Caspian Spree
Azerbaijan 0 Wales 2
We went to the Azerbaijan Football
Association HQ the day after the match. The affable AFFA official
handed us some badges and said: "We haven't had any league
games for five months. That is the worst we have ever played."
Just as well, cos we weren't too hot either. We seem to be getting
all the luck required to finish in the top two. Italy brilliantly
beaten when they were already at a low ebb.
And though we had 52 players pull out for this trip and we can
rightly moan about dastardly Birmingham so-and-sos, it was still
easy-peasy because Azeri football's petty politicking has sunk
their footie sink even lower than Italy's.
You sensed it was in the bag from the moment the teams lined up
for the anthems. We looked tall and proud and they had four titchy
blokes and one seriously titchy bloke. What a surprise that we
scored via two headers. And now we know that Earnie will be wasted
if he ever plays wide on the right again. What was that one about,
Sparky?
Well, you've seen the game, they'd have had trouble with San Marino,
let alone a rampant nation intoxicated by a rare dose of football
mania and fans surfing a tidal wave of adrenalin.
What can we say about the performance
on the terrace other than that it was pretty flat for much of
the match. Maybe it was the Caspian Sea mist cloud that swept
over the stadium or the almost immediate realisation that they
were so poor it was going to be a stroll all the way.
I put this down not to jetlag but to a happiness hangover. Two
games so far of almost unrivalled revelry has taken us to heights
of ecstasy. We've never had this bliss. So the tantric tingle
sparked by two outstanding performance in the last two months
was missing . The dull game was mirrored by a muted terrace performance.
Let's face it, it was as boring as a night up your nan's embroidery
class. It was enlivened by a few rollickings from the Azeris who
were largely quiet but every quarter of an hour found the wit
to start hurling fatwas, a couple of plastic bottles and a cigarette
lighter at us.
Also, there was some sterling heckling and slanders of Steve Bruce
as Sparky was interviewed near us. And don't forget the kooky
khakis - the 4,000 army guys who ringed the pitch.
At the end of the match we got a free military tattoo thrown in.
They were all manoeuvred out of their seats in fine fashion, drilled
into line and started jogging . That sparked chants of 'Hup, hup,
hup, hup' and then 'Meet the gang cos the boys are here' from
'It Ain't Half Hot Mum' and shouts of 'Don't tell him, Pike!'
(Is all this 70s stuff boring you?).
Some of them must have run fully 500 metres to get into place.
It had everything the game lacked, co-ordination, good positioning,
plans carried out to the letter.
Then we got all the "look left, get in line sunshine, 'oo
are you looking at?" stuff and a finally big 'Oi' which was
the best synchronised burp I've ever heard. Reminded me of some
classic college nights out. Fantastic stuff. Worth the air fare
alone.
Shouldn't really take the mick
as, apparently, their conscripts do two years' national service
for free before being thrown out with a 20-dollar pay-off.
In the circumstances, their army and police were great. So friendly,
couldn't do enough for us unlike some former Soviet republics
(Ukrainian militia could outstare a snake). One guy even bought
a copper's official jacket for a three quid. What a bargain. Perhaps
they didn't do well in the war with Armenia because they were
too nice.
As for Baku - what a lovely, balmy place. Some were expecting
religious righteousness and snatch squads looking for kidnap victims
they could take to lock in a Yemeni dungeon.
Before we left we promised our mums we wouldn't venture anywhere
alone but I felt safer than in London.
I was expecting scenery like the last moments of Get Carter when
Michael Caine gets a bullet in the bonce on a stinking Northern
beach and falls into a coal scuttle which dumps him in the blackest
North Sea.
But though it won't win the UN's environmental protection award,
it's affluent for an ex-Soviet republic, busy and friendly. And
Port Talbot smells far worse.
What's more where else can feast cheaply on wild boar, caviar
and chips? And though it was Ramadan you wouldn't have known at
all.
In addition, Welsh fans raised more than 1500 pounds for orphanages
and gave out stacks of sports kit and souvenirs. We might have
been the biggest mongrel horde to invade Baku since Genghis Khan's
Mongol horde popped by yonks ago but that's not bad for 150 ugly
drunks.
To see abandoned or orphaned kids
gratefully holding a signed picture of Robbie Page with big smiles
on their face was genuinely moving (and surreal - no offence Mr
Page). If you want to contribute email us here and we can pass
donations on to organisers Dylan Llewellyn, Neil Dymock et al.
I was reflecting on it all afterwards - nine points in the bag,
the orphans, the sing-songs, the minor miracle of an under-21
victory. With a pot of tea and cake (only 30p), watching the sun
go down over the Caspian and feeling the wind whistling across
my burgeoning baldpatch, I was overwhelmed by one thought:
Life's great innit?
Fan of the day:
Step forward top Gog Bryn Pritchard, who slaved over his 'Steve
Bruce is a tosser' banner for at least 10 minutes. This geezer
is up there with Dylan Thomas, Martin Amis (a Jack) and Kate Roberts
as a Welsh literary genius. A pithy contribution of course but
poetry nonetheless. What particularly makes me chuckle over this
fine addition to a great nation's sparkling heritage is that it
was painted by a copper.
Best moment:
This story is true. Jones the Chat and Evans the Gob take
some ladies into a hotel sauna. Jones bags the sauna, Evans the
nearby swimming pool for their jiggery-pokery.
Evans decides to spring into the pool to display his alleged athletic
prowess to his fair maiden. He falls over, cracks his cheekbone
on the poolside floor and slides unconscious into the pool, sinking
to the bottom.
Lady of the night frantically summons Jones for assistance.
She: Please, mister, you friend in heap big trouble.
Jones (exits sauna, peers into pool): Nothing wrong with him.
He's just mucking around. He's allright.
Jones returns to sauna. but hears hammering on the door.
She (not intending pun): He in big trouble, mister. Come quickly.
Jones dashes out of the sauna, plunges into pool, drags blue-faced
Evans out and squeezes him so hard round the midriff he regurgitates
half the pool contents before, quite remarkably, resuming his
nocturnal noodlings.
Yes, hauled back from the gates of death by a hooker's kindness.
So let that be a lesson to all you fornicators out there.
MI5 latest:
This one's true an' all. Mike from Llandudno decides
to visit the tank graveyard in the guidebook as he likes that
sort of thing.
Turns up in taxi at graveyard to find it is a tank depot, not
a graveyard, and the two guards are a mean old curmudgeon and
his cross-eyed idiot son. "It was like an episode of the
Beverley Hillbillies," he says.
Cross-eyed son runs inside for his gun and starts fixing his bayonet.
Mike, his brother and two non-Welsh companions are turfed out
of taxi and detained at gunpoint. Lined up against a fence, one
of the companions says to her boyfriend: "Darling, we are
going to die together."
Cross-eyed son then ordered by HQ to transport just Mike to bigwig
six miles away. Unfixes bayonet. Sits in back seat next to Mike
with gun resting on Mike's leg. Road is bumpy and Mike ponders
the meaning of life and wonders whether hitting a big pothole
will accidentally cause a discharge of the gun which would blow
his spuds to smithereens.
To cut a longish story short, they were set free after three hours
or so. But hats off to Mike.
Not many Welsh fans can say they've been held on suspicion of
being a Russian spy. Mike's probably not going to see any tank
graveyards in Belgrade.
Worst moment:
Funny how everyone goes on holiday and comes saying Greece/Cairo/Saundersfoot
has the worst taxi drivers in the world. Well, Baku's cabbies
are Satanic. They don't rip you off. Far from it. They terrify
you so profoundly that you note their faces so the next time you
leave the hotel you choose a driver whose mush you haven't seen
before.
Is the next one a good driver. Is he hell? He is from hell. Maybe
we should have noticed the smell of burning sulphur, suspected
that the scary acceleration and perpetual swerving were due to
cloven feet and a tail making it difficult to sit down properly.
Most drove with one hand on the wheel and flashed golden, unfeasibly
large incisors as they smiled over at you. I swear I saw one bloke
driving with his teeth. Ask anyone who went. They were evil personified.
Best player:
Hartson again. Another bloody excellent game. Sometimes our
style remind this fan of Wimbledon. But then Simon Davies gets
the ball, anything could happen and I get so excited I can hear
my pancreas purring with pleasure. It's a family thing. Anyway,
Hartson is so good that you wonder how Celtic can afford to leave
him out of their side in the crummy old Jock league. Then again,
that explains everything. Jocks are rubbish at football. Even
the Azeris were making jokes about them (OK, that's a lie). Nowadays,
they just don't know a great player when they see it.
Best souvenir:
Biggest-selling item in Baku is the Bastard Babooshka doll.
It features Ozzie Bin Laden on top. Open up Ozzie and you take
out Stalin, next up is Hitler, after that Genghis Khan and finally
you take off the top of Geng and you get ... Bobby Gould!
Only kidding, they don't exist. But they should. Anyone want to
commission 10,000 in time for sale at Christmas?
adecolley@hotmail.com
Cheers to Mark Ainsbury
for inspiration, Bobby Gould joke and bollocking. Please check
into a clinic soon.
Thanks to a470 for the 'Steve Bruce' picture at: http://a470.users.btopenworld.com
Also, thanks to Tim Hartley for the fan pictures.