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I hadn’t until I was doing my morning James Richardson Gazetta Football Italia homage at my Nuremberg hotel, but without the camera crew and no-one was listening. And with the Corierre dello Sport replaced by the Suddeutsche Zeitung. And instead of a cappuccino there was a pint of Lowenbrau. The Breakfast of Champions.
But apparently perennial Franconian bridesmaids Spievereiningung Greuther Furth were attempting to keep their noses in front at the top of Bundesliga 2 that night against Energie Cottbus. So after a lunchtime violin concert trying to chat up the local talent – in German of course (“I like the playing of this music. As there is you friendly looking. Tell me please, in locality do you know in where I can eat food good?) – and an hour spent at the biggest model railway in the world (because I’m sexy as f*ck) I hired a bike so took the windy, windy path along the Pengnitz river the 15 miles or so up to Furth.
I’d left plenty of time, so when I chanced upon the National Rundfunk Fernsehen (Broadcasting Television) Museum I thought I’d drop by. I was expecting an Urbis-style multimedia spectacular detailing the fascinating history of broadcasting in Germany. It was in fact a museum about actual television sets. F*ck me, tedious isn’t even the word.
So back on the bike. Now, I’m usual pretty good directions-wise, but for some unknown reason after clocking a sign for the stadium in the distance, I found myself battling with traffic doing 150 on the Autobahn. In my defence, the signs turned from green to blue without any warning. And I was a little pissed. But with the help of the federal constabulary, I was invited onto the (completely unbeknownst to me) parallel cycle path and made my way through the giant Goodbye Lenin set that was the suburbs of Furth into the town itself and up to the ground.
Now, I should have been in amongst the Cottbus support.
I was in Cottbus once, dragging a bemused ex into the suburbs to take a wonder around the Stadium der Freundschaft (The Stadium of Friendship). And what a beauty it was too. Rectangular, a proper standing tribune, proper red seats, the corners filled in with terracing and the skeletal outline of the hulk of the main stand watching over the remainder of the ground like an intimidatingly overbearing parent. It was however pissing-down and we had to actually break-in (admittedly through an open gate) to have a mosey round. But what can you do? Ich bin ein Groundhopper.
The rest of Cottbus was alright. It was evident that it hadn’t received the generous largesse doled out to the other eastern German Cities. And indeed the Yuri Gagarin Planetarium wasn’t the Epcot-style experience I was expecting. Now, by German standards, Cottbus is probably a sh*thole. However, by the standards of Great Britain, it’s grand. Quality, friendly folk, half-decent town centre and within striking distance of some gorgeous countryside. Plus, if you are a connoisseur of DDR nostalgia, Eisenhuttenstadt is just up the road. Think Scunthorpe, but everyone left overnight in 1990. Cottbus is also, of course, home to one of the few teams in the former DDR that have prospered since reunification (the others of course being Hansa Rostock and the legendary Erzgebirge Aue). But they were loitering ominously above the relegation zone so could do with a point or three themselves tonight.
As, like I said before, tonight was a big game with SpVgg Greuter needing to win to keep their noses ahead of Düsseldorf at the top of Bundesliga 2, I couldn’t take any risks with getting hold of a ticket and just €20 later (the ticket office rather charmingly being in a Greuter Furth themed grocery shop) I had my way in.
The stadium is called the Trolli Arena, only slightly less ridiculous than its previous name The Playmobil Stadium. And, I will concede it is grand old lady. Its proper old-school, inclusive of a three-quarter length wooden main stand and a proper Kop. It’s like Blundell Park had €5m spent on it. I remember Grimsby playing Chelsea in an FA Cup 4th Round Replay once upon a time and trying to get Ruud Gullit’s autograph as he disembarked his luxury coach. The look on his face as he clocked our Main Stand was as if he’d just arrived at a Beefeater for a blind date and Blundell Park was Margaret Beckett.
There was only one thing bothering me about the Playmobil. The shamrocks. And the guys selling Celtic-Greuter scarves outside the ground. And the You’ll Never Walk Alone nonsense. And Greuter’s green and white hooped strips.
Before you ask, when it comes to the Old Firm, I don’t have a dog in the fight. And I usually bloody love dog-fighting too. It is a truly majestic spectacle as well as being a keenly priced day out for the family. I remember my dad taking me to my first dog-fight out at a disused RAF hangar near Market Rasen when I was about 12. He gave us a tenner to bet on the dogs. And I lost it in fifteen minutes on the first two hounds. He docked it out of my pocket money over the next ten weeks. I learned a valuable lesson about gambling that day that’s set me in good stead ever since.
I digress though. I suspect, Greuter’s adoration of all things Celtic has more to do with the mythology of Joyce, Yeats and the romantic Gael ideal as opposed to the reality of the PLC, the pubs of London Road and the horrors of the late Saturday night Cairnryan – Larne MegaBoot. I could have explained this to the Celtic/Greuter scarf-sellers, but my German is distinctly more Branston than Heinz.
Ah, yes, there was a match. And Greuter really needed to win. And it was a cracking atmosphere. Spoiled by the team’s entrance music being Reet Petite. Which, as an act at The Stand where that’s the walk on music, just made me very very anxious and nervous.
Greuter dictated the terms straight up and, about 15 minutes in, Energie’s brilliantly named Brazilian defender Roger was given his marching orders. Asamoah had his penalty saved by the impressive Thorsten Kirschbaum (who looks suspiciously like Jack S****hall), but it didn’t matter as one of the big defenders (Thomas Kleine – anything but) headed home from a free-kick to put Greuter up at half-time.
Second half was one way traffic again, Oliver Occean essentially wrapped it up after an hour, and then the magnificent Sercan Sararer skinned a couple of makeshift Energie defenders and curled in an absolutely beauty from 25 yards. Since this game, he’s subsequently been capped twice for the Turkish national team, quite a feat for a second-tier player. And he is seriously good. He stood out an absolute mile. Quick, sublimely skilful, can generate that into an end product and (unlike many players with his gifts) displayed some deliciously astute decision making. Remember the name. Sercan Sararer.
And the denouement. The latest score for Rostock flashed up on the big screen. Bottom of the table Hansa 2, second-placed Fortuna Düsseldorf 1. The place erupted. I was hugged by a moustachioed ‘leather jacket and loadsa badges’ complete stranger who smelt like Boris Yeltsin at a wake. Like the paranoid, emotionally stilted Vulcan I am, I kept one hand in the wallet pocket of my jeans. Because you just can’t be too careful. I saw the old Hansa Rostock-Fortuna Düsseldorf Full-Time Score Trick on BBC3’s The Real Hustle. And you can say whatever you like about me but I’m no mug.
Then the cycle back to Nuremberg, this time avoiding the Nurburgring. Through Furth and its very pleasant city centre, nice river, bastard nice kebabs and gentle provinciality. Which is good. But I’ve seen it now though. And I’ve got to get to Ingolstadt…
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About the Author
Raised by wolves on the wild Lincolnshire coast, Gordon has been Scotland’s 53rd best stand-up comedian for a record six years.
On the scene since 2007, he has been a staple of The Stand’s Edinburgh Festival Fringe programme, performs across the country with his own unique brand of sociopathic misanthropy and biting political comedy and has supported some of the biggest names in UK comedy.
After an unsuccessful football career, culminating in an extra-time defeat in the 1996 U16s Lincolnshire Cup Final, he has been trying unsuccessfully to get a Football Banning Orderfor three years now to stop him spunking any more of his limited disposable income on following his beloved Grimsby Town in the Vauxhall Conference for three years now. He also follows Queen of the South, crack Bundesliga 2 outfit Erzgebirge Aue, Crvena Zvezda and Portland Timbers.
Gordon is a ‘ground-hopper’ and bloody proud of it. His favourite stadia are the Stadio Nereo Rocco in Trieste and the Erzegibrgestadion in Saxony.
“…Character creation Father Alexander was hilarious, taking a satirical lump out of Salmond’s Scotland with a sermon for the Lockerbie bomber Abdelbaset Ali Al-Megrahi…” Brian Donaldson, The Scotsman
“Gordon Alexander eulogies were a highlight….clever, fun and deserving of a bigger audience” Barrie Morgan, The Skinny
“…Far more polished was Gordon Alexander…It’s a superbly written act and Alexander topped up it’s topicality and was rewarded for his efforts by getting by far the biggest laughs of the night…” Neil McEwan, Edinburgh Evening News
“…Man-of-the-match Gordon Alexander stole the show with his character pieces…” Bernard O’Leary, The Skinny
You can follow Gordon on Twitter: @GoAlexander
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