Day Out

	The Big Day

When Wales played in Ukraine recently, Raynor Lewis made the trip. He recorded his East European adventures in an extensive travelogue. This is Part 4 of the tale (Click here for part one, here for part two, here for part three, and here for part four)

Big game day, and once again we skipped the hotel breakfast in favour of the usual Steak, Chips and Turkey sandwiches. As we left our room, there was a police officer and a member of the hotel management at the chambermaid's desk. They asked if we knew a particular member of the group. I said we did, and asked if there was a problem. They said there wasn't, but I was a little concerned. When we entered the bar, we asked around to try and find the lad. He had gone shopping at one of the local markets with a few of the others. Leaving messages for him with the entire group we saw, we finished our meal and the beer, and decided to try and find a bar next to the Olympic Stadium. 

The taxi from outside the hotel to the Olympic Stadium cost about £4; not only was the driver unable to speak English, but he appeared to be speech-impaired as well. He conversed with us using croaks and hand signals, indicating that he loved football and that Ukraine would win 1-0. He dropped us right outside the stadium, next to a group of Welsh supporters we knew. As we had only just arrived, we decided to look for a bar and one of the lads joined us.

Across the road from the stadium we found a bar with tables outside. As the weather was more like my long-range forecast, we decided to sit outside. I went in and attracted the attention of one of the waitresses. They were of the previous high standard - as usual. We sat under a rather large parasol, which advertised Cocoa Cola, in Cyrillic! I commented that the bar looked quite posh and that it would probably be a bit expensive, once again, I'd got it wrong. Sitting outside this bar was like having died and gone to heaven. I have never seen so many beautiful women in my life. Literally hundreds of them walked past in the six hours we sat there. All tall, with long legs, long blonde hair and all wearing the shortest skirts you have ever seen, with the slinkiest tops available from women's clothes shops.

About an hour before the game was due to start, the heavens opened. This did little to deter the local females, and an impromptu wet tee-shirt competition began. Unfortunately, none of the contestants knew they were taking part, but we had a great time judging it! Occasionally, we were approached by a spotty-faced youth who wanted to swap a badge, but by and large we were left alone. The bar began to fill up with one or two of the other fans and a roaring trade was done. At last it was time to move onto the reason we had all come here: the big match. I called for our bill, and to my amazement found that it totalled only £6. That was three of us, drinking pint after pint for six hours!

We crossed the road to The Olympic Stadium. This is the National Stadium, which is also used by Dinamo Kyiv when they play their big European games, such as against Manchester United. There were several lines of police officers to pass through, and it seemed that our tickets were checked six or seven times. It didn't deter a local who just latched onto the crowd and seemed to get into the ground without once showing a ticket. I had originally brought two flags to Kyiv. The old Cardiff 1927 club flag which has travelled to quite a few places over the years, and the newer St David's cross with "CPD DINAS CAERDYDD" written on it. Having seen the "CLWB 1927 LLUNDAIN" flag getting soaked the day before, and ending up weighing a ton, I opted to take only the "CPD" flag, knowing that the "Clwb 1927" flag would be there anyway. Entering the stadium, I realised that we were not segregated.

Thoughts of Bulgaria came flooding back, where 70 of us had been separated from a 70,000 crowd baying for our blood, by a rope and two policemen. As it happened, it wasn't that bad. I managed to get the "CPD" flag out and attach it to a couple of empty rows of seats near the front, just next to the huge "Dyffryn Nantlle" flag. We settled down for the anthems and waited for the game to begin.

I have attracted some attention over the years at Welsh away games with my Viking hat, but this time I was to be overshadowed by one of the funniest things I have ever seen at a football match. Having spent the morning at one of the markets, two certain siblings and some friends arrived at the game with some Russian Air Force surplus equipment. Luckily, it was not a jet fighter, but some leather headgear worn by jet pilots, and one helmet, which can only be described as cosmonaut-like. Completely white, with a reflective visor and an oxygen tube hanging from the back, it looked outstanding. I later learned that it was in fact a Mig pilot's helmet. Bedecked in their newly acquired attire, the boys stole the show. Even the Ukrainians were bemused. 

The said siblings and a few of the others then entertained the Ukrainians to a salvo of new and used songs. The police allowed them to carry on until the bare-chest salute started. At this point the Ukrainian police decided that enough was enough. About three or four of them stood several rows below, and began to eye up the lads. I thought that the end was nigh for this particular group, but was pleased to see that as the police approached them, they merely asked them to cover their extremely large "liquid grain retention systems". The new songs consisted of "HELLO, HELLO, WE'VE ALL GOT MASSIVE *****!" and "I'M NOT SICK, I'M NOT ILL, I DON'T COME FROM CHERNOBYL!" I'm just glad the friendly officers didn't understand English!

Once again, I'm not going to do a match report, but the highlights were Giggs' free-kick from 20 yards out which hit the post, a header that Hartson just failed to hit the target with, and of course the equaliser by Pembridge. As the ball went under the keeper, the Welsh supporters went absolutely bonkers. You really had to be there to know what it was like. We've all experienced it with our club sides, but this was special. We'd been written off, and here we were, audaciously showing that we could compete with the best of them. It got better. We almost stole the show at the end when Giggs tapped in a ball that was cleared only by the foot of a committed keeper. It was certainly worth the trip.

As the final whistle sounded, it was the Welsh who were celebrating. The team had performed beyond our expectations, most of us believing that we'd concede four or five. The rain had held off for the match and apart from the pistachio nutshells covering it, the "CPD" flag was pretty clean and dry. The police would only allow one or two of us to collect the flags, so those of us lucky enough to get through, took them all down and handed them back to their owners. The Welsh fans made their way towards the exits, but were prevented from leaving by the police. It seems that once again, they were worried for our safety, rather than what we might do. They had prevented Welsh supporters from going to the toilets during the game, and those supporters who managed to sneak to the far-from-hygienic urinals came back with tales of Ukrainian supporters literally kicking hell out of each other. If that's how they treated their own, I'm glad we were kept where we were.

Our detention after the game also afforded us the opportunity to sing to Mark Hughes, in the vain hope that while he was being interviewed by Terry Phillips, the television cameras may have picked up our chants. There was of course, the usual rendition of "WE HATE ENGLAND, WE ******* HATE ENGLAND!" to the tune of our own Mary Hopkins' "THOSE WERE THE DAYS…" (which I believe is a traditional Russian tune). The sound reverberated around the now-empty stadium, and I've no doubt it was heard in the background of the interview. As Sparky left, he was adulated by one and all, and with a big grin on his face, he turned and waved to us. In the great traditions of Welsh fan madness, we also paid homage to Phillips as he walked down the tunnel. As he smiled and waved he was probably thinking to himself, "Mad b*******!"