Tegel Airport was to give the TRF delegation an early moment
of extraspection in the shape of what was to become a depressingly common feature of the Scotsman's time in Germany.
Having spent the best part of the previous month dredging the memory banks to come up with as much of the schoolbook
German that a temporary football immigrant may require, I was disappointed to find this effort obviated by Berlin's
effortless bilingualism, all the airport signs, for example, being in both German and English. A-Grade though my
ersatz higher Deutsch may have been in der Bundesrepublik Mintlaw Academy, it proved to be little better than smoke
signals in comparison with the locals' familiarity with my tongue (figuratively as opposed to physically, sadly).
The Germans we encountered were amazingly subservient about it all too, feeling that it was some sort of duty to
speak to their British and American counterparts on their own terms, but the bottom line is that so many non-native
speakers have this impressive command of English because the Brits and Yanks can't be arsed learning anyone else's
language. It was notable that, despite the national proximity, Tegel's translating did not extend to French, though
this may have been less because they didn't feel it necessary than a spot of mischief-making.
Perhaps the fact that we were in Berlin, a city that until relatively recently had fairly obvious reasons for being
fluent in many languages, overemphasised the gap, but the lack of effort which John Bull puts into easing conversation
with his overseas brethren is frankly embarrassing. The UK's major contribution to international communication
is the tried and trusted "pointing and shouting in English technique", a fair bit of which was in evidence
among the well-natured if linguistically challenged Red Army. Maybe it's the island mentality, maybe a remnant
from the Rule Britannia days of yore, but Britain always seems to infer 'integration' as meaning other folk becoming
more like us; a one-way street. Speaking of which, I seem to recall a case in point regarding Paul Lambert's motoring
problems shortly after signing for Dortmund - struggling to get to grips with having the gearstick on his right
in his club car, he gave up and asked for an automatic. No wonder more British players don't make it abroad.
Desperate not to fall into this trap, then, I hailed one of the literally hundreds of airport taxis and gave our
directions in German to the driver (Turkish, but it's the thought that counts). Despite the authentic accent, our
chauffeur professed to have no clue where Ufnaustraße was, and the thought did cross my mind that we'd fallen
victim to an internet hoax, booked a hotel that didn't exist, and that 'Ufnau' might be German for 'eejit' (not
that we Brits would know). However, while two far-from-home Dandies were beginning to feel a right pair of Ufnaus,
it transpired that our problem was simply that Berlin is so large that requiring of its cabbies an in-depth knowledge
of every street in town is impracticable, particularly when 10% of the city's population seem to be employed in
this sector. That I had taken the measure of printing off a map of the area in question before leaving home turned
out to be exceedingly handy, then, otherwise it would've been like looking for a three-star needle in an 890km2
haystack.
Thankfully, having been drawn to play the previous round in a town with neither street lights nor manhole covers,
the Dons had stumbled across a venue with a fairly comprehensive system of street signs, and notwithstanding the
pixellated nature of the map (Merkie angling for a release from TRF funds for a new printer) we were at our digs
in two shakes of a lamb's tail. And a jolly nice place too - accommodation must be one of the things we pay too
much for in the UK (not the only one, the TRF party almost returned to Aberdeen plus one motorbike) because we
scored a lovely twin room, fully comp, all mod cons and buffet breakfast, in a spotless and nicely done-up gaff,
for two nights, for under 150 quid. You'd probably have been charged a third as much again over here. Friendly
and helpful service into the bargain (in English, naturlich) when we enquired as to suitable city-centre establishments
to slake an Aberdonian's thirst, and mirth at the concept of such a thing as "closing time" at no extra
charge. It would appear that from our billet the first step on the road to anywhere was to "take the U-Bahn
to the Zoo" (having sampled Glaswegian transport on the way to ibrox in the past the idea of taking the underground
to the zoo in order to watch a football match was not new), bringing to mind that advert with the safari park monkeys
setting about a Landrover. [One thing we were not told, however, is that fare-dodging is more rife on the German
subway than at Anorexics Anonymous, pay-and-display-type machines offered tickets on the platform but I didn't
see a single clippy in my entire time there - the speed of the train and frequency of stops make this job impossible
- hence I daresay we became the first people since the Weimar Government to actually pay for public transport in
Berlin.]
One of these options was to take the U-Bahn to the Zoo and walk to the Europa Centre, containing the imaginatively-named
Irish Pub, claimed by our hotel contact to be quite a happening venue. Spot on Benny boy - this was in fact the
AFC nerve centre for Monday night's revelry, as we would discover even before we arrived. The second you got through
the front doors of the Centre itself (a shopping complex by trade, peculiarly enough) you needed only follow your
ears to find the chief battalion of the largest overseas Dandy deployment since Gothenburg - their renditions preceded
them right enough.
Hundreds of Dons fans passed through the Irish Pub that night, and barely a moment's silence from dusk to dawn
as every tune from the Pittodrie songbook since circa 1965 was aired at least twice (as well as, in a touching
pan-European cross-sport tribute, 'There's Only One Sam Torrance'), with accompaniment from the bar tills which
seldom ceased ringing. [I suspect the pub manager is still in Marbella on the takings of that evening; one can
only wonder how AFC's finances would look if such beanos could be replicated in a social club of some kind here.]
However, though this annexe of Aberdeen was more densely populated than the mosh pit at Geri Halliwell's armed
forces show, one Dons fan did manage to make himself noticed above all others: Neil Simpson. Simmie's legendary
status has been assured for nineteen and a half years but a new and rare chapter was certainly written that night
in the Europa Centre. Arriving pished and bedraggled at the back of midnight, this Pittodrie great quickly gained
a second wind (though unaccountably lost his shirt) when the assembled throng let rip with waves of hero-worship.
Neil shook more hands than the artistes of a Parkinsons puppetry show, was on the receiving end of more than one
long-dreamt-of snog (to my knowledge, exclusively women, I hasten to add), and topped off the night by commandeering
the mic for a Simmie sing-song. What a guy. That any of the late-night basement dwellers had the remaining vocal
capacity to cheer on the Dons the following day is as good an endorsement of modern medicine as you'll find (none
knew the German for 'throat sweets' but this was irrelevant as nobody could talk on Tuesday morning anyway).
Tuesday, a D-day anticipated by Dandies for weeks but now perhaps feared by some after the previous night's excesses, duly arrived, and the tea-time kick-off afforded the tourists the opportunity to get some souvenir shopping in. Old favourites took up the available space in the TRF hand luggage (beer stein, Luftwaffe hat, bit of the Berlin Wall - a slab of which one Dandy was alleged to have bought on credit, before dropping it on his foot whilst blootered and being rushed to Berlin General with a severe case of tick tack toe - and a few more goodies I am not at liberty to divulge as they have not yet been passed on to their intended recipients), and it was decided that we should visit the Hertha club shop before we amassed so many bags that we couldn't fit through the door. We needn't have worried, for when we got there Charlie Allan was in store (it has not yet been decided whether he will be honoured with one of those 'famous customer' signs in the window display), so the entrance was clearly plenty wide enough. The array of Hertha merchandise is wide and varied, so much so that one soon-to-be-embarrassed Rudolph innocently enquired as to the contents of a small box on the counter, only to be told that it housed what you could call "German letters". TRF's dedicated staff have tragically little use for these so it was left to The Village Idiot to purchase himself a Hertha Kitt, with a wholly inappropriate appellation emblazoned on the back. Suffice to say that though the English language is well understood in Germany the accompanying sense of humour remains a mystery, thank goodness.
Peripheral duties taken care of, it was now time for the TRF Two to take up a pew in the square outside the
Europa Centre, guard their collection of tat (now large enough to rig out the entire congregation of Ilkley Moor)
soak up the late summer sun and steel themselves for the match ahead. This reverie was interrupted by a succession
of interlopers the like of which you just wouldn't see in the Red Lion: first there was the gang of crazed herbivores
advertising World Vegetarian Day to an indifferent meat-loving Red Army; then the Hertha fan in his inordinately-customised
electric wheelchair (boasting not only a hand-table but also a ghetto blaster, wing mirrors, storage space for
the odd tinny, a Hertha flag out front and an imperious Corgi, yes, a live one, as dashboard decoration - everything
you'd ever need, if I had one I'd probably never go home); then the slightly less welcome invasion of a disappointingly
sizeable faction from the Aberdeen casual element. By all accounts the cloud these colours-avoiders brought with
them to the Irish Pub soured the building atmosphere therein, and the steady trickle of scarfers back out into
broad daylight in the minutes that followed backs this up. Extracting the last few smirks one can get at vegans
on stilts and Corgis in wheelchairs, we joined this growing exodus and headed back to the centre of the known transport
universe, the Zoo U-Bahn station, to complete our pilgrimage to the crumbling edifice of Hitler's Olympics, to
await our destiny.
At the risk of attracting a complaint from the Berlin municipal transport board, the train was jumping. Dons fans
up one end of the carriage, Hertha fans at the other, merrily trading songs all the way to the ground despite neither
lot having the faintest idea what the other was on about (their English may be good, but their profane discordant
Doric is sketchy - it's like a normal person trying to understand someone with an Invernesian accent). Not a hint
of animosity except mock pantomime indignation when the Hasselhoff fans threw up an inflammatory chorus of "celtic,
celtic!"; even those German passengers caught in the crossfire while going somewhere else got caught up in
the excitement and an enjoyable journey was had by all. In the end it was something of a disappointment when the
automated woman came on the tannoy and announced we'd reached our stop. No turning back now.
Olympia-Stadion, zuruck bleiben bitte…