"Cardiff Banter Trip 2004: Wales v Norn Iron Part 1" Cardiff Travelogue by DavyDoug

Featuring:
Mike (Copenhagen, Cardiff ’03, BOWC, Prague)
Nick (Cardiff ’03, BOWC, Prague, Oxegen Festival)
Lester (Copenhagen & BOWC)
Tim (Copenhagen & BOWC (and Prague in T-shirt format))
Gareth (Copenhagen)
Dave M (Brand New)
Jonny (Brand New)
Me
…plus a cast of 1000’s

Introduction

The group was always going to be split for a good bit of the trip, cos Tim and Jonny were arriving in Cardiff a day before the match and flying out the day after, whereas the rest of us were arriving the day of the match and leaving two days after (the reasoning for this is neither here, nor there). When I got a phone call from Tim on the Tuesday evening consisting of no talking, just 5 minutes of Norn Irish fans singing in a pub non-stop, I sensed it was going to be a good trip.

Me, Dave M, Gareth, Nick & Lester outside stadium.

Wednesday 8th September 2004

Mike collected me about 1 o’clock and we headed round to Dave M’s, who was driving to the airport. As soon as we got there Mike handed out our banter shirts. On the front was a photo of Jackie Fullerton (local football commentator and provincial living legend, for those unaware of who he is) and on the back everyone was given the opportunity to put whatever their hearts desired (I won’t bore you with the various in-jokes and Norn Irish football comments). Dave and myself donned our shirts, and off we went to the airport, picking up Gareth on the way (Mike commenting on how the sun was splitting the sky (yes, you’re right, it does make no sense, but he insisted that I put that in. So to keep him happy…)). Now that Gareth had joined the group, the conversation reached new levels of profundity with a discussion about heaven and the afterlife. I added to the intensity and insightfulness of the dialogue by asking possibly one of the most thought provoking questions of our generation….”Who do you thinks cooler, Indiana Jones or John McClaine from Die Hard?” (everyone but Gareth going for Dr Jones by the way). Anyway, Mike guided us safely to the airport, where we met up with Nick and Lester (not before the security guard became the first person to comment on our Jackie shirts, and I don’t think they were hugely positive comments either?). The mandatory trip to Burger King was enjoyed by most as ever, and then a quick beer in the airport bar (Nick and Lester were asked for their views on the topic on everybody’s lips, and inexplicably both picked John McClaine??).

Then on into the departure lounge to meet up with our old friend the “Who wants to be a millionaire” machine (who robbed us blind, as ever), and receive some more varied critique of our banter shirts from fellow Norn Iron supporters.
Due to my lack of checking-in skills I found myself sitting on my own on the plane, but as the flight was full of NI fans it was all pretty banterous (complete with continual big queue for the toilet and beer supplies having to be rationed to one tin per person, much to Mike and Gareth’s dismay). The plane landed safely, though from my window seat I couldn’t help but notice the runway didn’t appear until the very last moment and I was sure we were going to land/crash in a ploughed field (I appear to be getting more nervous with every flight I take, ‘cos the more flights I make, the more times I feel like I’ve escaped death, and my luck’s got to run out sooner or later. I’m not likely to be publishing an extensive global travel guide in the near future). So with death successfully avoided, I took myself out of the brace position, grabbed my bag and met up with the others in the terminal.

The match.

As you’d expect the bus to the city centre from the airport was made up of about 85% slightly blitzed Norn Irish fans. So as each of the other 15% got off at their particular stops along the way, they were treated to a beautiful, ever-increasing-in-volume rendition of “Cherio, Cherio, Cherio!” and waved away from the bus. As far as I could make out, they all seemed to enjoy it (think the world would be a better place if this happened in everyday life on buses and trains. Compulsory “Cherio” choruses to everyone dismounting public transport, it’s clearly the way forward).
The journey wasn’t all plain sailing/singing though. Our bus driver, who seemed to be Portuguese or Spanish, or something foreign anyway (just threw that in for the political correctness fans), decided that conventional Highway Code rules didn’t apply to him and he’d make up his own rules. These included:
At busy junctions, right of way is given to the owner of the biggest, fastest moving vehicle.
Under no circumstances give way to another vehicle, even/especially if impact seems inevitable.
At traffic lights, completely disregard any of this green, amber or red sh!te, banter on through regardless of the colour.
It has to be said that this style of driving was welcomed with open arms by the banter bus as it was speeding up our journey to the pub, with a lot of reckless driving manoeuvres being cheered.

While on the bus I received a text message from another NI fan in Cardiff telling me that there were about 200 fans playing football in the street. As we got into the city centre we realised that he probably wasn’t lying. We also passed the distinctive figure of Tim, draped in flag, blitzin in the street. Once we got off the bus I phoned Tim (almost getting hit by a bus in the process, can’t be sure of the driver, but I have my suspicions that he may have been of Spanish/Portuguese/foreign descent?) to tell him we were leaving our stuff at Austin’s and would meet him in about 20 minutes. Five minutes, and some random Jackie loving comments later (Welsh people kept looking at my shirt assuming it must be someone famous on it, but then realised he wasn’t and just looked confused. I did enjoy that), we made it to Austin’s.
We paused at the front door of the guesthouse. Mike, Nick and myself had obviously been here before the year previous, and were filled with anticipation at seeing our lovely hostess once more. Now that we were regulars at Austin’s we knew we wouldn’t be confronted by the cold “What do you want?” from Mrs Austin like last time. Our relationship had moved on, we’d reached the next level. We weren’t just guests anymore, we were more like old friends. Mike knocked the door. Mrs Austin answered.
“NAME?”
It was so good to see her again.

Tim leading the banter parade.

With the Douglas name accepted, the lady of the house showed us to our rooms. We all just dumped our stuff and headed off to meet up with Tim and Jonny. Word that we’d arrived had clearly been leaked to the media, because as we made our way across the bridge towards the city centre, a “Sky Sports” reporter who was covering the match accosted us. As Gareth and Lester weren’t wearing banter shirts, with a N Irish BBC legend on it, but proper football shirts the bloke wanted to interview them. However a camera shy Lester refused, but luckily Dave M was on hand to step in. So the lads were questioned on how they thought Northern Ireland would get on in the match;
“We’d settle for a 2-0 defeat” was Gareth’s realistic response.
I think the reporter was looking for a slightly more optimistic outlook. He tried again. This time the response was;
“Well, it’s mathematically possible I suppose?” from Dave.
Again, not a hugely upbeat reaction. The reporter gave it one last go;
“So what do you think of Laurie Sanchez (the Northern Ireland manager) is he the man for you?”
Gareth and Dave looked at each other blankly. I tried to help out, but my comment of “Well…he has got lovely hair, but he’s not my type” from the wings also wasn’t what they were after, and the interview was terminated.
Sadly, not to mention unbelievably, I don’t think any of the lad’s comments made it on TV. The bloke really should have asked more media savvy members of the group for their insightful opinions.

On we went to find Tim and Jonny who we’d agreed to meet in O’Neill’s Irish bar. There was a slight problem when we got there as the bouncer ironically told me it was a Welsh only (Irish) bar. Fortunately though, when I phoned Tim it turned out that he hadn’t got in either and was standing round the corner. I just followed the mounted police and that took me in the right direction. A lot of Norn Irish had been turfed out of one bar and were milling about on the street, as lots of places were reluctant to let any in. Luckily, being as good as a Cardiff citizen now, I knew there was one bar that would let us in, good old Rummers tavern. And they didn’t disappoint.
With the group finally all together, we hit the bar. The next hour and a bit was spent drinking, posing for photograph’s (which was hard work, with about 6 different camera being thrust at the picture taker, plus Dave M’s fancy camera with its 3 second long bizarro flash) and playing the Millionaire machine with some random Welsh supporter. At around 7 o’clock we decided it was time to make a move towards the stadium. But once we got outside Rummers, Nick and Dave decided they’d go into Subway for a quick sandwich. I was looking after someone’s drink so couldn’t go in, but gave Nick money for my order. When the lads returned we all posed for some more photos in the street, and then as if out of nowhere a massive banter parade of Norn Irish supporters appeared and we promptly joined them. Tim leading from the front with his NI flag proudly aloft. As we paraded I opened my steak sandwich that Nick had gotten for me. I was a little alarmed. Not wanting to sound ungrateful, but does Nick know me at all? He’d only gone and brought me back a salad roll! Oh don’t get me wrong, I tried scraping off anything vaguely healthy, but I was simply fighting a losing battle. I even took the unorthodox step of eating some of it. Managed about 3 bites and then in my blind panic, I got some of it on my banter shirt. Soiling Jackie was the final straw, and it was promptly binned.

The lads limbo (all looking totally hetrosexual)

It’s fair to say the Millennium stadium was much more impressive full of football fans and a few beers down the line, than it was empty, and sober, last year. Our seats were in the centre of the middle tier and the atmosphere was pretty amazing. The match itself was equally amazing. Both countries had a player sent off in the first 10 minutes and then Northern Ireland took the lead. The place went mental, well about 10% of it did. The other 90% weren’t so happy. After another 10 minutes Norn Iron scored again. The place went even more mental, so many injuries were incurred jumping about at that moment, but the implausible joy of being 2-0 up (in a match were the odds were 9-1 for us to win) numbed the pain completely. This was like a dream. Then I looked back to the pitch. The referee was holding up a red card at the Northern Irish goal scorer. David Healy had unbelievably been given two yellow cards for two different elements of his goal celebration deemed to be unsportsmanlike. The mentalness and joy subsided. As did the numbness in my leg. I could now feel the pain where I’d gashed it on the seat in front while jumping about hugging Lester and Nick.
By the end of the match Wales had clawed it back to 2-2, but their supporters had been completely sung out of the ground. I haven’t seen the footage yet myself, but I believe were on screen looking a bit mental around the final whistle. Everyone’s voices and hands were aching from the continual singing and clapping. You would have thought we’d just won the world cup, not drawn with Wales in a qualifying match, after being 2-0 up, but no one cared. It was just as much about showing what the Norn Irish banter was all about.

After the match (and the additional half hour singing in the stadium while all the Welsh fans trudged off) we headed to Yates' bar to gather our thoughts, and have a few beers. Once our thoughts were suitably gathered we went off in search of a nightclub that would let in a group of Norn Irish fans (wearing either a NI shirt or a Jackie banter shirt, or a white check shirt (Tim individual as ever)). Keeping in line with what was becoming a trip custom, we went to the same nightclub we were in the year before. As we approached the head of the queue, a manager/bouncer dude appeared, sporting a pretty big head injury that he’d apparently been given the night before (certainly an encouraging sign). He said he was reluctant to let in any big groups of football fans in, but if we promised to behave ourselves we could come in. We assured him that we would be fine, and paraded in.
We must have arrived at a busy time, because the first drink seemed to take about half an hour to arrive. But this time was not spent in a futile manner, oh no. I think Nick, Lester and Tim all sent various text messages to the big screen displaying texts, most likely including a combination of some or all of the following words; “Norn Iron”, “Banter”, “Jackie” and “Sheep”.

Random bird showing how it's done.

A few drinks later Gareth decided that it would be a good idea to resurrect the traditional banterteers sport of choice – limbo. Dave M’s jacket was used initially (some other random article of clothing was used at later stages, the origin of which remains a mystery to everyone, and is probably best kept that way) and after a slow start (word of advice to any prospective limbo inducing banterteers – on the whole, massive 50 cent look-a-likes do not enjoy being invited to limbo. They frown upon it in my experience), it did become pretty popular. There was a varied standard as ever, with one bloke absolutely loving it, continually coming back for more, and another who kept running at the limbo jacket like a bull to a matador? Slightly random.
After a while the chief bouncer bloke (from earlier, with the head injury) came over to us;
“I’ve heard there’s been some trouble over here lads? I thought I told you lot to behave?”
“We’re just limboing” was the honest response.
“Limboing?” (This clearly wasn’t a common pastime in South Wales)
“Yes, limboing.” He looked at Mike and Nick holding the limbo jacket with some randomer patiently waiting to partake in the said healthy backward leaning activity.
“Emmm, ok”. And sheepishly (excuse the pun) off he went.

The rest of the night was frittered away with the usual drinking and “dancing”. Around the half 12 mark we said goodbye to Tim and Jonny as they had an early morning train to Bristol to catch and needed some sleep. At about quarter to 2 the bouncer bloke came over again and decided he’d throw Mike out, presumably for crimes against limbo as nothing else had happened. Then he turned to Gareth and decided, “Yeah, you can get out too”. Seeing as it was nearly chucking out time anyway, the lads just went without an argument (knowing that was just what the bouncers wanted). The rest of us followed them out shortly after.
This section of the evening is pretty vague, but I think it involved talking to indiscriminate Norn Irish and Welsh people, singing and only getting some sub-standard food from a 24-hour garage.
Back at Austin’s I headed straight to my room I was sharing with Mike. When I got there, he wasn’t alone. In his drunken wisdom he had invited 4 teenage blokes he knew to stay in our room without telling me. In my drunken wisdom, I wasn’t best pleased. In fairness three of them were fine, quietly wanting to sleep, but one of them was just an annoying ****** who I argued with the whole time I was in his company. Just by chance Nick messaged me to say he was still up listening to music if anyone was interested. He was in the room with the spare bed (James was supposed to go, but couldn’t get a flight at the last minute). I knew this, but out of principle I wasn’t going to be driven out of my room by some wanker I didn’t even know. But seeing as Nick had offered and I was unlikely to get a good nights sleep in that room, I swallowed my pride and gathered together my stuff, said my emotional farewells to my new friends, and headed into the other room (bringing the duvet with me so that my new antagonist wouldn’t get it. Petty you might say, but I stand by it).

Part 2