I have been lucky in life, a journey that has included watching games at five World Cup Finals. Curiously those five editions of the self coined “greatest show on earth” rendered me merely six matches, with the 2018 edition in Russia only the second time I had a ticket with my name on it, and paid cover price for the two matches I watched in St Petersburg. The European Championships have largely passed me by, and aside from a ticketless day in Innsbruck when Russia played Spain at Euro ‘00, my only action from this competition came years earlier at Beero ‘96 when England were hosting. Utilizing my aunt’s home in Hove, my great chum Martin and I invested in tickets for seven matches in the group stage, plus I was lucky enough to get Andy’s second ticket for a day at Wembley. I kept a diary of the whole trek, something I recently rediscovered, and given the proximity of the delayed 2020 edition, there has never been a more appropriate moment to type up my notes, so 25 years on, here are the unaltered recollections of our Euros, with one of the days written by Martin from our rented home on the edge of Sherwood Forest.
SATURDAY 8th JUNE ‘96
“….and we’ll all go together,
To pick wild mountain thyme,
from among the purple heather,
Will ye go, lassie go”
Euro ‘96, Beero ‘96, call it what you will, est ici, in your face, boof, now!
Ritualistic snapshot/keepsakes opportunity taken at the Border on the A68, despite a distinct lack of tartan for the journey down through Engerland. Still stanno tutti bene as they say down Ancona way. The trip, the cottage, the weather, they were all just the ticket for the opening bat. We’ve landed upon a grassy knoll in the middle of rustic England. A great pity then that Grassi didn’t turn in one of his chances at “Wemberlee”, still how we did titter, “stonewall pen”, listen yee not to what the pundits are saying down here in the southern reaches.
Final thoughts for this Toblerone day must surely belong to Brian Moore whose water did not let him down!
Newark on Trent checked out tonight, a surprisingly nice town, it has potential for future escapes.
Day one is done, here we go, here we go, here we go
SUNDAY 9th JUNE
A postscript to yesterday’s shenanigans at Wembley, someone had to say it, and they did! Barry Davies, the man who wrote a Swiss obituary of pluck and pride at 1-0 down, with 10 minutes to play, ooops Barry! He saved the best soundbite from the highlights until last “in 1966 we started badly with a draw against Uruguay”.
Pinch me, am I dreaming, there are no clouds in the sky, hello!
The first match was watched “in the flesh” as they say. Denmark v Portugal, on paper at least, a technically superior game, and it didn’t let us down.
There were Danes by the bucket load. Travelling through the streets of Sheffield it was akin to a red and white invasion, a Viking conquest, the replay! Had Denmark been abandoned and transferred in its entirety to South Yorkshire?
The Portugese were well represented too, “Poorchewgal” as they sang, but they were hideously outnumbered by the happy go lucky Rolligans. They truly had moments of naff ritualistic stuff going on, but none of them cared, and the atmosphere was all the better for their eccentric; hand clapping, much jumping up and down, as well as swaying from side to side in a coordinated fashion, hell these fans were having fun:
“We’re sailing up the river,
We’re sailing down again.
That was a jolly good song,
Let’s sing it all again”.
You just couldn’t make this stuff up!
Alas on the field of play, Portugal had the monopoly on sexy soccer, with Rui Costa a standout, with awesome skills, however Vitor Baia’s error left them playing catch up. They did so magnificently, albeit after all the silky soccer it was a Danish error that allowed little Pinto to equalise and score his first ever International goal. It was a great game, here’s hoping the rest of the games are equally attractive.
Andy, Nancy and his dad all pitched up tonight at the cottage, accommodation with more nooks and crannies for snoozing than your average sleepover venue.
MONDAY 10TH JUNE
Scotland will enter the arena this afternoon (oddly 25 years on, we debut on a Monday afternoon too!). The mood in the Hill House Farm cottage is upbeat. A mute inevitability exists, coupled with that Scottish desire to spring a surprise is also bubbling near the surface., We waved Andy and Fred off with hope in our hearts as they sped in the direction of Villa Park. Our plan today was to check out Lincoln, with Andy’s American girlfriend Nancy in tow.
There had been pots of rain overnight, a thankfully occurrence as the early morning bird song seemed a tad restrained. An excellent shout for the light sleeper, more rain in the middle of the night, please!
Martin continues the Lincoln experience;
“Come on the Jocks”! Not ten seconds into the Holland game (we appreciate this should now be Netherlands, but it never was back in the day), and already some Englishman was trying to make us believe he was completely behind the “Sweaties”. “course, we’re gonna shaft ya at Wembley”, he continued “no offence or nuffink”.
It seemed strange that after floating up and down scenic Lincoln during the day-could this town be any hillier?- The first banter we should receive should be from a Cockney!
“I could ‘av gone to the game y’know”, he said. “My mate was offering my ticket, but I said naw. It’s just gonna end in trouble innit?”.
Despite the lack of any response to any of this nonsense, he just kept going, “yeh, I know 15 lads, they’re just going lookin for trouble. ‘Course, I’ve done the thug fing, but it just ain’t worth it izit?”
Finally this English slopehead left us alone, and while I drank Buds a bit quicker than usual- football will do that to you- Jim had the wonderful task of fending off Nancy’s inane questions.
Meanwhile, up on the TV, Scotland were having their moments, once about halfway through the first half, McAllister should have scored, as well as at the start of the second half when we managed to keep the ball away from the Dutch for about three minutes! Sure, the Dutch had their chances, and they probably could have been two up after ten minutes, but lots of resolute defence from the lads kept them out, complete with a small “hand of god” incident from Johnny Collins on the goaline.
When the full time whistle went, 0-0 almost felt like a victory.
“But, like it’s not really a graceful game to watch, yeh?”, asked Nancy of two gleeful Scots! Frankly my dear, who gives a damn!
TUESDAY 11th JUNE
Game two from our roster today, a much anticipated trip to Nottingham for Turkiye v Hrvatska, the novice hurdlers at Euro ’96, both debuting, Croatia impressively at the first attempt at qualifying.
The weather outside today is decidedly damp and miserable, complete with a muggy feel. Andy, Fred and Nancy hit the trail this morning for London Town, next to be encountered on that red letter day, June 15th (three days before the 2021 edition of the re-run 25 years on!).
We spent the entire day, indeed game, dodging squalid showers in what I viewed as a hugely disappointing, rundown, ramshackle Nottingham. Myth had built a quaint picture of this city in my mind, but perhaps it was the weather too (judgement is deferred until we return on Friday, but on first viewing, it’s a crap city!).
Russia v Italy was a game of beauty, watched in a pub, it ebbed and flowed from end to end. It looked like the best game of the competition thus far. However the Bendick Bar was not the best venue to watch this beautiful game, full of lowlifes from your worst nightmare.
A dry spell greeted our departure for the City Ground, where imminent shed loads of Turks would be on hand to turn this corner of England into hot bed Istanbul for one, albeit damp night. Earlier in the day we had encountered a knot of Turks in the city centre singing in the rain on cue to the many throngs of TV crews following their every move. The Bendick Bar had also paid host to our first encounter with Croats. Tall, thin, muscly, short haired, with that straight out of the army look in the fashion choices.
The game was a slight disappointment, the occasion got the better of the teams. Turkey played like Scotland, loads of passion written all over the display, just lacking a cutting edge. Perhaps they deserved a draw, they had put enough running into the occasion, not to mention some nice interplay, but they were toothless in the final third. I don’t think Ladic in the Croatian goal had a save in the entire match.
It became difficult to be objective amid such a Turkish Carnival of passion, but for me Croatia only played in fits and starts, Davor Suker just wasn’t at the races. The goal when it came was a rare piece of footballing magic from Padova’s Goran Vlaovic, with a run from the halfway line that saw him round the keeper, and boom! The time on the watch was 87 minutes, Turkey were literally stuffed.
I went in the hope of a Croatian display of beauty on the road to victory, they scarcely deserved the win, but that’s what Goran achieved. My Padovan friend Andrea would be proud that his club provided a player who scored Croatia’s first ever goal in an International Finals competition. I am hoping for better things from Croatia against Denmark on Sunday.
WEDNESDAY 12th JUNE
A rest day from calcio!
A tad more endearing weather for the troops, although curiously cooler than yesterday’s muggy rain soaked madness.
Rightly it was a late kick off today, but once up and running the Gridiron got its first outing at a park across from Hillsborough. We endeavoured to see the disaster memorial but came up short of finding it (?!), but we did get Colin (Marshall) a ticket for Sunday’s Denmark/Croatia game once he joins up with us.
Meadowhall was given the once over, rounding off with a trip to the cinema to see Spike Lee’s “Girl 6”, not a classic, but solid entertainment from the great man.
Tomorrow is the Balkan derby at Newcastle, a game that was first on my priority list when the draw was made. By hook or by crook we won the day, and St James Park it is manana, in probably a half empty stadium, but a battle royale between two ex Eastern Bloc rivals, roll on domani!
THURSDAY 13TH JUNE
An ode to Hagi and Stoichkov, the two heroes of USA ‘94, together on a field of greenery in battle for the last time? This is my driving force behind my desire to be in Newcastle today. Gosh it’s almost halfway home heading north!
Newcastle is the heart and soul of Northern England, a land of proud people, always portrayed as passionate for all they hold dear, and in the football world that would be the Toon Army.
Today two neighbours of the former Eastern Bloc, Romania and Bulgaria do battle (curiously I had never been to either until July 2015, when I visited both on the same day as Inverness were playing on the southern coast of Romania on the Danube at Giurgiu, just a bridge away from Ruse in Bulgaria!). These were nations struggling to come to terms with opening up of the iron curtain a few years ago. These two teams carry ambassadorial credentials wherever they go, both did their respective countries proud two years ago at the World Cup.
Bulgaria will have the chance to knock out Romania today. My sympathies fall with the men from Sofia, purely based on the greater entertainment in 1994, but let’s just hope it is a good game.
Nick Hancock did a little TV skit on Bulgarians in Scarborough on their apparent lack of numbers. Those he did find, according to Nick, had a penchant for shopping! A humour angle doubtlessly, but the Bulgarians we spotted in Newcastle were obviously happy to pander to clique, as they were caught red handed shopping in Durham not more than two hours ahead of the kick off.
In the end, two thousand five hundred Bulgarians, and four hundred Romanians were at opposite ends of St James Park, middle aged men, businessman-like largely, but they added to a colourful derby atmosphere, even if just short of 20,000 were inattendance.
We didn’t have long to wait for the opening goal, when the enigmatic Hristo Stoichkov broke free to score from close range. This laid down the challenge to Romania, and they spiritedly battled and probed the Bulgarian rearguard, and they “apparently” were denied a certain equaliser when a cracking shot from Munteanu flew down off the bar behind the line, but with no Azeri lino, it wasn’t given. The highlights will tell all tonight….. (It was an absolute gem of a goal cruelly denied). Bulgaria held on to the end and perhaps just shaded it on the day with a display of greater team unity, snuffing out the threat of Hagi with a load of hard work. Romania are out already, although we will see them again versus Spain.
On the road south we caught the commentary from Holland v Switzerland, where they finally broke through the Swiss to go top of our group. It was yet another colourful spectacle in Birmingham, highlighting what a friendly championship this was turning out to be.
FRIDAY 14TH JUNE
The day before the big one, Tillicoultry, here we come!
The sun was out once more, and strangely Nottingham seemed an altogether more endearing place. The Turkish kebab tent was doing a roaring trade, and it seemed rude not to drop by for a spot of bib and tucker.
The excitable Turks were in bouyant mood always looking to charm the good people of Nottingham with their exuberant fervour. The Portugese were always in and around the centre, in much smaller groups, going about their business quietly, never trying to mingle, just keeping themselves to themselves, but inside the stadium they immediately rallied to the cause. We met a rather huge Norwegian chap en route to the City Ground, wrapped up in his Nation’s flag, joining the party, and why not.
The match itself was a disappointment. Turkey’s only ambition in the two games thus far was to spoil. They succeeded on the whole, but it’s not a good watch. The free flowing football from Portugal was thwarted, but thankfully Couto found a way through to score and clinch the win.
Later on, incredibly Italy lost to the Czech’s, and with pubs closing at 11 here, we’ll have to have a night out in Newark starting at any earlier point before we head home.
SATURDAY 15th JUNE
This morning there is an air of boyish excitement, mingled with a degree of apprehension as the early start south to London commenced. Failure was not contemplated, Scotland were going to do it!
After picking up Andy and Nancy, we headed for Scots Corner in London, the time honoured take over of Trafalgar Square, where anything up to 3,000 of us had gathered. The local pigeons were flying around somewhat miffed that they’d lost their territory for a day. We enjoyed the spectacle for some time, alas with my need to drive, partaking of a bevvy was scuppered. Andy and I headed off to Wembley, leaving Martin to field Nancy and find a bar where it would be safe to watch.
The fans of both teams mingled and chatted en route, all very reminiscent of prior matches at the tournament. The media had been hyping the whole game as a potential flashpoint, but this seemed out of proportion, thankfully there would be no trouble.
The walk up to Wembley is more spectacular than the ground itself. We met Murdo MacLeod, saw Alex Smith and actor Tony Roper, as well as a couple of cultural photo exchanges with a group of Czech’s excited to be going to this encounter. Kenny Campbell spotted my Caley shirt (I wouldn’t wear a club shirt now, but we were a wee team then, and it was a winner, with slaps on the back and handshakes from random passersby) and came running across, which was brilliant to see him.
The game itself will be documented elsewhere, suffice is to say we were perhaps just one kick from happiness. Alas it was not to be, another sporting tragedy in the pantheon of Scottish failures. It just felt we were perennially losers, sadly. I know Martin had a difficult time fielding quietly anti Scottish chat in the bar they had been watching, and by the time we rendez-voused, his anger hadn’t abated very much.
Wembley is a creaking old football arena. Perhaps it was once the pinnacle of any English player’s career to play on it’s hallowed turf, but for the fans turning out to watch, it’s in a desperate dilapidated state. Have I been spoiled by my visits to the San Siro or the Olympic Stadium in Roma? Either way, the walk towards the twin towers is a better experience than being inside! (Andy and I’s next match together was a few months later in the Azteca, Mexico City, an awe-inspiring venue).
The numbers didn’t come up for Scotland, upon the final whistle we had come up short of the trees, and we weren’t hanging around to applaud another plucky loss. One moment changed the game’s direction irreversibly, and whether the ball moved just as Gary trotted up to hit it is debatable, but the moment was shoved down our throat and some as Gascoigne scored a wonder goal moments later. 2-0, we were dead in the water, no way back.
The menacing presence of “casuals” and police on the streets afterwards made the notion of being Scottish a dangerous thing for a short time, but we sped out of London deflated, but it had been an incredible experience. The half-time period will live long in the memory, where the music, coupled with the Tartan Army who became the entertainment. It was both hilarious and absolutely superb, you could see the English fans smiling and laughing at our dance moves to Tequila!
Thanks to Andy for this rare opportunity to be at this game, it didn’t go our way, but it will never be forgotten.
Sunday 16th June
It was a scorching hot day that greeted the morning after the day before, and understandably troop movements (we are three now having brought Colin north from London) are understandably sluggish, heavy of heart after yesterday. The more chipper, sunworshipper me did manage to pack in a few rays on the steps of the cottage ahead of setting off to Sheffield, Denmark v Croatia would hopefully lighten the mood.
The Danish fans were over again in huge numbers, and the park across from Hillsborough was a riot of red and white, not a patch on Trafalgar though. 0-0 at the turn, a cagey game wasn’t what we wanted, or expected. Croatia had shown the greater composure, but even that domination couldn’t have prepared us for the second half, a 45 minutes that would blow Denmark away and knock them out after two games.
Davor Suker’s penalty conversion seemed to remove the shackles, as soon “sheer delightful football” took over, as Kenneth Wolstenholme would say, as Croatia both entertained and toyed with a mesmerised Danish outfit. The crossbar was shaken amid a riot of near misses, and then an exquisite 30 pass move saw Boban head home from a Suker cross for the second. Having narrowly missed lobbing Schmeichel from the halfway line, Suker was not to be outdone, and he scored an outrageous third with an extraordinary lob on the run. It was a goal that will live long in the memory (25 years later it is still one of the best goals I have ever seen), and I jumped so high I found myself in the aisle!
Having floundered in the opener v Turkey, Suker showed his class and just why Real Madrid are paying £7m for his talent. Croatia are through, they could do some damage to the big boys, good luck to them. Roll on Wednesday when they bring the curtain down on our Euros with Portugal at the City Ground.
MONDAY 17th JUNE
Rest day number two from football, and after four games in four days it is nice to have some calm away from the spoils.
Are these Championships any good? I am sure when we are back home a conclusion will be easier to find, but when you are in the middle of it all it’s easy to get carried away by the hype.
The Gridiron was on view again today in deepest Sherwood Forest near the Major Oak! Good fun was had by all. Moments to relax and get away from it all prior to going to Laxton for tonight’s tucker with some Pool chucked in. The weather these last ⅚ days has been incredible.
The football bandwagon reaches the group stage climax over the next few days. Colin heads for Birmingham for Scotland v Switzerland, while we take the road slightly north to Leeds.
TUESDAY 18th JUNE
This was our sole visit to Elland Road for our one peek at a desperate Spain, needing a win against the luckless Romanians. Colin was dropped off in Nottingham in full Tartan Army regalia, off to watch a hopeless task? Little did we know the emotional rollercoaster the evening games were about to put us through.
We ended up in the stadium area way too early, but found nothing much to keep us amused, and the sun had sadly failed to show. Elland Road is dominated by an enormous stand opposite the main stand, and if it wasn’t for this especially “Grand” stand, this would be a pretty ordinary venue. Our solitary “cheap” seat tickets of the tournament saw us down in the third front row near a corner flag, with the advertising boards hiding the goal line at our end.
The action was never dull, especially in the first half it was frenetic. Spain had taken the lead against the run of play when a cruel deflection took the ball into the path of Javier Manjarin who thumped it home. Romania were already out, but playing well, perhaps more relaxed and with no little amount of panache, and deservedly they equalised through Raducioiu. The game became more fractured in the second half, and despite Spain needing to win, this had developed into an end of term affair.
The substitutions eventually relit the fire for Espana, who discovered a rich vein of forward momentum finally. The Spanish fans, present in good numbers, rallied. They were a distinctly middle class bunch, with more of a family feel than any other visiting fan base we’d come across. The occasional “Espana, Espana” was all they could offer by way of support, meanwhile the small band of Romanians relentlessly shouted “romaneeyah”.
Amor shared the love with the winner just six minutes from time, an undoubted relief, but it had come from a Romanian error, a lapse of concentration essentially, when they were rattled by an off the ball punch on Daniel Prodan which left him pole-axed. None of the officials saw it, but I did, and it left a bitter taste given the Spanish strode forward and scored. Harsh on Romania, especially keeper Prunea, who’d had an inspired afternoon. The Romanians were vying with Scotland for the “plucky” tag.
France got revenge on Bulgaria for missing WC’ 94 with a 3-1 win at Newcastle, a result that saw both the Eastern lands in this group head home early.
After a remarkably swift trip from Leeds to the cottage, we had time to make some grub before settling down to watch England v Holland, just for the hell of it. Scotland v Switzerland playing at the same time wasn’t an option in England. (These were the days before multi channel options).
It wasn’t really in the script, but when it arrived the dream of qualification became a surreal possibility. A bit like being 2-0 up v Morton at Meadowbank many years ago, Martin and I had been planning our trip to Celtic Park at half-time. Here we were re-arranging our trip home on Saturday, in our minds we were going to Liverpool to take on France! Alas neither plan would come to fruition.
“What a header, what a cross, what a goal, what a night, what a support”, one, two, three, four nil, Scotland leading 1-0, qualification was on. It lasted ten beautiful moments (it was 16 actually!) Colin wouldn’t be heading back tonight, plans were at an advanced stage of trashing the fridge! But the cruel twist, boof Kluivert, a half hearted attempt to save by Seaman, 4-1. Didn’t the Dutch just know that that goal was seeing them through, they started to slow down and toy with the ball. England, comfortably leading, winning the group joined in, just toying with it too for an actionless last ten minutes or so. It was so frustrating and yet one more goal for Scotland would do the trick
As luck would have it, Wembley finished before Villa Park, so we were switched there to watch the agony that was injury-time, with a stubborn Swiss outfit refusing to cough up another goal. When the whistle blew, the players dropped to their knees, they’d given everything, but we’d rediscovered the art of going out on goal difference. “Every Scotsman in the world can be proud tonight” quipped our English commentator, but somehow the cottage TV remained in place, even if the temptation was to throw it out the window!
Plucky, brave Scotland, oh god we are walking cliche of ourselves, this is always the way. Well we were fed up being plucky and brave, but the age old problem of scoring had once again come back to haunt us, and that damn penalty miss was back in the mind. We had no concept of dreaming last night, and yet with our brief moment of believing, the fall this time felt shattering.
It was a very late night collection of Colin at Nottingham railway station, which isn’t just round the corner. He had survived the trauma, and was remarkably philosophical about it all, after all we had actually won the game.
Emotionally drained I dribbled off to bed well after midnight, with “what a” swirling in my mind “what a header, what a goal, what a haircut, what a Bacardi” (gosh Bacardi, haven’t touch that stuff for a while!), what a plonker Brian Moore was, the hysteria was rising in England, we were headed soon, just in time perhaps.
WEDNESDAY 19th JUNE
Another morning of chat regarding scornful near misses over breakfast was the underlying feeling, but unlike after Wembley, there was a growing sense of pride. Scots we shall be today as we return to the City Ground for one last time around, our last taste of Euro ‘96 live, with the tasty conclusion being Portugal v Croatia. Here’s hoping they won’t ham up a draw, with Portugal perhaps needing a win to try and avoid Germany, who play Italy in the last game before the curtain comes down on the groups.
The Croatian coach Blazevic showed contempt for the fixture by resting the majority of his stars. Portugal had been consistently the class act in the group and they played an honest game with a view to winning the group, and were 1 up after five minutes, courtesy of Luis Figo, part one of blowing the Croats out of the water. Joao Pinto scored a second before the break, it was terrific stuff, with the neutrals all caught up in the Portugese’s slick play, while harbouring disgust at Croatia for denying us the chance to see Suker, Boban etc one last time. Blazevic maybe regretted his decision and introduced the duo in the second half, and leading 2-0 Portugal withdrew Rui Costa and Paolo Sousa, resulting in a more concerted effort from Croatia, but they remained unmotivated. Substitute Domingos rounded off the mauling with a third.
That night we watched Italy join Scotland on the scrap heap, both missing crucial spot kicks along the way, and they exited in an even more cruel last minute fashion. Just when it looked as though Russia had helped Italy squeeze through, the Czech’s scored in the 89th minute. Our dream of qualifying had lasted just 12 minutes, Italy’s merely three!
Eight games in eleven days, madness or what? It had been the chance of a lifetime that we grabbed with both hands, and we enjoyed just about every minute of it.
*************************************************************************************************
We spent the last couple of days chilling and doing touristy things, including another trip to Meadowhall for the cinema. On speeding out of England, the build up to the Spanish game had seen the press write some truly horror show stuff, we were appalled and disgusted. It’s the press, and the commentators more than the fans that cause the angst.
JUNE 2020
One final footnote to all the above, both Portugal and Croatia ultimately flattered to deceive, banished in the very next round. Italy can take some consolation that the two finalists came from that group. I watched the semi-final and final in the Abbotsford Bar in Edinburgh, where a wonderful work colleague and friend, Judith (sadly long departed now) was working as a barmaid. Two German lads were watching the semi-final versus England there and they loved the support for their country, they were back for the final, only to discover they were the only two cheering for the Germans versus the Czechs. They had the final laugh as Germany won the competition.
Football Adventures with James Rendall 