ORIEL WEB ON TOUR

THIS TIME, IT'S CROATIAN

OPERATION VARAZDIN 12th-17th August 2002

A long time ago, in a place named Tolka Park, a team inspired by a man named Gary Haylock won the FAI Cup. That team was Dundalk FC, and their victory gave them a place in Europe. The draw could have brought them a trip to Finland, a trip to Scotland, or a trip to Sweden. Instead, it brought them a trip to Croatia. To a town named Varazdin, in the North of Croatia, to play a team named FC Varteks. Their club organised a package for their supporters, with 100 people taking up the option to travel that way. However, another smaller group of supporters took it upon them to organise their own journey. It was cheaper, and it involved a lot more risk, but it also involved a longer stay, and seeing a bit more of Europe. Using different methods and routes, they all eventually arrived in Varazdin. They entered Croatia as nobodies, they left as local celebrities, with a sign and a black and white football. This is their story .....

"That sign says there's bombs on the road !"

TUESDAY 13th AUGUST - THE JOURNEY

So here we were. The trip to Croatia, so long anticipated, yet with little idea of what to expect. 4am is a time going to bed, not for getting up. Having failed to sleep in, the first difficult part of the journey had been negotiated. With the sky still dark, Operation Varazdin began. Airports never sleep, and upon arrival shortly after 5am, it looked as though everyone that was there, had been there for hours. All with their own little stories from their particular holidays. For the fans of Dundalk FC, the adventure was just beginning. It was just a shame I couldn't f**king find any of them. With printed out Ryanair confirmation slips in one hand, and passport in the other it was off to check in. All went well, and in a matter of minutes, the flight to London Stansted was ready to go. Four Dundalk fans walked by on the plane, nodding heads in recognition of common bond.

Things turned surreal shortly into the flight, when a Dub in the seat in front of me turned around and asked if I was going to the game. Turns out this was a Rovers fan who'd got his dates mixed up, booking straight after the UEFA Cup Draw for a trip to Sweden, without checking to see if his club was going to switch fixtures first. He'll also be going back to Sweden for the actual game itself. You've got to respect the man, because I wish I had an excuse to go back to Croatia twice.

Arrival to Stansted was prompt, and most importantly, the bag had arrived safely. I have an inherent fear of the conveyor belt style thing that brings the baggage around, given a family history of losing property in such situations. Some of our numbers finally met up, and a dodgy sausage bap later we were ready for Klagenfurt boarding. Still, we were looking thin on numbers, although as it turned out, some of our crew were disguised as civilians in the early stages, before revealing their true colours later on. All we needed now was the trip organiser, a man named Keating to appear. Eventually, he appeared in the distance striding towards the Klagenfurt departure gate, clearing people that got in his way, with all the purpose of Richard Ashcroft in the video for "Bittersweet Symphony". He'd been drinking whiskey the night before apparently. After a lengthy delay, in which the computer screens at Ryanair buggered up, the 13 initial members of Operation Varazdin were ready to go.

The flight to Klagenfurt was shorter than expected, with a conversation between myself and Adam, some three seats further back in the plane keeping most of the people in between awake, if not particularly amused. As we landed, quite smoothly in Klagenfurt, we half expected to step off the plane into three foot of water, given the rather depressing weather pictures we'd been treated to in previous days. Instead, we arrived with the temperature at 32 degrees. This was looking good, damn good. All we needed now was a bus. We had guarantee of a flight, but we did not know what kind of bus company the afore mentioned Keating had got us in with. Obviously, the first bus we saw, a forty seater with Varazdin on the side wasn't going to be ours. So we wandered around looking for a more modest effort. Until it dawned on us, that the bloody big bus was for us ! For Operation Varazdin !
"F*cking hell" someone shouted, "we'll have around four seats each!".

We were greeted by two eerily similar looking bus drivers, with large moustaches that would have done an Eastern European character in a James Bond movie proud. Somewhat worrying was the comment "professional footballers " we heard one of them mutter. Surely, they did not think that this motley crew of all shapes and sizes, with compulsory duty free in tow, was the Dundalk FC team. If so, they probably ran to their local bookmakers the minute they arrived in Varazdin.

The journey to Varazdin took around four hours, passing through some of Austria, across Slovenia and then into Croatia. On our bus was the thirteen Op Varazdin originals, the two drivers, some woman that was with them, and a Croatian woman that we'd offered a lift to at Klagenfurt airport. She was friendly enough at first, chatting to the Dundalk fans at the back before buggering off halfway through when she realised the drivers actually spoke her language. My suggestion to dump her off at this point, was not too warmly received.

We stopped around halfway through the journey at some petrol station/restaurant in Austria. They accepted Euros, and it also provided a perfect opportunity for us to practice our pigeon English. Bit of a surreal place mind you, with one small man coming up to me and asking me about my urine. Pleasant.

The conversation on the journey went from bizarre to ridiculous. As if the borathon conversation about tunnels wasn't bad enough, we then had El Paso absolutely convinced that there was actually a roadsign in Austria saying that there was bombs on the road. Tour operator Keating, countered that the sign actually meant there was a tear on the road. We all agreed that the roads in Slovenia were better than in Ireland, and showed our absolute conviction in our beliefs by ending every sentence with those very words.

Border crossings went reasonably well, with a portly cop welcoming us with a grunt into Slovenia. The entrance to Croatia was slightly more cheerful, with the locals practising their good cop-bad cop routine. First, we had grumpy bugger, who was informed by one of the Dundalk number that the Slovenian border cop was having it off with his wife. Then, after the bad guy checked our passports, before going to save his marriage, a more chirpy guy appeared on board. He scampered down the bus looking delighted with his job, before finding a couple of cheap garage station beer cans at the end of the bus, and exclaiming "Ohhhh Budweiser" before leaving the bus and welcoming us into Croatia. We were there, and nothing had gone wrong yet.

Within an hour, we were in Varazdin. Ten minutes later, we were still there and hadn't a bloody clue where we was going. We had already dropped the imposter off at the border, and lost the tour guide style woman somewhere along the way as well. Everytime we stopped outside a building, we all wondered if that was the hotel, adding some suspense to the latter part of our trip. We paused outside some horrific constructions before finally arriving at Turist 2, and it wasn't half bad at all. We waved goodbye to our drivers, and checked in. Within an hour, we were re-united on the veranda outside the hotel which was to become our home for the next five days. We had learned that the Croatian for beer was pivo, and that it was ridiculously cheap. We had a new currency, some new friends, and plenty of hours left in the day. All going well to date .....

"Are you sure our hotel doesn't have a side entrance ?"

TUESDAY 13th AUGUST - THE FIRST NIGHT

Within minutes of arrival, we had picked up the basics of the Croatian language. They understood our definition of numbers, provided we had the correct amount of fingers up. We knew Pivo was beer, and we knew that Hvala was thank you. The hotel had Croatian beers, plus, somewhat bizarrely, Stella Artois. Kaj, the cheapest, was 10kuna ...roughly 1.40 Euro.

Hotel rooms were fine, and within minutes our numbers were swelled by three more intrepid travellers, who had arrived via Graz . Apparently, they only found their way to the hotel by accidentally bumping into four Dundalk fans from our trip in search of a McDonalds.

Recollection of the rest of the evening isn't too clear, as the lack of sleep suddenly caught up. Eventually, a couple of us decided to head off in search of food and bars. Our first port of call was a restaurant which offered Hamburger, Cheeseburger and after a game of picture association, Wedding Cake as the first three things on our menu. 60 cents for a slice of wedding cake, the only catch being it was two days before it was ready. The food was fine, so with that particular yearning satisfied, it was off to a selection of pubs. Or should I say, cafe's because they don't have pubs in the traditional sense in Croatia. All the places are predominantly outdoor, with no smoky atmosphere or pool tables or slot machines or any of that. Different kind of atmosphere. I have to admit, at this point I was becoming slightly drowsy, with the lack of sleep catching up frighteningly soon. Went from place to place, but it was reasonably quiet. One cafe consisted of five Dundalk fans [that would be us], and the barmaid who was getting quite friendly with the only other customer, a policeman in full uniform.

We didn't fancy watching them for the next hour, so we decided to set off on our travels elsewhere. We were informed that the rest had gathered in some place called the Rock Art Cafe? We arrived there, but we couldn't see anyone from Dundalk. It's a good thing we could hear them though ! Everyone from Operation Varazdin was there, with three Croatians sitting between them. Nikolai, Ivana and Robbie were three Varteks fans who taken it upon themselves to greet their Irish visitors and show them the places to go. Little did we know then, how grateful we would be to them as the week progressed.

Already, they had been well schooled with the Croatians confident enough to start their own renditions of "if you hate Steve McGuinness clap your hands" and "come on you Lilywhites" as the evening went on. We must have been there singing for hours, with the bar clearing out with every passing minute. We thought this was a pretty eventful night, but compared to the rest of the week, this was a picnic.

Eventually, myself and the infamous Liamo were the last two in Rock Art, left continuing a somewhat hazy conversation with the bar staff. At the time it was interesting, but to be completely honest, I cannot remember a single thing about it. After that, I remember wandering the streets of Varazdin, walking down roads that seemed to have no end, and being convinced that the hotel was locked and having to go into a side entrance. I definitely remember Liamo asking someone for a key, which I presumed at the time, was to gain entrance into the hotel. On reflection, I cannot actually fathom what it coulld have been for. Anyway, I got back to the room at some stage, apparently missing the arrival of the team with police escort at 4:45am. They were greeted by a section of Dundalk revellers on the veranda, singing them into the Turist 2 hotel.

As stated above, we thought the first night was eventful. It actually turned out to be the quietest night by far, but the introduction to cheap beer and the Rock Art Cafe was a foretaste of what was to come.

"I swear, I saw around five Kournikova's today"

WEDNESDAY 14th AUGUST - KICKOFF TIME

Wednesday morning started well ..only joking, didn't see any of Wednesday morning. Instead, it was Wednesday afternoon when I arose from my quite charming hotel room. It got better once I figured out how to use the shower. Apparently, SOS isn't the Croatian for "turn on shower". Which I learned after several tugs at the lever bearing those very letters. Turned on the television for the only time of the week on Wednesday. Imagine, all the channels being in Croatian! Apart from CNN, but wasn't really in the mood for hard hitting news analysis.

Wandered downstairs to find infinitely more Dundalk people about. Not only had the official trip arrived, bringing players and all, but we also had the arrival of several travellers who had came via Trieste and other destinations. We had the brothers Griffin, soon to be joined by their long lost Zagreb cousin plus the portly THC and navigator. "I can barely find where I'm going when I'm sober" he proudly proclaimed. Nikolai brought several of us into a local cafe where they brewed their own beer, named "Knaput Pivo". It was pretty nice stuff, although some people lacked the stomach to drink it, instead sharing a platter that seemed to contain a whole horse.

Eventually, all the weaklings went back to bed, apart from myself and Paul K who Nikolai and Ivana decided to take out to the two main attractions of Varazdin, the castle which eminates from the Austro-Hungarian occupation and one of the largest and most beautiful cemeteries in Europe. The trip was very interesting, and got to learn a bit about the history of the area but as most of you are probably reading this to find out who was drunk and acting like an arse, I'll not go into details just in case I lose your attention.

Upon returning, a few of us took it upon ourselves to head into town in search of food. We found a pizzeria which served Jumbo pizzas. The four of us shortly after ordering, had a cartwheel, looking like pizza, placed in front of us. Using both hands, we all went for the big bite before deciding knife and fork would be more practical, and less messy. At 5 euro in total, it was ridiculous value. It was a lovely calm evening in Varazdin, and we were soon becoming aware that every single woman in the place was absolutely gorgeous. I mean, this was before the drink had set in. Kournikova would slip into the background here. Some went by on rollerskates, just to tease us. Unfortunately, Liamo underestimated the quality of English of the locals, and his constant "nice arse" comments drew more and more glances as the day passed. Anyway, enough of those dastardly stunners, there was real business to attend to. Pizza, followed by football.

Anyway, by the time we got back to the hotel, it had been confirmed that a kickabout between the Varteks and Dundalk fans had been arranged for that evening. 7:00pm was the kickoff, and after a brief warm up in front of the players bus, as they set off for training, we gathered our numbers. Most of Operation Varazdin was taking part, with no members of the official trip stepping up to the plate. Unfortunately, tour operator and football purchaser Adam Keating had gone missing, apparently dead, like his phone, in his hotel room. Just a shame no one knew where his room was, not even the man himself. The game would have to go ahead without him.

So, we walked across town to the local baseball pitch, which also contained football courts for five a side matches. We were greeted by a bunch of players who looked like they had actually played football together before. Our reps, on the other hand, kind of aimlessly wanderered around before kickoff trying to work out, by a process of elimination, which poor fecker would be unlucky enough to start the game. Eventually, six volunteers came forward, with the rest opting for the sideline singing option. An electric atmosphere was created, or...something like that. In fairness, the game was quite competitive for the first ten minutes, although it was soon clear that the opposition was actually good. When we went 2-0 down, it was decided to alter our squad rotation policy, by taking on a player, without actually taking one off. Strangely, this seemed to improve our time on the ball, but it was at this point the game took a more light hearted turn with the Varteks fans singing strange songs while playing. And they also had the added advantage of Juan Sebastian Veron in their team.

A camera turned up, and we presumed one of the guys was recording the game to watch back home later on. Possibly to laugh at the fat Irish. Still, much as we tried, we couldn't get that elusive goal. Until sub Liamo came on and scored possibly the worst goal ever, which was just as well as he hadn't passed the ball in the five minutes previously. Liamo, and his fanclub of one raucously celebrated the goal. On the other hand, I was fighting a personal battle with the post which kept returning my efforts right back at me.

As the second half went on, and the subs became more frequent, goals also increased. After scoring one, I added a further two to claim the title of first Irishman to score a hatrick in Europe. Liamo followed shortly afterwards, but no one ever remembers Buzz Aldron, apart from Liamo it seems. The game was good natured, but try as he might, THC could not score despite a Donal Broughanesque twenty five yard low shot which was saved by the keeper. Brother Conor scored one particularly notable goal, while the likes of Blackmore and McArdle made significant impacts on the sideline. Owen C in goals was kept on his toes, running after balls to collect them after another goal had been added to the tally. At one point, the scoreline reached 8-6 to Varteks, but after that we completely lost count. Not to worry, one of the lads had a big crate of beer so post match entertainment was sorted. One Dundalk fan tried to pass off unhealthy habits, as an excuse for the poor show. "We have been drinking since 4:00pm" he said, displaying the international hand gesture for drinking beer. Our Croatian friend was not impressed, "We have been drinking since 8:00 this morning" he said, repeating the afore mentioned gesture. Bugger that one anyway.

We returned to the hotel to shower [not communally, individually], with the SOS lever not being used on this occasion. Apart from once, for fun. The Rock Art cafe was allegedly waiting for us. And this time, it was going to be slightly more than a singsong.

"Get to sleep, it's easy"

WEDNESDAY 14th/THURSDAY 15th - WHAT DAY IS IT ?

After returning to the hotel, and sharing a quite uncomfortable lift journey with three equally sweaty individuals, it was a quick splash and dash and ready to go again. Our numbers had been enhanced by the arrival of BadBlueBoy, a Dinamo Zagreb fan, and a frequent visitor to the message board in the preceding weeks. After bribing the cops to free him, after they had found him hitching to Varazdin, he had already enjoyed a pretty eventful stay to date. He regaled us with tales of the BadBlueBoys, the core support of Dinamo Zagreb who rob a garage before every game. He also informed us that for the big game against Hadjuk Split, he buys a Dalmatian and kicks it every time Hadjuk score. No need for adjectives there, really.

Anyway, our planned destination was...the Rock Art Cafe. Apparently, it was a religious holiday in Croatia on Thursday, so there was a holiday mood to Varazdin on Wednesday evening, and it showed as we entered the establishment we owned the previous night to find it absolutely packed. Still the prices were the same, and the women from the town centre had all appeared in full force. What's more, the music was familiar, if something of a throwback to a bygone era. Dire Straits, "Walk Of Life" is apparently the national anthem of Croatia, and later on it was embellished by U2 "Where The Streets Have No Name" and some other classic tunes. Some of our party were busy getting to know some of the local talent, who were all pretty friendly to the tourists from Ireland. In fact, things were progressing extremely well until it became known that even though the average age was around 21/22, most had husbands at home in bed, or boyfriends working behind the bar. Which might have explained why the Croatians were keeping their distance. And, although I thought I'd keep the injokes to an absolute minimum, I would just like to apologise to Simon B, even though I was probably doing you a favour in the long run.

Anyway, our inimitable tour operator had appeared from his daylong slumber and was in flying form, ready to justify his opinions to all who questioned them. Heated debate, with such cheap and strong beer flowing, was never going to be of supreme quality, but as the night wore on Adam managed to offer his opinions on everything, to everyone. The Rock Art stayed open, until, reasonably late, and somehow we managed to get back to the hotel. [All a bit of a haze now, to be honest]. Things become clearer upon arrival, with Keating stealing the show by having frank discussions with plenty of people he has had gripes with in the past year. Not sure if he made any clear points, mind you, but he started plenty of sentences with "as far as I can see" and "the way I see it is", although it is unclear if any of those sentences were actually completed. In other news, several of our party had apparently been shipped into a suspicious looking car, and taken to a strip club several miles outside the city. Subsequent details are as yet, not forthcoming.

Conversation turned to the fact that it was a Croatian religious holiday, which was pretty pointless for us, as we had our own God in Gary Haylock. This quickly developed into song, with a new variation being put on the infamous Cup final ditty, with, "you can tell all the Christians you know, Haylock is better than Moses".

As it became brighter, some of the adults decided to draw on Paul Dunne's face, always providing a bit of fun. When he sleeps, Dunne goes into a comatose state, which may result in him being buried before death, sometime in the future. While others amused themselves with that, some of the party quietly slipped off to bed, while Adam and the Supporters Club chairman started their four hour in depth discussion on nothing in particular. Something about issues, I think. "As far I can see...the way I see it is".

After a while, conversation moved out to the veranda, with the last remaining seven or eight still up at 6am as night became day. The editor of the Lilywhite entered the fray, joining Keating and Murphy in their current affairs debate, with Adam so kindly introducing her to the conversation by saying, "you're Andrea, are ya ? Hi, I'm Adam, no offence, but your opinions don't matter a f*ck".

Suddenly, a vision appeared in front of me. It was actually a vision on a menu I'd picked up somewhere in the hotel room the night before. "Fruhstuck, 6am-9pm". Breakfast was served, and we had paid for it. Free food, at such close proximity. Surely too good to be true. However, when we went inside we found a veritable feast of dodgy products available. Industrial size bowls of cornflakes, and rubber sausages.

Liamo excelled himself at this point, christening some of the sausages, before thoughtfully remembering his roomates. "I'd better bring the lads some breakfast" he proclaimed, as a lightbulb flashed over his head, "they'll never make it up before 9am". So, Liam went to the spread in the middle of the floor, curled the bottom of his t-shirt in, to create some kind of storage unit, and piled all the cornflakes, muesli, butter, sausages, breadrolls and anything he could find into his Blue Peter made hamper. After looking for assistance in getting past reception,[their smiles suggested they weren't THAT stupid], he apparently made his way up all six floors, before leaving the food there for his compatriots. Apparently, they awoke the next morning to find cornflakes, and pieces of muesli strewn all over their apartment, on their beds, on the bedside table, TV and the floor. Those visiting the disaster site the next day didn't even need words to accurately describe the state the room was in. Expressions said it all.

Badblueboy was finding thing a little bit rough, still unsure as to how the Irish could actually drink so much. "You are not human" he said, before lying back on the floor at around 7:30am looking to get some sleep. As he was obviously struggling, a rendition of "get to sleep, it's easy" was offered to send him into dreamland, but surprisingly, it had no effect. By this point, Haylock had not only become better than Moses, but he had actually risen up the ladder past the syllable confusing John The Baptist, to the seemingly infallible Jesus. At this point, someone with slurred English suggested that Haylock was better than the Pope, which somehow was translated as Haylock is better than pub. "You can tell all the Vintners you know, that Haylock is better than pub" was a fitting end to the morning's songwriting.

Liamo was unhappy at the reluctance of people to move from the hotel bar, to a bar in the town of Varazdin. So much so, that he launched into a 15 minute diatribe on the issue that somehow diverted to the fact that for 15 euro, you could apparently pay two Croatian women to be with each other. Thankfully, Murphy was on his toes, recording Liam's two cents for everyone to see. The video will be coming to a shop near you, soon.

At this point, it was becoming clear that the veranda was suddenly becoming more lively. People were getting up. Murray and Ralph had already left for mass, possibly not amused by someone querying if Liam Dunne was serving as altar boy. Everyone wondered if Haylock had slipped out earlier to actually say mass. Liamo returned from town, convinced a barman had told him Haylock was better than Crowe.

The team bus arrived, diverting our tour operator from his six hour tirade on the state of everything, and giving himself and Liamo the idea of going onto the team bus for a while. A while turned into half an hour, and ended with Liamo and Keating sitting in the backseat of the bus, having a good old chinwag, while the whole Dundalk side sat watching on the steps waiting for the two drunks to vacate their bus. The most comical moment of the whole affair was when two Dundalk players, unaware of the situation, strolled out of the hotel and onto the team bus, before looking to see the two guys in the back of the bus, and promptly turning around and getting off again. This was approaching 10am in the morning, and eventually the pair evacuated the bus, and allowed the team to go off to train. These obstructionist tactics, with parallels to the antics of Parnell and co. back in the 1870's may well have impressed the watching Badblueboy, who had just returned from town with pizza, who might reconsider Dalmatian bashing in future.

Morning was getting on, and the Supporters Club chairman had cleverly nipped out at around 10:30am, leaving me with four Kaj's in front of me on the table. An hour, and four Kaj's later, things were looking grim. I hadn't been to bed at all, and the game was at 6pm in the evening. If I stayed up any longer, I would probably conk out at around 4pm and miss the game. Although I felt a sense of betrayal leaving Adam and Liam behind [they both gave in themselves shortly afterwards], I calmly announced that I had to go to the toilet, throwing everyone a Brian Byrne style dummy, instead heading for my hotel room for three hours sleep. When I woke up at around 2:30pm, the big game atmosphere was already building. From my fifth floor room, I could hear the pre match songs. The big game was almost upon us..

"If you love Croatian women clap your hands"

THURSDAY 15th AUGUST - GAME ? WHAT GAME ?

Downstairs on the veranda the atmosphere was building. In fact, it will permanently be remembered, as a heavy marker, used to write on a large tricolour had imprinted the words "Dundalk FC - Sexy Football" in the pavement. It would still be there, some two days later. Plenty of Varteks fans were floating about, with three passing by on their way to the game singing a song that didn't appear to have any words. So catchy, that the Dundalk fans felt compelled to join in. The mystery of the missing tour operator was returning again, in a Groundhog day style scenario, with two Dundalk fans deciding to take the bull by the horns, and climbing to the sixth floor. At least they knew what floor he was on. Taking evasive action, they stood at the top of the corridor and screamed "Adammm". Which worked, as a response from Mr Keating himself was swift from one of the nearby rooms. It wasn't love for Adam that inspired this move, it was the fact that he had our tickets. And losing them would be no laughing matter.

Soon after, the players left the hotel to a rousing reception from the increasing numbers of Dundalk fans gathered outside. They were clapped all the way down to the bus, with most trying to get a photograph. A magic moment, indeed, and brought home what the trip was all about.

After that, people made their way down in small groups to the stadium. Some decided to depart early, in order to find a bar near the ground. Eventually we made our way around 4:30pm, with a considerable group. Walking along the road in Dundalk shirts, everyone knew what we were there for, and we did command a lot of attention. After stopping to buy a six litre [approx] bottle of water, next destination was a pub outside the ground. After testing the vocal chords, it was down to the important business of deciding what to write on the large collection of flags and tricolours. One of our number opted for "Happy Valley", due to the location of his home in the area back home, which led to a series of "If you hate Happy Valley, clap your hands" chants. There was just something satisfying about seeing a long line of home fans coming down the street, and then being able to see a sprinkle of Dundalk jerseys amongst the crowd.

The pub we were in outside was nothing special, and the area around the stadium didn't seem reasonably affluent. Then we walked into the stadium, and it was like a different world. All seated on three sides, with work on the fourth due to begin soon, apparently. If anyone has been in the RSC before, the view was similar to that from our stand, except that this stand extended the whole way along one side of the pitch. Then there was an open air stand on the far side which stretched the whole length of the pitch, and a seated area behind the goal where the more vocal, take off their t-shirts a lot, Varteks fans seemed to gather.

A drummer was in place, and the singing was well underway half an hour before kickoff. We just so happened to be placed beside the cameras that were covering the game, and in the minutes before kickoff, we noticed a lot of the cameras were pointing at us, so we suitably upped the tempo. When the team came out onto the pitch, it was a tremendous moment as they came to applaud the fans, and did their little huddle. Then the game started, and we realised how hard it was going to be. You all know the result, so you don't need match details, but the game itself did bring about some highlights. Long haired, porn star looking Varteks striker Karic was getting a bit of stick from the away fans, which the Varteks fans informed us afterwards, had been picked up loud and clear on Croatian TV. "Karic has a mullet", was one of the more notable chants, with others opting for the more straightforward "Karic is a wanker".

Now, this game was notable for a lot of things. As the goals went in, the enthusiasm for "Stand Up For The Lilywhites" waned inversely. So much for this, getting behind the team for 90 minutes lark! Won't delve into the subject any further here, but many have stored in their heads the silent response from many sections who sometimes accuse other fans of not being genuine, good supporters.

Also notable, was the beer sellers. No more clandestine drinking in the Shed, it appears Varteks have no qualms with openly selling beer during the match, sending around some of the finest Croatian women with trays of beer, finding plenty of takers amongst the Dundalk contingent whose constant chant of "Pivo" always garnered attention. Numbers 14, 17 and 19 [beer sellers, not pints] went down particularly well with the Dundalk contingent, inspiring the "if you love Croatian women, clap your hands" chant which was well received by plenty of middle aged married men who joined in, unashamedly. Not so impressed was the distinctly unattractive fat arsed popcorn seller [don't worry PC crowd, it was a bloke], who wasn't impressed at some Dundalk fans shouting "shite" everytime the home crowd sang Varteks. He got quite aggressive at one point, unimpressed with the lack of business, and his mood can't have been helped by the now legendary chant of "you can stick yer f*ckin popcorn up yer arse" that even found favour amongst people completely unaware of what was going on.

The songs kept coming, even if the scoreline was 4-0, much to the amazement of the Varteks faithful who presumed we'd be throwing scooters, ala Inter Milan fans, from the backrow at this stage. "If you've scored a hattrick in Europe clap your hands" was rekindled, good news for myself and Liamo. The chants of "Liamo's going commando" and, "if you've got an unfurnished basement clap your hands", related to Liam's choice of clothes for the day, brought plenty of puzzled glances from the other Dundalk fans. After an unfortunate mooning incident involving said Liamo, the best chant of the day was eventually created, when someone started a rendition of "next goal wins", shortly after the fourth Varteks goal. Things were going well for a while, with the game seemingly set for extra time before Varteks went and bloody scored another goal in the 88th minute. We couldn't even win the game within the game!

After the game, the ritual of swapping shirts took place not on the pitch, but instead in the stands as fans of both clubs discarded unwanted jerseys! Feeling a bit glum, despite the team being given an ovation off the pitch, so went back to the hotel to order a Dalmatian in the restaurant. A Dalmatian style steak, of course. The mood was tempered for a while, but after a bite to eat, people began to look for positives from the game. Not finding any of them, they instead opted for Pivo. As Homer says, the cause, and solution to all of life's problems. So, after a meal, and a few forgetful tugs at the SOS chord to turn on the shower, it was time to go back into town again. Of course, the 6:00 kickoff meant it was earlier than all of us probably thought.

Each night, the walk to the Rock Art became all the more familiar, but it still required some crowd following to get there safely. It wasn't as crowded as the night before, but for many, that was compensated for by the presence of the players. Everything was perfectly civil though, and never once threatened to turn nasty, despite the heavy defeat. Everyone was realistic about what the team had faced on the pitch.

At this point, I must correct myself on an error pointed out to me about last night's report where I erroneously reported that three Dundalk fans were shipped off to a strip club in the middle of nowhere. It actually happened on this night, Thursday, and not Wednesday night. Apparently, there was three dancers, one of which was pregnant. Hardly Playboy Mansions stuff.

Anyway, the night at Rock Art was progressing noisily, with Dire Straits again reappearing [in the hearing sense]. Also, some of the locals were putting on a rather striking dancing show for their Irish visitors, which really should have been charged for. One of our Croatian friends, well trained, went up to Gary Haylock and shook his hand saying, "you are better than Crowe". The blank reaction on the face of Haylock was priceless, similar to that of Des Denning, who was told the night before by the same Croatian that "McGuinness is a wanker".

Badblueboy hadn't been to bed in a few days, and was finding the going tough. That said, he entered the Rock Art Cafe with a Dundalk shirt and scarf, and left wearing an Ireland shirt and scarf. He confused many by stripping to his boxer shorts in one corner of the Rock Art, trying to fix all the cushions on the chairs into a bed shape. It wasn't working, so at 3am he decided to go home, despite our protestations. You've got to admire the bravery, hitching back to Zagreb at 3am in the morning! After not sleeping for almost three days, bribing the cops, and drinking so many pivos that he eventually had to put up the white flag, it's safe to say he won't forget us. As the man said himself, "we will follow you, we will follow you everywhere".

It wasn't the most mental night in the Rock Art of the week, that was definitely still to come, but the few hours after leaving were pretty insane. Leaving the Rock Art, after a few Dundalk revellers, climbed up onto the bar causing it to become unstable, we picked up three long haired Croatians with guitars. Not quite sure how, to be honest, but they looked ready for a singsong. In fact, I have a blurred memory of one of our footballing Croatian buddies saying he had arranged for them to come along. Anyway, they immediately launched into REM's "Losing My Religion", which carried us most of the way home. Around eight of us, all in a line, walking down the street in Varazdin belting out the words. Past the police station, around the corner, down to the pedestrian crossing. Ah yes, the route remains unfamiliar.

Upon arrival at the hotel, with the 24 hour bar in place, we soon realised that everyone from the trip was there. Players, officials, everyone. And the music got louder. The brothers Griffin both had a go at the guitars, playing a bit of David Bowie, with the Beatles "Let It Be" catching the attention of most people present. This was possibly the most raucous sing song ever, so much so that the policemen of Varazdin were called to the scene. They pointed out that people were trying to sleep, so we should move inside from the veranda. Once their work was done in achieving that move, they departed.

The bar was particularly busy, so much so, that they didn't notice that they were leaving random bottles of gin in full view. Being the good citizen, I calmly took the bottle of gin outside, asking anyone if they wanted gin added to their pivo. There were no takers, unfortunately, and then it suddenly dawned on me that for some reason, I was wandering around looking like a complete drunk with a bottle of gin I hadn't even paid for. My conscience temporarily returned, and I placed the gin back in it's hatch above the bar, with not a drop taken from the bottle. Later on in the night, the bar actually ran out of vodka, and the gin was eventually called for. If only they knew.

The most shocking incident of the night was defender John "Nicest man in the world" Whyte allegedly going to his room, and bringing down a box of Jaffa Cakes, promptly eating them, before handing the empty box to a number of Dundalk fans. As I wasn't there, I cannot really comment on that extremely bizarre story that is surely lacking vital details.

Shortly afterwards, the police returned, with everyone fearing they was about to get their marching orders. However, the officers promptly took their place at the bar, drinking with the Dundalk fans. In fact, shortly afterwards they were proudly supporting Dundalk jerseys over their police uniforms. And I'm pretty sure I spotted a Dundalk person wandering around aimlessly in a police hat. At around 5:30am, the songs were still being belted out, although I sat down for a moment of quiet reflection with Adam, who was completely lost, and Colin Gallagher who kept introducing himself to me. "Dan, man, what are we doing here. We're in the middle of Croatia at 5:30 in the morning", said Adam, again and again, only changing the time on each occasion. After leading most of the songs earlier on, he had previously questioned the merit of celebrating a 5-0 loss. He was also convinced someone had urinated on his shoes.

Eventually, the people drifted away. It was bright when the guitar people left, and eventually we were left with the Dundalk reliables. There was no signs of blood on the grass where a Croatian had fallen two feet, while sitting in his chair, earlier in the evening. The hotel staff changed, with people coming on shift left to clear the mass of Kaj, Ozujsko, Stella, and various other Pivo bottles. Breakfast wasn't appealing, but bed was. Little did I know, that when I woke the official trip would have gone. Although, my sense of time wasn't helped by the fact that before going to bed, I reset the time on my phone according to the time I believed it to be. I missed out by some two hours. Anyway, the most ridiculous day of the lot was yet to come,

"So anyway, my leg was on fire and I went to the hospital"

FRIDAY 16th AUGUST - GAME ? WHAT GAME ?

I woke up sometime on Friday. As stated above, my sense of time was actually gone at this point, but it was safe to say it was probably after midday. Upon arrival downstairs, I noticed a strange emptiness around the place. It dawned on me that I'd missed the departure of the official trip. Oh well. Out on the veranda, it was like Tuesday night revisited with only the Op Varazdin crew and the Graz Gang in place. Except this time, everyone was talking complete garbage. Yes, there was plenty of garbage talked earlier on in the week, but this was just surreal. And it went on, and on, and on. And to make things worse, my voice was going.

Within five minutes, I hadn't even touched a drink, but I felt drunk again. Or maybe it was, that after four days of madness, we actually could no longer tell the difference between drunk and sober. No wonder the lads thought it was bright at midnight.

Very hard to explain accurately now, but it was the first point of the trip where everyone actually got a chance to reflect on the week gone by. So everyone told their own stories. About the exotic sandwich, chocolate spread with cheese and kiwi. About the Jaffa Cake scandal, and how our players always seemed to have chocolate related incidents after Twixgate. And various other incidents that really can't be recalled. Half drunk, half stupid, people were starting sentences before realising they made more sense in the head, with "my face, yer arse" being one memorable conversation opener that came out of nowhere.

The touch of surreal was added to the conversation by the backdrop of the two Liamo's, young and old, at opposite ends of the veranda whose loud voices rose above our conversation. Catching little bits of their conversation, we were really left to wonder, what the hell is going on ? Liamo the elder had missed the official trip bus, along with a few others that were waiting for the team bus [the players had stayed on to train] to bring them to Zagreb. Liamo the elder was so drunk at this point, it wasn't even funny. Although he was laughing. No normal laughter mind, it was a cackle, a loud one at that, which carried across the whole hotel into the town centre and brought gasps of amazement from all around. His insaneness was further added to by the fact, that at various intervals, he arose from his chair and started singing a song about getting a rooster out of a yard, with an accompanying dance.

A similarly named younger version was in full flow at his table, so much so, that when our conversation stopped for a brief second, we managed to pick up bits of his while he was mid sentence. Quite memorably, we only picked up lines such as, "I used to try on my sister's school uniform every year" and, "so anyway, my leg went on fire and I had to go to the hospital". Interesting, very interesting.

He was also becoming increasingly popular with the local bar staff, who he believed unable to speak English. "That barmaid that served us there, she's gorgeous" he said, not knowing the barmaid in queston was standing behind his back smiling. Unfortunately, he slightly ruined the moment by saying almost immediately, "she must be around forty though", which removed the brief smile ever so suddenly.

The conversation went on, and got stupider, and stupider, and then some as everyone realised that telling stories back home about this trip would make them question our sanity. Little did we know then, that text messages home about the popcorn incident had already been sent, confusing non travellers.

Liamo the elder and his entourage made his way past us, with the leader still singing about roosters and yards, heading for the town centre. We all kind of looked each other, and wondered aloud what the hell was going to happen him in Varazdin. Shortly afterwards, our question was answered when a police van popped around the corner 15 minutes later, dropping him back to the hotel, with big smiles on the faces of the officers.

At this point, around 3:00pm in my book, a couple of us decided it was pizza time. Unfortunately, our timing of departure was poor, as we missed the departure of a team, and a mooning incident that will live far too long in the memories of those that witnessed it.

Back at the pizzeria, we ordered the Jumbo Stari Grad Pizza again, and a round of drinks. All ridiculously cheap. Word had spread quickly about Fans Match 2, scheduled for that evening at 7pm. "Don't worry" I said, "we've got another four hours until that". At that time, I learned it was actually 5:15pm and I'd been two hours out with my timing all day. It suddenly dawned on me that we'd been out talking crap on the veranda for five hours, and this started off more recollections of various incidents which meant four of us were left in stitches for 15 minutes, unable to eat anything while the passing Croatians stopped to look at us.

Then, the pizza came and we decided to compose ourselves. That was until Carl, enjoying his first visit to the pizzeria was taken aback by the size of the pizza and exclaimed excitedly, "my eyes are bigger than me! .....oh ..you know the saying, something like that". So much for composure, that set off the madness again.

We ordered another pizza, and feeling guilty about how cheap it was, gave a tip that was actually more than the bill itself. This was Croatia, normally tight bastards could appear to be flash and generous here.. We're spending nothing here, and this was our last day. Why not splash out ? Why not go out with a bang ? And, if we are walking down the street and there's a man there selling extremely inflated themed balloons, then why not ?
"Imagine the reaction at the hotel when they see us coming" I said, before calmly moving away and letting the others buy the offending material. After serious deliberation, we opted for the giant shark, and the Thunderbirds 2 balloon before continuing on our path, with the passing glances increasing along the way. "I'm 26 years old, and I'm walking down the street with a giant shark balloon" recalled one balloon carrier, in a rare moment of clarity. We all unanimously supported the idea of setting up a new supporters club, the Pivo Sharks.

Arrival back at the hotel brought some puzzled glances, and after a while the novelty slightly rubbed off. THC was feeling aggressive though, and for some reason kept kicking the shark balloon everytime it floated by. Preparations for Match 2 were underway, but already the numbers were dwindling. "I'm not up to it" or "I might be down later" were the common reactions of most people, when asked if they would be participating. So, after the large representation on Thursday night, it was left to seven Dundalk people to fly the flag in Fans Match Two.

So, we made our way back to the baseball court and again, the Varteks fans looked as fit and menacing as ever. One of their number, resembling a refrigerator was proudly marching around with a red Dundalk away jersey he'd picked up at the match the night before. "It's bad enough them beating us, but do they really have to do it in our jersies ?" asked one beleagured Lilywhite.

The game got underway, and boy did the heat kick in. Suddenly all the beer, food etc etc came pouring out in sweat form, and as the game went on the sweat kept on pouring, but it was good to get it out of the system. With seven players, squad rotation was harder, with only one sub for the Dundalk select. So, after a while Veron started playing with us. Then, I looked over and there was another Croatian with us as another Dundalk fan headed for a hard earned rest.

I played on, getting into the game and enjoying it. The exercise was good, and the opposition less daunting. I even scored an own goal that has since been replicated by Phil Babb for Ireland in Russia last Saturday. During a break in play, , I looked over to the sidelines and realised that aside from myself and Barry, the whole Dundalk fans select were sitting on the sideline drinking beers. The game had turned from Varteks vs Dundalk to ..three Irishmen join the Croatians in a kickabout. The third being Simon B, who was doing a sterling job in goals, although he still had his beer in hand at the time. The Croatians marvelled at his skill, especially the fact he turned his back to the ball everytime a shot on goal was registered.

Much as they tried, none of the Dundalk select could equal the hattrick exploits of myself and Liamo earlier in the week. Technically, I scored another hattrick, as I added a further two goals to my own goal, but alas, it didn't receive the recognition it deserved. The game went on and on, until pretty much everyone was sitting on the sideline with a few beers and there was only around five of us left on the pitch, but when it came down to it, the Dundalk select, with a few new additions, had won the game and restored the pride for Irish football. Someone had managed to get a bottle of champagne from somewhere, so Grand Prix style the cork was popped and celebrations ensued.

Then we realised we had to walk all the way back to the hotel. S**T!

"He doesn't cut his hair because he is a convicted murderer"

FRIDAY 16th/SATURDAY 17th AUGUST - GOODBYE VARAZDIN

After arriving back at the hotel, the realisation dawned. It was the last night. Less than twelve hours before departure from Varazdin. "F*ck this" I thought, [a Croatian later asked why I said f*ck every second word : I couldn't really explain why] "this is the last night, why not go out in style ?". I looked around for takers, but some were jaded, saying they fancied a quiet night. Somehow, I managed to find three takers and we set off for the Rock Art before anyone else. To be honest, at this stage I can only be sure who two of them are, but we were definitely the first of the Dundalk contingent in the Rock Art.

Adam was sent for beers, and arrived back later with four kegs of beer. We didn't know what brand they were, he didn't know either to be honest, and they were in these big two litre glasses. "There's only ten of them in the bar" he said, "so don't leave them unattended or you'll lose them". Anyway, we'd been drinking this cheap stuff all evening so it was no bother to us. At this point, there was only four of us in the bar, but as we started our drink, other people kept arriving. In fact, by the time we'd reached halfway in our uberbeers, people were already completing their first normal pint.

"F*cking hell" shouted one of our party, who was at first reluctant to start drinking the uberbeers, "I swear I'm after taking a drink from that glass and when I put it back down there was more in it". He was right. Didn't matter how much you drank, the level somehow remained the same. Schmeicks spoke up again, "if we keep drinking any more of these, by the end of the night, we'll be convinced that we've shrunk!". Again, a perfectly valid comment. That said, seven of the ten precious glasses were in Dundalk hands within minutes. I just wish we knew what we were drinking. Following Adam's advice, we decided to carry our glasses everywhere with us, even when there was nothing in it. The universal symbol for refill, was in usage.

It was Friday night, so the place was reasonably busy, and a lot of the Croatians we'd been talking to earlier in the week. Schmeicks was chatting to the lovely Helena and Braznica, who were beside the bar because their boyfriends were working there. Of course, I was the only one that knew that, didn't wanna tell the rest. Bizarrely, I managed to talk Schmeicks up to them, informing the lovelies that he was in fact a war veteran in Ireland, on the loose because he had killed over 2000 people. He was growing his hair to maintain his cover. Dundalk formal walked past at this point, and he was introduced as the man who had, in his own words, "killed 3,000 Drogheda c*nts". As you may be able to tell, the uberbeers were taking their toll.

No point in really detailing the rest of the Rock Art night, it just continued in that vein. But I was absolutely convinced leaving the place that I'd actually talked to everyone in there at some stage during the night. All I got for my troubles was a souveneir lighter, and approximately 2,000 e-mail addresses, many of which I lost on the way home. Such is life! Oh yes, and even the women insisted that the women on the coast were better. Hardly believable, but I think we should find out in Operation Varazdin 2.

Anyway, many of the Dundalk number had taken the easy route and gone home early. In fact, at closing time there was only around 6 or 7 Dundalk fans floating about. Adam had bought a Croatian for 10,000 pounds, but was informing her that he simply could not take her to Ireland. I offered to do so, before commenting that she was old enough to be my mother. So I married her friend instead. You see it all makes sense because....oh f*ck it...it doesn't make any sense at all on reflection. We were drunk, ok?

So we made our merry way back to the Turist 2 hotel. More drink was required, but only the brothers Griffin, Colin "have I met you before" Gallagher, and of course, Adam and Liamo were left. So we managed to pick up four Croatians along the way who we'd never met before, and looked up for a drink. The walk to the petrol station was interrupted by Adam, who was already returning [still no idea how he got there so fast]. He was bearing gifts. Around 200 very small cans of beer, and then a bag containing spicy crisps and biscuits, the infamous soft cakes.

Back to the hotel veranda. The official trip was gone, and the 24 hour bar was thus closed. The lights were even turned off, therefore leaving the clear signal. "Irish stragglers, please go to bed and leave us alone". We didn't take their hint.

"Are you jaffas in disguise" we sang to the wimpy soft cakes. "Same old soft cakes, always so soft". We sat there singing, not realising the bus was leaving in three hours. Colin was slumped back in his chair talking to that guy in a Croatian jersey who was engaged to my Croatian mother. They were munching on crisps, and discussing nothing in particular.

Liamo tried to learn some of the more refined elements of the Croatian language, with the other Croatians. Apart from the small dwarf Mini Me character who, not satisfied with following me into the toilet and commenting on my genitalia, was gleefully telling everyone he was coming to Ireland to "f*ck me on Thursday". Hmm. "Nod and smile, then move slowly away" I said to myself. It worked. He ended up being invited to Liam's house, along with the rest of them.

All madness aside, we decided it was time for a perfectly sensible game of charades. Obviously, if you're having a party with cakes and crisps, you need party games. Despite being lost, although not in the Adam sense, I still managed to get Barry's "Arachnophobia" before he'd even started his effort. Some of the other charades were simply ridiculous, with the scene added to by the ladyboy hooker hovering in the background. Sometimes standing right beside us, before hovering back to the other end of the veranda, before moving forwards again.

The tone was lowered even further by Liam's idea of porno charades which included brilliant depictions of In Diana Jones and the perennial favourite, Shaving Ryan's Privates. Thanks very much for that one, in particular.

The sun was beginning to come up again, as 5:30am approached. One minute, I was chatting to the Croatians about the history of the Irish language, next minute I looked around and realised that everyone apart from Liamo had buggered off. Even Adam had gone to bed, that's how serious it was. So much for this, staying up all night until the bus came lark. I then realised why. The time of departure had been pushed back from 7am to 8:30am. Suddenly, it seemed less achievable, but I thought I could be strong and stick it out until 8:30am. The remaining Croatians taught us a special Croatian handshake, which involved in the hood style finger clicking and pointing. We were so impressed, that we followed them to their car and waved goodbye, using the afore mentioned handshakes as impromptu waving symbols.

Returning back inside, we noticed the now familiar changing of the guard. Old staff out, new staff in. We'd witnessed it far too often over the week. "5:45am" I said to Liamo, "fifteen minutes until breakfast, once we make it in there we'll be fine, we'll have no problem staying awake". Liamo agreed, but then decided considering we had fifteen minutes to kill, "you know, it might be reasonable, some would say practical to complete the process of packing now, thus leaving us totally prepared for departure at the scheduled time" he said. "What an intellectually thought out plan old sport" I said.

[Disclaimer : May not have used those actual words].

Anyway, back up the room to pack. "Must not forget anything" I said, and to be fair, I kept my word. It may not have been pretty, but mobile phone, wallet, flight confirmation slips for the way home, all the things that can potentially be lost were all thrown in, and it was time to go. I even had time to brush my teeth before putting the toothbrush back in. Liamo kind of stood in the corner of the room, swaying back and forward as I packed. I sensed weakness.

"I might actually go for a kip before the bus goes" he said.

"No" I said, "you can't do that, you'll never wake up".

But he was adamant, and off he went to the room that, as far as I know, was still covered in cornflakes. "There goes the breakfast idea" I thought to myself, "I might just lie down on the bed for a bit".

Bang

Next thing I know, I'm sitting on the bus, with everyone checking if everyone else was there. It was time to go. I'd slept with my hotel room door open for the few precious hours. I don't remember getting in the lift. I don't remember going downstairs. I don't remember snoozing on the veranda again. Don't even remember putting my bags on the bus. All I know is, I'm sitting there on the bus about to leave Croatia.

I sit up on my seat. Something just can't be right. There's something missing, or something incomplete.

"Woah !!! I've still got my room key in my pocket" I said.

Ah yes, I knew what was bothering me. I hadn't actually paid for my room, and in not doing so, hadn't collected my passport back from behind the desk. If I hadn't woken up at that point, for some reason, then I would have been truly screwed somewhere down the line. I ran back inside, with Adam alongside urging me along, telling me we had to go. Paid for my hotel room in remaining Euros, probably got screwed at the exchange rate but who cares. My passport was back, safe in my pocket, and all loose ends were tied up.

Bang

I wake up again. We're stopped at the border and I sit up for a second. The bus is pretty much empty. I feared something sinister had happened. Was this a dream ? Then I heard the excited chatter of voices outside. Peer out the window. Everyone is standing there in a big circle, discussing something. Something was up. Looked like the scene after a car crash, with everyone offering their point of view. Had no idea what was going on. Then looked to my right. There stood Colin, who I'd last seen stumbling around hours earlier with a packet of crisps. Suitcases opened on the floor in front of him, standing there with his arms aloft offering a bemused expression to Adam could have been interpreted as, "I just don't know captain, I just don't know".

I then realised there was actually a few more people on the bus time, offering a running commentary. Relieved it wasn't actually voices in my head that had been keeping me up to date, I listened to their conversation.

"Where is his passport?" said one,

"Left it at the hotel".
"I feel so sorry for the chap"
"What's going on then, are we going without him, we'll miss our plane?"
"They found it in a plastic bag at the hotel, they're trying to get it here somehow"

Bang

I woke up stretched out on my seat on the bus. Felt somewhat better. Sat up in my seat. Border control, had to walk into Austria. Grabbed passport, walked in, walked out, got back onto bus. Didn't really communicate with anyone. No stamps. Quite angry about that

Bang

Woke up again. It was raining. There was some dodgy music on the radio, it was possibly Dana International, the ladyboy who won the Eurovision a few years ago. I looked around me. Dundalkformal sat in the backseat with a vacant expression on his face. Beside him, Liamo was fast asleep, with FHM open on his face.

Adam was mock dancing to the crap music, in between complaining that there was diesel in his Fanta.

El Paso was complaining. I soon realised the cause of his ire. We were stuck in a big traffic jam, and then I looked at the clock. After 11:45 ..boarding time was only an hour or so away and we were a long way from Klagenfurt in a big traffic jam. "So much for the brilliant f*cking European roads, and organised system. I hate this f*cking country. And the bloody bus is leaking as well". He wasn't in good spirits. Oh yes, and my voice was gone. It just wasn't working, at all. The first word of a sentence was sometimes audible, but by the end people had actually stopped listening, more so than usual, because I was squeaking.

"You should rest your voice" he said. Touché.

Adam came round, looking for contributors to a collection for driver. Believing it might make him go faster, I was all for the idea. We paid him his money, and suddenly, the sun came up. And the road cleared in front of us. It was all falling into place. Colin, who I had just learned was still with us, was sitting a bit more comfortably in his seat [passport was found in bag in hotel room, some kind of courier brought it to the bus and we crossed the Croatian border after an hour delay - apparently].

We were going faster, and the distances on the road signs indicating how far we were to Klagenfurt were telling us that we were getting closer, and closer. In truth, as things would pan out, we made it in plenty of time, but at the time, we thougt we'd made a narrow escape.

Checked in. Promised I had no sharp weapons and made for departure lounge. Didn't even consider stopping for a bite to eat. Too late. An hour later, still standing in departure lounge. No air conditioning. Same clothes as night before. Feeling uncomfortable. It was time to go, surely. Eventually, after several delays, we got on the flight home.

Which was an uneasy one. Everything was kicking in, so the speed wasn't helping. Thankfully the journey was quick, as Ryanair looked to keep to their promised deadlines. Still, the crash landing was uncalled for. Well, slight exaggeration, but the driver certainly wasn't hanging back when he landed on the runway. Which led to a few bumpy moments. All that Pivo. Gathering up, in a mixture of soft cakes and cartwheel pizza. Settle down there stomach, settle down.

Finally arrived in Stansted, disaster free. The baggage was thankfully all there, only one more chance to lose it. Got chatting to Colin, who looked seriously relieved, and didn't need to apologise. After all, it nearly happened to me.

Suddenly realised we had a four hour break until our flight home. Some of our crew were heading to Birmingham, while some had earlier flights home at 6:30, or 7:45, but the Graz Gang and some of us Operation Varazdin people were waiting until 8:10.

We all went for something to eat, as it had been far too long. Soft cakes apart, I hadn't eaten since the pizzeria twenty four hours earlier. The airport food may well have been crap, but I didn't care, it tasted brilliant. Anything would have at that point. Some nutters were back on the beers again. I literally couldn't stomach it. Reports conflicted on sightings of Adam, who was apparently lying outside the airport, asleep, with only the sign bearing the words "Operation Varazdin" in one hand, and the football from the fans match under his other arm. He'd earlier waved the sign to a bus of passing travellers, on the way to their flight, much to their bemusement. Apparently, he even tried to welcome a few people in arrivals with the very sign.

Decided to use the spare time wisely, by buying a newspaper. Found the Irish Independent, international version. The one they send abroad. "Bloody hell" I thought, "no wonder they all think we're crazy drunks if this is what they send abroad" as I read the hastily put together paper with so many mistakes, it wasn't even funny. I read that Shelbourne had lost to St Patricks Athletic, but the match report didn't deal with the match. A four line report of a Bray match included the words, "Bray are very nice, because of the sea". Then I wondered what impression we'd left on the people of Croatia, what they thought of the Irish. I still wonder about that one.

One more flight to go, and everything had gone to plan. Sitting around at the departure gate, a voice came over the tannoy. Didn't really listen, as it's always for someone else, for something or other. This time, it brought a cheer from the Dundalk crew. Liamo had lost his boarding pass, which had been handed in somewhere. He had to go and collect it. Again, disaster narrowly averted. This was our lucky week.

When we arrived back in Dublin at 9:20pm, it was dark. The days had got progressively shorter since we'd left, but that was only five days earlier. Felt like five years, to be honest.

The delay waiting for baggage was unnecessary, and uncalled for. Just sitting around, looking at people coming back from Ibiza, various other venues. The women were progressively wider. This was harsh reality. Why had we come home at all ? Grabbing my bags, and unaware of the presence of the others I met my lift and wandered across the road to the car park. "Dan", I heard a voice calling out my name in the distance.

It was Adam, standing at the bus stop in the same clothes, with football under one arm, and the sign in the other. Thankfully he'd found his luggage. "I'm still lost", he said. The rain started to trickle down. Home sweet home.

I tried my best to think of a suitable way to sum up this week, one that could do it justice, and give it the classy send off it deserved and I apologise that the best I could up with was some kind of sappy epitaph.

When we walked into the sporting field on Friday evening to play the second fans match, we passed a court where some pretty handy looking players were immersed in a game of football, five a side like ourselves. Like any astroturf style court that you pass at home, a variety of jerseys were being worn by the players involved. Some wearing Varteks jerseys, Croatian jerseys, Real Madrid, Manchester United amongst others.

However, in between them all, standing out, was a Harp logo emblazoned on a classic Dundalk jersey that one guy had somehow managed to attain at the match the night before. When I pointed it out to Nikolai, he said, "everyone around Varazdin loves Dundalk because of the spirit of their supporters, even when they are losing 5-0. They think it is what supporting your team is all aboutl" he said, tapping his fist against his heart as a gesture.

The moment really brought home what supporting Dundalk and the eircom League is all about. The quality of football isn't always great, and to those that didn't travel, Varteks vs Dundalk will always just be a 5-0 result and nothing more.

To those that were there, it was about something more than that. Making new friends in another country, representing the town in the best way that we could and experiencing memories and moments that we will doubtless never forget is far more important than winning or losing a football game. It's not more important than life or death, the people of Croatia and indeed, Ireland know that more than most people.

Many, when the draw was made and handed us a trip to Croatia, resorted to bland stereotyping of all Eastern European countries that have endured hard times and terrible wars.

"Croatia ? You'd want to mind yourself over there" I was told by plenty of people whose knowledge of world affairs is restricted to the latest happenings in Big Brother.

In truth, we didn't really know what to expect, and were pleasantly surprised by a lot of things. Croatia is a wonderful place, and the bond between Dundalk and Varazdin, Dundalk FC and FC Varteks will be everlasting. We will be back.

Back to Turist 2, Back to the Rock Art Cafe and the cheap pizzeria, and the popcorn. Operation Varazdin 2 is already being planned ..keep those pivos on ice!