Day Out

	Goodbye Kiev

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

After about 20 minutes, we were escorted towards the exits. I still think the major influence in the police allowing us to leave was the fact that most of them had been confronted by a VERY tall Welsh fan, who was constantly urging them, "Let's rock and roll." I must admit, having had him standing in front of me for the whole of the game, urging me to rock and roll, I was glad it was someone else's turn. What is it with these Ynys Mon Blues? 

As we walked to the exits, we were surrounded by a phalanx of police officers, and ushered towards the concourse. The lines of officers behind us looked no more than 16 years old, and when you consider there are four levels of police in the Ukraine, I would suggest they were the lowest level. They appeared inexperienced and looked frightened as they linked arms to prevent an attack from behind us. In their eagerness to get rid of us, they began to close in and push us forward. Most of the group decided to make their way into the city centre to round off the trip, but the deadly duo of Danny and myself decided to slip through the police cordon and return to the bar where we had spent the afternoon. For a change we had a pork steak with chips. It was served with salad garnish and some fresh-looking garden peas. Boy, were they fresh. They were so fresh, they hadn't been cooked. Cold and hard, I ate only a spoonful. We sat there until the pot man started to pack away the parasols, then went inside to finish off our last pint. A short walk across the road, and another taxi to the hotel saw us arriving at about half-past midnight.

We made straight to the JOSS bar, where a few Welsh supporters had already gathered. Celebration time began, with copious amounts of beer and vodka. The night was much the same as the previous one, except that at around 1.30am the sibling fighter pilots arrived. Terrorists normally hijack airlines and their pilots. These Welsh pilots hijacked the CD player. On came the Clash's double album London Calling and everyone joined in with the lyrics. The surreal sight of one of our pilots sitting among the prostitutes asking them to stroke his helmet will live with me forever! The celebrations carried on and on and on. At one stage I looked out of the window only to see the sun rising and the early morning workers on their lemming-like missions. At 6am I called it a day. I was the sensible one - some were still arriving from their inner-city excursions and heading straight to the bar, while others simply stayed where they had been for several hours already.

I made my way to our room, and as I exited the lift, was confronted by the chambermaid on duty at her desk, with a slim attractive dark-haired young woman standing next to her. I handed over my room card, and the young woman asked: "You want sexy massage?" I looked and smiled, and did my impersonation of a News of the World reporter. I made my excuses and left!

The next morning was clear and sunny, and as we travelled from the hotel to the airport we witnessed some of the maddest driving I've ever seen. We'd stopped at a set of traffic lights, although how the driver knew where to stop I've no idea. Not a single junction or set of lights in Kyiv has any road markings. We were about third from pole position, when the lights changed. Immediately, every car in front moved off in a scene reminiscent of a Wacky Races cartoon. Nothing to worry about, you may think, but try telling that to the several pedestrians who were still crossing the road. The drivers in front let rip with their horns, and the only way for the pedestrians to ensure their safety was to run hell for leather. Danny and I cracked up laughing, and our driver turned towards us with a knowing grin and chuckled.

The return journey was much the same as the first taxi ride we had taken, only this time it was only costing us 100 whatevers. There was a long dual carriageway, policemen at 50-yard intervals and strange bus stops in the middle of nowhere. Arriving at the airport, the hiraeth kicked in (although I was going back to London, and not God's country).

Getting out of the country was as hard as getting in! The long queue we experienced at immigration on the way in was longer on the way out. The same applied to customs. As I cleared Customs, I noticed one of our group had been stopped and was emptying his holdall on the instructions of the customs officer. Our lad did not look impressed. Shopping in the sparsely stocked duty free shop was punctuated with sitting in the departure lounge nursing a sore head. Eventually our flight was called, and we queued up to check in. It was then that we realised the lad who had been stopped at Customs had still not joined us. As the last few boarded, he came running from the security checks and joined us on the plane. It turned out that he had bought a military medal in one of the markets, and he was not allowed to take it out of the country. The length of his detention may have had something to do with the suggestion he made about where the customs officer could put the Ukraine!

Another smooth flight. We all hoped there would be no loss of baggage this time, in fact, we had all mentioned it to the check-in staff on the way in. Arriving at Zurich for a change of flights gave us a second opportunity for duty- free shopping - this time the choice was varied. As we sat in the departure lounge next to our boarding gate, the announcement was made that our flight would be delayed taking off. The announcer explained that there was no flight crew as they were on another flight, which had yet to land. No problem for us, as quick as a flash the sibling fighter pilots donned their head gear and approached the information desk. They offered their services, and may well have been taken up on the offer, had a four-foot multi-coloured fluffy centipede not popped his head up between them. Thirty-five Welsh supporters were creased up laughing, tears rolling down their faces, while the miserable Swiss travellers looked on bemused.

Our final boarding came minutes later and the hour and 20 minutes passed quite quickly. One final incident on the flight made me laugh. As the stewardess brought the trolley towards the front, the plane was still climbing. She began to serve the first few passengers with their snacks, only to see her trolley start rolling back to the galley! With both hands full, she was not sure whether to drop the meals and run for the trolley or let the trolley run down the sloping aisle. I had to check we weren't doing a retake of the Nat West advert where the man who can't afford his flight steals the steward's uniform.
At Heathrow, by the time we had traversed the travelator to Immigration and had our passports checked, the luggage was on the carousel. The green customs channel was unmanned and within 15 minutes of landing, we were back in London. We said our goodbyes, promising to keep in touch over the Norway game and dispersed towards the various public transport facilities.

That's about whole story. I've not mentioned anyone by name, as most regular Wales supporters will know who they are, and those that don't travel, will have the pleasure of meeting us all when they do. I've still got three whatevers left, but of course, they're worthless here. I would return to Kyiv if we were to draw them again, but I wouldn't use an airport taxi!