As we gathered in Dublin airport the day prior to the match, we felt an absurd sense of confidence. We must have been mental, because this was the Reds in Europe and we just don’t get results. But we were confident, ridiculously so. Although the oul nerves weren’t what they may have been. We solved that problem by hitting the bar at about half 6 that morning. The pints were, to put it bluntly, poxy. But at least they were pints and anything that helps should be welcomed. And on to the Scabair flight to Stanstead. Once we landed we kept tradition and ensconced ourselves in the first bar we found. Unfortunately it turned out to be an Oirish bar where you could purchase such authentic Irish delights as ‘golden leprechaun light beer’ and pork scratchings. At least the sounds they had on weren’t too offensive on the ear, a Pogues compilation playing in the background. ‘We may as well’ we said ‘we are on holiday’ and so we helped Shane McGowan out by helping him sing a few verses. This didn’t please the decidedly un-Irish proprietor, who wasted no time in telling us he had other customers to think of. We were banjaxed if we could see them, maybe they were stealth customers.

Eventually our Iceland Express flight was called and within what seemed like two and a half hours we had landed in the glamorous, sexy and exciting city that is Reykjavik. I’d read plenty about the moon-like scenery, how the people managed to describe it in this manner is puzzling. Have these people spent time on the moon to make these comparisons? Yes it’s craggy. Yes it’s unfriendly. Yes it looks like there are craters everywhere. These criteria could be used to describe Brian Kerr, but I didn’t read that in any guidebook. Prior to leaving Dublin, one brave lad threw the gauntlet down to one of the more hardened drinkers in the company that he could, and indeed would, drink him under the table. Much merriment was had watching this ‘contest’ unfold. Fair play to the youngfella he did his best and certainly didn’t let himself down. Although almost every utterance from his lips was a slip up at his own expense, albeit unknowingly. He took the abuse well most of the time, but when it got to him, it really got to him.

When we arrived at our guesthouse, complete with one more than we had booked in, the main party were left outside while one foolhardy sham was brought inside to clear up the finer details of our stay. Shady would be a good description of the scenario unfolding inside. To say our host was dodgy would be like saying Dolan has a weight problem. Anyway, it was cleared up with minimum fuss and we went out to see an exhibition of football. Well, we saw footballers make an exhibition of themselves, put it that way. Vikingur took on the mighty Fram in a local derby reminiscent of Inter v Milan or Pike Rovers v Fairview Rangers. To say the game was shite does a disservice to shite. However, the seven brave souls who went took the kip by storm, waking the dozing home fans while they were at it. Within ten minutes of kick off we had the place rocking. For our efforts we were rewarded with a lousy nil all draw and a hell of a job getting a taxi back to the shack. A quick clean up and on to the pub for some craic. It was here we met up with the remainder of the party, obviously the brains of the operation, they stayed in the pub while we went to the match. We were only in when a sham from Cabra made some class of speech, basically saying thanks for swelling me coffers, I hope yiz win tomorrow. Which was greeted by a section of the people there as a heartfelt thank you. Some others didn’t quite see it this way and wanted to tell the profiteering fuck to piss off. Anyway the night passed without incident, bar, of course, copious amounts of gargle, craic and ballads.

On waking the next morning we were asked to leave our accommodation. As our host was probably annoyed at the hoards of drunken Irishmen coming and going at all hours of the night, and laid the blame, not unfairly at the feet of the more vociferous of the lads, yours truly included. Not that we were sorry to see the back of the kip, it was the kind of gaff where you sleep with your back to the wall.

Anyway, next morning we were escorted to our new digs. The woman running it had the air of a recent post-op transsexual, which only added to the pervading sense of Reykjavik being some sort of north European San Francisco. Checked in, smelled the water and made ourselves as scarce as Depor fans in Dublin. We met some of the boys in town and had a few pre pre match pints. It was in this particular hostelry where two senior members of the official travelling party accosted us and enquired of our whereabouts the previous evening. Upon hearing (although they already knew) that we were at the worst match in the world…EVER!! We were told that we had been discussed that morning. Fuck me; are these people so petty that all they have to discuss is us? Jaysus wept.

At the next table was another group from the sc having their picture taken. One of our lads had returned from the jax with a copy of Reykjavik gay pride 2004, which was held up in the background of the picture. Well, WE laughed.

After strolling around the dock area trying to stowaway on some boat to get out of the kip, we realised we should make tracks for the game. What an awesome stadium we all said in unison. We were talking about Hajduk’s place, in the event we got through. This game was played in the national stadium, which, while decent enough, was hardly awe-inspiring. Neither was the Reds performance, although KR were fairly shite too. Can’t really remember either of their goals. I do know they were nothing to write home about. Our goals however, were things of beauty. Alan Moore chasing what seemed to be a lost cause for the first. The best own goal since Donal knocked Bohs out of the cup levelled things up for us. Manic, Argentinian style celebrations followed. And closely behind was a mammoth drinking spree. The ‘entertainment’ in town that night was fantastic. A lad playing guitar who bore an uncanny resemblance to one of the Queens of the Stone Age belted out middle of the road rock classics in an Icelandic/yank accent. The highlight of which was his own take on Pink Floyd’s another brick in the wall, which was based on the paedophiliac adventures of Michael Jackson. Fucking hilarious. More and more gargle flowed as we celebrated not getting beat, and giving ourselves a great chance to meet Split in the next round. The singer finished, we started. We sang more ballads than Ronnie Drew would care to remember, even if he was in conversation with aul’ Mr. Brennan. At a ridiculously early hour we had to leg it, and head for the hills. The trip home was a class act, the ghost of Arthur Fonzerelli being invoked constantly, along with the almost non-stop renditions of ‘gay bar’. After being barred from the pub in Stanstead on our way to Iceland, we tried again and to our abject horror, were served. After a few pints there and some dealings with the rudest woman to ever work for scabair, we all arrived back in Dublin in stupidly good form (Bar one- AYYYYYYY!!!!) and reckoned we’d do KR back in Tolka. Little did we know…