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A B-r-r-r-ief trip to Tromso
"Welcome to Tromso.
Here are a few rules we would like you to obey:
Please do not urinate in a public place (in that temperature?!!).
Please do not consume alcohol or any alcoholic substances (wine gums? brandy
snaps?) in a public place.
Please do not participating in any fighting.
Please do not 'interfere' with any police officer (!!).
If requested you must supply police with your name and social
security number (oh help!)."
Before I start to sound too mocking, I can honestly say that the Tromso police were the
most the most friendly foreign authority I have ever experienced. It was so pleasant to
arrive at the airport with not a machine-gun or long baton to be seen. There was not even
any muzzled huskies. In fact there remarkably few police present as well and those that
were appeared to be doubling up as passport control, customs, duty free shop workers etc.
Throughout the day they were
smiling at us and even thanking us for coming!!!
Anyway, I doubt if anyone was in the mood for rowdiness, excluding the inevitable snowball
fight which took a matter of milliseconds to kick-off, as we got off the plane since we
were all coming to terms with the fact we had appeared to have landed on a ice-floe in the
middle of a large stretch of water. It is certainly the first
time I have experienced the pilot having to pump the brakes to bring the thing to a halt.
The turn performed at the end of runway, a matter of yards from the water, just to show us
how close we had got to it was most appreciated!
Airport formalities out the way, we were soon on the coaches heading into the 'Paris of
the North'. There was no doubting this was the real thing - the full Nordic experience.
While not geographically accurate due to being on one side of an island, the appearance of
our location was one of a valley with a large stretch
of inviting (!) water running through it traversed only by one high-arcing bridge. Totally
surrounding the horizon were mountains - real proper mountains - all conifer and
snow-covered while overhead was a pale blue sky and a smattering of clouds. As we drove
into town we passed by a ski-jumping arena (they have got to kidding haven't they?!) and a
large but disused emporium by the name of Aune's.
As had been rumoured earlier in the week, apparently Chelsea had only managed to hire one
pilot licenced to land at an airport such Tromso's so instead of the intended 400 it was
only about 230 (229 if you allow for the fact that there were apparently two of me on the
flight) who were let loose to join the handful of executive travellers who had come the
day before with the players and the equally few people who had made their own way.
Sure enough it was cold but not that cold, somewhere just below freezing at this stage I
would guess, and the untrodden snow in the town was about a foot deep. We watched
with interest as a couple of people headed off in suede trainers.
Not wishing to break Rule One within minutes of arrival, our first priority was to find
somewhere with an available toilet and, for some reason, a nearby bar seemed to fit the
bill perfectly. We were obviously expecting the worst while waiting for the cash ill to
tell us the damage but in reality it was only about three quid for half-a-litre of beer
which let's face it, is not considerably more than Drake's plus this seemed to be one of
the more flashy drinking establishment in town when compared with some of the places we
walked past later. For some reason some of these establishments had hastily chalked signs
outside simply saying 'PUB' as if they thought this was going to attract punters or
something. How bizarre! The prices of the beverages were not only of major concern to us
foreigners as all around this bar were video screens not only displaying all the available
prices but also animated graphs showing the fluctuation in price with time.
Conscious of the fact that, although too early for all-day dark, the sun would probably
set pretty early we decided to quickly consume our drink and attempt to complete our one
outside mission for the day. This was to ride on a cable car to the top of one of the
overlooking mountains. One quick glance at the map indicated that although over the bridge
on the otherside of the water, it was only about a mile away so we headed off on foot. On
route we stopped off at a sports
clothing shop in an attempt to buy a Tromso scarf but none were for sale. I suppose this
was a bit too much to ask of such a shop. You could of course buy a Blackburn Rovers hat
or three different designs of Man U shirt.
We were not long on the bridge before we realised it was one of those magic bridges which
gets longer the further you go. It seemed to take hours to reach the apex which was rather
elevated but a razor sharp wind meant we did not stay there long admiring the views. We
paid off the troll and he let us continue unmolested.On the other side it really did feel
like fairytale country. To get to
the cable car station we had to walk up quiet streets covered in virgin snow with no
boundaries between roads and gardens visible. All around were Hansel and Gretel-type
brightly coloured houses and chalets. It took some little brat in a Spurs wooly hat
chanting 'Tromso, Tromso' at us to spoil the illusion.
We finally arrived at base camp about an hour after we anticipated only to find a
handwritten note with a message which was pretty easy to decipher - CLOSED. Bet they
opened it for Trevor Brooking earlier in the day.
Determined not to walk back we found the nearest bus stop and while trying to work out
whether the numbers corresponding to each bus referred to hours of the day or days of the
month, one came trundling up the road. Taking care to avoid Royking which (who?) is
forbidden and politely declining the offer of seats from Norwegian schoolkids (cheeky
gits) we were quickly back in the town centre.
Hungry and a bit chilled, it was time to sample the local cuisine with what is becoming
the traditional pizza. We were most impressed with the service received, the waitresses
all being helpful, polite, well-spoken and attractive which is a horrible shock when you
live in London. One of them even (misguidedly) tried to prevent us over-ordering.
If I can try and say this in a non-corny, unlecherous sort of way (retch), the Laps really
were an all-round good-looking race with angelic, small-featured, healthy faces. There was
barely a fucking great nose to be seen.
Soon after we had sat down, the next table was filled by Chelsea's own esteemed programme
editor and some of his contributors. We naturally adopted the pose of 'very interesting
people to try one of those small Q&A and photo pieces in the club magazine on' but he
did not take the bait, not even when I was using the next urinal to him which you would
thought was an obvious chance to canvas me. Oh well, fame will have to wait.
While sitting there lapping (groan) up the atmosphere, the main square outside which up to
then had been another idyllic postcard scene with lots of children in bright coloured
coats and hats playing in the snow, started to accumulate a large gathering of onlookers.
They appeared to be crowded around a police vehicle but nothing was happening and the
crowd just stood there for ages. Even passing by
on the way out we could not ascertain what had transpired. Maybe someone had forgotten
their social security number or spotted some yellow snow.
Heading off for one more wander round the pleasant town centre, we passed scarf sellers
with suspiciously authentic London accents trading in Chelsea, Tromso, Man U (surprise)
and Leeds (I ask you!) merchandise and on past the statue of Roald Amundsen. Old Roald
reportedly started his antarctic expedition from Tromso (why not from somewhere closer
like Australia? Daft twat!). However there was not time to see his fishing tackle in the
local museum. Self-preservation instincts told us it was daft to spend too long outside
with the evening to come so
we retired to our earlier bar where we meet some of the unofficial travellers. They had
been up to the ground in search of tickets and brought back gruesome tales of the state of
the pitch and stadium. Rumours were circulating that the game still was not definitely on.
They had so far been unsuccessful in their ticket quest and although obviously were doing
the whole trip cheaper than us, the traces of worry on their faces made the piece of mind
our extra expenditure bought seem worthwhile. If truth be told, they did get in albeit
(how many points for slipping that word in?) in the laughably named West Stand which was
two scaffold poles and a piece of plywood behind one of the goals.
The remaining hours in the bar were spent trying to compose some novel songs for the game
ahead but I am sorry to report that the average quality of our efforts plums depths such
as:
We'll never be mastered, by the most northern bastards.
We'll never be mastered, by no Nordic bastards.
Thank you very much for the Christmas tree, Thank you very much,
Thank you very, very, very much.
and most despicably of all:
One man and his polar bear Spot, went to snow on Tromso.
Even sadder to report we actually got this one going in the crowd!
So to the coaches and on to the ground. On entry we were all given a commemorative
chocolate bar with details of the game on the wrapper, which was nice. If only someone had
actually told us this was a life preservation measure for the second-half everyone would
not have piled into them straight away. The stadium was not a shock as it was the standard
we had been led to expect nor was the temperature. Most people had come more than prepared
and clad in woolly hats and sixteen layers of clothing, the away following, rotund enough
at the best of times, did look rather like a teletubby convention.
What did still have the ability to surprise was the pitch. No two square feet of it were
the same! What grass remained was rapidly being raked off, there was still plenty of snow
and not a line was to be seen. The players' warm-up was hardly the most convincing either.
Zola for instance just walked around for fifteen
minutes until Ade Mafe got wise to him and made him stay behind class and sprint some
lines with him. Hitchcock made the mistake of chucking a snowball at the Chelsea
contingent and reaped hefty interest. Before the game we had been running a sweep on how
many minutes into the warm-up Dennis would chuck his first snowball but Kevin had stolen
his thunder. The work-out was temporarily interrupted by a hunting pack of young, female,
Norwegian autograph huntresses who invaded the pitch but only seemed to have Robbie Di
Matteo as a target
(didn't know you were from Viking stock Claire).
Pre-match entertainment was provided by a marching band who marched on,
stood there inanimate for twenty minutes and marched off again. They had either frozen
solid or were under instructions to hide a particularly nasty part of the pitch from the
referee. A bout of singing had suffice instead and although a couple of isolated groups
attempted to get some anti-Bates stuff going but it was not picked up by the majority.
The pitch markings were finally painted on albeit (2-0) in a very unpronounced red. This
was a complete contrast to the balls used which must have been manufactured in Sellafield.
When the teams walked out there was immediate disquiet over the absence of Hughes from the
line-up. Pre-match opinion had been almost universal that he must play and seeing the
pitch had only strengthened this.
At the start the Chelsea choir, right-hand side of the stand facing the cameras as you
looked at it, was in fine voice. 'We're gonna make this a blue day' took on a whole new
significance. However it soon started to stutter in sympathy the team's performance.
After only a couple of minutes Granville fell and lost possession and the ball was played
through to a forward who looked marginally offside. He ran on but shot straight at De
Goey. Surely just one of those things, an early scare to wake them up. Within minutes
Tromso had won a free-kick in front of us which was knocked back to edge of the area and
was rifled into the bottom corner as Wise tried to close. It was a clever idea, superbly
executed. The scorer could perhaps have
been picked up more tightly but everyone had expected a cross to be swung
deep in where it hurts. My mind was immediately filled with the next morning's headlines
about the sewage farm worker who had slain the Chelsea goliath. In fact he was a
journalist on the local paper (I didn't say anything!).
Chelsea proceed to play as if nothing was wrong and they were out to hold it tight,
quieten the crowd and all that stuff but close passing in that midfield looked wholly
over-ambitious. As for Tromso, they were causing all sorts of problems at the back. They
were playing with one upfront with runners coming from deep. You can say all you want
about knowing how to play the conditions but this is hardly a
revolutionary tactic and players such as Newton are normally so sharp at picking up
players running through. This lot were going about their business as if they were
invisible men. Leboeuf and Clarke were playing as if they had never met let, alone formed
a partnership before and the former's legendary radar appeared to be completely jammed.
There were a couple of scary moments minutes before the second goal was
deservedly registered. Leboeuf made the first error charging towards the man in possession
leaving not one but two men in behind him free to receive the ball. The inevitable pass
and shot came and that final nail got sledge-hammered even more deeply into De Goey's
coffin.I have not seen it on television but I had the best view in the ground possible and
the pitch appeared to play no obvious part in the
misjudgment. Certainly his reaction afterwards led no doubt as to whether he considered
himself at fault.
By now, it had most definitely 'all gone quiet over here' bar a couple of choruses of
'We're not very good' and 'We came all this way and we're shit'.
Nothing that happened in the period following this goal did anything to give the
impression Chelsea could get a grip on the match. Granville was having a nightmare, Vialli
was not contributing anything and everytime Zola attempted to go past someone he lost the
ball. Our sole attacking effort of the half was a ball out to Vialli on the wing who
managed to get round the full-back and do the right thing by hitting the ball across low
but it was within the range of the 'keepers arms and got pushed away.
At the other end, everytime Tromso broke they seemed to find a man free and about ten
minutes from the break a mistake by Clarke presented a one-on-one situation but the ball
was lobbed just wide of the post. The away section was one big mass of stunned disbelief
with what we were witnessing. If that attempt had gone in then you would have had to start
wondering if the tie was over with only a quarter of it gone. Of course the conditions
were a hindrance but a lot of what was going on out there was just rank bad football. This
was the worst half they have played under Gullit. Not one of them can be absolved.
'They're just not up for it,' seemed to be the general diagnosis. A team like that in a
game like this is so much an obvious target for such allegations you would think they
would double their efforts to avoid them.
Within minutes of the players retiring the blizzard started and the Chelsea substitutes
who had just started a warm-up immediately pissed-off back to the dugout. How's that for
professionalism?! The inevitable bare-chest and gut appeared amongst the fans.
By the time the players returned there was already an inch covering the pitch and at least
two inches covering us. I once again had one of my visions. This time it was all my
friends, especially the non-Chelsea ones, sitting at home in the warmth creasing up with
laughter at my predicament.
It was little surprise to see Hughes on instead of Granville who had seemed incapable of
getting it into his head that you could not turn on that pitch. As the snowfall just got
thicker and thicker it seemed inevitable the game would be abandoned. A rendition of 'It's
just like watching Brazil' was our next success at song initiation whereas 'Just like
watching Channel 5' might have been more apt. The theme tune to Jeux Sans Frontier was not
as popular although the stadium
was most reminiscent of those days. As the minutes ticked by it started to dawn that this
was going to go the course. When the first sign of doubt only turned out to be a decision
to retrieve the pitch markings, the referee's intent was clear. This line-sweeping
afforded the opportunity for a neat bit of cheating by the boy with the broom when in
addition to the normal penalty area he gave the Tromso
'keeper a clear line down the middle of the box to the goal and some handy markings
corresponding to his posts.
The new surface evened the game out a little but Chelsea were still far from comfortable
and the lack of adaptation to the conditions was frightening. Zola was trying all the
little instinctive touches for which a true run of the ball is imperative, I have never
seen Wise lose possession so many times and when Newton dragged out that pull-back...!!!
Nice back-heel to their forward by the way Ed. I can forgive them an awful lot in that
half, especially as the blizzard into their faces must have been blinding but the
obviousness of the need to play the way you were facing was even more blinding.
De Goey had to save a few at the other end as for some reason they were shooting on sight
while Chelsea still failed to threaten. Dennis Wise provided some light relief by getting
into one of his pushing games and then snowballing his opponent. I knew we had not
under-estimated him. Zola produced a corner of equal comedic value.
With twenty minutes to go the penny finally dropped. Zola started carrying the ball when
in space, thereby risking ending up with a giant snowball at his feet, and while not
hitting it over the top to chase (our forwards do not have the place for that) long balls
were finally played in their direction. Zola got free down the left but shot across the
goal whilst Babayaro had a promising looking effort deflected over at source.
Having long since said goodbye to our toes and with Tromso still dangerous, the majority
of fans would have given anything for a damage limitation final whistle at that point.
Suddenly Vialli was infront of the backline and racing clear down in front of us. The ball
was passed into the net and one of those relieved-type
celebrations ensued.
What followed is so farcical it is hard to find the appropriate comment. What ever the
incompetence of the fourth official, it is doubled by that of the Chelsea contingent for
their unsanctioned removal of Leboeuf from his position and surely Sinclair must have been
aware he was no longer behind him as the ball sailed over his head. It was hard to make
out too clearly what was happening at that end but there was no mistaking the ball hitting
the net. The despair was tangible if not unfamiliar.
Vialli had contributed nothing before his goal. By the end of the day he had kept us in
this cup. He too realised just in time that if you send 'em this way and that way on this
pitch, they don't return in a hurry. Hence his twisting run on goal, first outside the
defence, then he cut inside and finally back the other way again before firing home. As he
ran towards us in celebration we ran towards him, the whole stand compressed into the
front two rows.
I have little doubt he would have squared matters a minute later had Zola seen him in
glaciers of space on the far side instead of shooting over but once again, vision must
have been awful.
So Chelsea got out of jail and we got on the coaches as fast as we could but not before
milking the applause from the players we so rightly deserved. Sod a load of clapping, a
free ticket for life would have felt more appropriate at that moment! Di Matteo was
halfway to the changing-room before the gesture dawned on him, the little toe-rag.
The pantomime nature of what had just been played out seemed to temper the
embarrassment of the defeat amongst the following although there was little praise to be
had for anyone in particular.
The coaches tip-toed their way down the deeply snow-covered hill, through town and
straight to the stairs of the plane. Great, we thought, they are going to ship us straight
out with no messing around in the airport (it has happened before). No sooner was it half
loaded than the call came to get back on the coaches and back to the terminal. The fact
the aircraft had now been in contact with unscreened passengers meant all the baggage left
on board had to come out and be checked
which all added up to a lengthy delay. As you might imagine this was all taken with great
humour and jovial banter.
Finally back on again, a few nursing bruises from becoming too familiar with the runway,
and another short delay while everyone shook the hand of the bloke who vomited half a
bottle of brandy over a whole row of seats. Then it was off to get 'de-iced' which can
only be described as a long shampoo and set for the plane. The snow ploughs had done their
bit and we were ready for take off.
I am sorry but I cannot believe conditions like this were not enough to bring out a bit of
the Bergkamp in everyone. Certainly the safety video was actually well watched for once
and the air hostess crossing herself repeatedly did not help.
All's well that ends well though and my particular Arctic adventure ended as I hit the
sack at 6-00am.
Snow always helps the appearance of anywhere but I shall always remember Tromso as an
attractive and friendly place. Shit football ground though.
I must finish with my favourite, overheard quote of the day:
"Are you going to Bolton on Sunday then?"
"Nah, I'm not going all the way up there."
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DISCLAIMER.
If this report seems rather surreal or strewn with grammatical errors I should point out
it has been written with benefit of five hours sleep since Tuesday night.
Apologies and thanks to fellow listees James Grenier and Sean Jones, who were part of the
expedition party, for any comments or observations of theirs I may have used. Anyone else
I have plagiarised is not going to see this so I don't care.
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