ACDC squad Europa: part II

The second installment begins with the arrival in London. After fishing a Mumbles-less Peter out of terminal 4, we all went to check into our separate hotels. With so many visitors new to London, you would think that we would go see Big Ben or Trafalgar Square etc. But despite my best effort to steer them otherwise (uh, see: outright lie), this group chose as their first stop in London the magnificent Emirate Stadium, home of the footballing gods, also known as The Arsenal.

We went to lunch at a pub in Highbury familiar to Jeff and me, called the Famous Cock (hey, I can’t make this stuff up, yo). Although lunch itself was uneventful, the introduction of Carlos to the sparkling cider, Strongbow, marked the downfall of the rest of the day, if not of civilization itself. The energetic Cuban took a liking to the new brew, and had little idea of the potency. Five or six pints of that devilish nectar later, he refused to leave the pubs. And then when he did, George had to chase him down as he stripped off all his street-clothes, heading to the hotel pool full of innocent children. And after the rambunctious giddiness wore off, Georgie had to plead, beg, threaten, and then physically drag him out of bed to attend the dinner meticulously planned by the hitlerific tour manager penguin, Michelin star be damned. Who would have ever thought that George would be the more responsible one of the pair?

The next day was the big game between Manchester United and Fulham FC. Mumbles finally arrived after his adventure at the State Department, and Graeme came north from Hove/Brighton to join his former teammates. Three Man United fans, three neutrals and one decided Man U hater… I dare say that none of 7 expected what we saw.

Most of you watch FSC and follow the EPL in the printed press, so there is little reason for me to describe what has been better recorded by professionals. You know about the Paul Scholes’s handball to block a shot on the line (red card! Captain Whitey excused it as “defender’s instinct”), Rooney’s sending off and the acrobatic bicycle-kick goal by Zoltan Gera subbing in for Clint Dempsey (unquestionably the best goal I’ve witnessed live). But what made the experience truly memorable for me are the tid-bits they don’t report in the news or show on TV. Sitting with the Man United fans, it was at times annyoing. The non-stop singing:

“Champions of England! Champions of Europe! Champions of England! Champions of Europe!” OH GIVE IT A REST!

At other times, however, it was remarkably entertaining to hear the comments in the crowd when the team was playing poorly:

“Aahhh, Darren Fletcher, take ‘im off….f**king waste of space.”

“C’mon Ronaldo. Run, you lazy tw@t!”

The petulant antics of the latter were worth the (scalper’s) price of admission itself. When he gets “taken down” by an “aggressive challenge” (a.k.a a little puff of air), he would roll on the ground, turn to peek whether the ref was watching, and then roll some more. At one point, he hiked up his shorts and pointed out to referee Phil Dowd what I’m sure is a phantom stud mark (a.k.a his beautiful maaahscles) and being sick of his incessant complaining by then, Phil Dowd responded by hiking up his own shorts to return the favor. Hilarious!
After two hours of exhausting cheering, the 7 of us (we could have played in a 5-a-side tournament in London!) went on a pub crawl in southwest London and invented ACDC’s own brand of hooliganism. More on this in episode 3.