Читать книгу By George - Hilarious Tales from England's Most Fanatical Football Supporters - David Stanfield - Страница 15
ОглавлениеIt took about three hours to get to Dortmund, and we drove straight to the main train station and dropped Andy there. We then drove into the city itself looking for a spot to park the vans. We found an ideal place outside the stadium in an empty car park and headed into town. Brazil were playing Japan the next day so we expected Dortmund to be rocking, but how wrong we were. It was unbelievable, there wasn’t a soul anywhere and the whole place was like a ghost town!
We walked for about half an hour and eventually found a bar with all the windows steamed up. We knew that meant people, and people meant a party. I opened the door and looked in – but the whole bar was full of Jocks! ‘Shit,’ I thought. My worst nightmare had come true – no pubs open except the Scottish bar! We walked in, to a chorus of, ‘We hate England, we hate England’. Steve shouted back, ‘Fuck off you sweaty cunts’ but that just made the Jocks sing louder at us. As I stood at the bar waiting to be served, Steve said ‘I ain’t putting up with this, I’m going to smack one of them in a minute.’ We were outnumbered ten to one and to start a fight would have been suicide. Besides, I don’t like hitting people in skirts and most of the Jocks were wearing kilts. We got the drinks and went over to where Dave and Nessa were sat. Shortly after, I went outside for a fag on my own, and seconds after lighting my fag I was joined by about ten Scottish fans who started chanting at me. I stood there laughing in their faces. One of them charged up to me and said, ‘What you laughing at, you English pig?’ That was it: no more. I lost it – especially as the guy who was having a go was a Welshman! ‘I’m glad you didn’t call me a sheep or you’d probably want to shag me!’ I answered back.
The Jocks who were with him all started laughing at my quick response, but strangely enough he wasn’t laughing as I let fly with a tirade of one liners – never raising my voice or saying anything in anger at the now cowering Welshman. It didn’t take long before they were buying me drinks, whilst I told them about my antics as St George. ‘Let’s get some photos with Stan, the greatest Englishman’ said a big six foot three Jock who looked like Joe Jordan. I even swapped shirts with one of them for the photos. After a few hours we were all pretty pissed, when Steve came up to me. ‘We’re going in a minute Stan, pub’s about to close and it’ll be nice to get away from all these sweatys.’ ‘Fuck off, Steve – they’re sound,’ I replied Steve turned his back and walked back into the pub.
The Scottish fan I had swapped my shirt with for the photo then told all his mates to be quiet as he had something to say. ‘I tell you this, I hate England and hate all Englishmen, so don’t kill me for what I am about to say, my Scottish friends. I want England to win the World Cup for that Englishman standing there,’ he announced, pointing at me ‘The greatest Englishman that ever lived and I’m proud to call him my friend, STAN THE MAN!’
I could feel tears welling up and was waiting for someone to give me my Nobel Peace Prize, but all I got was a chorus of ‘We love Stan the Man, said we love Stan the Man’. At this point all my friends came out of the pub and I left with these mad Jocks still singing my name as I disappeared into the darkness of Dortmund.
I woke up the following morning to the sound of car horns – and it didn’t sound like just one or two. I opened the door and found the once-empty car park was full of Brazilian supporters. The noise was deafening with every vehicle blasting its horn. People out on foot were either blowing horns or beating drums. It was an amazing sight and sound and I was just glad I didn’t have a hangover. Then again I never got a hangover, because I never sobered up.
Dave had already taken Nessa to Mulheim, which was of course where we had to drop the camper off. Yes, after fourteen days it was time to say goodbye to our trusty camper, but first we had to clean it. Paul, Steve and I made the inside look brand new, but as good as the inside looked the problem was outside with the big dent in the side door. We couldn’t clean that and we had a deposit riding on it. No one expected to get anything back, but I’m not one to say goodbye to any amount of money, especially when it was over a thousand Euros. We arrived at camper hire place and I went into the office and was greeted by the manager. ‘Guten Tag,’ I said ‘I am here to return a camper van we hired from you,’ I added. The manager looked at me and said ‘It’s Stan, isn’t it? Mulheim’s favourite Englishman! How has your time in Germany been, Stan?’ he asked. I couldn’t believe it – the guy remembered me! ‘I have had a fantastic time and may I say that using your vehicle has helped make this the best trip ever,’ I replied. I was really creeping up to this guy. ‘I’m glad you have had a good time, Stan; we have been watching all the games and we have seen you many times on German TV. We will now go and check the van together, yes?’ he said. We had purposely left the damaged boot door open, as you would have clearly seen the damage if it was shut. The manager went straight into the van and said, ‘My God, have you even used the van, Stan? It looks like new, better than when we gave it to you! I think you will be receiving all your money back, after I check the outside.’ We walked around to the good side and then to the rear of the camper, the manager was nodding his head in approval of the condition of his van. He got to the damaged side, looked in the boot, and grabbed the dented door as if to close it. At this point I banged my hand cheerfully on the side of the van, put my arm around the manager and said, ‘I’m really going to miss this van, I feel like I’m leaving my home!’ He let go of the door, which remained open, and said, ‘Come on, let us go and sort your money out for you.’ Both of us headed off towards his office. Steve and Paul were speechless. Once in his office, he counted out the money and handed it to me. I shook his hand and got out quick.
Dave picked us up ten minutes later and once the rental place was out of sight, I told Dave that I’d got the whole deposit back. Dave nearly crashed the van. ‘You got it all back? Fuck off, I don’t believe you.’ He soon believed me when I pulled a great wad of cash out of my pocket! That night in Mulheim we all got well and truly pissed. When the bar closed we made our way back to Dave and Nessa’s hotel and to where the van was parked. We got to the hotel and had to decide who would share the spare double bed in Dave and Nessa’s room and who would sleep in the van. I told everyone I was claustrophobic and they believed me. Paul then said he’d sleep in the van that night and Steve agreed to go in the back of the van down to Cologne the next day to meet up with Luke and Tony.
The next morning, after having a nice shower, a lovely fry-up and a nice cup of tea, Dave, Nessa, Steve and I were all in great spirits when Dave shouted, ‘FUCK, PAUL’S STILL IN THE BACK OF THE VAN!’ We’d forgotten about Paul. I ran to the van, where I found some old geezer talking to it. Paul had been shouting and banging and the bloke must have thought he’d had been kidnapped (well he wouldn’t have been the first person we’d kidnapped on this trip). I opened the back door, glad to see that Paul was alive. It wasn’t the lack of air I was worried about, it was the stench of unwashed clothing and everything else that I thought would have killed him.
