Twenty three years! Ok an additional year of agony has been added due to the pandemic, but for those who left dismayed in St Etienne after being mauled 3-0 by Morocco in 1998, despite that embarrassing score, no one would have thought it would have taken so long to get to a Finals tournament once more. I guess it doesn’t matter how we got there, but “technically” we didn’t qualify for the Euros via the traditional route of winning or finishing second in a group. The Nation’s league offered a backdoor, and pitted us against “crack” (sic) sides Israel and Albania, in a mini group which we won, and inexplicably despite finishing second Israel got a second go, versus us again! Two successful penalty kick competitions later (the first the full national side have ever taken part in) we were qualified. Whether via the backdoor or not, who cares, Scotland finally has a chance to use the feel good factor of a finals competition to unite a nation, as more often than not, even those with limited interest in football will watch these occasions.
The nostalgia of the days when it almost felt like our given right to qualify (1974 to 1998 with few hiccups was the purple patch) is high right now. I wasn’t in St Etienne in the rain, thank goodness, but I was at the penultimate finals match we played in Bordeaux, the last time we scored in such an event. It was up there as one of the days of my life, certainly the best International experience, save when World Champions Italy were in the Faroe Islands, and more recently when Serbia hosted Croatia. These games were utterly compelling, wonderful experiences, but when it’s your own country involved, surrounded as I was in Bordeaux by great friends, well that makes it all the more special, and it’s time to delve back to that giddy day in France.
The story starts for me in Ancona, Italy. Scotland were playing in the opening game of the 1998 World Cup, kilt at the ready, days to remember were about to unfold. However, unless you are super confident there is merit in the notion of safety in numbers when wearing a kilt. One bloke on the Adriatic coast, a long way from Paris in a kilt, potentially looks a tad silly. I took it off for the journey across the country to Roma, where I was meeting up with my oldest chum Andy, who was headed directly south from Paris after the game, following a narrow 2-1 loss to Brazil. We spent a few fabulous days in Roma, well away from the hordes in kilts or any other weird world cup get-ups, dropping into a bar to watch the occasional match, or in the case of Italy v Chile, watching it in the tight streets of the Bologna area of the Italian capital at my friend Donna’s flat, where an Italian goal sent everyone to the open windows to celebrate with neighbours and watch the cars going by tooting horns. It was a compelling 2-2 draw.
Andy’s friend Alison was posted at the British Embassy in Roma, and we were very fortunate to be staying in her lovely apartment in the embassy grounds. This building had apparently been commandeered by the Nazi’s in WWII, where allegedly Hitler had swam in the pool. We did have the opportunity to take a dip there too, but not out of nostalgia for him!
One weekend night Alison, Donna and the kilted duo were out for drinks in Piazza Del Popolo, a favourite spot for Romans to partake of a libation. It was a cracking night, but as the evening was winding down someone appeared with a football, and what two Scots in kilts can resist a kick about in a grand Piazza? A penalty shoot out between Italy and Scotland ensued with the goals being a statue and my jumper! My wallet managed to find a way out of my dress sporran that night, thankfully not a lot of money was lost, but turning up at the Carabinieri the next morning in Piazza Venezia to regale tales of the loss for insurance purposes, got a lot of heads turning, and the policeman’s note taking slowing down to the point I am sure it was binned the moment we left with the necessary piece of paper. The kilts were a huge success in Roma, we ended up calling ourselves Martin and Martin as the number of times we would hear “aaagh Scozzese”, which sounded more like the famous film director of a similar name! Random hangers on didn’t just want a photo taken, they would even come for lunch with us et all, it was all very bohemian and refreshing, hanging out with blokes in kilts was a cool thing to do.
If the kilt had been a positive boon in Roma, upon arriving in Nice for the night train to Bordeaux, all seemed well, until….. more soon. I am unsure how long we had before the night train, but all we really did was cross the road from the station and head to a lovely restaurant to get our one proper meal of the day after a long trip up and along the Italian coast on a train. The restaurant was quite quiet, probably not quite the French eating hour, and as a lovely steak meal was finished, the sleepy atmosphere turned as hundreds of England fans poured out of the station, a good number occupying every available table around us. Sat down, chair tucked in, no one was going to notice the kilts, but when we asked for the bill, where have you ever been where it’s not dealt with at the table? We were required to go to the cashier, who conveniently for us, not, was almost as far from our quick getaway to the station as it was possible to be! We gingerly stood up, walked through the throngs of England shirts, paid and scampered. I doubt any of them were noticing, caught up in beer quaffing and their post beach fighting with Tunisians in Marseille chat. That part of the day was oblivious to us at that time, thankfully perhaps. We still hadn’t reached the days of immediate news on your phone etc.
The night train along the French Riviera would stop frequently and more Scots and Norwegians would pile on. The chance of catching any shut eye was minimal, drinking competitions would break out amid our quiet, calm chess playing, frequently photographed as we were dubbed the “intellectual” Tartan Army by some lad who was already worse for wear! We decided to avoid drinking, as the next day was going to be undoubtedly a bit of a session, but watching the hungover Scots traipse off in Bordeaux, while the drinking victors the immaculate Norwegians merely dusted down their red tops, the scene was getting set for an extraordinary day.
As to who was in Bordeaux before us I am unsure, Gary and Tina maybe met us as they were staying there. However, soon after arriving we were a veritable throng with some old primary school pals Derek and Sean amongst them, lads I hadn’t seen for years, and even longer now! David Luno was there, an American dude, a friend of Andy’s from Mexico as well as a red faced, red haired Partick Thistle fan Graham who was originally from Glasgow, but sporting a Mexican shirt, as he lived there too. Red Wine was bought, a lot of it and I can’t be sure it wasn’t purchased from a garage shop! It was cheap plonk (if you can get such a thing in the home of the Claret!) undoubtedly, but spirits were high, the banter had started, who doesn’t want red wine for breakfast on the day of a Scotland game abroad!! One of the early transactions that took place was Andy finding a fellow Scot with one too many Bordeaux tickets, swapping for his one too many St Etienne briefs, as oddly the Scottish Travel arrangements for the Tartan Army had issued each fan with two tickets for just one game. This swap meant I was going to the match, which was absolutely brilliant, but alas we didn’t all have tickets. Gary and David watched the game in a bar with Gary especially deserving a mention for letting Tina have the ticket they acquired.
We dotted around catching the atmosphere, Gary and Tina knew the lay of the land and guided via a fan park in the city, which was empty at that hour. Bordeaux was a sumptuous city though. Lunch was undoubtedly taken, and then the considerable march out to the stadium. Norway and Scotland are bound by common history, especially in the Northern isles, and there was nothing but a mutual respect/party atmosphere throughout the day, it was as if carnival had come to Bordeaux.
The game itself is largely a blur, Craig Burley scored at the far end from where I was, and the Scottish fans went absolutely berserk. Amongst the reshuffle of places when the dust had settled I ended up seeing Jah and Serp, (both called Jim too in real life) who were chums from my Meadowbank days. The game ended 1,1 with the second half seemingly tense from memory, but a point gave us a chance as all we needed to do was beat Morocco and Brazil would take care of the Norwegians. Exactly where the Scottish cocky belief comes from is a mystery as to this day as we have still never got out of a group, but on that night, with wine swilling round, anything was possible.
Post match, we were all together once more, Sean’s internal “it’s time to eat” clock saw us hang around a corner restaurant, where a steak in a baguette was certainly a good alcohol soaking agent. It was a good location, many bars were there too and both sets of fans mixed and were having a ball. I have a vague recollection of Andy not being overly happy with Mexican Graham post match, but it soon wore off. One lad would run out into the line of stopped cars at the red light and put his Scotland flag on the windscreen of any vehicle being driven by a girl. He would only remove it if the girl gave him a kiss! How we all roared, but in these much altered days from 1998 even, you wouldn’t get away with that sort of thing now.
Periodically throughout the day discussions turned to where we might bed down for the night. Baths, floors or bathroom floors were the only real option, but despite the wine, my sensible head somehow won through. I think you do tend to almost drink yourself sober when on an all day session and I decided I would start to make tracks back towards Italy, with the idea of jumping off the night train at Montpellier as Italy were playing Cameroon there the next day. I got on the train at Bordeaux, but every seat was full, as were the majority of the corridor. I squeezed myself into a patch of floor right beside a swooshing door, saying bye bye to whoever came to the station with me, Andy was there for sure.
Montpellier was off the plan very quickly as the day of giddy joy, wine and excitement had seen the most comatose sleep of my life on moving transportation, and when I finally woke up it was due to the sheer volume of people stepping over me at Marseille! I decided to stay on until Nice, then recalling it was potentially full of England fans, I got a local train across the border to Ventimiglia. A little quiet time by the sea on the beach was thought to be the best way to ease the fatigue, but thankfully despite the red wine, I must have slept off the hangover. Alas through the mountains into Italy, drizzle welcomed me, so I bought a ticket for the next train to Genoa, picked up my suitcase from the left luggage, and just continued onto Milan where I was booked for the night after, surely they would have room for me for an extra night. They thankfully could accommodate me, and I had arrived in my room just in time for the first of the double header with Chile playing someone then Italy v Cameroon, or vice versa. Time for a shower, watch some football, go and get something to eat, worry about enjoying Milan the next day. Well, I did have a shower, and the football was on, but I can’t tell you anything about it as I woke up at 4am on top of the bed having seen not a jot! The tv was still on! The giddy days of Roma, and the thrill of Bordeaux had officially knackered me out, but I wouldn’t have missed a minute of it all. Those were days to remember.
One footnote to the brilliant day in beautiful Bordeaux was the local newspaper used the entire front page to thank the Scots and Norwegians for one of the best days in the history of the city. It really was an extraordinary day, and I am glad we had that opportunity. I couldn’t do half of what we packed in that week, let alone that day now. Good luck to Scotland at the Euros, it is just such a pity so few will be able to watch in the stadia, and that it is a “home” event, but given the virus, perhaps that has worked out well as can be expected, and at least some lucky fans can add atmosphere. Don’t leave us waiting another 23 years, Canada 2026 would do lovely, thank you very much. Come on Scotland.
Football Adventures with James Rendall 