The Troyes Clique thread

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Well, the Toon Navy has finally docked - bloody knackered, a little damp, slighty green around the gills, but unbowed.

The good ship 'Astra Screacher' jettisoned Lt. Jonno at 18:30, Midshipman Clarky at 19:00 - and was last seen sculling in the general direction of Blyth Harbour.

As ever a great trip - sans sleep, sans grub, mucho pils, but unfortunately sans waterproofs! Lot's of laughs, top company, and enhanced pride in the wonderful Toon Mini-Navy.

"Never in the field of footy conflict can so much noise have been made by so few, for so long" - and under the intense scrutiny of so many gestapo storm-troopers. One was provided for every three of us - very generous I thought. Actually, there was nee bother so they got thoroughly soaked for nowt - unfortunately, so did we!

There's isn't really much to say about the match that hasn't been fairly accurately said in the newspapers - basically we were utter cr@p and fortunate not to lose 2-0 or 3-0. If Troyes had had one striker capable of hitting Gary Speed's @rse with a bango, that would surely have been the outcome. Personally, I didn't think Given played as outstandingly well as the papers suggest, although he did play well.

Robbie Elliott had a nightmare, wide-men Quinn and Solano were anonymous, leaving Speed and Lee outgunned and needing to battle manfully, and imo not entirely unsuccessfully, in midfield. Bellamy was - er - well - playing, I believe. Shola did a few nice dances but with minimal service was fairly ineffectual.

Despite the paucity of the display overall, we collectively battled pretty well and after a dreadful opening 20-30 minutes I actually thought we defended pretty well. However, offensively we were non-existent - as one newspaper said " Newcastle were lucky to get nil". I don't recall a single effort on goal - not on merely "on target", but "at all" - however, Jonno has assured me that Shola had a shot blocked. Who am I to argue with Jonno?

The festivites in Troyes Town Square were 'boisterous' (!) but well-natured - with the locals largely bemused by what all these strange people dressed in b&w striped shirts were up to; most not even realising there was a game on in town. The few early drops of rain were ignored by most, but not by yours truly, the professional Rainman. These few drops caused me great forboding, and frustration at why I had felt it was sensible to leave my rain jacket in the hotel simply because it was about 75 degF and sunny outside - previous bitter experience should have prevailed, but I didn't want to look a total wally!

Inevitably the few drops had turned to a steady drizzle by the time we set off for the ground, with one zebra studiously surveying the gathering gloom above. By the time we found our way through the maze of medieval terraces (very quaint) to the ground - the 20 minute walk forecast by KiwiToon had turned to about 45 sodden minutes, during which paper bags containing "dinner on the fly" - a brie sandwich and a bag of chips - needed to be jettisoned as the bags turned soggy.

Arriving at the ground, the steets were turning to rivers and "de l'eau" was trickling down my neck. The general cheer was already turning to melancholy as we joined the queue for tickets - a queue that moved at les escargots pace, manned by two gentile and sedate French ladies, one who was apparently only there to continually survey the by now scudding rain clouds!

We hurried to our assigned, and importantly, COVERED, places in the North Stand, only to find concrete terracing where the seats had apparently been removed - presumably for safety reasons! These painted, and by now thoroughly wet and slippy terraces presented a very significant safety risk - something not really enhaced by the menacing gestapo lining the entrance and the stairs. The heavy chain-link fencing effectively obscuring half of the pitch at least partially explained why the tickets only cost a fiver.

In the event everything was good natured, and the gestapo weren't called into action. The soggy Toon Navy made lerds o noise and sang lerds o ditties - despite the appalling weather and pretty appalling display by their heroes. The locals were friendly and clearly impressed by the vocal support provided to such an average team, if still bemused and amused by our antics.

After the game the gestapo held us back for a eternity - time enough for 100,000 fans to have dispersed to most parts of the universe, never mind the 10,000 that were actually there. So, we amused ourselves with further vocal renditions of well known ditties - much to the enjoyment of some of the Troyes players who commendably were warming down in the by-now monsoons. They were gracious enough to applaud our efforts and were appropriately rewarded - they must be seriously wondering what 50,000 of these strange people must be like if this is what 400 could do - little do they know that sadly it's usually not that much more consequential these days.

The applause of these few Troyes players was at least genuine and spontaneous - unlike the performance of some of our own heroes, who seemed to find it difficult to cross the halfway line to offer their own appreciation of the efforts that this little band had made by train, by boat, by plane to support them. Pathetic.

The gestapo finally relented and off we went, partially dry by know, into the growing monsoon, still singing - well it does helps to keep you warm. Even old favourites like "White Xmas", "Frank Clark knows..." and "we've got Terry, Terry Hibbit..." got a good airing - even though I suspect less than 10% of those singing ever saw Franky or Terry.

Finally diving into the first open bar, we stood casually creating our own individual puddles on the floor, wondering whether to laugh or cry for several nano-seconds before drinky-poos were enthusiastically ordered. The Gents was qickly commandeered and became a field laundry, with the electric handryer being pressed into service in clumsy attempts to dry various extremities.

Several pils later, and with at least the surface-water removed, fatigue set in and a taxi was summoned. However, by the time the taxi dropped it's bedraggled zebras at their digs the monsoon had given way to a minor Tsunami, rendering a third and blessedly final further soaking to our merry band over the final 50yds to their refuge for the next 5 hours before the process began all over again, in reverse. Happy days, indeed!

PS: any home remedies for 'trench-foot' would be gratefully appreciated.

-- Anonymous, August 08, 2001

Answers

Response to TheTroyes Clique thread

Alors, un pissoir! ;-{)

-- Anonymous, August 08, 2001

Nice report! Have anyone heard anything about Sholas injury? How bad is it?

-- Anonymous, August 08, 2001

Whoops, posted message to Clarky in Jonno's thread so I'll post Jonno's message here: wonderful report, so glad you had a good time.

-- Anonymous, August 08, 2001

I'm not sure if Clarky will be speaking to you Dougal after placing him in such a position. I think the least you can do is offer him the services of your tumble-dryer to assist in the mopping up process. :-)

-- Anonymous, August 09, 2001

Troyes R Us

It seemed like a good idea at the time. A few days holiday to take and a European tie within easy driving distance. Well, it looked like it was in easy driving distance if you looked at the map with your readingspecs on.

The planning was remarkably simple. Jonno and Dougal indicated that they would like to go, and Cypress Lurker did the biz on match tickets. A quick trawl of the internet found a good deal on the Hover-thingie and cheap accomodation in Kent. The plan was to leave Toon on Monday afternoon, take a gentle drive down to Dover and catch the 10:00am Hover-thingie to Calais on Tuesday morning. Easy - you could even say child's play. The weekend went without problem, tho Jonno was getting rather excited about travelling abroad with the Toon Army for the very first time and started regaling the BBS with stirring stories of the Forst World Wor battles in France (many, it's thought, from first hand experiences).

The first murmurings of unease started coming from Dougal who announced she had mislaid her passport (not having needed it for Lahndaan, Liverpool, Leicester and other away games last season. Ee - what a couple of barren years without European footie can do to you. Not wishing the hours of planning to go to waste, a substitute was lined up. Clarky was put on standby and readied for the bench. Sadly, the precaution was well founded when Dougal had to cry off, but hopefully a big box of tissues sorted that out and Clarky was raring to go (but had he told the missus??)

And so it was the Stealth Astra was unleashed from the hanger driveway and headed south via Blyth, North Shields and SJP (Kenton Bar End) before engaging full stealth protection while we skirted un-noticed thru enemy territory and onward past Chester-le-Street, our Guadian Angel watching over us as we passed by. Good time was made and a quick change of plans en route to confuse the enemy (and Dougal in case any subterfuge had been planned) saw us check in to the Premier Lodge (appropriate name, eh??) in Dover. Of course, any good foray into enemy territory depends on good planning and local intelligence. With that in mond (honest), the crew embarked on a recce of Dover in readiness for the battle ahead.

First to be tackled was the hotel bar and after some initial resistance, the bartender (?) was persuaded to pour "fowa pyunts o' yer best, marra". Clearly, a more responsive basecamp was needed and the advance party headed further west along the shore to seek more information on the local area. Refuge was reached in "The Mariners" and we started discussing earlier skirmishes into Europe, with Cypress Lurker and Screach introducing the Euro-virgins to past stories (one day, it is hoped Lurker will find the time and inclination to tell the BBS some of the juicier moments from travelling to foreign fields with the Toon Army).

Having refreshed the parts that needed refreshing (and many that didn't), scran was called for, and help was at close hand in the form of the Gurkas - or was it the Happy Hour (and an half) that made the local Indian look so appealing. Clarky, Jonno and Screach did their bit for international relations and ordered ethnic cuisine. Lurker did his bit for BSE and had a steak. If tomorrow's battle was going to be hot, this was damned good practice. Perhaps it was us who should have been seeking "the assylum" in Dover that night.

Battle day dawned bright and breezy, with the sky blue and the sun shining (what else does the sun do??) over the north of Dover. To the south (the smarter of you will know that south of Dover is the "business end") were rain clouds and what the weather forecaster described as a stiff breeze. Re-inforcements arrived from Blyth in the form of a red Japanese machine (presumably captured during previous skirmishes), it's two-man crew having left Blyth at 2:00am and dodged the radar cameras on the A14 to arrive unscathed in record time. It just goes to show what you can do in the dark when the dashboard light doesn't work and you don't know how fast you're going. Formalties were completed at the Hoverport tho the Jap machine didn't make the first wave and had to wait for the next landing craft. The first waved waved off the second as we slipped our way quietly out of home waters and into the unknown. The Toon Navy was underway.

Having watched The Saving of Private Ryan on Saturday night, I was prepared for our landing in France. However, the value of good forward planning can only be re-itterated and we made our way past the dunes and inland without any problem until we happened upon a guard post at the beginning of the A26 road south. Fortunately this comand post was unmanned and the advance guard had somehow left a ticket with a map, thus making our southward journey much easier. When we finally happened upon another command post, we were sufficiently well prepared to bribe the guard with 105 FF and we proceded unhindered past the ancient city of Reims. Clearly the advance troups had done a great job and had even had time to set up a banner claiming part of this territory for ourselves. Yes, there it was, right by the side of the A26 in Reims is a sign proclaiming Jardiland. Clearly the spelling has lost something in the travel but it made we four feel as if we were still close to home. You can take a Geordie out of Geordieland, but you can't take Jardiland out of the Garden Centre (or something like that).

A further unmanned outpost (again with small map) awaited just south of Reims and we headed into Champagne country, full of expectancy (or was it just wind after last night's curry??). The miles slipped by and I slipped into a coma. Thankfully, Clarky had manned the controls and we continued our journey unhindered, although we did come across a feeble attempt to disrupt our progress when we encountered two great holes in the ground. Nevertheless, we stood our ground, taking things firmly in hand and took aim. Nobody was going to scre the shit out of this fearsome four. No sir, we weren't going to be inconvenienced by a couple of French holes in the ground. Eventually, our goal came into sight and we called up our (not so secret) agent in Troyes. When you're so far away from home, it's great to hear your signal responded to by a familiar English accent. Sadly, this wasn't possible and we had to make do with a New Zealand twang (I told him to try M&S next time). This was Kiwi Toon's adopted toon and he rendezvoused (why do the French have to use such big words when the 3 letters M-E-T would do suffice?) with us to take us to our out-of-toon base camp(anile).

We de-camped and reached the final briefing point in Centre Ville where the Toon Navy met rendezvoused with the Toon Army foot soldiers. Some of the sights of Troyes were magnificent but sadly they didn't stop as they walked by. Malheureuesement, we hadn't been there long when rain precipitation was felt. This was a forerunner for the rest of the evening and we were swamped when a delude deluged on us. Just like Barca all over again. After taking on refreshments, we marched to the ground, making a daring raid on a kebab shop for chips and two cheese sandwiches on the way. Eventually, drenched to the skin, we arrived at the stadium where we joined the orderly (?) queue waiting for tickets. It semed to take ages, and when we eventually sussed out what was happening, it would appear that some of the "lesser endowed in the brain department" were complaining that they couldn't buy their tickets with English currency. FFS! WTF had they been buying their booze with all day?? "Quelle T0$$er$", Captain Clarky was heard to utter.

Having finally got our secret passes, we were then sujected to a body search by the riot plice. At least it warmed me up and we made our way to the away supporters section. What a shambles. Surely it must have contravened the UEFA regulations. The seats had been removed (due apparently oto them having no backs), and the "trenches" that were left were positively dangerous. The "seats" should have been set on concrete blocks but with their removal, it left a walk-way, with a large concrete block rising out of it with another lower walk-way. And what's more, between many of the blocks were foot-sized gaps. With rain blowing in onto the painted concrete and a (more than) modicum on alcohol having been consumed, this was a disaster waiting to happen, and how it didn't mut be down to good luck rather than good management.

The match was poor. We were cr@p. Barton clapped long and loud after the final whistle. The only plus-point of the match was Brian, Brian and Brian. These three kids (all sporting "Brian" on the back of their shirts had obviously been brought along by Mum & Dad. At half-time, Sergeant Jonno was accosted by Brian's dad, who actually turned out to be Barry. Barry from Brussels. Aye, Wor Barry! So finally, a sighting has been made and contact esablished. It would appear that he got a job lot on "Brian shirts" and all the kids have to wear one. And you lot all though our latest signing was called "Robert". Does Barry know better. It's a funny old game, Brian.

Post battle, we were detained for 20 mins while the locals ran away and the riot police were massed to escort us from the ground. If ever there has been an over kill (wrong phrase???), this was it. I have never been to a match with so much bon-homie, cameraderie and joi de vivre (but then again, I've never been to a match in France before) than this. So why did they find it so necessary to have 160 riot police to escort 400 contented fans? This left the only sour taste. Ironically (as Soops would say) we had been comenting before the game how relaxed the whole atmosphere in the Centre Ville had been before the game. Why did they have to try to spoil it all? Anyway - to finish, we jumped on the Foot Bus which we were reliably informed (by a p!$$ed foot soldier) would take us to Centre Ville. Canny singing (Francois Clark connait mon pere) and good atmos, but where were we? Lost, j'ai pensé.

All too quickly, the night disappeared down a drain in the Centre Ville and the revaillez call roused us at 5:30 for the return journey - but not before we made a detour thru the local villages searcing for the A26 back to Calais. I won't say how fast the initial part of this journey was made - suffice to say it was difficult to tell if the passengers were still sleeping off the effects of the previous evening, catching up on their beauty sleep, or passed out due to the G-forces on the motorway curves? Probably all three, but in due time (something less than 3 hours) we pulled up at Calais to catch the same landing craft which had deposited us en France less than 24 heures earlier. The return crossing was swell, and seemed to contribute quite nicely to last night's hang-over. Tee-hee - the designated driver was OK ;-)

A final burst thru Kent, Essex and other (almost) foreign parts found us speeding making our way to my meeting in Sheffield at 14:00. Well, almost - we'd have made it if the Hover-thingie hadn't been late in setting off and further delayed climbing all the hills God put in it's way on the way across the Channel.

All-in-all, a crackin' couple of days away. The appetite has surely been whetted (wetted, surely??) and hopefully the whole can be repeated next round if/when we beat the whinging bátards in a couple of weeks. How the hell could they complain about Nobby's credentials after the game? In truth, we'd probably have been better off if he hadn't played - he was poor. Was this a result of the passport porblems or just a general malaise in the team? Which reminds me - chant of the night IMHO was He's a Geordie, and you know he is with reference to Nobby's "passport problems" followed closely by You can shove the Daily Mirror up your Arse(nal) - an obvious reference to the battle we had just been involved in (or perhaps more likely their lead sports story of the morning passing comment on the validity of Nobby's credentials).

Next time, ehh???

-- Anonymous, August 09, 2001



Screach - can I nick this for the fanzine, pet? Incidentally, I am now in possession of a beautiful new passport.

-- Anonymous, August 09, 2001

Aye - nee probs. Have you applied for Troyes tix for the home leg (nee passports needed!!)

-- Anonymous, August 09, 2001

Yes, sent off this morning. Ordered you one (which I presume was the right thing to do).

-- Anonymous, August 09, 2001

Ta! Spot on ;-))

-- Anonymous, August 09, 2001

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