The Diary

19 July 2003: What this column did on it's hols! (Day 5)

Sorry for the tardy entry today, but following yesterday's game, we spent rather more time than we envisaged in Odense town centre, consequently, I'm only typing this now. As I sit at the PC, hammering the old keyboard, there's a great day going for us outside, scorching weather, and a church bell summoning the faithful to their devotions somewhere - a bit like the Hawthorns on a matchday, but with hymns and a sermon thrown in for good measure.

So what did we get up to yesterday, then? To be quite honest, I've travelled with our football team abroad on many, many occasions, but yesterday had to be one of the most memorable experiences of the lot - and, the latter part of the evening apart, all for the right reasons. It all started the other day when our good Danish friends Iva and Gitte (That's the correct spelling this time!) chucked out invites for some of us Baggies to join then at their place for a meal and a few beers prior to the OB game. Naturally, that was an offer us hungry Baggies couldn't reuse, so after meeting up at Ryan's Bar in the late morning, we grabbed three taxis and headed on out to Gitte's place. I have to say that they really did us proud; their apartment is situated in a block of flats in the town centre, no graffiti, and definitely no nasty smells on the staircase, unlike back home. Once there, we were introduced to their charming pair of sprogs (er - sorry, their names elude me at the moment, although they were absolutely fascinated by my digital camera!), and with bottles of beer thrust into our willingly-receptive hands, we awaited the spread. When the food appeared, about half an hour later, I reckon our mouths must have dropped about six feet; masses of roast pork, potato wedges, a vegetable stew affair, meatballs, enough pasta to keep the Italian army going for years, another cheesy-potato dish - all rounded off nicely by still more beer! Right now, I'm frantically trying to remember all those who were there; us, of course, Sauce, Long Haired Mick, Al The Phantom Piddler, and a father and (grown-up) son combo whose names I've temporarily forgot. Later on, we were joined by yet another leading-light in the OB Supporters Club, plus family and children.

Sorry, have to finish now, have to move to our other accommodation. More when we have the time to do it?

Now where was I? Oh yes, I called a rapid halt to my last offering because we had to move to alternative accommodation pretty sharpish. Nothing we?d done to upset our hosts, I hasten to add; they were about as sorry to see us go as we were to leave, but the problem existed because we?d only been able to secure five days stay there at the time of booking. Our old Premiership promotion bedfellows Man City were in town over the coming couple of days, and their followers had grabbed those precious rooms before we?d managed to thrust our noses into the trough, so the owner of the Skibhus arranged an alternative for us in the middle of town, adjacent to the railway station. Very handy for those essential late-night sessions ? the Skibhus was an outlying sort of place, and taxi fares back were horrendously expensive ? but our new accommodation was essentially a youth-hostel, which would have been fine had ?Im Indoors and I been about thirty years younger! Any road up, I had to call a sudden halt to my journalistic musings because the hostel?s reception closed at twelve, and the only bus going there on Sundays left at ten-thirty; I only discovered this at 10.25 because ?Im Indoors bawled this info down to me in a panic-stricken sort of voice while I was in the process of writing the previous offering, hence the sudden truncation of my short piece. I had hoped to send further reports once in town, but actually doing that proved rather more problematical than anticipated for a number of very good reasons, which I won?t bother you with.

Returning to the previous day, then, on the Saturday of the OB Odense game, we were, around a dozen of us Baggies, all plonked quite happily in the apartment belonging to Ivor and Gitte, our Danish hosts. As their two small sprogs played Grand Theft Auto on their PC, we scoffed and imbibed to repletion ? as I said to Gitte at the time, shove masses of booze, pork and carbohydrate down willing Black Country throats, and they?ll be your friends for life! ? and pleasantly batted the Albion-OB Odense breeze as we did so. Amazing how, when football supporters gather, they can so quickly find common ground. Bloody bostin?, you might say. How many Baggies supporters, I wonder, would invite around a dozen Danes into their homes for a similar pre-match repast, having only clapped eyes on them for the first time three days beforehand, and in a pub? Not many, I suspect. Once we?d noshed, and I?d recorded the occasion for photographic posterity of the GD variety, it was into those taxis once more for a journey to OB Odense?s spiritual home. Once there, the first thing that struck us was the sheer modernity and neatness of the place, which was slightly bigger than the Bescot Stadium in terms of capacity, around 16,000 souls, I believe. Much to our astonishment also, there was a considerable stewarding presence at the turnstiles enforcing a ban on spectators bringing their own refreshments into the place; the evidence came in the form of hastily-abandoned drinks bottles by the entrances, and a search on entry. Strange that they weren?t in the least bothered by my camera, though! One consolation; the feared segregation didn?t happen, so at least we were free to join our hosts for the duration of the game, although our presence in the midst of the OB faithful was questioned by one of these fluorescent-topped functionaries towards the end of the first half; a couple of sharp Danish words from our hosts put a swift stop to that sort of nonsense.

It?s a feature of these pre-season friendlies that any potential rivalry between the two warring parties is quickly put on the back-burner, so no-one there even batted an eyelid when we Baggies took up residence next to Ivor and Gitte, plumb-spang in the middle of the home end, right behind one of the goals! At least our vantage-point gave us a unique insight into the matchday rituals of Danish footie supporters, which were not that dissimilar to ours. My goodness, if noisiness and fervour were ever made an official adjunct to the beautiful game, then this lot would surely have represented their country at it; for the entire 90 minutes their entire enclave became a booze-strewn, scarf-twirling, clapping, chanting and singing place of homage to their heroes in the royal blue stripes. During the course of the game, several all-too-familiar songs were aired by the home crowd, a fair proportion of which were in English, e.g: ?OB HERE, OB THERE, OB EVERY FLIPPIN? WHERE!? (bowlerised version!) plus the lyrically-safe but familiarly-tuned: ?You are my OB, my only OB, you make me happy when skies are grey??; others, performed in Danish, were real raves from the grave, much to the amusement of Long-Haired Mick and myself. I remember first singing one of these gems in particular, which went to the tune of ?London Bridge Is Falling Down?, around 1967, the object of this musical abuse being our dysfunctional near-neighbours? ground! Another that stuck in my mind was the one that went to the tune of ?Chirpy - Chirpy - Cheep Cheep? ? aw, you know, sung in English, it goes, ?Where?s your??????gone?? (fill in blank as appropriate), accompanied by the rhythmical thump of a big bass drum. As for events on the pitch, although they were being paid handsomely to do it, I began to really feel for our finest, as the weather was scorching out there, the sun relentlessly beating down from a cloudless and wind-free sky onto the sweating perfomers below. Unsurprisngly, water bottles were in evidence every time there was a stoppage, while off the pitch, our followers (and theirs, of course!) followed their example by constantly slaking their thirsts with copious draughts of lager; no irksome rules about not drinking alcohol in your seat in this country! Incidentally, when we informed our hosts that such a thing would have seen us having our collars felt by the West Midlands Constabulary?s finest back home, they simply refused to believe it; according to them, the conspicuous consumption of alcohol is an essential adjunct to watching Danish football, and strong waters are carried ? and drunk! - by supporters in away-match coaches as a matter of course. Furthermore, I was informed in no uncertain terms that if the Danish government were ever damn-fool enough to make such activities unlawful, as Thatcher did to us in the mid-Eighties, the resultant national furore would bring down the offending administration within a matter of weeks!

Although we were the first to draw blood, thanks to that penalty, within a matter of seconds from the restart, Odense rectified the situation thanks to a skilfully executed strike that would have won rapturous plaudits from the TV pundits, had they bothered to show up for an event of such insignificance. Of course, the home side?s superior passing skills then began to exert their influence on the game, and it came as no surprise to me to see them taken the lead later on. They were the better side by far, and emerged from the encounter worthy winners. What did come as a surprise, come the final whistle, though, were the numerous bone-mangling handshakes and expressions of ?good luck for next season? from our OB Brummie Road End counterparts; they all applauded our (somewhat ragged) vocal efforts, and we theirs. Once outside the ground, more handshakes from the locals and more mutual expressions of admiration. Not far from the exit gate lurked the OB equivalent of the ?football special?; as the regular bus service, erm ? wasn?t on Saturdays, there was no alternative but to pile on. Shades of our Anglo-Italian Cup jaunt to Brescia as around fifty Baggies somehow shoehorned into a bus already stuffed to the gunwhales with incredulous locals. Sad to say, that was when I learned of the doings of some of our less-than-savoury followers, some of whom I?d first clapped eyes on when watching the game. Although their visit was a fleeting one ? they?d made landfall earlier that day, were staying the night, then departing via the big silver bird come the morrow ? their quick-fire alcohol-fuelled antics had already made their somewhat pernicious mark on Anglo-Danish relations. I learned later on that during their drunken exit after the game, one of these oiks extracted a bicycle from its rack adjacent to the ground and capriciously flung it over a hedge; as it was, their boorish antics on the bus were also rapidly proving to be something of an embarrassment. What the locals thought of all this, heaven only knows; I just hope they didn?t think we were all of that ilk?

Once back in the town, we had intended to head on out for Ryan?s Bar, but learning that the idiot tendency were also imbibing there, a hasty (and quietly-whispered, lest the dick-heads get wind of our intentions) change of plan was called for. Off we all trotted, then, for a small hostelry about ten minutes distant; nowhere near as capacious as our normal haunt, but pleasant enough; more importantly, the company was vastly more civilised, and it was only the arrival of the live jazz band and its attendant straggly-bearded audience that made us up sticks and move again. Several wanted to eat; unfortunately, by that time, all the noshing-places had ceased serving, so they had to make do with pizza later on. Off, then, to a pleasant pub called (I think) the Christiana The Fourth, where we encountered fellow-Baggie Bryn Jones, surrounded by what seemed to be his attendant harem, around eight female lovelies. Family members and close friends all, honest, but to the uninitiated, it seemed for the world as though our resident intellectual had come out in sympathy with some Middle-Eastern potentate, or something!

By the time we exited that particular place, it was well past the witching-hour; already, my other half had managed to put away more lager than he normally does during the course of a whole year, but the night was yet young. We then decided to pay Ryan?s Bar a visit after all; although our manqu? Dingles were still drinking for England, it was assumed they?d be too far-gone to do serious damage, but just to show how dead-wrong you can be, we hadn?t been there long, when one of their number decided that another in their party really needed a totally-unrequited bath in a nearby fountain. Several little helpers carried their squiffy and incoherent comrade, still chair-bound, to the place where the water flowed, and unceremoniously threw him in; I?ve no probs with that, as it?s a normal Friday night occupation for the locals anyway. What I do have difficulty with is what happened shortly afterwards, which was this: on emerging from his watery grave, the saturated one picked up an empty beer bottle and flung it towards his former tormentors, who were stood in the middle of a goodly crowd of bystanders. Luckily, although the bottle smashed, it did so on the ground; had the aim been better (worse?), the local hospital would have been rather busy treating flying glass injuries for the next couple of hours. Sorry if I?m missing something here, but these people were supposed to be Albion supporters, representing our club? When most rational people put on the shirt abroad, they bear this in mind; what they don?t do is besmirch those blue and white stripes with such antisocial antics. I have to say that when the events related above happened, I was ashamed to be seen wearing the colours. Thank goodness there were locals like Ivor and Gitte around to present the other side of the coin...

Back, then, to the Skibhus, around half-two, and an interrupted sleep. Well, you try drinking in those quantities without having to nocturnally visit the ?facilities?!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index