• The saga comes to an end as the Annesley Reds hope to be celebrating in Munich, thirty years ago tonight…

By now a good contingent from Nottingham would be set for the game after parking up motor bikes, caravettes and even the odd pushbike if Tony Delaney hadn’t sold it for beer money. We entered the ground and I took particular care to fold my ticket stub and save it for posterity. We got our first look at the stadium on a match day. The Olympic Stadium could hold 80,000. We knew it wasn’t going to be full, but the Forest end was pretty near to capacity, a great sight of flags and banners waving, bringing colour to the place apart from the lush green playing surface. To our right were the seats and then I panned around the rest of the ground and the Malmo presence wasn’t anywhere near ours. We made our way down the terracing to a good vantage point, as near middle as was comfortable.

The ground itself was a sight to behold and I hoped the lads weren’t going to freeze on the night. This was Wembley and a bit more, if you like. We didn’t know the team, but Trevor Francis was to play his first European match ever and it was in a final; would Clough and Taylor put him on the bench? You never know with those two. Bear in mind Woodcock and Birtles hadn’t done anything wrong to be relegated to the bench, well neither had anyone else. I’m glad I wasn’t picking a team for such a big match.

Malmo had dumped some decent sides and were managed by an Englishman, Bobby Houghton. I can’t recall his name coming to mind as anyone who was anyone. Bobby Houghton’s illustrious career saw him play for Fulham and Brighton and then go on to manage Hastings United and then, wait for it….. Maidstone. Well obviously he took Malmo to the top of the Swedish League or they wouldn’t be here today. However, I didn’t fear him and his team, but you’ve heard of ‘giant killing’.

My mind began to haunt me again with the fear of failure at such a high level. My girlfriend would be sat at home watching the game on TV with her dad and maybe her Manchester United-supporting brother Glyn ‘Jonah’ Jones (he actually went to Old Trafford regularly). My dad and mam and sister would be sat there watching as well and I could envisage my dad getting the kettle on and having a sandwich at half-time, but there we were at the European Cup final itself.

Were this Malmo team a surprise article who had done their homework on all their European opposition? Did they have the nous to undo the best defences? Did they play with 11 men behind the ball for 89 minutes and pinch a goal? Who knows?

The teams made their appearance in UEFA tradition walking out together so the crowd in the whole stadium applauded. The line-up was Shilton, Anderson, Clark, McGovern, Lloyd, Burns, Francis, Bowyer, Birtles, Woodcock and Robertson. No O’Neill or Archie Gemmill, but they were on the bench. The defence more or less picked itself, but the preference of Bomber to Gemmill and Francis for O’Neill were brought by Clough and Taylor. I could see the reason for including Francis, apart from being the best centre forward at the club he could play from midfield now. Any injuries to a striker and you could bring O’Neill or Gemmill on and shove Big T in the middle up front. Now Bomber for Gemmill was a brave one, was this his reward for his goal in Cologne? The threat that if anyone wasn’t doing his best there was ample skill and hunger on the bench.

The Malmo side, full of double ‘s’ Vikings with similar names, somehow didn’t impress me. When the game got underway they did defend as I expected and it seemed a matter of time before we could prize open the defence. Forest didn’t change their pattern, passing the ball well and probing where and when they could through this packed defence. Nearing half-time we knew eventually Malmo would have to open up and come at us, maybe we can counter and score.

John Robertson took the game at his normal pace and beat his full back to launch a cross for Trevor Francis to dive and head home. The ball took ages to float over and it looked as if Francis was not quite positioned to get a touch, but he found it at the far post and did a forward roll over the concrete shot putt area before raising both arms to celebrate. I love it when you take the lead just before half-time and Malmo, who had thought their plan was working, now had to re-think and come and attack us.

At the break there was a bit of a scuffle with some German youths at the back of the stand, but it quietened down before anyone else got involved. I went to the toilet and was among some Germans with leather jackets on with a wolf cartoon on the back, sort of colours in Hells Angel fashion. These I realised were Bayern Munich fans. I expected some trouble later, but I never saw any.

The second half was pretty tame, if not boring, Malmo made a few efforts to break through a solid defence and I could see their two strikers in the proverbial pockets of big Larry and Kenny. The Reds did a professional job for the rest of the game as if we were veterans of European football. Well I wouldn’t say veterans, but now we had come of age.

When the final whistle went, we celebrated and I cast a thought to the folk at home, our families would be re-boiling the kettles or drinking a pint or two in the pubs after seeing Nottingham football history being made.

We could just about see John McGovern lift the cup among the crowds of photographers and officials and then they did a lap of honour for us. Over twenty thousand made the trip and by now we had the stadium to ourselves as the Swedes made a speedy exit. Time to get back into the centre and have some Lowenbrau or Weisbier or even a Radler for weak of stomach!

I managed to swap a scarf for a Malmo flag to add to my Euro souvenirs and we headed back via the U Bahn (underground). The lads who had come by train had to make their way back to the station for the long trip back home; we just had to head for the Marienplatz to join in the celebrations. By now lads were in the fountains as predicted and the place was ours. Bob Topliss had nicked a big beer glass from the Englishcer Gardens and that was his souvenir of the day – why didn’t he just by a keyring? He’ll never get that home in one piece.

We ventured into Munich looking for big steins of cheap beer and found them in the Bier Keller. The bouncers armed with truncheons were throwing anyone who sang a football song out. The only folk who were singing football songs were us Forest fans. They beat offenders right out onto the square outside in clear view of the police who took no action.

We were on a loser if we stay in here so we left to celebrate elsewhere. There was plenty of drinking establishments anyway. We saw lads from Nottingham here there and everywhere and it was a real party atmosphere. So much so I lost all the others and ended up drinking with some Liverpool fans who were working over there. They saw I was lost and bought me a beer and asked about the match. I had a couple of drinks but they wouldn’t let me pay for any and then they left as they had work in the morning.

I wandered around trying to trace my steps and eventually after drinking in the company of mobs of Reds fans in the town centre I found Teada and Nobby, both pissed and staggering around. We slurred an agreement on which way our hotel was and headed home just as the dawn was breaking. Back in the room Pip was sleeping like a log and Cumbo rolled in with the others. He looked at Pip’s jeans and trainers on the window ledge drying off after his dip in the boating lake. Cumbo gave a grin and as he tipped all Pips clothing off the ledge and said “Oops!”

I was too drunk to think of getting them back and went soundly off to sleep. Later that morning as most of us were waking I heard some commotion. “Who’s had me f***ing jeans and trainers?” said Pip in a concerned manner. I was just coming round as he looked under by bed, and started remembering what had happened. It amused me and I started to laugh, so Pip thought I had thrown them onto the street. Before I could point the finger I had a fit of uncontrolled laughing and Pip didn’t find it funny. He grabbed my best shoes and threw them out into the street.

My head then started to throb from last night’s celebrations, but I had to get my shoes back. In pain I went downstairs onto the street only to see a road sweeper with a giant barrow . I looked around for my shoes and thought, He’s had the bastards. I asked him in English with hand gestures to indicate a pair of shoes flying down from the second floor. He shrugged liked Frenchman and ignored me. By now I was getting a bit threatening in my gestures. I pulled his cart toward me. Climbed up to look inside and there was only street rubbish! “OK, where are they, smartarse?”

Then Nobby came out from the dining room and said with a grin, “Lost some shoes?” Phew! Nobby had reclaimed them. He said he’d sat buttering a croissant when he heard a thud and then another, he looked outside and there were two shoes inside an open-topped sports car. Fortunately he guessed they belonged to us. I got my shoes on and then stayed for a cup of coffee to try and wake up. Boy was that sunshine strong and headaches with German beer are just as painful as back home. It still hadn’t sunk in that we were European Champions. I wondered when we would see some television footage of the past events, we would miss it all back home – and the parade through the town.

In the dining room Steve Walker beckoned us to the window. Last night they had taken the bolts out of a bicycle front wheel which was chained to the lamppost. The owner was about to ride off to work; as he manoeuvred his bike the front wheel went rolling off on its own. He looked around and we all dived back to our tables innocently. Just big kids we were. Like a load of kids on a camp, the lads were poking holes in the toilet door and watching you do your business and shouting things through the door while you were on the throne. It reminded me of St John Ambulance cadet weekends at Skeggy and Rhyl, we hadn’t grown up!

So the long journey home was eminent and we at least knew the road a little better. The usual tricks came out on the autobahn, but this time Nobby played a double six. We overtook Cumbo driving Pip’s beloved Escort and Nobby sprayed his shaving foam out of the window. Sounds innocuous but due to the speed of the cars and the head wind the foam plastered across the windscreen and covered it completely on a second. So Cumbo is driving blind while Pip is nodding again (thank God). He put the wipers an as quick as possible and it’s a good job we were on a straight road which wasn’t busy. It did look a sight because it had spread all over the front of the car, on the bonnet and number plate. Whoops – that was one we better not try again!

Using what shilling pieces we had, we bought condoms and fags. For some reason I wasn’t going to trust these German condoms so we used mine to blow up like a balloon and as we were about to let it go out the window, the wind stretched it to about 4 feet long before we let it go. So we decided the condoms were better used as giant balloons to litter the Bavarian countryside with. The journey was a long one and Teada, Rube and Nobby swapped driving duties and I did a bit of map reading in between sleeping.

A watering hole stop on the way at a French town and we had a drink or two of beer but not a lot. The pub was called the Chevaux Noir and the sign outside told us it was the Black Horse, see I wasn’t always messing about in French class. The pub was pretty much like an English country pub and the landlord had no qualms about serving two car loads of English football fans. Me and Rube were talking to him about the game and then it was time to get back on the road. We were just about to say au revoir when he beckoned us to the bar. Some of the lads had taken a liking to the printed beer glasses for souvenirs; the landlord wanted them back. We went outside as they we about to close the boot of the car and we said, “Better give him the glasses back, we don’t want the police on our tails.” After some arguing and denying our lot had took any, me and Rube retrieved them and the landlord was happy.

In daylight we stopped for petrol when a French lady driver was merrily filling her Merc up while chuffing on a Gauloise (popular French fag). “Jesus missus, you’ll blow the flippin’ town up,” we cried. She was oblivious to our pleas, but we lived to tell the tale.

Still full of exhilaration we reached the port of Calais a few hours earlier than expected and parked up waiting instructions for our hovercraft. Rube, always on his mettle, heard an announcement about spaces on an earlier crossing which was to go almost immediately. He made enquiries and instead of spending our last few Francs in a café drinking antifreeze-fuelled red vino we could be on our way home. We took the passage and it made us at least four hours ahead of schedule.

The trip back across the channel was even quicker than going and we were soon back on the road in Angleterre. By now we were worn out, but still running on the fumes of adrenalin our near empty tanks arrived back in Annesley. Rube’s dad’s Austin Maxi stood proud as if it had been an away trip to Sheffield and Pip’s metallic purple Ford Escort had come of age, while Cumbo’s Capri sat in its garage. I got to see Julie on Friday night instead of the next day and most of the night between beers was spent telling the tale of our Munich trip. The name Nottingham Forest is now etched in football history, it still hadn’t sunk in yet.

In my mind I thought what would be our first chant of the next season: “CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE!”

Annesley Reds in Munich: Pt 5 - the match (and aftermath!)4.8515

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• Annesley Reds on the road to Munich: Pt 2
• Annesley Reds on the road to Munich: Pt 1
• Annesley Reds in Munich: Pt 3