Celebrity Big Pizza

Awaking the next day to an oversized Ukrainian in your room is quite scary, Hutch and I decided to get ready and get out to the Stadium in Wroclaw, walk through the old town and then settle on a spot to watch the days games in the fan zone.

We first had to drop our bags at the station, as we had a night train to Gdansk and didn't want to drag our bags around all-day, and Sas the Ukrainian was going to come too as he was in need of a train to Frankfurt, before buying a car and driving to Donets'k. I didn't ask too many questions on why...

So on getting to the station I was translating from French to English, for this train info. After finding out it was going to be €150, Sas then decided to inform me he could get a lift from Wroclaw to Frankfurt, for €35 with some friends. If we'd got this information earlier, I'd have told him not to bother with the trains and saved 45 mins. Now bagless, we headed for lunch, the translation issues were still here, so we just ordered for Sas on the basic info we could get. He eneded up, like Hutch, with Pigs Trotter, me, a steak!

Now full of assorted cuts of animal body, we headed towards the stadium. The trams were smart and efficient, and there were plenty of them heading out.

Upon approach, the stadium looked good and trim. We wanted to get close to this masterpeice, but the security perimetter didn't allow us to within 200 metres, we checked by walking the perimetter, but in doing so discovered this stadium wasn't quite finished. Fence posts still jutted with no fence attached, instead temporary measures in place. The footpaths had kerbs, still awaiting their tarmac surface. Although not core to the stadium, still functional requirements I'm sure. One thing going through our mind was would this ever get completed post tournament? Who would care? What would be the point? League attendances in Poland are low, and can't see this tournament driving them up to fill these gorgeous, half completed stadiums.

Another thought, UEFA, the money machine and masters of expoliting most opportunities for more of the fans money, had potentially missed something here, we weren't the only people looking, holding the outter security fences wanting to get closer. Surely a €10 organised stadium tour on none match days would reap a sum, but also satisfy those that couldn't get tickets because the slightly empty corporate sections had been sold off for millions in lucrative deal?

We watched the evenings football, stunned by the Dutch defeat. Our thoughts, including Sas was that the Dutch didn't play as a team. The world cup finalists from two years ago weren't so cohesive as then. Robben too selfish, van Persie not his usual self. The only positive was the mastering strokes of Sneijder and apart from the goal, an otherwise solid defence. The Danes had a game plan, not negative, more containment and counter attack, which they did to great aplomb. Poulsen looked cool and competent on the ball, Krohn-Dehli's goal composed.

Before the last game, we grabbed some food, an extra large flavoursome traditional Polish casserole for less than 3 quid.

The Germany Portugal game was interesting for Hutch and I, we would be in L'viv to see Denmark Portugal in a few days time, so a first chance to see the stadium. Another big game seemed to pass Ronaldo by, Nani looked out of his depth. The Germans were, as ever, well drilled and fresh. Gomez is not a favourite of mine, he reminds me of a poor mans Andy Cole; he gets into positions, but needs 5 chances to get a goal. He most certainly could have stopped the Rubble machine Chelsea from buying that Champions League. He took his goal well to his credit, and the Germans played out the game well.

We trundled off to get our train, swapped contact details with our Ukrainian friend and boarded to depart. We joked about the potential of the electric cables coming down, before setting down in our new and fresh, ready for the Euro's carrige and we were impressed. Despite this, also slightly upset, we wanted an ageing communist peice of engineering, with an occasional malfuction, not the modem IKEA spec.

Rolling into Gdansk after a good night sleep, we wondered the old town for several hours. A gorgeous centre, with a nice baroque variation on Wroclaw. In distance ahead, remnants of WWII were still presnet. Bridges and building not reconstructed. Although done due to to a lack of budget, and not for dramatic effect, we both thought it added to the character of the city.

Our home for the night was a campsite in the shadow of the Gdansk Arena. We decided to get out there early and see if we could get tickets. Upon approaching the stadium, its beauty befell upon us, a gorgeous amber coloured bowl glistening on the blue sky. Amber because the Baltic coast, where Gdansk is situated, is known for large amounts of Amber along the shores.

Once we found our pitch, with a few hundred Spanish; excitement came when one Spanish woman returned to the camp, ecstatic because she now had a ticket, fellow Spaniards whooped for her joy.

We meandered back to the stadium. The completion was worse than Wroclaw, whole roads half completed, a bridge with only the rebar complete, awaiting the pours of concrete. Our campsite was on a dirt track, this was actually a main thoroughfair from the nearby train station. We enquired for tickets. €275, €200, special deal €500 for a pair. I wanted to go, but not that badly. It wasn't United.

We settled for a beer, only to see Joe Calzaghe the boxer, sat next to us. He was in his Italy top(half Italian, half Welsh, like tthe Welsh will ever qualify, well actually with the stupid 24 team Euro's to start in 2016, who knows...), a brief nod of acknowledgement was all that was required and we left him to his beer as we chatted over ours.

We were getting hungry, our morning pastries now digested. We saw a sign: Pizza. We'd yet to have any non traditional food, but the stadium was on the outskirts and food was rare.

We entered, it was a pub, that served pizza, the sign to allure the Italians no doubt. The waitresses attractive and the menu... WHAT... a 24" pizza! A meat feast was ordered. A whopping 452 square inches of pizza. Compared to 113 on a 12". We had to break to finish but finish we did. Even the waitress was impressed. But this pub had more to it; cheap beer, pool and a football table. After three games of pool and table football, the pizza and pints, we'd spent less £15. Bargain! Best pub so far!

We searched for tickets briefly again, the touts profiteering to the decrepid Spanish economy, reports that some had paid as high as €400... had we not just lent these fools €110bn?

We returned to the campsite to watch the football in the shadow of the awesome arena. A good atmosphere ensued. A scrapy game, which I feel the ref failed to discourage. Italy looked good, controlling the game at times. The decision to remove Balotelli was justified with his petulance showing, whereas De Natale showed he is class. The decision to remove Cassano was bad, Italy didn't look the same after and there only looked to be one winner. Somehow it ended a draw. If I'd paid more than €30 for that game I'd be disappointed.

Next up, the Irish, or was it? The Spanish wanted to see Alonso mess up the F1 with his one stop strategy before Englishman Hamilton took the prize, so would I in heindsight
, but this was the Euro's, Hutch and I fought a verbal battle on principle that we should watch the football with pointing and gesturing. We won.

Unlike the Irish. A poor incepid performance that looked like Mick McCarthy might still be incharge. Weak, unorganised; Trapatoni the tactician must not be happy. The Croats solid and technical. I fancy their chances for an upset in this group!

So football done, we decided to head to the stadium, to see it lit up. What a gorgeous site. We managed to get a little closer than one ought to due to 'a technicallity' with the building site, but as I hope you see, it was worth it.

So, bed, then to Warsaw in the morning! I write this enroute to Warsaw, so look out for the next update, which I think will be tomorrow with an England performance to write up...

Dancing up the Danube: Part Deux

So having left the balkans and into Hungary and the Secheng region where border controls are no more, I reflected upon the native people I'd spoken to, those that were part of the former Yugoslavia and had witnessed the wars. The feeling I got was of passion and a belief that the way things were in the former Yuogslavia were of a better time.

Things weren't better now, the fractions still there, but the fighting had now stopped. With the war criminal Mladic and his atrosities going through the relevant channels, there were occasional protest and marches in Sarajevo, afterall it was 8,000 Bosnian men and boys he callously ordered genocide upon whilst England was preparing to host Euro 96. Why did this go on? Had we not learnt from previous evil dictators? With the crap in Syria going on, why are, the Democratic and very self righteous West, so slow to react? Why were things so bad to some, that the decades of unrest that follow were fought so violently for? Leaving the Balkans had left me with a feeling of happiness in the courageous and welcoming people I'd met, but sad that nothing was done to help the majority who actually didn't want massive change...

Into Hungary and Budapest our journey laid us upon 'Grandio Party Hostel'. I've been to several good hostels who party hard, but this was something else. The state of the place was terrible, the staff so hungover and decrepid it took an age to book in.

Once done, we embarked on a massive walking tour of Budapest, a lovely city that straddels the Danube, one side Buda, the other, Pest. We traversed both sides, crossing the gorgeous Chain bridge to get great views of the Parliament buildings and St. Stephen's Basilica, which we'd earlier climbed the heavy 308 steps to the top.

We carried on walking, but stopping for Goulash, when a military chopper came zooming over the Danube, low and fast performing some pretty sweet manouvers. We'd been told Die Hard 5 was being filmed in the city, and the several repeat flights, in conjunction with a support chopper swooping but always focusing on the military chopper, led me to guess this was more footage for Die Hard...

That night we went out on a bar crawl organised by the Hostel, it was OK, until Hutch and I got split and I was left on my own. I got back to the Hostel and had a beer or two, then hit the hay. Hutch, apparently, wasn't far behind me after his night managed to collide back with the crawl.

Next morning we got ready for the next and final stop on the Danube tour, to Bratislava, a casual 2 hour 40 minute journey. After some frantic rushing to get tickets, we cruised into Bratislava late. A small and quaint city with classically architechture, we did the main sights within a couple of hours, however the main sight for two fellows, was the quality of the female species.

Now, throughout the tour, there have been some lovely ladies, but the Slovaks are a different class. Tall, mainly brunette and with all the correct curves in the right places, these ladies were the highest quality seen so far!

The next stop was to the first host city, Wroclaw (pronounced 'vrats-whaf', don't ask!) The train journey took us through the Czech Republic, and we weren't supposed to stay long. However, the Czechs were in Wroclaw for the first day, and panic ensued in the train station with hundreds of people and our grip on Czech not great. We missed our connection, and ended up late into Wroclaw. We missed the first half of the Poland Greece game, the one notable bonus, seeing how empty the streets were as we made our way to the hostel as Poland played out a draw. We downed tools and headed to the fanzone, and started a few beers, seeing out the first game, preparing for Czech vs. Russia.

The atmosphere in the fanzone was tepid; the majority of fans were Czech and those boys took a thumping. We saw few Russia fans. Until we hit the hostel. We were essentially staying in mini Moskva! Rauchus Russians downing vodka like it was water was an enjoyable sight, their steely nature in conversation whetted my passion for Russia, I pushed on for conversation, eventually earning swigs of Vodka from the victourious Russians.

Upon going to bed, our room mate was in... a giant 6'10 Ukrainian, named Sas, who followed the motherland as his mother was Russian. His English poor, but his French much better. We conversed briefly in French, before all deciding enough was enough and bed beckoned. The still partying victorious vodka drinking Russians were still audiable, but the 12 hour journey and subsequent grog meant I was out for the count.