Hamburg 1983.

Well it’s been a while coming but about time I got round to doing another of our little trips away to watch the mighty Red White and Blue Army (that’s Green and White Army to those who have been travelling since we beat England 1-0).

The qualifying for the European Championships in 1984 must go down as the most disappointing near miss of all time – think 2008 and double it. In 2008 we had got our noses in front but knew all the big boys were lying in wait and to win in either Spain or Sweden, having already tanked both of them at Windsor, was always going to be a tall order. For the qualifiers in ’84 we had already beaten the big bad favourites, West Germany as it still was, at a never to be forgotten night at Windsor thanks to a belter from Ian Stewart after being run ragged early on and we knew if we held our nerves we would be on the way to the Finals. The Fatherland were up last but we only had to keep ticking along against the other teams in the group, Turkey, Austria and Albania and we could go to Hamburg knowing a win would see us home and hosed.

Having beaten Austria 3-1 at Windsor in our second last game all we needed was a draw away to a very poor Turkey team and then beat the Krauts – granted they hadn’t lost a home qualifier for a generation but in those halcyon days if a win was needed then a win it was. It was with this in mind that our idea to head for Hamburg as a group, via Amsterdam for a spot of tulip watching, was now heading towards a great climax – a pity however that Bill Bingham took one of the real head staggers of his spells in charge and went for broke in Ankara. Away from home and only needing a draw (we still had to win in Hamburg) he played Stewart, Whiteside, Hamilton and Brotherston all in the same team and left McCreery on the bench when we needed to flood the midfield and stifle the hell out of the kebab-eaters. The rest is history of course and we went down to a miserable and shattering 1-0 defeat which meant we not only had we to beat the Germans but do it by a cricket score. With hindsight and a quick look at the starting eleven, Jennings, J Nicholl, Donaghy, McElhinney, McClelland, Stewart, Whiteside, O’Neill, Hamilton, Armstrong and Ramsey ( a player who was sadly under used for us) that was looking as likely as the French Army arriving first in Hamburg in 1944.

The Turkey result had a disastrous effect on the travelling support – I would guess at least 50% - 60% of those who had intimated that they would go now lapped it and stayed at home. By Christ did they make the wrong call!!! A week away with some of the biggest eejits I ever met, a few days ‘relaxing’ in Amsterdam followed by the sights/pleasures of the Reeperbahn, plenty of good rocket fuel beer and then torturing the Germans by inflicting what I believe is their only ever home and away defeat in qualifying and it all added up to one of the legendary trips I ever remember (and by God I’ve had more than a few of those).

Having been to Spain together and survived the crossing of the Alps both ways (we never did see Julie Andrews or the Von Trapp family) Davy, Andy and my good self thought we were now the real deal and were proper descendants of Phileas Fogg. We believed had Captain Scott taken us three and not Oates, Wilson and Bowers on his ill-fated South Pole Expedition of 1912 then he would have got there long before that cheating bugger Amundsen and would have been back in Blighty while the Norwegians were still eating their huskies which they had sneakily taken along against all manner of fair play!

So it was left up to us three to organise – the trip via Harwich and the Hook of Holland had gone ‘fairly’ smoothly on the way to Vienna therefore that was put forward as the accepted route. There was no jumping on the Easy Bus from Aldergrove to Schiphol along with Stelios, necking a couple of £3.50 dumpies of Kronenbourg on the flight, blagging your way down to Central Station in Amsterdam as usual and be settled in Stones Bar or the Grasshopper with a wee spliff less than two and a half hours later. No it was the long haul again via Larne-Stranraer, train to London, on to Harwich where the overnight ferry took you to the Hook of Holland followed by another train journey to the ‘Dam. Also as the game was being played in November there was never likely to be much need for the Ray Bans and Speedos therefore we were going to have to wrap up tightly.

Our party of nine met up on the Friday and to make the long and hopefully uneventful journey – this lasted precisely until we reached Stranraer. Our party included the three old stagers, namely Andy, Davy and moi, two more from Ards, Morgy and Big Ebbs along with Steelo, Scrap, Duffy and Moondust. Jesus Christ is sounds more like the cast of a Christmas pantomime than a bunch of fellas heading off to watch N Ireland play.

To get very serious for a change it breaks to my heart to know that two of that party are no longer with us. Scrap (Andy McKeague) I had only met in Spain in 1982 but he will forever be one of the funniest men I ever met – I could tell a few stories and in particular a couple from the bus to the first match against Yugoslavia but I don’t think anyone who was on the bus will really need reminding (or will likely forget for that matter!!).

Ebbs (Edmund Arnold) to all his friends grew up straight across the street from me in the Scrabo Estate and more than twelve years after his tragic death following a fumes leakage in Shorts is still sorely missed by EVERYONE who had the pleasure of knocking about with him, worked with him or just shared a beer. They certainly threw away the mould when they made the big man and I am proud to have had him as one of my closest friends for well over twenty five years.

RIP to the both of them and this article is as much dedicated to them as it is a recollection of our trials and tribulations (and no shortage of laughs) we shared along the way and in this trip in particular.

As mentioned earlier we met up on Belfast on the Friday to catch the Larne-Stranraer boat then the overnight train to Euston. Quite a few beers had already been taken and Steelo was doing his David Blaine impersonation with a deck of cards on the way over (first tip of the trip – never play cards with him) and everyone was getting acquainted. Unfortunately when we got onto the train his acrobating got a wee bit too much for the hector on board and the local constabulary were called – despite pleading our innocence two of the party were escorted off the train and we wouldn’t see them again until days later. Not a very auspicious start but at least we still had two of the ‘travellers’ on board and we were only going as far as Amsterdam so it should really be a piece of piss. Famous last words.

Unfortunately we had to spend the thick end of a day in London and if you have read any of my previous articles this is a pleasure somewhat akin to spending a day watching Kajagoogoo live at the Odyssey (but then again?).

Our train for Harwich left Liverpool Street Station which is in the heart of the City and about as exciting as Ahoghill on a Tuesday night (apologies to all my good friends in Ahoghill). Now of course things have changed.

If you ever arrive at Liverpool Street Station and are choking for a beer then go out the main exit and there’s a Witherspoons on the right hand side which opens (and sells beer) from 07.00 and does a mean breakfast fit for a king for £3.75. On the other hand if you have a couple of hours to spare then come out of the same exit and turn left and head straight down that main road towards Shoreditch (or be lazy and take one of the many buses/taxis) whereupon you will very quickly come across the delights of the Axe, Browns and the Sports Bar to name but three which should bring a wee smile to your face. Just a suggestion mind.

We endured our day in London and made our way to Harwich where one of the security/immigration guards on hearing we were heading for the ‘Dam gave us a once over of the pros (?) and cons of the place. None of us had ever been there before (I’ve since made another twenty more sabbaticals and know the place like the back of my hand) therefore we were indebted to a couple of English supporters who were off to Luxembourg for their game. We had a good chinwag with them on the way over and as they were also staying in the ‘Dam they were appointed as our unofficial tour guides for the next day or two.

Unfortunately not everyone spent the overnight journey nattering – a few quick visits to the free duty free (if you get my drift) meant that a few of our dwindling band were slightly over the eight by the time we reached Holland. On arriving at Central Station, Amsterdam the dwindling band was about to dwindle a bit more and to my dying day I will never forget what happened next.

Moondust, whom I had only met for the first (and it may have been the last) time on this trip, was one of the ones who had imbibed slightly too much and when the doors of the train opened he staggered/fell out of the train – unfortunately it was the wrong side of the train and he fell head over shit onto the tracks!! Now for anyone who has not travelled across Europe these trains are slightly different/bigger than the ones that choo-choo through Bangor West every half hour – he must have dropped about seven/eight feet onto the tracks and he was lucky the 08.57 Amsterdam – Vladivostock was running a few minutes late or we may never have seen him again!

As it turned out for the next couple of days we thought we never would see him again. As mentioned earlier it was the middle of November, it was baltic, around nine in the morning and we needed to find somewhere to stay. Moondust had somehow gathered himself and his belongings together but our only concerns were following our English tour guides in pursuit of a bed and a bit of heat. We didn’t realise than poor Moondust hadn’t been able to keep up (he was still blocked and most probably concussed) – his next recollection is wakening up in the back of a taxi in Rotterdam which is about an hour away on the bloody train so God alone knows how he got there. Don’t think anyone (including him) will ever know.

So now were down to six, we hadn’t even got as far as Germany, it was only Sunday morning and we were about to book into Bates’s hotel for a couple of days.

Being complete selfish bastards with not a thought for Moondust we headed of in tow with our new found English mates and headed onto the Damrak to find somewhere to kip for a few nights. For anyone who has been to the ‘Dam in the last 20 years this meant a quick left and down past the Grasshopper and Bob was your uncle. Unfortunately in those days the half of Surinam was hanging about the first couple of streets, tooled to the eyeballs and ready to sell you anything you wanted and would probably have gutted you for a shilling if they had the chance. I must admit it was quite intimidating and you avoided those couple of corners at all costs.

So we made our way out from the station (still believing that Moondust was in tow), slipped past the Grasshopper (it was Sunday morning and the Second Surinamese Amsterdam Pentecostal Church must have been rammed that day as there was no sign of the chaps on the corners) and made our way down the Warmoesstraat where we were led to believe there was a plethora of cheap hostels (see it was even hostels in those far off days).

However before we reached our destination we had to pass about four or five Sex Shops and even though it was still shortly after nine o’clock on a foundering Sunday morning the sight which greeted us in those windows was a great eye-opener especially to naïve young troops from Ards and the Shore Road.

Probably around this time Samantha Fox and Linda Lusardi were the big things on Page 3 and that was as risqué as it got but, although not an avid Sun reader myself, I don’t ever remember seeing them posing with Shergar and Lassie!! Remember this was ’83, Shergar had won the Derby in ’81 and had gone AWOL in an apparent bid to unite Ireland however I believe they were looking for him in the wrong place. I think he had a day job pleasuring young ladies in the ‘Dam, having his photo taken doing it and being seen in every photo in every window in the ‘Dam. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

So having swept up our eyeballs we made our way down to our abode for the next few nights – the legendary AVC. You have not lived unless you have stayed in the AVC in the ‘Dam.

We moosied in and asked the girl behind the bar if there were any rooms for a few nights – at this stage we didn’t quite know how long we were staying as we were now three men down (Moondust as far as we knew was breaststroking it around the canals at this stage) and were going to dig in hoping Andy and Scrap would head straight for the Red Light District when Cracker and Taggart decided to let them go. No mobiles in those days to organise a rendezvous – just let everyone work on the theory that we would end up in the hairiest, sleaziest, cheapest gaff (which we had), everyone would work out the common denominator and everything would come up smelling of roses.

Rooms (and I use that word extremely lightly) were available but weren’t ready just yet - don’t ever recall her saying they were being cleaned as I don’t think they ever have been. There was only one thing for it – get the beers in, have a game of pool and wait for the Ice Age to pass outside before we were able to do a bit of scouting about and hopefully stumble upon a heavily concussed Moondust somewhere in the Red Light District.

After a few excellent beers we were led up to our room. When I say led I must add it was like scaling the North Face of the Eiger – for those who have been in Amsterdam the stairs in these places are an absolute nightmare.

Time for a little education here. In the far off days when Holland was a sea-faring world power (yes I know it sounds ridiculous) Amsterdam was one of the main ports and land was at a premium (most of the land now where the Bobby Moore houses stand has been reclaimed) therefore the rents weren’t charged by the size of the buildings but by the width of the front so every building was built as narrow as possible and therefore as high as possible in those far off days before the Poles arrived and built them ninety stories high. The Dutch must have been an unlucky bunch in those days as while we were laying claim to America, Australia and a large part of the Caribbean they were taking over Surinam and Molucca!!

Just while Surinam is in the mix I must educate the sports buffs amongst you by informing you that the first coloured chappie ever to win an Olympic Gold swimming medal hailed from that same country. Step forward Anthony Nesty – the proud winner of the 50 metre butterfly final in Seoul in 1988 who beat the all –American golden boy Matt Biondi by the width of a cigarette paper, something which his relatives who now frequented the corners of the streets in the ‘Dam knew all about. Who said their bones were too heavy to swim?

Having finally reached the top of the stairs we were shown into a dorm which looked like Hurricane Katrina had just hit on its extremely slow trip across the Atlantic to New Orleans. Still it was somewhere to stay, cheap and nasty – just what the doctor ordered. The girl behind the bar told us that breakfast was available in the bar next door and it was my first experience with the chef from Hell. Having squirreled away our valuables we headed down and the place was bunged – most folk were either blitzed or high as kites and our man Flint in the kitchen was joining in the fun.

The breakfast in the AVC remained stable for the first clatter of years I ever visited it – you got three fried eggs, three baps, a wadge of jam and a cup of tea or coffee. Sounds a bit dodgy after a night on the razzle but the three times Michelin star winner in the kitchen was no dozer – you were able to have your breakfast anytime up to 10 o’clock in the evening!! The only thing was he smoked his brains out continually and by the time lunchtime came, let alone 10 o’clock, he didn’t know if he was Bertie or Gertie!! The moral of the story was to get there early or risk having half an ounce of Lebanese in your tea – maybe he was the man who invented hash tea and just never got the credit he deserved.

Having wolfed down our brekkie we decided to hit the streets to try to get our bearings and as mentioned previously try to track down the rest of our party – it was only Sunday lunchtime and we already down to two thirds of our original number.

Not sure what anyone else made of their first time in the ‘Dam but (pardon the obvious pun) it just blew me away. Just remember these were the days before Big Ian turned turtle and to get as much as a beer in NI on a Sunday you had to know a very friendly bar owner or drunk in a shebeen and helped to fill the coffers of the boys. For anyone who knows the ‘Dam well the Warmoestraat was awash with pubs with opening and happy hours you could only dream about – this was before the days when plastic, bloody paddy pubs like Durty Nelly’s arrived to ruin the place. Don’t get me wrong but many a good night can still be had (the Sailor Bar is still going strong) but my favourite bar in the world of all time bar none, The Last Waterhole, is tragically no longer with us.

The Waterhole was just off the Warmoertraat and was an oasis from the mad goings on (well during the day anyway). They had a happy hour that lasted from 12.00 to 19.00, kept the pint pots in a freezer and served Strongbow by the pint – heaven. Then each night there was a live band on – it may be time playing tricks on me but every one of them seemed stoned out of their skulls. Then if you fancied yourself as a rock star the stage was yours and you could just strum away to your hearts content. It will be sadly missed.

You will probably notice I have yet to touch on the two things the ‘Dam is renowned for (aside from the tulips) – the blow and the Bobbies. Can I lay my cards on the table here and now and state quite categorically that I don’t touch the blow but have no qualms with anyone else having a wee toke. The odd ‘hash tea’ or ‘space cake’ may have passed my lips but that was as far as it got.

In those far off days you could smoke your brains out just about anywhere unlike now where the PC lobby (which would suit a lot of the OWC PC brigade) have made it a choice between the coffee houses of today where you get a ‘coffee’ and the coffee shops of those halcyon days where you got what you bloody well wanted. The good Lord must be looking after our health as we haven’t played in Holland since 1976 (when we played them off the pitch – Bestie was playing – and only managed a 2-2 draw) and even then it was played in Rotterdam. Maybe Moondust was heading there to look up a few old friends!!

So the time came to have a gander at the ‘windows’ – it was still fairly early and the day shift was on so there were a few hairy looking ones on show. If you know where the Stones pub of today is then I have to tell you the clientele on offer hasn’t changed much in 25 years – it still looked even then like the Surinam version of the Weather Girls had given up singing and decided to take up the oldest profession instead. Still, everyone to their own.

It was an experience I will never forget and I think I vouch for the other five still left in our party when I say that – unfortunately a mixture of the beer and the cold meant that no-one was ‘up for it’ so it was back to the pub by a circuitous route which unfortunately brought up past the Cock Ring entertainment establishment. Now I don’t think it will take the wisdom of Einstein to work out what goes on in there – again this was in the days before Big Ian’s double act at Stormont and anyone even thought of being a ‘bandit’ would be shot at dawn.

Time plays funny things with your mind and I cannot remember an awful lot more of the afternoon short of quite a few beers being sunk, me and Steelo setting off on a pool marathon and the Dutch courage kicking in as we set of to tour the windows. Jesus Christ it was like night and day (which of course it was!!) – the growlers of the day shift had been replaced by goddesses for the night shift. White, black, yellow and any colour you want to name in between were on offer and it was the good old days where you got over four gliders to the pound. You’ve got to remember here this was the first time any of us had been to the ‘Dam and all I can say is it was very enlightening!!

A long day was had by all and the pit was beckoning – it seemed like a long time since we had been to bed and I suppose when you look at it, it was. Thursday night to be precise. There was just time for a bit of friendly banter with all the Freddie Mercury look-alikes going in to the Cock Ring and all the John Wayne walk-alikes coming out.

Even though the room resembled Hiroshima on the morning of 7^th August 1945 a good nights kip was had by all – not sure how when the thought of another luxury breakfast would have been swirling about in the head.

The next day took on much the same routine as the previous but it was slowly dawning on us that Moondust may have met some dodgy end. He hadn’t been seen since swallow diving off the train more than 30 hours previous and as I mentioned a few of the streets in the ‘Dam were not places to be staggering about on your jack in those days. The non-caucasian brothers selling gear on the street corners were a nasty looking brood and I could just have imagined Moondust siddling up to them to ask directions and him being filleted like a fish. Little did we know that he was about 50 miles away in Rotterdam, most probably swapping stories with the locals of how they were lucky to get a 2-2 draw in ’76!

We decided to kill two birds with the one stone by heading to Central Station to see if any of the chaps were wandering aimlessly about the concourse and also to find out the times of the trains to Hamburg – we had decided to head down very late on the Tuesday night. It was 1983, the troubles were at their height but lo and behold when we reached the station there was a bloody bomb scare – honestly. I had this horrible feeling that Moondust had been taken as the first Loyalist suicide bomber – he had woken from a 36 hour slumber, tried to speak to the local peelers and the accent has scared them shitless. Alas no – to this day we never found out what it was as on discovering the place teeming with police our NI accents would have been not terribly welcome so it was back to the pub.

Amsterdam is a smashing place and I would recommend it to anyone for a weekend and I don’t just mean stag dos and people heading to smoke to their hearts content. You can visit Anne Frank’s house, hit numerous museums, take a very relaxing canal cruise or eat in some belting restaurants but I can safely say for the three days were we there we never ventured past Dam Square. We were like kids on Christmas morning and we were going to enjoy ourselves to the full, which believe me we did.

On numerous trips we seem to pick up some poor unsuspecting punter who is minding his own business while travelling the world and have him/her/them tag along with us and end up going to the game. We had the two young female Canuck backpackers who joined us in Berlin and went to Warsaw buck-shee as everything had already been paid up front and Mad Chris who went met in Reykjavik who told us he hurt people badly for a living!! This was no exception only it was nearly two who joined our throng this time.

There was a scouser of NI extraction staying in the luxurious AVC and when we told him where we were headed he was buzzing and all for it but for some reason he never made it. We could all picture him sitting the night of the game kicking himself as to why he didn’t go which is exactly what he did as I was back in the ‘Dam the year after to watch United playing PSV and there was a punter sitting in the bar in the AVC whom I was sure I knew from somewhere. I went over to speak to him and by jaysus it was the scouser – we had a good laugh about it and he was raging (and his da was going to kill him) that he hadn’t gone. Needless to say he didn’t take up our offer to go to Eindhoven to watch United!!

However the scouser may not have taken up our offer but we ended up taking along a yankee doodle called Shaun (not quite sure of the spelling but this will have to suffice although I doubt it). He didn’t know the first thing about soccerball but after sharing a few sherberts with us it sounded like the most natural thing in the world to do – I’m starting to think he must have been of scouse extraction as he never paid a wing on the trains to Hamburg and back. That’s the joy of back-packing – just go with the flow and take up most offers that come along.

Well enough of the ‘Dam – three long days were spent in it, nine fried eggs, nine baps, three wadges of jam, three cups of your best Earl Grey and enough beer and Bobbies to last a lifetime. Well at least until we reached Hamburg – fire and frying pan spring to mind. The other three still hadn’t shown up so we worked on the theory that Andy and Scrap would have the brains to get to Hamburg and the yank could have Moondust’s ticket as I was now totally convinced he was either lying gutted in one of the canals or was being used as the new ‘bitch’ the Cock Ring!!

So with our first few days in the ‘Dam safely negotiated we set of to catch the train to Hamburg and hopefully get back to our full complement although I seriously had my doubts. The old fuzzy wuzzy has set in again and I really do not remember an awful lot about our trip down to Hamburg short enough to say it is an absolute breeze.

The plan was to arrive early in Hamburg on the Wednesday, which we managed, have a bite to eat then head towards the one obvious place you were going to pick up any NI stragglers – the legendary Reeperbahn.

Never been a great Beatles fan myself but even they had the common sense to head there. This was our first time there and we never realised that it didn’t really kick-off until about 8 o’clock. I remember being back in ’94 and people always say you can set your watch in Germany by the trains but in Hamburg they have a different solution – at 8 o’clock on the button about 200 Pamela Anderson look-alikes appear from nowhere onto the streets and start to molest you for business. Trust me it’s a difficult job but as they say someone has to do it.

The day was spent having a few sherbets, having a look round Barry’s Amusements a la Hamburg style with the enormous ferris wheel and looking in vain for the three missing amigos, so feeling suitably lubricated we set off for the game in the expectation that this would be the last chance of meeting up them. The Germans at least had the common gumption to have a late afternoon kick-off. Not sure if this was to keep us as sober as possible or just to catch the 8 o’clock shift of Bobbies arriving on the streets of the Reeperbahn – having been in Germany on numerous occasions my money is on the later!!

It was now that a miracle happened and outside the ground as if by magic the mirage proved to be anything but and there before our eyes were Andy, Scrap and Moondust. The first two told us of their tales of woe, of being held by the friendly Scottish constabulary meaning they didn’t arrive on the continent until a couple of days after us, of them travelling via the ‘Dam but not meeting up with us as it’s a big bad place and they didn’t venture too far so they headed on to Germany hoping that Moondust had fitted in well with the company!!

It was only now that we discovered where the header had been the last few days although of course he still had no recollection of getting to Rotterdam. We all had a great laugh about it and even after all these years it still remains one of the craziest episodes of all our travels but I must admit the relief was palpable as I mentioned earlier I was totally convinced by now that he had gone to the great big Moondust home in the sky!

I think it was only now that our yankee friend Shaun was starting to realise what the hell he had gotten himself into – one minute he was having a quiet toke in a coffee shop in the ‘Dam and the next he was meeting some of the craziest headers Newtownards and the Shore Road could throw at himself. However if he hasn’t gone to meet his maker I will still swear he is sitting in some wee bar in some place like Hell’s Kitchen in Noo Yawk recalling the events of the next twelve hours or so which will go down in the annals of away trips.

Despite the Germans being just about home and hosed they still turned up in impressive numbers and the crowd on the day was over 61,000 – I suppose the little matters of not having lost at home in about 30 years and the chance of putting this bunch of upstarts back in their place was a big enough incentive. Also don’t forget the 8 o’clock kick-off in the Reeperbahn also played a large part in the days timing and arrangements.

With so many of the travelling Red, White and Blue Army cancelling there were plenty of tickets to be had so Shaun had no trouble picking one up. Our numbers were swollen by a contingent from NI who were serving with the British Army on the Rhine at the time making sure those mad Ruskies didn’t come steaming through Poland (by Christ those bastards have been dealt a bad hand over the years), slipped through Checkpoint Charlie and over the Wall and attempted to take over Western Europe. Funny if they had just shown a bit more patience and waited until the wall came down in ’89 then could have saved everyone a lot of hassle because let’s face it they HAVE taken over Western Europe. There’s hardly a place I’ve been in Europe these last fifteen odd years where their tentacles haven’t reached into.

Just when I mention Berlin I have to mention a story that another great friend of mine (and who would join us on many of out later trips and who excelled himself in the beer halls of Munich) told me of his time serving in the Forces in Berlin. It was part of their brief to guard Rudolf Hess who was being held in Spandau prison at the time on his Todd but by this stage he was just a wreck and a lot of people believed he was tatey bread by this stage and the Ruskies just used it as an excuse to maintain a presence.

Well I know he landed in Jockland in May ’41 to try to negotiate a secret peace between the Third Reich and Britain so he must have has some kind of grasp of the English lingo (not that he would have understood a word the sweaties were saying) but I’m not sure if it stretched as far as understanding drunken spacers from Newtownards singing ‘Who’s sorry now’ to him whenever the chance arose! Having been incarcerated since the Nuremburg Trials where he somehow escaped the ‘Saddam Swing’ I often wonder was that the last tune he heard before he croked it (officially) in 1987 that lovely melodious version by Connie Francis or Jonty’s version with half a dozen steins in him? Life is full of these imponderables.

So having swapped our stories, re-introduced everyone (including Shaun) we headed in to face the slaughter – or so they thought. After a hearty rendition of Das Deutschlandlied (or Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Alles to the non-German amongst us) God Save the Queen was sung with great gusto by the travelling band – don’t think Shaun knew the words but at least he made a better bloody show of it than most of the PC brigade who infest Windsor Park at present. It’s our National Anthem – let’s leave it at that and if you want to hear Danny Boy then get out your tapes of Finbar McGuigan’s greatest fights (my personal favourite was the Steve Cruz fight if anyone is asking) and listen to his da.

Now I must admit too this day it has never been proven to me that Karl-Heinz Rummenigge’s wife was one of those babes waiting for us on the Reeperbahn after the game but someone must have known something as for 90 minutes solid the chant went up – ‘Rummenigge’s wife a whore’ and as they say there’s no smoke without fire.

The first half was one of those turgid affairs which we were well capable of starring in when we wanted to – we kept them mostly at bay and when the occasion called for it Big Pat was equal to everything they could throw at him. We reached half time at 0-0 and to be quite honest I think Karl-Heinz’s mind was elsewhere!!

Everyone was now up for it – could we do the same to this mob as we had to the dagos a small matter of sixteen months previously in Valencia? Well I suppose with a little hindsight it was only a matter of time before we scored as cometh the hour cometh the man.

Big Norman had excelled in his short career to date (he had already scored in two Wembley Cup Finals the previous season for United) so the small matter of knocking one in against the Germans on their home patch didn’t cause too many difficulties. Five minutes after half time and down our end Ian Stewart nearly repeated his heroics of the home game but when the ball came back to Big Norm he made no mistake which was the cue for celebrations which were every bit as mad as the ones in Valencia. He would go on to score nine goals for us and I can proudly say I was present to see every one of them.

We weren’t going to qualify (unless we managed to ‘nick’ another half dozen in the forty minutes which remained) but by Christ we were going to enjoy ourselves and let the home support know we were there. In those days there was always a big bugger off clock ticking away behind the goals and I’m sure they had carted the one from Valencia to Hamburg as it moved at just about the same speed – I think the same clock was also in Bucharest in ’85 but it had actually slowed down by then!

It was at this stage that we expected the prototypes of what became known as a Klinnsman (i.e. a diving, cheating bastard) to take centre stage but for once we had actually got a decent ref in charge, a Mr Palotai from Hungary who went on to referee two European Cup Finals, so we knew we actually stood a chance. It was not as if we had to suffer that cheating bugger of Spanish Conquistador blood, Ortiz from Paraguay, who sent Donaghy off in Valencia all over again for doing sweet zilch.

So the forty minutes plus extra time dragged on like forty minutes at the dentist (or forty minutes at a Country and Western show – really one is as torturous as the other) but eventually the final whistle blew and despite failing to qualify on goal difference it remains one of the proudest moments of my many years following NI. Everyone hugged one another, Shaun thought we were all nuts and even the Krauts took it well – I suppose they were headed for the finals and we weren’t but what the hell.

All they had to do now was tank Albania by the obligatory cricket score and Euro ‘84 beckoned. Even then it was more torture as they were 1-0 down with around ten minutes to go but showing the usual German resolve (and Albania being short of a Jenningsescu between the posts) they came back to win 2-1 – bastards!!

That left only one thing for it – hit the streets and look for Mrs Rummenigge!!!

Having shouted ourselves hoarse and applauded the players off the pitch it was time to hit the town and see what delights this famous little corner of the Fatherland had in store for us.

A quick reccy outside to find an offie resulted in a few tins of beer to lubricate us before we reached the Reeperbahn but big Ebbs was having none of it – as anyone who knew him would tell you he could handle the odd gargle so it was a bottle of wodka by the neck as we made our way back through the fairground on the way to the Reeper. He necked it like he was just chinning a bottle of beer and by the time we reached the top end of the Reeper he was going strong. It was at this stage that we came upon one of the old stagers you stumble across the world over – the professional beggar. Now I have travelled a bit in my time and by God I have seem some that would break your heart – the kids who’s parents cut off one of their legs in China to beg as you cross over from Hong Kong into mainland China; an army of one legged folk in Phnom Penh who lost the other one to the millions of land mines laid during the war; communities of unwanted in Vietnam who sided with Uncle Sam and picked the wrong side and of course Dublin as a (w)hole!!

Our friend in Hamburg had unfortunately lost the sight of one eye and had an Andy cap look-alike on the pavement with a sign beside in which he was asking for a few marks to tide him over (no my German isn’t that advanced but you get the drift). By now Ebbs was in fine tune and decided that he could do with bolstering his vodka money by sticking his hand into blind Fritz’s hat and legging it down the Reeper with his meagre collection of marks (and probably washers of all shapes and sizes). He never realised mind you that our man Fritz was a re-incarnation of Lazarus and he got to his feet and chased Ebbs down the street – a sight to behold as a pretend blind, white Jesse Owens chased a six foot four pissed up Ards drunk down the street. F..k me I thought we were all going to die laughing – the guilt must have got the better of him as he gave the poor bugger his stash back. Fritz now reminds me of the Michael Palin character in the ‘Life of Brian’ who in now an ex-leper having just lost his trade– just wondering what scam he is pulling off now, most likely in Dublin.

It was time to retire for a beer then go and visit the sights and by God what sights they were. We had a swally then headed out en masse to see what was on offer, still of course buzzing after beating the master race home and away.

We came across what looked like an underground car park and until they carry me up the Movilla hill to the graveyard and my final lasting place the sight that greeted us will stay with me until then. The place was absolutely packed/bunged/rammed with the most stunning women I had (until that point – get to Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, Las Vegas to name but a few) seen in my life. They were obviously Bobbies but by Christ they made the night shift in the Dam look like a bunch of Aboriginals – officially the ugliest people God ever put breath into. Most of us just stood there with the tongues hanging out, not quite believing what we were witnessing. Most of us that is except Steelo who was busy organising a party/orgy in one of the rooms upstairs. By this stage we hardly had the price of a good session between us let alone hiring nine Teutonic Pamela Andersons for a night (five minutes?) of debauchery and it was still only Wednesday night and we weren’t due home until Sunday!!

Steelo is one of those folk who would convince you that a black crow was white ( or that Gerry Marsden can sing) and the girls were up for it – everyone up to one of the rooms and to paraphrase Karl the Jackal (another legend from Ards who will soon come into his own on these trips) ‘lets get naked’. Sounds like a great idea now (as it did back then) but we hardly had a deuce between us and with no credit cards nor hole in the wall cards to hand Sunday was looking a long way off. We would either enjoy a night (still guess five minutes would have been long enough) of pure ecstasy or bloody starve to death and we decided to pool our meagre, dwindling supply into what we do best – having a good, bloody session.

It was now approaching the wee, small hours and the place was rocking – I will not say everyone remained in the pub for the duration and didn’t go for a ‘dander’ but that’s another story again.

Brushing aside his obvious disappointment Steelo decided to pass himself of as Billy Hamilton and I got to admit that with the ‘tache there was a passable resemblance. The clincher however was the ‘Billy’ tattooed on the arm – he was telling every German babe who was willing to listen of his heroics of Espana ’82. He really could get away with anything. The night rolled on, Ebbs was somehow still on his feet and by some miracle we were still a party of nine (sorry ten as Shaun was holding the fort for the Yankees) – it was only really now that it slowly dawned on us that we had a train to catch back to the Dam as we hadn’t taken the liberty of booking any rooms/hostels and it was heading out of town around 05.00.

After another couple of hours gargling and a last look around the Reeper (I wouldn’t be back for eleven long years) it was time to hit the railway station.

It is one of life’s great ironies that by the next time we returned there in August ’96 the big man, Ebbs, was fighting for his life in the Royal having been poisoned by a fumes leak in Shorts – he wasn’t going with us but we had arranged to have a beer on the Wednesday before we left as he had a phone number of friends we were heading to meet and stay with in Copenhagen. The accident happened on the Tuesday and we never got to have that beer but having visited him in the Intensive Care Unit in the Royal (he never did regain consciousness and fought a heroic struggle for fifty weeks) his family insisted we go, try to enjoy ourselves as the big man would have wanted and to keep in touch to see how things were going. I must admit Hamburg just wasn’t the same this time without him but he will for ever and a day be remembered for his sprint down the Reeper with Fritz chasing after him. Priceless and cheers for the memories.

Having picked up our gear at the left luggage we staggered onto the Intercity from Hamburg to the Dam with the full intentions of digging in until the weekend but as we pulled into Central Station (and mindful of the state Moondust was still in, as we all were by the way) we took the momentous decision and one with I don’t believe has happened since to bite the bullet and head home. The funds were low and short of selling our arses in the Cock Ring we couldn’t see how the hell we could keep going for another three days – our man Shaun most probably had a rich uncle in Boston or somewhere like that but as we had met him in the AVC we doubted very much if he was worth a heavy rap. The decision was taken, extremely reluctantly let me add, to abort the mission and set off for home having first of all bid a fond farewell to Shaun, taking a head count and swearing we would be back in the not too distant future. Hard to credit that twenty five years later we still haven’t been drawn to play the Dutch and give us the opportunity to look up a few old friends, if you know what I mean.

The long journey home was remarkably uneventful, probably because everyone was absolutely shattered and potless. We retraced our journey and arrived back in Belfast just in time for the weekend, discussed when the next one would be and said our goodbyes. As it turned out the next huge away game would be in Bucharest in October ’85 when out of our party of nine we would take four (including you’ve guessed it, Davy, Andy and my good self) out of a total travelling support of 71. But as they always say that is another story.

Stephen.