Ulternative Alster Fan Club

 

Our travelling supporters have once again been out 'n' about, following our team through thick 'n' thin, and generally making a nusiance of themselves here 'n' there. Here we find our dedicated explorers enjoying La Bella Vista at the Treviso game: *

The Ulster Tifosi (or Lost in Venice)

It’s strange how the same problems seem to continue from one season to the next. Treviso this year or Stade Francais last year – it makes no difference. It’s always bleedin’ foggy. Whether trying to get home from France or into Italy, Ryanair just can’t cope. And so it came to pass that I arrived at the hotel several hours late and still traumatised by the joint efforts of a pilot trying to land at Treviso and a mad coach driver (anybody remember Sammy from Logans?) who hurtled through the dense fog at 90 miles an hour.

I rang Rooster who was , naturally, sitting in a bar. He offered to come and collect me as I would probably get lost and he knew Treviso “like the back of his hand”. An hour later he emerged from the dank Italian night having kindly walked all the way from a bar about 400 yards from the hotel. Must have been the fog. Anyway, just then several distressed Ulstermen arrived having looked in vain for their hotel. Rooster offered to help – I wonder if they’ve been reported missing yet

Before heading back out, Rooster asked if I wanted to have some fun with Doris up in his room. Luckily I’m not that sort of guy but I was a bit surprised at him We went out. After a pleasant meal (and a drink or three), we took the direct route back, ignoring Rooster’s short cut. The hotel door was locked. Peering through the window, we saw the General, Sonz and their mates enjoying the warmth of our bar. Clearly they hadn’t realised there wasn’t a bar at their private villa. Frantically we gestured to the General to open the door. Frantically he gestured to us to buzz off (or something like that). At last he came towards us. Now , we assumed he would check if the key was on the inside, turn it, and the door would open. The General had other ideas. Luckily the hotel staff was able to put the door back together and we weren’t charged for the damage.

The morning of the match was spent by a brisk walk through the town, a few more drinks and trying to find out where the no. 9 bus left from. An hour before kick-off we found the right place , along with about 100 or so fellow travellers. We somehow managed to squeeze in – well apart from the General and his crew who were left behind. “Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio” we sang.

The match has been reported elsewhere, but there were a few other interesting events. Sparky turned up. Can’t imagine what the girl at the check-in desk made of his passport photo. Then BR got a nasty cut over his eye – by trying to bang a drum with his head. I didn’t ask – probably better not knowing. Frosty’s pants came down as did the Irish flag on the far side of the ground, the latter being replaced by an Ulster flag, the former just being photographed by Rooster. I was beginning to worry about him – Doris and Rowan’s bum?

After the game we celebrated with the players and fans in the beer tent (it had seats), before heading back into town – minus Ding Dong and Merrily who just can’t seem to walk past an open bar. Another meal in the big pizza place, although this was somewhat spoilt by the raucous behaviour of some Ulstermen who let us down badly. Turns out it was President Ian and the alickadoos. Why can’t the “blazers” behave as well as the fans?

Then it was on to “Drinking”, not the enjoyable pastime but the biggest bar in the town. Unfortunately, Rooster said he knew the way and we believed him. I knew something had gone wrong when we found ourselves outside the town walls. By the time we got there the place was bunged and everybody looked about 20 years younger than us. The “STND UP FOR THE ULTERMEN” crowd was there, possibly looking for the missing “A” and “S”. Had a friendly chat with Wilson, Ferris, Bowe and Boss. This was the calm before the storm.

I blame BR. He sent us in the direction of “The Ugly Man” That’s the name of yet another bar, not an English prop forward. A hazy night, but some bits remained lucid the next morning. Taking Isaac to MacDonalds to prove it was closed. About 3 a.m. I’m told. Then the sight of UR’s Lynsey trying to restrain a “tired and emotional” Tommy who was determined to find another drinking-hole. Eventually he broke free. She yelled at Rooster to catch him. As if there was any chance of that – he’d probably just get lost.

Sunday was Venice. The General’s lot took a gondola trip. I swear I heard a gondolier singing an operatic version of “Stand up for the Ulstermen”, but it could have been my imagination. We did the St Mark’s Square thing – ate in MacDonalds because we could afford it – then Rooster walked us back to the train station. We ended on the wrong side of the Grand Canal.

There was no fog on Monday so Ryanair made it back to Stansted. Rooster drove to Milan to catch his flight, but ignored the pleadings of Doris and took a short cut. Made his flight with seconds to spare. Back home I just had to ask. “Rooster, who is Doris anyway and does your wife know about her?” Turns out she is his sat-nav system. I need another drink.

 

* The UAFC are not responsible for the witterings of any supporters in the production of this piece, and the views expressed are the views of the eidjit doing the writing.