And a cracking 2012 full of European Football Weekends, peace and happiness to you all. Thanks a million to all of you who have logged on to read these pages during 2011 and huge props to all of you who have contributed articles, photos, useful information and the like either on here or over on the EFW Facebook page or forum. We've built a little community of kindred spirits on EFW and you're all absolute stars. *wipes away tear*.
It's been a busy year for EFW judging by all these tickets (below). More of the same in 2012? We'll see....
During June of next year the streets of the Polish capital will be pounding with football fans ready to embrace Euro 2012. The Polish FA will ensure that there are ladies dressed in traditional Polish folk costumes stood on every corner, and Uefa will insist that those fans drink only Coca-Cola, Castrol or Carlsberg and that no food should exist in Warsaw outside of McDonalds. 'We care about Football' is the Uefa motto. Not when temperatures dip below freezing they don't. Michel Platini and Lennart Johansson had waived their free passes for this match leaving Stuart Fuller and I - dressed in more layers than a mille-feuille vanilla slice - to brave the cold.
It's fair to say that both Stuart and I are obsessed about European football. But we do like our culture too and so where better to kick off our day in Warsaw than with a visit to the Palace of Culture and Science. It is after all the tallest building in Poland and from its viewing terrace on the 30th floor we reckoned on being able to see at least two of the cities football stadiums. What we hadn't factored in was a giant display of adidas Tango balls placed in front of the entrance of the building. Our eyes lit up, "That's the best sight I've seen since I saw the current Mrs Fuller waltzing down the aisle" beamed Stuart. At the top you can actual make out Legia Warsaw's ground (just) and the new national stadium which you get a stunning view of. We learnt that the palace was a gift from Russia; it was hated at first but now begrudgingly accepted, and that the Rolling Stones were the first major rock band from abroad to give the Poles some satisfaction by playing here in 1967. However, with no sign of Mick and Keith and none of the 3000 rooms resembling a Legia Warsaw museum. It was time to kick on.
The Palace of Culture and Science looking an absolute picture, no?
Danny in adidas Tango heaven underneath the entrance - tick.
For less than £2 you can get a lift to the top and see the new national stadium. What's not to like?
Legia's base, Łazienkowska, lies just south of the city centre. For less than a quid the number 151 bus plonks you right outside the ground. Their football museum was shut and the queue for the pub we'd been recommended was enormous so we chose to soak up the atmosphere inside which had already been echoing across the city.
At a recent Europa League game, the Legia Warsaw fans unveiled a banner declaring the legend, 'We hate everyone'. Unless you're from or support Szczecin (MKS Pogoń), Sosnowiec (Zagłębie) and Elbląg (Olimpia) - they're all actually friends along with ADO Den Haag whose colours we saw all around the stadium - then you're an outsider. Speaking to a few fans beforehand I gather that this steams from some comedy match-fixing in the early nineties. Going into the last game of the season Legia and ŁKS Łódź topped the table and won their final games of the season by cricket scores against teams who'd possibly been slipped a few bob. The PZN (Polish FA) were having none of it and awarded the title to the third placed team, Lech Poznań. Grudge matches and hooliganism have reared their head ever since.
Inside the Polish Army Stadion or if you will the Pepsi Arena, for the record I prefer the former, there was of course a pulsating atmosphere complete with some textbook choreographed singing. It's like this every week here. I can't think of a single ground in Britain where there's relentless noise for 90 minutes during every game. Away to our left in the Żyleta - the stand where the ultras gather which translates to, and you'll like this, 'razor blade' - all dressed in white were the Legia hardcore. They know the score: don't wear black. 'The Black Shirts' is the nickname of their hated rivals in the city, Polonia. "We hate those bastards" said the chap to my right. There's a shock.
It is impossible not to tap your foot along to the rhythm of the beat as anthemic brilliance pours from the lungs of every single fan. They sung louder than the bombs that had flattened most of Warsaw during World War II and wiped out over half of their inhabitants in the process. Loud, beautiful and proud: Warsaw is definitely back.
There are flags and banners everywhere you look on the Żyleta. Many of them date back over 30 years; those flags are incredibly important to the fans. Every club has them and it's important to keep an eye on them because every other clubs supporters/hooligans would like to steal them. In fact, at our game the next day, ŁKS Łódź v Śląsk Wrocław, fans took down their flags in order to protect them before trying to rip down the fences to attack each other. The flags are seen as trophies from winning any battle; the older the flag, the more important. If you're able to steal a treasured flag of another club, you then hang it on the fence during the match against that team - upside down, naturally - and then burn it. The same thing occurs with scarves, t-shirts and everything, but the flags are most valuable. This is unlikely to occur during Euro 2012.
Anthemic brilliance from the Żyleta
All white on the night
Stuart and I weren't dressed in white - doesn't disguise the beer belly - and we hadn't stolen any Lech Poznań flags during our whirlwind tour of their stadium on the morning of this match so we took up the clubs kind offer of a spot in the press box for two minutes before moving to be nearer those fans. I should add that the reason we were in Poland in the first place is that we've been employed to write a guide to Euro 2012. So like a couple of estate agents from Homes Under the Hammer, and in between all this nonsense, we were actually doing some work; clutching a couple of clipboards and putting ticks and crosses next to stadiums, transport systems, hotels, local cuisine and every single different Polish beer we could lay our hands on. Na zdrowie!
The game - which was, fact fans, the 1000th to be played at this stadium in all of its various guises, finished 0-0. But the fans, them again, didn't seem to react to anything that occurred on the pitch. When a player was clean through on goal they didn't raise or lower their voice. It was just unwavering support throughout. If they'd have won 4-0 or lost 0-4 I'm guessing it wouldn't have made any difference. Could you imagine Old Trafford rocking to its very foundations during a bore draw at home to Wigan? No, of course not.
At one point a few Legia fans tried to break through into the away sector. And sort of halfheartedly a number of Cracovia fans tried to break out of their end, but security dealt with it swiftly and there wasn't any actual trouble that I noticed anyway. Considering they were second from bottom in the league, Cracovia were backed by an impressive following of around 1500-2000. Bizarrely a lot of them didn't turn up until the second half prompting a cracking visual display of flag waving. There were definitely fans of Lech Poznan in among them - another fan friendship - and by all accounts a few supporters of Polonia Warsaw had also popped in to lend a verbal volley of hatred towards Legia.
The impressive Cracovia support dressed in black. Obviously.
I'd been polishing up on my Polish all week in preparation for the post-match press conference. So whilst mumbling away about a pretty dull scoreless match for twenty or so minutes I can confirm that neither Legia gaffer Maciej Skorża nor Cracovia boss Dariusz Pasieka - who was sporting a magnificent Cracovia scarf - said dwa piwa proszę (two beers please) or jestem z zespołem muzycznym (I'm with the band). These were two of the three phrases I'd learnt. The other one allowed me my big moment in this gathering when it came to my turn for asking a question. Slightly tentatively and with clammy palms I leant into the microphone and asked Czy ten pociąg staje w Warszawa? (Does this train stop in Warsaw?). Unsurprisingly, thirty seconds later Stuart and I were out on the streets of Warsaw and in need of a beer.
Our attempt to blend in with the locals back at the bus stop failed miserably. Fire crackers and flares have been banned from Polish stadiums in attempt to clean things up ahead of Euro 2012, but action outside of the ground is a different matter. Flares were let off - which both warmed and cheered us up - and then came the fire crackers; nobody batted an eyelid other than two English daises who jumped out of their skin. We'd been rumbled.
We ended up back in the old town of Warsaw watching Real Madrid get humped by Barcelona in a pub full of the worst type of plastic fans known to man. They'd never been to the Camp Nou, Santiago Bernabéu or even along the road to Legia or Polonia Warsaw. And yet they saw fit to scream every time Ronaldo, Cesc or Messi got the ball, and smashed glasses on the floor when the goals rained in. Get yourselves to a live game lads. There are 500 or more reasons to love watching football in the flesh, because it's not all bad you know.
What was bad was Stuart and I attempting to sing karaoke in the wee hours of the night. So apologies to all those gathered in the Pub Ślusarni. It wasn't pretty. I opted for (White Man) In Hammersmith Palais by The Clash whereas Stuart cleared his throat, and most of the pub, to Bryan Adams Summer of 69. We don't make a habit of this, but we'd had one of the best days abroad watching football in our young-ish lives, and we've been to a few places. Poland is officially the new Germany in terms of watching football; cheap beer, superb fans, crumbling stadiums; brand spanking shiny new ones, history, friendly locals, cheap and largely efficient transport the lot. Get yourself over there, you won't regret it.
Meanwhile back in the old town at night it's Happy Christmas from Warsaw...
...and a very Merry Christmas to you all from EFW. *wipes away tear*.
For loads more photos head to theEFW Facebook group HERE, or click on Stuart's photos THERE.
There's videos of the Legia fans from this match HERE and THERE.
The taxi ground to a halt with the floodlights of the Marakana rising in the distance, writes Andy Hudson. A single policeman tried to control the traffic from six different directions; the angles of his hands lost amidst the steam billowing from his mouth. “You should take them to a whorehouse after the match; that’ll relax them and is what everyone should do here at least once,” the taxi driver mumbled to the lad in the passenger seat. Three of us sat shivering in the back seat, English only speakers and oblivious to the Serb delights the taxi driver had in mind for us for afterwards.
With time still on our side we made our way back towards the centre of town and a traditional Serbian restaurant called Mala fabrika ukusa, 2km away from the stadium instead of the place we were originally heading to which was set in the shadows of the Marakana. There was to be no pre-match pies for us; honey glazed pork served with horseradish ice-cream was knocked back with pints of Jelen before we braved the icy cold for the walk to the stadium.
We left the restaurant and hurried off in the direction of the ground. After turning two corners we could see the huge floodlights looming across the skyline, yet before we could see them, we knew what direction we were heading in; we followed the distant noise coming from the already packed Marakana. There wasn’t much talking amongst the home fans as we made our way under and over roads; across a small park; all the while getting closer to the stadium. A nervousness hung in the air; similar to any other city on derby day.
A huge floodlight looms across the Belgrade skyline. As does the cities biggest tree.
As we cut up along Ljutice Bogdana, one of the few streets that separate the Marakana from Stadion FK Partizan, we could hear flares going off in the stadium. My heart raced. The air had the smell of bonfire night and cutting through was the sight of people racing to the security gates. We had VIP tickets for the West Stand and headed up the stairs from reception. The section we were in was heaving with not a spare seat and plenty of people packed into the back rows. We quickly decided not to waste too much time trying to get our seats, with the throng of people crammed in it would have been foolish to try and get in. We had a word with one of the club staff who took us back downstairs and explained to security that we were to be in the stand amongst the Zvezda masses.
The greatest firework display I’ve ever seen then sparked to life to my left, in the North Stand, home of Delije, the Heroes. Three stands of the Marakana burned with red flares while fireworks exploded over the stadium. Smoke drifted across the pitch as the players emerged from the tunnel, densely obscuring the view:
The South Stand, home of Grobari and a second Partizan fan-group, Južni Front, seemed to be doing nothing. They were merely waiting. As soon as the Delije fireworks were coming to an end, they started their own
The match kicked-off with the whole stadium singing. The atmosphere could have powered a small country. Everyone in the North Stand was stood with scarves held aloft, more impressive than anything that could be mustered on the Kop at Anfield. The smoke hung in the stadium air, obscuring my view of the Partizan fans over to my right. From my standing position just next to the North Stand, stood in a packed gangway where every fan was singing, all if could see was red and white. Flares continued to go off several times a minute, with the firemen on the track behind the goal kept busy by the large number hurtling towards the pitch.
An explosive start to proceedings
Lovely flag, but where are those flares?
Ah.
I’d heard stories about how intimidating the atmosphere could be; how violence rippled across everything and that even for a neutral there’s an edge that can be troubling. Yet I never interpreted any of this for violence in any way; it was far simpler than that: this was passion. While some may disagree with me on this point, but flares being thrown on an athletics track where they are collected and quickly put out is a lot different to fists being smashed against another fan’s head. Not once did I feel threatened; neither before the game nor during.
Zvezda enjoyed the best of the opening exchanges though chances were at a premium. Flares in front of the South Stand caused a fire on the athletics track and then a fire was started at the front of the stand when pitch covers were set ablaze by the Partizan fans.
With every attack the noise increased and then three quarters of the Marakana went crazy with excitement as the referee awarded Zvezda a penalty. With the home club having taken the precaution of removing the plastic seats from the South Stand, the track filled up only with flares as Evandro stepped up to eventually take the spot kick. With many home supporters around me either peering through their fingers or turned with their backs to the pitch due to nerves, the Brazilian screwed his penalty wide of the post to cause the only period of silence amongst the Delije. That silence was only to last a moment as the noise suddenly increased to drown out the celebrating Grobari . Meanwhile, a few seats were being hurled onto the track from the East Stand, where one of the fractured Partizan fan groups, Zabranjeni, were congregated.
As half time arrived I made my way to the club shop to buy a hat and to thaw out my body. Despite the red hot atmosphere, it was the coldest I had ever felt at a football match. Meanwhile, down on the pitch, most of the Partizan players shivered in their dugout having seen their path to the tunnel blocked by a cascade of flares thrown by Delje.
With no let-up in the atmosphere, the game drifted somewhat during the second half. The real quality was with the fans. A huge red and white flag covered much of the North Stand – those not under the flag held aloft flags. As Delje started up a rendition of Od rođenja mog, many fans around me passionately joined in, some with tears in their eyes.
That love song to Zvezda, with the translated words of:
Ever since my birth,
there hasn’t been a day without your name,
not a day, not a year,
Red Star.
Only with you,
will I remain forever,
Red Star.
It was meant to stir their red and white heroes on to victory. Yet it was Partizan who would go on and break Zvezda hearts.
Anyone got a light?
With twenty minutes remaining, Zvonimir Vukić beat two defenders and fizzed in a low shot to break the deadlock. Then Marko Šćepović collected a long through ball and, having raced beyond his marker, slotted past the home ‘keeper to send the South Stand into raptures. Ken and Chris, who were in the West Stand but down near the South Stand, standing amongst a mixture of home and away fans, observed later than as Partizan celebrated they thought fights were going to break out around them; the moment passed without violence.
As the final whistle attempted to pierce the noise of the crowd, both the North and South Stands were still in full voice, the air around the stadium was that of dejection; similar to at a party that has quickly, and unexpectedly, run out of booze. We headed back to the centre of Belgrade to join the Saturday night revellers in the Three Carrots pub. As the other lads left late on to go to the airport, I left for the hostel, ready for another three days in the city.
I spent a lot of time talking to Zvezda fans during those days. The inevitable question would arrive immediately after they found out I had been to Marakana: “So, who do you support?” It was a question I had heard many times since my arrival; every stranger who met each other, whether they were both Serbs or Serb and English, had asked the other person that. By the end of my first pint after the match I had perfected a confident answer; the confidence growing not just as a result of the impression left on me by the Marakana support, but by the derby hurt glowing in the eyes of the person talking to me. “I’m Zvezda, who do you support?” A grin would sweep across the face before the reply: “Zvezda! Me too. We’re the best team. What did you think of our supporters?”
One Zvezda fan summed up their feelings of what makes the Eternal Derby so special: “The Belgrade derby is a world phenomenon. The standard of football is low but everything else is top class. That’s why it’s the biggest. We have the best atmosphere; the loudest chanting; the most tension, switching between love and hate”.
Sunday resembled one huge hangover, not just in my head but also across the city. Shoppers shuffled along the street looking down; coffee shop couple talked in hushed tones; the Red Star Belgrade fans, numbering many more than Partizan, were hurting. I passed through the usual sights during those days and spent time at a newspaper that produced a profile on me and my observations of the derby. Talk was already of the return fixture and revenge, though by the time it rolls around, Partizan could have secured a sixth successive title. Whatever happens over the course of the season, the greatest atmosphere at any football match in Europe will be in Belgrade, screaming from both the North and the South Stands.
I'll chuck in a few Serbian dinar if you hold both clubs scarves aloft....
