• Two days’ traveling sees the intrepid Annesley Reds arrive in Munich where they are about to experience some local culture.

I think it was pot luck finding our digs. We parked up and soon found the small hotel; nothing pretty, nothing luxurious, but at a fiver a night, that was for us.

There was a small language problem but the host spoke good enough English to find us accommodation. We feared being split up because of the hooligan reputation of English fans, but it was time for Rube to do the negotiating. After all he worked in an office and the rest of us were hairy arsed colliers. The lads noticed a bar next door and it was a good opportunity to bundle them away while we got the price and did the checking in. Rube again did all the talking and then instructed me to get the Deutschmarks from each of them in turn along with their passports while he and the hotelier sorted out the rooms.

The bar turned out to be a knocking shop; we saw red lights along the street above ground level and realised they had bugger all to do with traffic. So as we lifted the dropped jaws on the bar counter and eyes were put back in sockets at the topless barmaid, we gathered all the money and documents to get accommodation. Soon all and sundry dragged their belongings to their respective rooms, I was with Cumbo and Pip in a room and I ‘bagsed’ the bed near the window like we used to ‘bags’ things as kids. Old Annesley Bulldogs don’t change. I thought about it for a while, pondering about days gone by when Pip, Cumbo and me were kids in Annesley; would we ever imagined coming this far to see Forest in a European Cup Final. You would never have predicted that in a million years.

We unpacked excitedly and checked out everyone else’s rooms and then met downstairs after a shower, change and shave. The tiredness soon wore off as we walked out into the balmy Munich evening for a sample of West German beer. We realised that our digs were amidst the red light area but it wasn’t as seedy as expected; the bars were discreet and had separate cubicles for negotiating deals with the professional ladies.

Our main aim was to get fed and we headed for what we thought was the centre of town. Now a few more Reds fans were arriving and colours were spotted around the Marienplatz. This was the Slab Square of Munich and we guessed the place was going to fill up with Nottinghamians by Wednesday. We strolled along in the night air as warm as mid summer in Kirkby and then the aroma of beef, pork and bratwurst tempted us into a restaurant. We all pilled in and occupied tables alongside other Forest fans all hyped up by the occasion and adrenalin flowing like Newstead Abbey waterfall.

The menu was a bit confusing, all in German! Unlike the Costa’s they didn’t cater for the monolingual English. Rube knew his Spanish and Nobby dabbled in French but that didn’t help any. We, or rather Rube, figured out a mixed grill and beef steak and everyone ordered a meal. It was like being at school: if you hadn’t got a clue, copy off your neighbour. “I’m havin’ that.” “Me too.” “Me too.” And yours truly, “Eerrrmmm, ah me an all.”

I could see a bit of exasperation in Rube’s face as he (as tour leader) was fed up with mothering all and sundry. Get your passports, show your tickets, give me your deposits, go in that room, don’t move from here, the bathrooms there, who’s lost their bag? and so and so on.

I nipped down to the toilets where Rube actually complained verbally for the first time. I sympathised and we were washing our hands as there was an almighty roar upstairs in the restaurant. “Jesus! What the f*** have they done now?” said a worried looking Rube. I just gave a silly grin and we marched back upstairs. No disasters or anything, but an excited room told us we had just missed the Forest team go by. All the bloody organising and then we miss the highlight of the night!

Ne’er mind. Platters of meat and chips were soon served up by buxom wenches; it got a bit medieval as we tucked into our first good meal for a long while. We drank Hofbrau and Lowenbrau for the rest of the night; well it wasn’t like we were going to find a Home Brewery pub was it? Even though we went a bit late into the night, we finally turned in and slept like logs. In the morning as the sun warmed the room up through the open window, I jumped around on Cumbo and Pip’s beds to rouse them. Yes, a 24-year-old collier acting like an American kid on Summer Camp.

As I sat back down realising I had a bit of a headache and a mouth like the Gobi desert, I decided on finding where the dining room was for a cuppa and whatever they had for breakfast. Meanwhile all the others were rousing to greet the day and Nobby was already sampling the continental breakfast. Last night’s mixed grill was nice but there was no egg, bacon, sausage and tomatoes for us. It was cheese, ham and other types of meat you can’t face the morning after.

Eventually everyone had risen and we basked in the morning sun and strolled to the Marienplatz. Forest fans were taking over the place and the feeling was great. I suppose it’s good that we didn’t face German opposition; the smiles of the locals might not be as forthcoming. The police seemed to be there, but not obtrusive or antagonising; they call it keeping a low profile. The fountains looked inviting on the square and we could see ourselves getting wet if we lifted the European Cup.

Me, Pip and Cumbo got split up from the rest and decided to go via the tube , underground or whatever to see the Olympic Stadium. I think the transport system was called the Munich U Bahn run by Munchner Verkehrsgesellschaft (I wasn’t going to doubt that). Well the map was like the London Underground but the places were unpronounceable. However, we spotted the Olympic Stadium and the line it was on, got tickets and climbed aboard. The trains were clean and the stations the same and soon we arrived at the site. Up on the hill towards the ground we saw the familiar landmarks; the giant canopy over the seats, the BMW building and the spiky pile of a communication tower. Our excitement grew as we neared the stadium.

There were no stands or terracing as we approached, but a large tent-like structure, which for me was neither here nor there. This covered one side and partially behind the goals. I supposed the open part were the cheap seats. I had only seen this stadium on the Olympics and for a World Cup on TV, so we didn’t get the full vista on the Olympic Village. Surrounded by lakes, trees and greenery with the accommodation to one side, at the moment almost silent except for the odd lawn mower and tractor moving vending equipment around. We were unchallenged as we got to the edge of the ground; when I say edge, it is because the ground level is at the very top of the terracing. You then look down into the depths of the famous Olympic Stadium, capacity 80-odd thousand, home of the ’72 Olympics and ’74 World Cup. Wednesday night we would be gracing this turf to create football history under Brian Clough’s leadership.

It was also the home ground for the famous Bayern Munich and smaller TSV 1860 Munich. A bit like Forest and Notts. As we looked up from the lush green pitch, we saw a face from the pit. It was Tony Sturnam with his wife Ann and two kids. Ann is my girlfriend Julie’s second cousin. They had turned their summer holiday into a tour of Germany, taking in the European Cup Final, a bit of a wise decision by Tony, a Forest fan. Pushbike, motorbike, hitchhike, plane, car and now campervan; Newstead Colliery’s intrepid Reds fans got to Munich whichever way they could.

An empty ground is not the same so we left it until the big night and headed back into the town to find the others. Meanwhile the rest had been around a museum or two, but at least we knew the route to the ground now. At a station we noticed two men dressed in Lederhosen having a drink of beer at a Kiosk. They had all the traditional gear on, hats an’ all. As we stood beside them they offered us a bottle of German beer, which I thought was very friendly and generous. I was ashamed of what happened next, but one of the men spoke through a voice box, sounding like one of Dr Who’s Daleks. We smirked at the gravely vocals, then just as Cumbo was taking a big swallow of the beer I imitated a Dalek behind the post where the man couldn’t see me and Cumbo found it hilarious and frothed out a mouthful of gassy lager all over the place. Luckily for me the man didn’t hear what made Cumbo laugh/drink/spit at the same time and we got away with a wave and farewell. I know I shouldn’t have taken the mickey and feel bad about it.

Back in the town we all met up again and sat outside a bar where we sampled some Weizenbier. We didn’t know what we had ordered but it came in long tall glasses and was a gold colour. The taste was very different and okay, even for us bitter drinkers. We were told it was made with wheat, which gave it a distinctive taste. The waitress also told us the Forest team had been staying at the hotel facing the bar. Now that would be good if the lads came out for a stroll and we were all sat there with a few colours on, but they had moved on apparently.

Later that evening when we were out for a drink, I noticed a youth coming towards us and he looked familiar. Was he from Annesley? Was he from the pit? Nah, I couldn’t place him. There were four of them and as they got nearer we realised who they were: Frank Clark, Larry Lloyd, Tony Woodcock and Kenny Burns. Yes, Kenny Burns, I thought I recognised him. We were typically dumbstruck as we passed them, we just said, “Ayup.” They acknowledged us straight away as we gawped open-mouthed. When they had gone by someone said, “Let’s give Frank Clark a shout,” and terrace-like we did: “Frank Clark” Clap clap clap, like on the roll call at the beginning of a match. He turned and gave us a wave and a big grin. At the same time Big Larry turned sharply (and he didn’t do that in a match) with his eyes following a piece of skirt. We caught sight of him and gave a big cheer. I reckon he did it for our benefit. “Just shows they are just like us,” came a comment from among us. It was hard to believe we didn’t stop and talk to them and even harder to believe the future European Champions are walking among us.

We came across an amusement arcade and inside at the back there were Blueys on show. Not the mushroom type, but pornographic films. You sat in a booth and put coins in the slot and watched some porno. Now all ‘men of the world’, we had done the rounds down Soho, but this was another level of porn. This would have been illegal back home. We had a brainwave and three of us sat spragged in the small booth so it only cost us a third of the price! We manoeuvred the plastic chair out to accommodate all three of me, Pip and Cumbo. As we followed the blue films story unravelling and undressing plus more, a loud bang came on the door. “Flippin’ hell, it’s a raid!” Nowhere to run, we’re done for and we’ll miss the match, and maybe our names in the Nottingham Evening Post, and me bloody mam will find out, aghhh!

We opened the door and gingerly peered into the daylight to face the music. It was no raid, this was perfectly legal over here. The man just played hell that we all piled in and the booth said one person only. No handcuffs , no police just a German rant from the owner as he struggled to get the plastic chair back in. He was very narked by this time so I tried to show him how we angled it out. He growled at me so I shrugged and stepped back. He managed to get the chair back in then disappeared back into the office. While we were still in a bit of amazement, someone jumped in and finished our Deutschmarks off!

There were other attractions like strip shows where you paid by coins to peer through a space until your coins ran out, which were pretty tame. We made a laugh out of it and chuckled at the younger element with their mouths agog. We didn’t expect that sort of thing and every time we saw some mates from home we told them where it all was and what to expect.

At night we went into the famous Hofbrauhaus which was a Beer Keller to us. This was Munich’s most famous and it looked the part as well with fancy exterior and even more decorative inside. Big wooden benches to bang your stein down on while singing along with the Oompah Band. They had a name, but it was all in German. A bit more authentic than the Beer Keller in Nottingham with Karl and the Idlebergers or whatever they claimed to be. The price was pretty decent as well and it would have suited Howard Densley from Annesley Rows, he used to have a quart (two pints) drinking pot at the Annesley Woodhouse Workingmen’s Club.

The lager took its toll and we were soon merry and on our way. After three steins you had drunk around six pints and we were downing them like pints, not steins. A few more beers, a Bratwurst and a few chips and it was time for bed. We had a big day tomorrow.

Continues here…

Related posts: