Euro what I mean?

The Fighting Cock podcasts very own Ricky goes back to our fateful trip to Lyon, and doesn’t like what he remembers.

As I lay in bed during the still of the night nothing can be heard; no birds, people, or cars, just the gentle tones of my partner exhaling next to me. On the contrary I’m sweating, my heart is racing, my palms are moist and I’m staring at my alarm clock as it painfully flicks from one minute to the next. It’s 3:00am and sleep will not release my anxieties. Why? It’s my Tottenham euro away day to Lyon. Come on you Spurs!

Suddenly I’m shocked into life as my alarm clock bleeps at the unearthly hour of 5.00am and I scramble to my feet and turn it off, careful not to wake the house. There’s no time
for reflecting, a quick check of my passport, match tickets, euros and my phone. Done. Before the taxi arrives I’m already outside, met by a cold crisp February morning as I zip my impenetrable parka up. The taxi’s here, “London Luton please fella.”

I lay back in the taxi as sun begins to rise and the lush green countryside rolls past as one green blur. I feel myself drift off to what awaits my European adventure. I see the glorious sun illuminate the venerable main square in Lyon; a cathedral towering above the medieval city and casting a shadow over an uneven cobbled path and the inviting sound of the river lapping against the banks, much like the parting of female thighs on a hot summer’s day. The mighty Tottenham, on mass, gathered in the central square; drinking, kicking a ball about, chants and the ubiquitous Tottenham banners and flags as they dance in the sunlight.

Back in the cab I’ve just past Bedford, just enough time to drift off again. As I make my way through the jubilant crowds we all nod at each other in acknowledgement, “you’ve made the journey, we’re Spurs, we are one.” We are Spartans and carry the name of Tottenham Hotspur land and sea from our forefathers by our relentless singing, swagger and thirst to be the best away support. I see flares, smoke bombs, we pogo in unison on the terraces terraces spilling our watered down flat beer. We stand side by side like Roman foot soldiers staring at the enemy; proud, our chests puffed out, fists clenched by our sides and our toes are etched into the pavement like how a bird of prey has wrapped its talons around a mousse. Immovable.

I land in France and I’m met with a grey concrete sky with a gentle drizzle, its freezing. Nobody talks to each other as we queue up single file to our coaches to be taken to the main square. It’s about 8:00am, every bar, shop and restaurant is closed. We all look at each other sheepishly and confused not knowing where to go. A group of fans are frantically dialling on their mobiles trying to find out where to go. We’re off to the old part of town to a place where Spurs fans were attacked the night before.
We arrive at the old town after a sombre 15 minute walk, not one person spoke, not even a “where are you from, what’s your name and what’s your story?”. It’s too early I tell myself, things will pick up.

[linequote]I can now over-hear the next bunch of ‘Spurs fans’ next to us, they’re taking the mick out of the younger lads. “First time wonders. Glory boys. Does your mum know you’re here.” Really digging the poor lads out.[/linequote]

It’s mid afternoon, all the Spurs fans have taken over the bars. There’s a handful of flags, no singing, no celebrating, just standing around waiting for something to happen.
The weather is abysmal, grey skies, a howling wind and it’s arctic. I hate being cold. As I zigzag my way through the jostling crowds to safely put my beers down I can hear a jubilant bunch of young lads (early 20s) saying it’s their first Euro away game. They’re all geeky lads with their quota of bum fluff on show, taking in the scenes, proper clobbered up, I think to myself “good on you lads, well done” “I love your enthusiasm for our shirt, brothers”. I can now over-hear the next bunch of ‘Spurs fans’ next to us, they’re taking the mick out of the younger lads. “First time wonders. Glory boys. Does your mum know you’re here.” Really digging the poor lads out. Personally, I couldn’t care less how many games you’ve been to, you’ve made the journey, you’re Spurs, enjoy yourselves.

As I survey the bar rammed to the brim full of Spurs, my people, my fans, I begin to suffer a pang of paranoia, or was it? Nobody was conversing with each other, everybody was eyeing each other up, “how Tottenham are you, I’m proper Tottenham you?” I could see the Stone Island boys sticking to their own, the wannabe casuals sticking out like a sore thumb and giving the eye to anyone that comes into their radius, the shirts discussing what name to get on their back for the upcoming season, and the young nervous boys who just want to be accepted and sing for the shirt, like they’ve heard from stories past down to them.

Not feeling at all comfortable I decided to change bars, but it was the same groups of fans, not talking, singing, sharing or enjoying themselves. It was boring. Where were my dreams that I so fondly cradled in the back of the taxi a few hours ago? Where were my new found drinking partners that I promised to meet up with in the Bell & Hare for the next home game? All I could see were men flashing their arses at oncoming French cars, grunting at the local women or just generally behaving like barbarians, p**sing in flower pots and throwing empty pint glasses on the floor.

I suddenly came to the realisation that what I wanted from a Euro way game had changed since my first excursion to Seville. It was like pulling away from my train station, eyes fixed to the sign of my past as we trundle through the night. There was no conscience decision of change, it just happened. All I wanted to do was sit in the sun, try some frog’s legs or escargot, drink some local beer, sing up for the Tottenham and hit my dad over the head with a stale baguette much to his disgruntlement. All that I saw didn’t fill me with Tottenham pride, I felt embarrassed if I’m honest. This was not what I came out here for and my dreams were well and truly in the piss soaked flower pots in Lyon square.

I will still follow Tottenham abroad, but maybe do things on my terms, and not follow the crowd.

[author name=”RickyTFC” avatar=”https://si0.twimg.com/profile_images/3345176435/e91594bff7fdfa5408d2257bde0e44e4.jpeg” twitter=”RickyTFC” website=”www.thefightingcock.co.uk” tag=”RickyTFC[/linequote]