Prague, 2006

It was 12 noon on the day of the Everton game. The UEFA Cup pairings had been drawn the day before and there was no time to lose. Four avid Tottenham Hotspur fans - Freemo, Andy, Phil and Brad - had made their ways from Exeter, Devon and Banbury to plan the Prague trip. All of them had been furiously searching the net on Friday, but prices were already shooting up. It seemed cheap flights were becoming more expensive by the hour as the airlines cottoned on to the increased demand. The lads couldn't actually DO much, as Spurs hadn't yet announced which season ticket vouchers should be submitted with applications. And Brad had only got in about 15 minutes before they had had to leave Banbury, so he wasn't in much of a state to participate. But it was already beginning to get exciting and planning was fun.... even Brad managed a word or two. Both Phil and Andy had been to Prague before and were looking forward to going back.

At half time that day, Tottenham announced that the magic voucher was 'X' and so the lads set about asking those around them for spares. Freemo got two; Andy was promised three; Phil and Brad must've been in the bogs. Text messages were exchanged and tickets applied for the next day. Looking at flight prices became a joke - Easyjet prices had soared from around £120 to well over £300 per person already. Stay sharp. The lads quickly worked out that the package holiday companies - mini breaks to Prague and that sort of thing - hadn't yet realised that they could have charged more. Thoroughly depressed with the Everton result - Spurs had played dismally and lost 0-2 to the 10 man visitors - they occupied their minds by thinking forward to the trip. Phil and Brad booked a package from Heathrow, Freemo and his wife Sarah booked one from Bristol - two nights in a 3-star hotel, including breakfast, for £240. Andy was worried that he mightn't get tickets and so he held off. He had promised his 12 year old, Aaron, that once Spurs got back into Europe he could go to the first away game but was loathe to take him all the way out there without two tickets.

Tottenham were quick to post application details on the official website, together with prices for an inappropriately short and expensive official trip... the cheapest was around £460 and that was a day trip with no match ticket! They blamed 'other events' in Prague for the shortage of flights but the only other event was the September festival (and no one who went saw any evidence of that!). They were also slow to give information on loyalty points. In fact no-one really knew if they had tickets until less than 7 days before the game and so many had to take a chance and book accommodation and flights anyhow. Freemo cast around online and found that one prominent fan site was fronting a coach trip - £119 with match ticket or £94 if you didn't need one. You could rely on Paul! Andy decided on this option and so the whole group was booked. Yahoo! And all their tickets arrived 4-5 days before departure - the lads even had 4 spares and Andy arranged that the North Devon Spurs, who were short of tickets, would pick these up in Prague. Just face value plus a Czech beer. Real Spurs fans would never tout to their own.

Freemo made a couple of European tour T-shirts with Blanchflower and Nicholson on the back. And a flag. The excitement grew. Numerous animated text conversations, phone calls and MSN messages later, the big day arrived at last! Wednesday 13th September 2006. Freemo & Sarah set out first for a 10:50 flight, leaving home at 7. Andy caught a train from Torquay up to Paddington at about 9. Brad and Phil worked until lunchtime and set out for Heathrow straight after. Their flight was at 4. The batting order was to change in Prague - Freemo and Sarah forming the advance guard, arriving at 4; Phil and Brad arriving at 9 but Andy and Aaron travelling through Germany all night and due to arrive at 8 am next day. God they were going to be knackered!

The drive from Exeter to Bristol only took an hour, even at that time of day. Freemo and Sarah checked in and had breakfast before hitting the bar. There were probably a dozen or so Tottenham fans swilling beers even though it was only 9:30....

(the bar at Bristol Airport)

The plane took off on time for the first leg of the journey - direct flights were at a premium and so they had had to settle for a one-and-a-half hour stopover in Brussels. So it was apple strudel and coffee for the 2nd breakfast. On arrival the group followed the transfer signs and emerged into the airside shopping area of Brussels airport. Sarah and Freemo had been there earlier in the year and so knew the route to the bar.

'Excuse me mate!' someone shouted at Freemo in a broad Black Country accent 'Do yow speak English?'. Freemo whipped round, surprised. Popeye and a few of the Wolverhampton Spurs were already seated. They were old friends. Breaking into a broad grin, Freemo snapped back 'Well YOU don't for a fucking start Pop!'. Laughter all round. Having discovered that the bar took sterling, Sarah got the beers and the two joined the Midlanders party. Before Freemo had settled into his chair, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. 'Fucking hell. Nicked already!' was his first reaction, but he turned to see Stuey, Cowboy, Douggie and Phil from Worcester. All three groups had flown in from different airports, but amazingly they were all on the same onward plane from Brussels to Prague, although the Cowboy took some convincing. He wasn't very good with the 24 hour clock, especially after a few beers, and insisted that 14:40 was twenty to two so he must be on a different plane. Different planet more like. The Worcester lads (Freemo was born and brought up in Worcester and knew all of them well) disappeared to the toilets at regular intervals for strictly illegal fag breaks between beers. Stuey recounted a tale of woe about the 'fucking' tickets. They had turned up in Worcester only that morning.... and after the lads had left home! Stuey had to phone home and ask his wife to sort it out with Spurs. Cowboy, still not entirely convinced about 'fucking' clocks, edged towards the departure gate an hour early. When a pom-pommed poodle approached on a diamante lead, Stuey told Douggie it was a sniffer poodle so watch out. Douggie scowled and told him to fuck off, telling the group of his embarrassment on his last trip to London. Apparently he and his partner had bought black leather boots and lingerie on the visit. Bag-laden at Earls Court station there was a spot check and a sniffer dog sat down in front of Douggie. He had £30 quids worth of blow in his sock. The lads howled as he told how the Police took the piss out of him as they searched his bags - Douggie is probably the least likely trannie you'll ever meet!

The hour or so passed happily and quickly and so did the second leg of their flights, arriving at Prague a little after 4 p.m. The Worcester lads hadn't spotted that the coffee trolley also had beers on, but Freemo had blagged a couple to accompany his second apple strudel of the day. Prague airport formalities were negotiated quickly and the lads made their way out of the building once they had retrieved their bags. Douggie's was pink and more than a little girlie - a point not lost on Freemo. Hmmmm. Maybe there WAS something in the Earls Court episode after all. Having been told to be on the look out for rip-off taxi fares, they went first to the official taxi desk and then jumped into two taxis. The Worcester lads were having a bad day! Match tickets back in England; 24 hour timetables, no smoking airports, no beers on the plane... and now they had forgotten the name of their hotel! Cowboy got in and said 'Our hotel please' to the driver. 'Certainly' he replied in accented English, 'which hotel is it?'. 'That one!' exclaimed Cowboy triumphantly, holding up a picture. He had no address, no hotel name - just a picture. Sarah and Freemo pissed themselves laughing, but someone in the cab managed to come to the rescue by remembering that their Hotel was the 'Leggier or something to do with legs anyhow'. The cabbie sighed, resignedly, as he drove them straight to the Legia - one of over 700 Hotels in Central Prague. Lucky lads. The Freemos had booked in at the Venezia and it turned out to be about 100 metres from the Legia.

The problem with the Venezia - a pleasant 3 star Hotel near the top end of Wencleslas Square - was that the walls were not straight. Freemo's room's walls went off at weird angles, and avoiding the wooden bed frame with your shins was nigh on impossible. 'Fucking bed' was shouted at least four times in the first 5 minutes in the room. The room was a trapezium and about two feet wider near the window than it was near the door. What good is that to a bloke who came to party? 'I need a pair of fucking shin pads' Freemo muttered to his giggling wife as he crashed into the woodwork yet again. Not daring to pass the bed now, he threw his stuff across to Sarah on the wardrobe side and she hung it up for him to get the worst of the creases out of his match day T Shirt.

(that bastard bed)

A quick shower and they were out exploring, Freemo still chuntering on about the shin damage. It was three or four hours until Phil and Brad arrived and so plenty of time for a poke around to get their bearings. They turned left out of the hotel and walked towards the Museum at the top of the main square. As they walked past a large green illuminated sign bearing the word 'Fannys', Freemo made a mental note that it wasn't one of the Prague brothels he had read about. The husband and wife ducked down a side street and soon found a small Czech bar. No one spoke any English but a Czech guy tried to teach them the word for 'Cheers' (Nastravi or something similar). Sarah remembered it, but Freemo couldn't. He used Navratilova and it seemed to work just as well. Two big and one small beers later, they left the little bar - only 50 korunas poorer (£1.20 approx). Result!

(Navratilova!)

Their next objective was to find the Three Lions English bar. This was the dropping off/breakfasting place where the coach would deposit a knackered Andy the next day and so was a likely meeting place. Purely by chance, the two explorers stumbled on it - it was on the same road as the little Czech bar they had just left. The pub was duly sussed out - Sky Sports screens, pub grub, Strongbow, Guinness - but it was too bloody hot. No aircon meant that the place was unbearably warm, even though at this stage it was nearly empty.

(the Three Lions sauna and sports bar)

Freemo and Sarah strolled from bar to bar in the warm sunshine. Some cheap back street locals bars; some £4 a bottle tourist traps. They happened into loads of Spurs that Freemo knew as they went - he had been going to games for 40 years and it seemed every bar contained an old friend or two from all over the UK. They bumped into the Worcester lads too, walking in the opposite direction and looking a little disorientated. Nothing new there then. A quick byte to eat was hard to find (Sarah was vegetarian and so it was a bit of a challenge to find anything meatless except pizza) and the first text message arrived from Brad. Phil and he had landed and wanted to meet up once they had arrived from the airport. Freemo and Sarah bar-hopped to the old town where the new arrivals were staying, sensing that would be the best area to meet. It was after 10 p.m. by now.

A few texts and an hour later, Freemo and Sarah were lost. They had done three laps of the same route trying to find the old town square. The same Jazz bar seemed to be around every fucking corner. And Freemo's shins were aching. He called Phil, who's an organised sort of guy and who had been to Prague before. Phil was in the hotel by now and got out his tourist map. 'Where are you now?' he asked. 'Lost' , Freemo replied none too helpfully. 'Near a blue clock'. Sarah found a few impossible-to-pronounce street name signs and these were relayed to Phil. Phil decided his map wasn't big enough - the others thought his eyes were dodgy, but anyhow, he produced a bigger one from somewhere. After five minutes of rustling paper interspersed by improved attempts at street name pronunciation, a loud 'Aha!' could be heard from the hotel end of the call. 'Right', said Phil authoritatively, 'turn left up that road, walk for about an inch (he didn't know the scale of the map) and turn right into Hri-somethingorother Street. That's where our hotel is, so you can't miss us. We'll walk down to meet you. You are only 4 or 5 minutes away'. A triumph! Thirty minutes later, Freemo was sitting outside a Casino in Hri-somethingorother Street, paying £4 a beer waiting for Phil and Brad. 'Where the fuck have you got to?' he wailed into his phone 'This is bankrupting me!'. 'Well', mumbled Phil, 'We WOULD have been there by now if we hadn't turned the wrong way out of the hotel. 'We're about 10 minutes away. By a blue clock. Lost'. Twenty more minutes, four phone calls and £12 worth of beer later, Shackleton and Brad appeared, Phil clutching his map. 'How the fuck did you get lost - you brought your map?' asked an incredulous Freemo. 'I brought the one that I can't read' explained Phil, pushing his glasses onto the top of his head. Fucking hell!

After a few beers, the group of four decided on something to eat. They'd already discovered that any establishment with cushions on the chairs were - by comparison - very expensive, and so they found a likely looking cushionless bar in the old town. Prices reasonable; plenty of room; beer served. So it was pasta for Sarah, steak for Phil and Brad and Freemo shared a mixed grill. The food turned up quickly. Freemo poked at a small, greyish object amongst the steak and chicken. 'What the fuck's that? he asked, ' a kidney or something?'. Tentatively he speared it and put it in his mouth. Tinned fucking strawberries! In a mixed grill! And they found half a peach later on, too. Unbelievable! 'I didn't order fucking pudding!' Freemo mumbled, pushing the food aside and turning his attention back to beer.

(Wenceslas Square - Bars, Burgers and Brasses)

When the food was finished and the glasses drained, the lads meandered towards the livelier Wencleslas Square. Bars in the old town were beginning to shut. As they entered the bottom end of the square, it appeared trouble was about to start. Two large groups of lads - maybe fifty or more in each - marched purposefully towards each other. It was only at the very last minute that each group realised that the other was Spurs too! A near miss. Earlier in the evening, a group of around 50 or 60 balaclava wearing Czechs had found and picked on a party of 10 Spurs, firing flares at them and wielding iron bars. 5 of the Spurs ran; the other 5 put up a good show but got a bit of a slap in the end. Rossy was hit with a chair. Nothing too serious; more annoying that 60 'brave' locals had picked on a few stragglers who were causing no trouble at all. Mobs of Spurs toured the City centre looking for them, but it later turned out the culprits had legged it back out of town on the tube. Wankers. The two groups of Spurs in the square had each thought they had found the culprits. Serious trouble was only just avoided. Excitement over, the group based themselves in a late bar half way up the hill and drank with old friends until well after 1 in the morning. Before turning in, they arranged to meet at the Three Lions at 11 the next day. Andy would have had breakfast by then and be ready for a beer after the long coach trip.

Freemo staggered the rest of the way up the hill, found the hotel, lost the light switch and walked into that fucking bed again. Bollocks!

Match day morning came FAR too quickly for everyone. The Freemos shambled down to a breakfast of processed cheese, hard bread, fruit juice and coffee. Lots of Coffee. Amazingly, they made it to the Three Lions on time. As they sat down, cheerily waving good morning to Geordie John and the Northern Spurs, a text arrived from Andy. 'Still in Germany. 220k to go' it read. Andy was supposed to arrive at 8, so he was already 3 hours late. Phil and Brad arrived and had a beer. The idea had been to let Andy and Aaron freshen up in Freemos shower (he wouldn't tell them about the bed, he decided) but that plan was shot now. Freemo decided to phone him to find out about yet another mishap to one of the lads. 'What's going on mate?' he asked. 'We're up a fucking country lane near Frankfurt', Andy wailed mournfully. 'I think the SatNavs fucked!'. To make it worse, someone had thoughtfully pebble dashed the coaches washroom and - as no one would clean it, the driver had locked it. 'And I'm busting for a shit' added a disconsolate Andy. The lads didn't laugh. Much.

And so, deciding the heat of the Three Lions was not a good idea (the temperature outside was in the high 20s and it was anther lovely day), the four elected for the Old Town with its sit-outside-in-the-sunshine-with-no-cushions bars. Word was that Spurs were grouping up at the George and Dragon at about 1 in the afternoon. Shackleton had had a good idea. The lads all got their transport tickets sorted out - around £2 gave you 24 hours of tube, tram and bus travel, and it didn't start until you validated your ticket. The old town is at least a five minute walk from the Three Lions and so a beer stop was almost compulsory. Sitting in the sun, thoughts turned of how to get to the ground. To hoots of derision, Shackleton pulled out his map again. The small one. He tried it with his glasses on; he tried without them. Giving up the struggle he remembered details he had researched before the trip... Andels metro, then tram, then walk. Various other suggestion and versions were tried - apparently the walk up the hill was long and steep and Freemo seemed to remember a bus - was it the 217? - that took you all the way up. The lads thought it would be OK to go with the flow - after all around 4-5,000 fans would all be going the same way at around the same time, and so they pushed such minor details to the back of their minds and continued on to the George and Dragon for a sing song.

The George and Dragon is in the far corner of Prague's beautiful Old Town Square. To get there the lads walked past numerous lushly cushioned bars and eateries. Past the famous astronomical clock. Apparently the guy who designed it had his eyes put out by City councilors so he couldn't reproduce it elsewhere. Nice! But it didn't matter much that the moon was in Uranus or the sun said it was an hour earlier. Thing was to get a beer. The umbrella shrouded forecourt was already packed with Tottenham fans. The Irish pub next door also had no outside seats left either. No cushions see. Must be cheap. Perhaps 200 hundred Spurs had gathered so far. The atmosphere was one of animated chat and laughter. Fun in the sun. Renewing old acquaintances and friendships over a Krusovice or two. A brass band struck up in the main square. The Wolverhampton and Worcester lads had already bagged tables and so the other four lads dragged a couple of seats over and took it in turns to sit and stand. Waitress service was slow. Bar staff struggled to cope as the numbers grew. The Irish bar banned anyone going inside until they could catch up. People were ordering double rounds. The numbers swelled. Maybe 3 or 4 hundred now.

Cowboy and the boys had managed to sort out their match tickets. Stuey had rung home and his wife had been in contact with Tottenham. The Worcester lads were sent to meet a Spurs official at the Marriott Hotel (wasn't that where the team stopped when norovirus struck, they worried?). The appointed bloke wasn't there so they explained the whole fiasco to someone in a Spurs tie and blazer. He told them to come back at five and he'd have four tickets for them. He also told them they could travel to the ground on the official coach. But at that point the RIGHT guy turned up with four tickets in his hand. Bollocks! But at least they were in.

The singing broke out about half two... and it didn't stop until after the match. Huge flags were produced as if by magic... Belfast Spurs, Norway, Midlands, North, Eastbourne - all over the place. The fans started tying them to trees, lamp posts, umbrellas - anything. That was the moment when Freemo decided his effort was too puny. What a prat he'd look with his comparatively tiny nylon effort. And that fucking cockerel had taken him AGES. He conceded defeat - it stayed firmly in the bag under the table and he glaried at Sarah when she asked him about it. Oh how they sang! Historic songs, 'Nice one Cyril', 'And if you know your history', 'Glory Glory' and fine renditions of 'When the Spurs Go Marching In', conducted manfully by a bouncing geezer on a chair. The noise reached a crescendo as Gary Mabbutt strolled into the pub, resplendent in a canary yellow sweater. 'Super, super Gal' raised the noise level 10 decibels. Poor Mabs had to leave his first beer though as no-one would leave him alone. They let him out of the back door to avoid the all too adoring masses outside. As he left by the back door, Andy and Aaron arrived - at last - at the front. Over 500 noisy fans were by now enjoying the sunshine and beers in the front of the two bars, so it was no easy job for them to find Freemo, Sarah, Brad and Phil, but soon it was handshakes and beers as Andy began making up for lost time.

A local guy - the double of Pascal Chimbonda - happened along. 'De do do dooo - Pascaaaal Chim-bonda, De do do dooo...' they sang. 'Pascal' loved the attention and played to his audience for a full 5 minutes. He disappeared briefly, only to return with a full size bass drum! Pascal had nicked it from the brass band who had long since given up the unequal struggle with the noisy Spurs contingent. But Pascal didn't know any Spurs songs and just bashed away wildly. 'Nah, geezer', someone took the drum from him and his music lesson began. Boom, Boom, Boom-boom-boom, Boom Boom Boom BOOM TOTTNUM! Boom, Boom, Boom-boom, boom-boom YIDS! Our Pascal was nothing if not a quick learner and assaulted the ears of everyone around for a good 15 minutes as he took up the drum again. Photo shutters clicked as fans queued to be photographed with 'Pascal'. The songs got louder and louder as kick off drew nearer. Fans had been asked to arrive at the ground by 6 p.m., a full two hours before kick off, due to the low number of turnstiles. Around 17:30 (that's half past five to you Cowboy) fans started drifting away. Andy made his way back to the Three Lions, from where the coach was to take them to the ground. As the coach was departing for home straight after the game, Andy and Aaron said their goodbyes and left. The remaining four - well it was five now as Phil and Brad had met Simon, the guy who sat next to them at home games - began walking to the metro - Andels did seem a likely route, despite Phil's miniaturised map. On the way they found a bar which did fast food and decided on something to eat. 'I'm not eating fucking grilled fruit again', said Freemo, instead opting for the goulash. A few Pizzas and another pepper steak made up the order, together with 5 beers. Freemo wanted to give the waiter the hurry up, but Brad reckoned he'd gob in their food if they upset him. At last the food arrived and indigestion loomed as they rushed through it and set out for the ground.

Musek tube to Andels said Phil, squinting at his upside down map. The others went with the flow and shortly after arrived at Andels after a quick tube journey. Czech transport is quick, clean and efficient. They climbed back up into the warm evening sun, looking for the trams. Or perhaps a 217 bus. Or maybe a cab. And then they got a break. A 770 bus bearing a large sign for the football appeared as if by magic. They jumped on, eyeing the locals on the bus warily to find out if they were hostile and the bus pulled away up the long hills to the stadium. The guys on the bus were no bother - they looked at us inquisitively but really were no trouble and after 10 to 15 minutes the bus reached the peak of the mountain on which the stadium seemed to be built. The lads piled off and set off in search of loos and programmes. They could find neither. It was 18:45 now, so with nothing better to do, they went into their different parts of the ground to take their seats. Freemo and Sarah had crap seats in the front row downstairs, with a view through a metal fence. Phil and Brad were further round and further back. Andy and Aaron were upstairs. By now Freemo was half pissed so he got out the miniscule cross of St. George flag and tied it carefully to the fence in front of him. He sat down and couldn't see a fucking thing, so it had to be moved. Twice. Eventually satisfied, he turned round and swelled with pride. Thousands of Spurs fans filled the end - estimates vary from between 4,000 and 5,000 but the support was massive. Huge, un-Fremo-like flags with wonderful cockerels covered every part of the fence and the front of the upper tier.

(un-Freemo like flags were everywhere)

One huge banner that was nicked from the Peace Cup in Korea, a tribute to Bill Nicholson ('Can't Smile Without You') and a multitude of place names decorated their banners. From the moment the teams came out to warm up to the end of the 20 minute lock in period the fans were made to suffer, no-one sat down; no one stopped singing. The support was truly magnificent. The players must have been stunned to see so many away fans so far from home and made great efforts to show their appreciation with thumbs ups and applause. The fans turned up the volume. They were so proud of each other. The hairs on the back of Freemo's neck stood on end, and he was by no means the only one.

The game kicked off with Tottenham defending the end their fans were at. The other end contained a laughably small number of home fans with weird flags and banners. 'Slavia Hooligans' one large one proclaimed. Where?? There were only obout a fifth of the numbers Spurs had. 'Fans of Alcohol' said another. What??? There was also an attempt at holding cards over their heads, but it must've been the fans of alcohol who fucked it up. It looked like a red and white chessboard instead of the intended stripes. 'What the fucking Hell is that?' boomed out from the Spurs end and the cards quickly disappeared. They tried a you'll never walk alone scarf display, but there just weren't enough of them. A little pathetic.

('Fans of Alcohol' Slavia Banner)

The game itself was hard to watch, partly because of the fence in front of Freemo and partly because of the distance from the pitch it was hard to get any perspective on any play at the far end - players could have been 40 yards out or standing on the goal line. Not long before half time, Freemo decided to get a couple of sneaky beers. the queue before the game had been too long, so he set off to buy a couple as there was no problem about drinking them in sight of the pitch. Just take them back to your seat. Of course, it had to happen and it did. Whenever Freemo leaves his seat during play, Spurs score and this time was no exception. Jemaine Jenas hit a good shot across their keeper from the edge of the D and Tottenham had got the all important away goal. Yahoo! Freemo dropped his beers in the excitement and had to go back for two more, but hey! It later turned out that they were alcohol free anyhow. Bastards!

The second half followed much the same pattern with Spurs defence easily coping with most things. Slavia were, maybe, a little livelier but there was nothing to worry about. Freemo drank his beers and spluttered songs through the froth. Sarah stood on her chair and cheered. The attention of the Spurs fans somehow switched to a couple of pretty girls sitting in the Slavia section away to their right. 'Get Your Tits Out For The Lads, Get Your Tits out for the Lads!' they chanted, hopefully. And she did...

(got her tits out for the lads)

Cheering loudly, the fans turned back to the game. 'England's, England's number one' they sang. It seems Robbo had been watching the whole thing as he also jokingly bared his chest to the fans. During play. 'Boom, Boom, Boom-boom-boom-boom TITS!' They sang. And the lady obliged twice more. The game petered out and Tottenham ran out more comfortable winners than the 1-0 scoreline suggested. Mission accomplished. Locked in for 20 minutes ' for safety reasons' (whose safety?) the singing continued raucously. Freemo had lost his voice for the second time. Andy and Aaron waved and whistled from the upper tier. Everyone wore a broad smile.

Eventually the riot Police moved aside and let the travelling hordes out. Chanting, singing but no malice. Everyone was happy. Phil, Brad and Simon met up with the Freemos and they followed the crowd back down the hill. No chance of a cab. Every bus was full too. They went back a different way and somehow found a tramline. Working out that downhill was the right direction, they hopefully jumped on a number 22 and Simon took over as Tour leader. Phil's tattered map had disappeared. The group got off somewhere near Charles Bridge and walked, via numerous bars, through the little quarter and back to the old town. They managed to avoid the Absinthe and a curious cocktail called an 'Adios Mother Fucker' and stuck to beer. In bars with no cushions. The theory really did appear to work! Back in Wenceslas Square the boys decided on a wurst. How is it possible to eat those fucking things without getting messy? Freemo got ketchup and mustard all down his Danny Blanchflower T Shirt. Fuck it!. One last beer and off to bed - it was somewhere between 1 and 2 a.m. by now and the square was still thronged with Spurs fans.

Freemo walked into the bed again.

And so the European Tour - at least the first stage of it, drew to a close the next day. Lunch by the river, Farewells to Brad and Phil and then Freemo found a veggie restaurant for Sarah's last lunch. A truly weird place where they weighed what people ate and it didn't matter what it was. Then there was also a violently coloured juice which no-one had a clue about. No alcohol, of course...

(a surreal juice cocktail)

A few Pilsner Urquells at the Prague airport; a few Stellas in Brussels. More Apple Strudel on the planes. The last of the lads got home by 11 on Friday. Tottenham had tried to deliver Freemo's new away shirt whilst he was away. And his leg hurt like fuck. Ah well - Fulham on Sunday to look forward to....

NB : The words in this document are copyright (2006-8) of Malcolm Freeman (Freemo in the above chapter) and do already and may in the future form part of a book. Lads - The Seventies has already beeen published and the 80s, 90s and Noughties will follow. Anyone who can help or just wants to comment on this page (I would welcome comments) please feel free to... email me

visit www.ladsbooks.co.uk

COME ON YOU SPURS!