London Calling

 

Well there’s only one place to start and that’s in Javea:

Can You Hear Us On The Box?

Having a flat on the coast in Spain it seemed silly not to make this a week long trip, which is why George and I found ourselves in Javea on Sunday evening. Funny little place, half way between Valencia and Alicante, but has never been allowed to become over blown as the likes of Benidorm down the coast have. A few years back there was a campaign to alter the spelling to the localised ‘Xabia’ with people spray-painting out signs that said Javea. Now all the signs have both spellings but the locals don’t like recent developments in the area so they’ve got their spray cans out again and sprayed every sign with either spelling. Thing is it makes Javea (and Xabia) very easy to find because the doctored signs are so much easier to spot than any others!

Monday was taken up with general relaxation apart from meeting up with an Arsenal fan living locally. He seemed alright until he took a phone call from someone and started talking about how much he could sell his spare ticket for at the ground. He decided on 200 euros (for a 50 euro ticket). We decided he was a tosser. I’m sorry if you feel differently but fans that sell on tickets for profit are worse than touts – and touts are scum of the highest order. Accidentally lost his number.

Monday evening we settled in at a bar and ended up watching Accrington Stanley v Morecambe. 2-0 to Accrington, who appear to be racing certainties to rejoin the league this summer. And yes we did the milk joke!

Tuesday was what we were there for though. We’d looked at nipping down to Alicante and flying to Madrid but in the end decided to drive it. We had been given directions on how to go cross-country to get to the motorway and after grabbing something to eat set off nice and early. Through the orange groves, round a corner and BANG!!! You know how when you’re driving and a pigeon flies in front of you the aerodynamics of the car sends it over the top? Well no one had told this fat bugger and he got wiped out on the windscreen (which fortunately didn’t crack). We stopped for a second, slightly shocked that we’d actually hit it, and then reassured ourselves that in a country that throws donkeys from church towers an animal sacrifice on the way to the game could only be a good omen!

The drive to Madrid was superb. Whilst most of the journey was on dual carriageways the lack of traffic meant this wasn’t any kind of problem and I’d totally forgotten quite how stunning the scenery is around there. The services are completely different from the rubbish you get in this country and you can actually sit in a nice ‘bar’ and have decent food at a reasonable price. Most of them are family places rather than the chains that run them in the UK and it actually makes it a relaxing pleasure to stop off rather than the essential chore a service station on the M1 is. Having said that about 100km’s out of Madrid we drove through sleet and snow for long enough to text ahead for a weather report!

Four hours after leaving we were in Madrid and the car had been dumped in a car park half a mile from the ground. Nice and early – it gave us plenty of time for a good mooch around and to get a feel for the place. It felt cold, so as we strolled round the ground looking at the various stalls my number one desire was a woolly hat! Now normally when I take a trip abroad to watch Arsenal I buy a scarf or something as a souvenir, but there was no way I was going to buy anything branded with Real Madrid. They are a club that it is possible to despise on so many different levels it seems a shame not to. With Madrid and a Spaniard it’s so much more than just football, but it made it bloody hard to find something to keep my bonce warm!

The match itself was classified as a Category A match by the Spanish, not because they were worried about Arsenal fans per se, but they were worried that’s we’d react to racist chanting from their Ultras! It’s a very strange world we live in. Anyway, there were police everywhere but there didn’t seem to be any kind of trouble going on. Mind you the sight of police with automatic weapons usually has a calming effect – certainly on me! Anyway, I got a hat with the Spanish flag on it to keep my head warm, and as the stall also had tiny little Arsenal badges I bought one of those as well. Since we were outside the Bernebeu I saw a beautiful irony and bought one of her tiny little Barca badges as well. Pinned my two new badges on my jacket and set off for the Irish Bar round the corner where we were meeting Mac and some others. Now whilst I’d be the first to admit my Spanish is slightly rusty I’m sure my mother didn’t teach me any of the words the middle aged man who grabbed my shoulder about 5 yards away used when he was pointing at the tiny little Barca badge. Shrugged him off and a few yards later someone passed gesticulating wildly and using more words my mother never taught me! I decided the irony was probably lost on the locals and (leaving the tiny little Arsenal badge where it was) took off the tiny little Barca badge. Well, I pinned it under the pocket flap…

Had to take a detour to get to the Irish bar as a more direct root there would have meant going straight through the Ultras patch, which seemed such a bad idea! Found what we thought was the pub (just off a main street) and were promptly stopped by two coppers. Basically they didn’t want us to go that way because it was towards the Ultras and we pointed to the pub (20 yards away) that our mates were in. The police absolutely weren’t having any of that and wouldn’t let us go there (technically they said they would arrest us if we didn’t sod off). Ok, so we’re confused. We crossed over to the other side of the main road and phoned Mac, who after asking a few people what the name of the place was assured us we were looking at the right place! A couple of minutes later the coppers had gone and we sauntered over before realising getting something to eat before the game was more important than queuing for a beer in a crowded pub. Quick excuses and we headed off for a couple of massive sarnies before mooching back to the stadium. Arsenal had arranged for some of our stewards to be there and to be honest it’s something I think should be done at all away games.

So in we go and the obligatory search. Proper spread ‘em and get frisked like it always is abroad. George was carrying the bag and was just behind me so I held on for a second when I saw he was being asked something he didn’t understand. Being a couple of feet away I went to translate for him when a copper (full riot gear) grabbed me and said (in English) ‘Up’ whilst pointing at the stairs. Now in my ‘best, most polite, talking to a stroppy copper with an automatic weapon and his hand on his baton’ Spanish I explained my friend couldn’t answer the question and I could help. I don’t remember him saying anything but I managed to translate him grabbing me by the shoulder and virtually throwing me up the first two stairs as meaning ‘No thanks’. Or something like that…

George caught up a few seconds later and the fuss had been about the spare batteries for my camera that were in there. Well, that had been in there before they were confiscated. Oh well, could have been worse and after a break halfway up we got to our seats in the gods. Very high up but pretty central and a great view. Now we’d known it was high up and we also knew that Madrid gets bloody cold at night in February. So being sensible we were both all layered up and ready for a cold night. So were lots of others, and it was funny how many people (like us) were losing a few layers after seeing the heat given off by the row of bar heaters hanging from the stadium roof! Superb.

From before the teams came out the Gooners were in good voice and by kick off I’d already got a text saying that we could be heard on TV back home. And that was despite the fact I think it’s fair to say most fans would have taken a one goal loss if we could score. Or maybe because of it, because there’s nothing like an Arsenal away crowd when we’re up against it – and you don’t get more up against it than Real Madrid away. Not only had no English team won there in Europe, no visiting team had even scored there since Barca turned them over in November.

I’m always optimistic but the one thing that worried me was what would happen if we sat back and let them have possession. I felt we had to attack and seeing the way we set up two minutes was all I needed before turning to George and telling him we’d won this one! The 4-1-4-1 formation worked perfectly and the much-maligned Gilberto denied Zizou any chance to play in the area he causes so much damage. And with Thierry playing close in front of the midfield suddenly every one was a candidate for running past their defence and they didn’t have a clue where the next surge was going to come from. Cesc was doing what he does best, getting the ball in a crowded midfield and somehow creating space to play in. I could go through the whole team and name every one of them.

But let’s not forget the fans. I’ll bang my (our) own drum – we were superb from start to finish. After the absolute jubilation of the goal a chant of ‘Arsene Wengers’ Red and White Army’ went up which I swear lasted 20 minutes. And you know it’s having an effect when you spot players glancing up at where the noise is coming from. Also, I’m sure M Wenger himself was impressed by our multi-lingual abilities. When we saw some of their fans starting to leave the chants of ‘Cheerio’ were quickly changed to ‘Adios’! Even kept in for 45 minutes after the game the chanting continued with the loudest one being ‘We’re not going home’. It was getting a bit silly and then eventually when they did let us out we all had to leave down one gangway at the edge. Absolute madness…although if you watch the match there’s a band of the Real logo on plastic at the front of the right hand side (looking at us). Let’s just say that most of it ended up being ripped off and taken back to London in lots of bags! Well, considering they switched off the heaters as soon as the match finished people had to do something to keep warm…

To be fair when we got outside the streets around the ground had been cleared which made it even easier for bands of Gooners to group up and head off to celebrate a very famous victory. As we walked off we saw someone driving a courtesy car from a garage in Camden. He stopped at the lights and it turned out he hadn’t exactly mentioned to the garage that he was nipping off! Top man.

We didn’t have a hotel in Madrid and the plan was for George (who wasn’t drinking) to drive a little way and we’d stop at one of the b&b’s on the way back but when we finally left he decided to take a chunk out of the journey for the morning which is how we found ourselves back in Javea around 4am! With beer in the fridge. And a Peter Cook and Dudley Moore dvd to watch.

Straight after lunch the next day (!) we went into a Barca bar in Javea to watch the chavs. The owner took one look at our Arsenal shirts and assumed we’d be supporting the chavs. I asked him if he had supported Real the night before, and he understood. Not only did he understand but when I showed him the Barca and Arsenal badges (the tiny little ones that he hadn’t even noticed) and told him I’d worn them both at the match last night I think he wanted to adopt me!

There was a chav fan in there. George spotted him from behind the moment we walked in. His wife had kindly removed the bolt from his neck for his night out but apart from that he was pure Shed End. Didn’t really talk to anyone (or anyone to him for that matter) and I almost felt sorry for the guy as the owner put the Barca club song on loudly when they scored. Almost. Two great nights for English football!

Two other quick things. We were in a bar later in the week and there was an English family in there. They were from Halifax but were all Liverpool fans, except for their 8-year-old son who was a proud Gooner. Top kid! Also, on the Friday we went into a local Irish bar for breakfast. There were a group of middle-aged English people getting Spanish lessons…from a Dutchman! Irish bar, Spanish lessons, English students, Dutch teacher. Welcome to Europe.

Blackburn.

Was flying back then. Came down to earth with a bump when the first text message I read was the result.

Come On You Red(currant)s!