Forest have just won the European Cup for the second year running, so it’s time for the Annesley Reds to hit Madrid in celebration. But they will encounter angry gorillas and conning barmen…

It appeared the Bernabéu Stadium staff wanted us out as lights were extinguished as quick as possible. Okay, Real Madrid didn’t get to the final, tough. It was our night of celebration as we rolled along back to the Puerto de Sol to find a barman that speaks English (rare as rocking horse sh*t). We hit the bars along the way but Madrid is no Benidorm and most bars had the bullfights on monochrome TV sets and as our colourful presence hit places we passed unnoticed and were served begrudgingly by bar tenders who all supported Real Madrid by the look of it.

We found the McDonalds and this time ordered cheeseburgers with aplomb, and fries to boot. We didn’t take over the town as a lot of fans had to head for the airport and fly back home but there were still a few gangs of Reds fans heard here and there around the place who sounded as vocal as ever. We found the bar from the previous night where the barman knew some English but we were a minority as there were quite a few Spanish out for a Wednesday night. We celebrated in our own way until the early hours and were warned to leave the bar as the police usually came in late on and sorted out foreigners with batons drawn. A good tip from the barman.

We headed down to the main square (Puerto de Sol) but the bars were closing pretty fast and we settled on a cafe type bar which was only occupied by two customers, one a normal looking bloke who smoked the cancer sticks known as Celtas (10p a packet), and an attractive looking, well-dressed woman in her late twenties. The young ‘uns settled along the bar and we all stood around reliving the night’s game. The woman kept herself to herself and the Celtas smoker left. As we drank the young lads at the bar were given pickled eggs by the bar owner and we didn’t join in, it makes your beer flat.

Later there was a bit of an atmosphere along the bar. It turned out that the barman now wanted payment for the eggs. Those who had eaten them said he had given the eggs for free. We backed up their argument with the barman and stuck our chest out like Slab Square pigeons to show our machismo or whatever it is in Spain. It then got serious and we had to worm the young ones away from the bar and face him ourselves, then out of nowhere his staff came out threatening. We manoeuvred the vulnerable ones behind us and readied ourselves for a scrap. I knew if the police came we would be the ones attacked and locked up but I was more interested in arming myself against the Spanish who were coming around the bar to us. Ashtray and glasses were as good as anything as they had weapons against us.

Just before it got into a brawl (which I would have put money on us winning) the women stepped forward and spoke Spanish at 100mph. We stood our ground until the barman took a step forward, gesturing frantically to the woman. In an instant we took a step forward; he was going to have it if he attacked the woman for sure. My pulse raced and the fight or flight feeling went through me and down to my knees. F*** me we, were pit men, and some Spanish barman wasn’t going to scare us. Then out of the blue the woman pulled something out of her handbag.

The barman froze and backed off cursing in Spanish no doubt. Bloody hell, she was a copper! And she actually stood up for us, incredible.
The barman backed off and his staff all disappeared into the back and they were well and truly put in their places, by a woman, ha ha ha. Fortunately she had seen what was going off, the pickled eggs was a con and he was rumbled by a smartly-dressed, as opposed to ‘plain clothed’, cop. It just shows you how English are given a bad time when abroad and it’s not always our fault. We left the bar victoriously without a blow being struck. We watched the policewoman’s back as she left and gave the barman one last look of defiance or more like piss-taking.

We asked where any bars were as the time was getting late and the city was closing down. She pointed us in a direction which was towards our hotel and declined to join us in a drink and off she went like a cowboy riding into the sunset.

Our night continued but the place was going to sleep apart from pockets of Reds fans here and there. We came closer to the hotel and realised it was a strip for the ladies of the night and ‘doss mille’ was the word or rather the going rate; 2000 Pesetas a throw came from various shapes and forms who posed with caked make up and glossy lipstick, stinking of sweat and perfume. I would have sooner have gone to bed with Dick Emery’s ‘ooh you are awful’ character. I had my girlfriend at home and looked forward to my homecoming but a couple of the English lads around had their dos mille’s worth, probably virgins getting a taste from the deep end.

As soon as the police car came around we found out we were the only ones on the street, so it wasn’t like Amsterdam yet, the tit and knicker brigade were all illegal. Eventually the bars had all closed and the Reds fans got to bed, some for the second time tonight.

Thursday

It eventually sunk in as we headed for McDonalds for a cheeseburger breakfast and a cup of coffee. I hoped these burger places similar to the old Wimpy bars would catch on in England. Maybe the food wasn’t too good but it was in our language and better than the Spanish efforts known as breakfast.

We had a free day and all looked toward Rube as to what we would do. Museums were here and there and we had seen more palaces and old buildings than we cared to so a tourist information pamphlet pointed out a fairground and a zoo combined. Well, what the heck, the place didn’t seem to recognise there had been a European cup final there so we turned to any attractions available. A day at the Zoo it was.

The bears were on an island with a dry moat around them and at ground level it looked like they were in the ground with you. I noticed the strength of these beast of the wild as one of them picked up a log with its teeth. Boy, what you could do with one of them down the pit with a bit of training. Next it was macho time as we baited a gorilla that looked incredibly stupid chewing on a bit of a twig. Like school children on a field trip we pulled faces at this here gorilla, and bear in mind most of us were in our twenties and some of us were colliers. So kids again we mimicked what a gorilla should do and he stirred; the big silver back ambled along to his wives and then launched himself full jutter at the glass where we aped. Kinellfire we nearly filled our pants as the thick glass wobbled and thanking the Lord did not break. We ran like naughty children to the next pen before anyone saw us.

Next came the vultures, buzzards and golden eagle. Not bad, going to a European Cup final and learning more about animals of the world than ever before. Well these vultures and buzzards you see hovering over dead cowboys in the Mojave desert had beaks like No 4 shovels. I reckon they would have devoured a desperado in about three mouthfuls. I did feel sorry for the golden eagle, he was neither golden or eagle looking but a bedraggled bird form about three feet high on a branch of a dead tree (for effect). We did the rest of the pens and aquariums and headed for the fairground.

Now Goose Fair of Nottingham was always a bit dodgy looking as regards safety for me and long into my adulthood I stopped riding these shaky, loose nut and bolt rides run by Gaff lads. Bravado came into some of the lads as they rode upside down on some fast spinning Ferris wheel type of ride and then walked off looking more drunk than the night before. Well Madrid had its version of a big dipper, very basic like the Wild Mouse back at Skeggy and equally as rickety. I was accused of being a chicken so I paid my Pesetas and took my chance as they say. I was glad the ride came to a halt and looked as if it was a piece of cake in front of a crowd of school kids eager to have their go. Englishman and brave.

We headed back to Madrid hoping to see a few Reds fans still there like us but they were now few and far between, so we searched for an English newspaper with no success. We bought Spanish papers and tried our language skills out:

Which translated to: Nottingham lads eat hamburgers, and were content, oh and Forest won

The conversation went on using words like gol, defendio, ultima and jugadores among other stuff we hadn’t got a clue about.

So another night on the town before we returned to celebrate at home and we ended up in a night club. This club was about five quid to get in and you got two free drinks. Now this you would think sounded a bit more like Spain or even Blackpool. But their idea of a night club in Madrid was a posh and expensive dance club. Now I will admit to doing a twirl or two to Soul and Motown music in my day and even the odd smooch when on the pull. But this club was full of rich old folk dressed in come dancing garb. Frilly dresses… and that was only the men! No men dressed like Spanish waiters and women in Flamenco style costumes.

This all made sense as we swaggered around drunk and out of place as the serious dancing started. A man who was 60 if he was a day got up on the dance floor and then his partner, a woman who looked like Carman Miranda without the fruit, and the Flamenco guitar strummed and silenced….. then the dance began. This was proper Flamenco and not for show but as a romantic or sexual exhibiton. The woman was good looking and a good mover and the man could strut his stuff. He was wrinkled except for his shirt and trousers and I had an inkling she was after his money rather than his libido. I think libido is something to do with books, isn’t it? He must have had a good library back home.

Now my Spanish expert apart from Rube is Cumbo and he decided to do his own Flamenco dance as he was now well and truly pissed. The dance floor was now half full of dancers as the classical guitar sounds filled the room. But the slim, cummerbund-wearing Spaniards looked a bit different from a Stable Hole man who looked as if he was trying to chop out for a bar without a pick. Cumbo led the way and we all followed. Soon the floor was filled with lads clicking fingers and Flamencoing their way in circles, bumping into each other like Goose Fair Dodgems.

I was rolling with laughter as the serious dancing couples carried on as if we weren’t there. I rolled back into the bar and nearly fell over at our exhibition. Rube on the other hand just rolled his eyes at us and carried on drinking a Bacardi and Coke; that was as near to tradition as he wanted. Soon we didn’t have enough money to buy another drink at extortionate prices so we waddled, or Flamencoed, our way back to the hotel.

Friday

The arduous plane journey back home meant everyone had forgotten when they have to have their tickets ready and do you need your passport, etc. That was enough to make Rube decided he was not going to organise next year’s European Cup Final outing.

The press back home had a few quotes from the man.

Clough: ‘We have never given a better performance than tonight, never had a better 90 minutes.’

‘Our centre forward didn’t have enough strength to take his shin pads off.’

‘I had nothing to do with the win it was purely down to the lads, they motivated themselves.’

Also Kevin Keegan: ‘Forest have won the last two European Cups, they must be the best in Europe

John Robertson: ‘I just let fly, although I can remember shouting to myself “GOAL” just before it went in.’

‘I would like to thank our fans who were magnificent.’

Peter Shilton: ‘Looking back it is the greatest night of my career.’

Larry Lloyd: ‘I looked at Kevin Keegan in the tunnel and he was white faced as if the strain was telling.’

For me you can read the team sheet out again and give them all nine and a half out of ten and you wouldn’t be exaggerating.

Madrid 1980 – fantastic except for the scary gorilla and the even scarier East Midland Flamenco Dancing Team.