Flag Day

When I moved to Slovakia it was long before it joined the EU; as a result, I had to carry an alien ID card with me everywhere I went, plus a photocopy of my passport. Where I lived, worked and accessed medical services was controlled by the state. I felt overwhelmed by this but fell in love with the country as everyone hated the bureaucracy. What I loved about going back to Slovakia in 2005 to watch Newcastle United play ZTS Dubnica in the Inter Toto Cup was being able to introduce some of my friends to the country I’d fallen in love with, as equals under EU law following the 2004 Accession. Now, with Brexit, what seemed so natural has gone out the window. Anyone remember “Waving Flags” by British Sea Power?

Anthropologists, Geneticists and Physiologists would argue long into the night as to which of the fight or flight impulses is the human body’s natural response to a perceived threat. Please don’t use me as a test case, as so cowardly is my disposition that I recently changed gyms to avoid compulsory boxercise. When the going gets tough, the Cusack slopes off. This was the case in the last year of the 20^th century. Having quit a job I hated, my potential career as a freelance writer had failed to pay a single bill and, on seeing my marriage crumble in the face of my inability to face up to the responsibilities commensurate to my role as the mid-30s father of a pre-school son, all I could do was run and hide.

I arrived in Bratislava, capital of Slovakia, on 19^th September 1999. This was the day of Newcastle United’s biggest home win since the 13-0 triumph over Newport County in 1946. We thumped Sheffield Wednesday 8-0, with Alan Shearer grabbing 5, in Bobby Robson’s first home game as manager. My boss, who collected me from the airport, was an Owls fan. I’m amazed he didn’t send me back to Tyneside there and then. In fact, I was to stay in Slovakia for almost two years. While my son and soon-to-be ex-wife got on with their lives as normally as possible, without the otiose spectre of the failed fool at the computer in the spare room, I managed to rebuild mine.

The first time I’d left home, I was 19 and an idealistic, youthful pseudo intellectual; excited by the challenges and opportunities of University life in County Derry. It took me 5 years to get back home, with 2 degrees and a career to look forward to. This time, I was 35 and a jaded, ageing pseudo intellectual, terrified of the challenges of life as an EFL teacher for Akademia Vzdelavania, the state-operated adult education authority. Looking back now, the things that were the same about the two utterly contrasting experiences were the number of lifelong friends I made in both places, where companionship and camaraderie were sealed during drunken debates about bands, books, politics and, you’ve guessed it, football. I’d imagine that if I packed my bags and headed for some arcane destination for whatever reason, the conversation starters would remain the same; it’s the universal masculine language.

Just less than 2 weeks after arriving, I saw my first game of football in Slovakia when a deflected 63^rd minute strike by full back Martin Baliak gave visitors Petržalka victory away to Slovan.  The last game I saw in this country was on 20^th July 2005 when Petržalka overcame a 2-0 first leg loss to defeat Kairat Almaty 4-1 after extra time at Senec’s ground. The fact that both contests were momentous victories away from the traditional, historic and incredibly beautiful home ground of the Slovak side I fell in love with at first sight, makes me despair even more that my beloved Stary Most stadium is no more. The club also endured insolvency and forced relegation but are now stable in the Slovak second division. However, I am led to believe that there is reason for optimism, in the shape of the club’s new ground south of the Danube, back in Petržalka.

It was not the quality of play that attracted me to support Petržalka; rather typically, that 1-0 triumph over Slovan was followed by a thoroughly terrible 4-0 humiliation by Košice the week after. However, that particular game was my first visit to Stary Most and, despite the worst efforts of players of the questionable standards of Martin Kuna or Tomas Medved, it was the beauty and atmosphere of the stadium that immediately held me in thrall; though the black and white strips didn’t dampen my ardour very much it has to be said. The fences at Slovan and running track (as well as utter absence of either crowd or atmosphere) at Inter’s Pasienka home did not appeal, despite their relative proximity to where I lived. Instead, I opted to take bus 50 to Stary Most, where the green seats that came to cover 3 sides of the ground were then only on one side, with small covered sections behind each goal and a bizarre building that contained changing facilities, offices and what else I do not know, that always resembled a Mississippi riverboat steamer to me. In front of this white, concrete structure which boasted an unfeasible number of balconies to watch the game from, towards the goal furthest from the river, half a dozen assorted English teachers from Akademia Vzdelavania and the British Council made it our home.

We came to call this section Swearers’ Corner as the most dominant voice among the crowd was the incredible, incessant obscenity of Petržalka’s most loyal fan, Laco and his equally profane daughter, who both kept up a continuous stream of invective throughout the entire game, which could be directed at officials, opposition players or, on one memorable occasion after selecting the utterly immobile Martin Kuna in central midfield, manager Vladimir Weiss. However, amidst the endless utterances of debil, hajzel, kokot and many other more extreme insults that would undoubtedly result in arrest for anyone uttering them on a street corner, Laco was a source of deep and profound football knowledge and insight. He also, unknown to him, taught me 99% of the Slovak I ever learned. Between October 1999 and June 2001, I did not miss a single Petržalka home game. My return to England coincided with an upturn in Petržalka’s fortunes; the Inter Toto Cup was reached the season I left and in 2004 the Slovak Cup was won, causing me to fly back to see the club’s first UEFA Cup tie against FC Dudelange of Luxembourg, as well as the small matter of a 3-0 home win over Slovan a few days later, which was of more than equal importance I must admit.

During the two seasons our group, which consisted of disparate English teaching expatriates aged from early 20s to late 30s and who were followers of Chelsea, Leeds, Liverpool, Newcastle and Spurs to name but a few, watched Petržalka from Swearers’ Corner or indeed from any other part of the ground, we did not once encounter any hostility, aggression or indeed curiosity from Petržalka fans. Once a fortnight we turned up, paid our 15Skk entry, bought klobasa and either Pivo or Kofola depending on the severity of our hangovers and stood in our usual place. I suppose it helped that we mastered the two songs (both of which consisted of the same 3 words Petržalka Do Toho chanted at a slightly different tempo), but other than that we made no real attempt to either hide our nationality or our native language. It was not necessary to do so, as we felt under no threat at any time. The day we played Puchov, Laco really came in to his own; as a former employee of Matador in Petržalka, he was deeply scornful of his ex-bosses sponsoring our opposition and was even more relentless than usual in his abuse. Never have I heard the adjective gumové used so often, nor spat out with such derision as Laco did that afternoon.

If Petržalka hadn’t claimed a 94th minute equaliser, I genuinely fear Laco would have exploded. Never mind the fact we could have been watching Liverpool versus Arsenal in the FA Cup Final in The Dubliner that afternoon, Stary Most was the only place for true football action on a sunny May Saturday in 2001. It was my final home game as a Petržalka fan, though we did win away to Inter the following Friday. I came back to England on the Sunday; relieved to be reuniting with my son and optimistic about my future career prospects, but sad I’d never hosted any of my Newcastle friends and shown them the sights of Stary Most.

I carried the hope that one day I’d be able to watch Newcastle United in Slovakia, though this seemed unlikely as the club were flying under Bobby Robson. Perhaps the only positive to Robson’s sacking in 2004, and it is an entirely personal one, was it set in motion a chain of events that made my dream come true. Under Robson’s successor, the appalling Souness, we’d lost a UEFA Cup quarter final, an FA Cup semi-final and finished thirteenth in the League.  Bizarrely, we actually qualified for the Inter Toto Cup; mainly because England was awarded a Fair Play place and none of the eligible clubs above us were interested in taking it. Given a bye to the third round, I was ecstatic when we drew ZTS Dubnica. While many people would query the appeal of a mid-July weekend in an industrial city in the Vah region of Western Slovakia, I was elated to be going back to my adopted home country, with my team.

Interest levels in this trip, despite my proselytising, were low among my associates; frankly, this wasn’t Barcelona, Bruges or Benfica. Indeed, the grand total of 83 Newcastle fans eventually made the trip, including the heroic Glenn Wallace who travelled, as he does to every Euro away, by train. Opting to fly from Manchester to Bratislava, I pitched up in the Slovak capital Friday afternoon, 48 hours before kick-off. It was fair to say I was the advance party, as there wasn’t another Geordie in town, though there was a Mackem; my former work colleague Steve, who put me up but steadfastly refused to go to the game.

We took Friday night easy, with loads of leisurely beers in the Stary Mesto (Old Town). Unlike England’s difficult away in October 2002, there didn’t seem to be anything aggressive brewing. Saturday was different though; I took myself out for a noon constitutional down by the Danube, just as the bus from Budapest Airport arrived, disgorging about 60 thirsty Geordies who’d been on the dawn Easyjet. A day on the gargle ensued, involving several of us doorstepping then NUFC chairman Freddy Shepherd as he sat down to eat with assorted lackeys in Bratislava’s poshest restaurant. From nowhere Northumbria Constabulary coppers emerged from the shadows and ushered us away; they even bought half a dozen of us a beer in The Dubliner before the self-preservation klaxon told me it was time to split.

Match day saw about 30 of us on the noon train to Dubnica; the rest had opted for the much cheaper and far slower bus. As we executive travellers sat in the restaurant car sucking on 500ml bottles of Pilsner Urquell while nibbling on restorative cheese and salami for less than a quid a plateful, I reckon we’d the better deal. In Dubnica, the first person we saw was Glenn Wallace, who described his Saturday night as the only English speaker in Dubnica as “like finally being famous.” We soon learned what he meant as locals, in assorted Champions’ League replica tops, bought us beer and shook our hands; in 30-degree heat, this was a happy and hot special occasion.

The game itself happened in slow motion; Michael Chopra scored after 5 minutes, then there was an own goal, before they pulled one back. James Milner grabbed a third in a quarter speed second half; I drank 6 beers during the game, while my mate Davey Faichen fell asleep at half time and snoozed on the terraces until we woke him up for the train at full time. We enjoyed a leisurely trundle back to Bratislava, including changing trains in Trencin where I bought the station buffet’s supply of the best bottled Slovak beer Smadny Mnich for the thirsty Mags on platform 3, then a crazy drunken night in The Dubliner with a load of Dutch tennis fans, in town for a Davis Cup tie versus Slovakia. They’d lost, but what the hell. I’m no specialist on Euro aways, having only done Eindhoven (twice) before Dubnica, but Slovakia was a fine, fine weekend; 13 years later, those who were there still speak warmly of it.

One brief cameo provided the best advert for summer football and the Inter Toto Cup in particular I could ever imagine, while I mooched around the three quarters deserted train on the way back to Bratislava. Somewhere just south of Piestany, as the sun slowly set over the Bílé Karpaty Mountains, one of the Prudhoe Mags, happy, sunburned and half cut, was on the phone to his girlfriend. The noise of the rattler drowned out his voice as I weaved down the corridor, but as I passed him, he ended the call with a smile and a heartfelt I love you too pet. A thousand miles from home, semi-surrounded by a few knots of tired, contented and gently boozed NUFC fans, I knew just how he felt; I loved all of humanity that warm Sunday evening.

And now, less than a decade and a half later, Mike Ashley’s harsh patronage has destroyed any pretension the club or supporters have of a competitive trip into Europe, just in time for the Brexit nightmare to turn into reality. Maybe it’s just the heat of this long, baking summer, but I’ve a whiff of unrest and civil disobedience in the air. Things just aren’t as good as they were.