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What Ade Saw In Warsaw
Poland 0 Wales 0

What does stripper Savage keep in his shorts? I'll come to that later. But first, consider this: next time you watch a match on the TV, take a sieve from the kitchen and look at the box through that.

That was what the view was like on the terraces of Legia's stadium in Warsaw. I've never seen such a high fence at football - it was maybe 18 feet high. As one lad said grimly: "Bigger than the ones in Auschwitz."
Earlier in the week I'd seen the last remaining bit of the old Berlin Wall and that was smaller. No vantage point on the terraces allowed you to look over it, though I suppose we could have tried climbing on to the scoreboard.

It made you think about the breed of football fan who attend Polish games. Most British grounds used to have 8 foot fences but this was a monster. Does it mean Polish pillocks scaled fences almost twice that size in search of elusive knuckle? Presumably so, otherwise why bother making them so big. The mind boggles, as it did when we realised we would be part of a spectacle we could barely see.
Unlike Minsk, where the fence would have been a welcome obstacle protecting us from witnessing the Ghost of Bobby Ghoul show, this was not a blessing in disguise. Because after a forgettable first half (attempts on goal were at the wrong end of the pitch and we had little idea what was going on) there came an omen which filled our hearts with hope etc,etc.

The Polish half-time records included 'Delilah' to which we lustily sang along, and once you feel the benevolent presence of Tom - the first true Prince of Wales since Llywellyn yr Olaf - you know life's looking up.
It sparked a fantastic second-half performance - one of the best ever. Thrilling. Emotional. Full-blooded. Gutsy. And that was just on the terrace. Maybe the players had a good game too, but we couldn't tell.

A 35 minute version of 'Men of Harlech' was a shirt swirling, throat-burning, diaphragm-dilating (ooh my tummy hurt after), terrace-trembling juggernaut of joy. In fact, it may have lasted all 45 minutes. Actually it was 55 minutes. No, on reflection it was 75 minutes. No kidding, it was legendary. Three hundred Welsh fans stripped to the waist twirling their shirts above their heads. At one point the 16,000 Polish fans were stunned into silence by the growing realisation that they could not score and we rubbed it in.
Apologies for not telling you what the game was like as the view was unreliable, although one thing was clear - I don't recall a Welsh midfield doing so much running. Robinson, in my opinion second only to Tom Jones, impressed the Poles mightily.

The stripping off on the terraces proved contagious. After the match we were kept locked in for half an hour and saw Savage, Coleman and Robbo return to the pitch for TV interviews. After no doubt parroting the usual cliches, first Robbo and then Coleman came over to our end to chuck their shirts over the Berlin Wall. Both sparked a mad scramble as the sort of fans who get drunk on souvenirs scrapped for possession. The fat ones didn't bother - they were waiting for John Hartson to appear.
Not to be outdone, Savage followed suit. Off came the top. Then he reached down to take off one of his boots and over it flew. Cue furious melee. Then the other boot. Another feeding-frenzy for the souvenir sharks. Then, for some. perhaps the crowning glory. Off came his shorts.
They just about made it over the fence. But they fluttered down to fall in a no-man's land zone - there was an unsmiling police cordon preventing access to the spot where they lay. Was it a sort of post Cold-War shoot-to-kill zone?
They lay unclaimed for half a minute before one brave soul breached the barrier and grabbed them before escaping, uncoshed, the attentions of the local constabulary. I hope it was worth the effort and I sincerely hope he washed them.
So what does Savage have under his shorts?

Through the sieve I saw a sort of porn star's skimpy white pouch - the colour matched his hair. And, no, I was too far away to comment on any bulges or skidmarks. I just hope the TV cameras weren't still switched on.

Highlight:
Men of Harlech ad nauseum. Taff-tastic stuff. In terms of tenacity, loyalty in the face of adversity (and Bobby Ghoul), vocal and wit, we are the world's best fans.

Lowlight:
Cops kept us in the ground and in buses at the central station for nearly two hours after the game. The apparent presence of Cardiff City twats. Read Wasp on the execrable but strangely interesting soul crew message board for the progress of the 'hard' men. It appears they went all the way to Warsaw for a punch-up and didn't swing a fist in anger. But the way they talk about it, Stalin's stormtroopers would have worshipped at their feet.

Best Player:
You tell me, haven't a clue.

Worst Player:
Ditto.

Celebrity Bust-up:
Not a bust-up really. Ex-Taffs Well and 1927 net-minder Leigh James told Roger Freestone: " Rog, you're wasted at Swansea. You should get a transfer higher up the League." Move over Eddie Niedzwicki.

Fan of the Week:
1. Belarussians Misha and Alexander from Minsk.

2. Barry Boy Chris Howells, on his 40th Birthday trip, set a record for getting a new passport. After giving it to some bloke in Krakow he got a new one from the Embassy in 30 minutes after casually mentioning he works for the Home Office (he's a big butty of Jack Straw). It came with a nice pink bow and a box of chocolates apparently.

3. My rugby loving brother Geoff who came for something to do.
Wild prediction: It's gonna be mad in March. A draw in Armenia and a win in Cardiff over the Ukraine. We must start beating rivals for the first two qualifying spots.