutch for sheer spectacle, the vocal support second to none.
Let’s not get carried away. England has a hooligan problem. It no doubt took a hell of a lot of work by all the relevant authorities to ensure certain undesirables hellbent on causing trouble were not able to make it to Portugal. Hopefully that work will have been ongoing through the build up to Germany 2006.
When you see Croatian and Bulgarian fans wearing t-shirts depicting aggressive-looking bulldogs clutching pints of beer, you know where the inspiration has come from, and that we have years of shameful history to undo before we are truly welcomed without fear. What cannot be denied, however, is that the real fans are, for want of a better term, fighting back. They want to follow England passionately, but they also want to enjoy the colour, the verve, the spectacle of the tournament as a whole. And they want to be seen by their hosts as the majority not the minority.
Now, where’s that German phrase book ?