An Irishman abroad

The Orange Army v The X-Side

Hello again Dear Reader.

Well! My word - what an evening! Where should I start? I suppose at the beginning, really…

So - with much clearing of throat (or at least) massaging of gammy fingers, I bring to you all the tail of "The Orange Army v The X-Side". I hope you enjoy it, but if you don't, I don't really care that much. Once again, I am writing for my own pleasure rather than any critical acclaim (although by all means feel free). Not only does it provide me with a way to attempt to free myself from the tireless treading of the murky waters of a sleep-deprived hangover, it also serves as a reminder for me when senility sets in.
And if anyone out there has a nice writing job for me out there – you know how to find me. I’d love to get paid to do this! (although seeing as I’m at work at the moment, I suppose technically, I am).


The Orange Army v The X-Side

Before going any further - I know, I know - I haven’t even started - I need to introduce you to the main co-star of this tale - my wingman for the evening - a certain Christof deSmedt.

I first met Christof in a bar in Casablanca.

Perhaps I should rephrase that - for I wouldn't like to mislead anyone into thinking that in my colourful past, I spent some time following in the footsteps of such literary greats as Ernest Hemingway, idly spending my time watching the bustling world of Casablanca go by whilst sipping on bourbon.

Casablanca, I’m sure, is a wonderful city and a place I would dearly love to visit, so that I too could sit and watch the world go by whilst sipping WHISKEY; but it is also the rather unlikely choice of name for an indoor ski slope in the middle of affluent suburbia on the outskirts of my adopted home town – Antwerp, Belgium. Whilst the choice of name is strange, the name of the village that it is located in, is even stranger. For Casablanca ski slope is located in a place called “ ‘s Gravenwezel ”, which literally means “belonging to the grave of the weasel”. Strange indeed, and something you’d have thought that the mega-rich inhabitants of the place would have addressed quite some time ago…

At almost 30 years old, Casablanca ski slope was unique in the fact that it has “real” snow. All year round. For a while, though, it was also able to claim the rather less than glamorous title of “My Local”, for even though I lived in the centre of Antwerp, I would drive out there (and rather ashamedly to admit) drive back for a night out in the bar of the Casablanca.
Now I should point out that this was not because I was a budding skier (far from it in fact – but more of that in another story, another time) or that I had some Humphrey Bogart fixation and was on the search for my very own Lauren Bacall, but rather it was to hang out with close friends of mine who lived in the neighbourhood.

Rather more bizarrely the Casablanca ski-slope shares it’s location with a horse riding club. (Seriously – you couldn’t write this stuff - well actually I am, but you know what I mean!)

So this meant that it was the “norm” on a Saturday night to often see young snowboarding dudes and dudettes in all their gear sat at the bar chatting to horse riders dressed in their jodhpurs with shit sticking to their boots (the horse riders – not the snow boarders). Either way I was convinced that it was there that I would meet the woman of my dreams (i.e. rich enough to ensure that my goal in life of being a kept man could be achieved.)

Anyway, it was on a pretty normal Friday evening – well, as normal as you can be in a Belgian bar called Casablanca, overlooking an indoor ski slope with snow, surrounded by snowboarders and horse riders, drunkenly dodging puddles of melting snow mixing with horse shit, in a village belonging to the grave of the weasel – that I first met Mr. Christof deSmedt.

As it turned out, he, along with about 60 colleagues were there on a team-building day - skiing, horse riding, meals, drinks, disco, karaoke - that sort of thing. Well, it just so happened that one of his colleagues was an extremely attractive girl with long curly brown hair that sailed through the air with poetic grace as she turned, her smile lighting up the room.

Needless to say, having been in Belgium for some time and experiencing very little success with the ladies who frequented the Casablanca, I saw this lady as potential chat up material (i.e. fresh meat), so what was my cunning plan of attack? Simple! Talk to the drunkest male colleague I could find, and work my way into their group.

Up stepped Christof to the plate – well – bar.

OK – I’m joking here. He wasn’t that drunk.

Yet.

We got chatting at the bar and as it turned out – they were all in the same profession as myself – SAP consultancy! Now normally, a gathering this size of SAP consultants would have me running a mile, but there was the added lure of this Goddess. Not only was she obviously very pretty, she would surely be intelligent and earning bucket loads of money as well (like all of us SAP consultants – yeah right).

There was, however, another incentive.

The friends who I was with were also my bosses and owners of the company I now work for. Now before you jump to silly conclusions of me “licking the management arse”, I should explain that these two people Eimear, an Irish girl and her Belgian husband Stefan are two of my dearest and oldest friends in Belgium and are worthy of several pages of stories in their own right. But that’s for another time.

OK – just a little one.

Almost ten years ago, we all worked for the same Belgian company but in the years that followed, we went our separate ways - Eimear and Stefan to build up a blossoming consultancy firm, me to earn sh1t loads of money as an independent consultant and then fritter it away on partying, fast cars, expensive holidays and even more expensive women.

Seriously.

Despite the slight difference in our paths and the distance between us, we kept in touch. I went to their wedding in Ireland, met up with them in London and travelled over several times to visit them in Belgium. As luck would have it, at a time when I was trying to find steady employment and a road back from the brink, they offered me a job and I jumped at the chance.

As their consultancy firm grew the need for more recruits increased, and they were always on the lookout for new staff, so you can imagine their surprise when I came back with the drinks and the information that all these people in our local were SAP consultants.

Eimear was like a kid in a candy store and joined me on a mission to recruit Christof and his colleagues, ever mindful of the SAP Consultancy Goddess, shimmering in the background like an oasis in the hazy heat of a desert.

As it turned out Christof and his mates were great craic and as the night progressed, it wasn’t long before there was much drinking, story and joke telling, and general merriment being had by all. With The Goddess ever present in the background. The problem for me was that the team building exercise was the result of a merger between two companies. Christof worked for one company – The Goddess for the other.

This was going to take something special to break the ice.

“Dames en Heren! Het is nu tijd voor de karaoke!!” the DJ proclaimed in a rather exuberant manner that belied the surroundings. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not a bad bar – it’s just that it has about as much character as anyone from the TV series The Bold and The Beautiful. (If anyone has ever had a girlfriend that watches this, you’ll know what I mean).

This was my chance!! Not being a bit backwards in coming forwards when it comes to the old karaoke myself, and knowing that Eimear wouldn’t take much persuasion to make an eejit out of herself, I rushed for a song book.

“I’ll sing as well!”, Christof proclaimed.

And so a friendship was born.

After a few duets with Eimear and with myself, Christof left with the rest of his colleagues at the end of the night, us all promising to keep in touch – with Eimear handing out business cards like they were going out of fashion.

And so we did.

Christof, his wife and another couple all came over to celebrate St. Paddy’s day with us in an Irish bar just outside Antwerp and on another occasion to cheer on the Irish as they beat Holland in the World Cup qualifiers. I went over to his home town of Deinze a few times, once with my brother to sample the hedonistic delights of the “Gentsefeest” - a ten day piss up in nearby Gent.

Fast forward three years and - lo and behold - I end up working on the same project as him and the friendship was renewed, with us threatening to “go out for a few beers sometime soon”.

After around 3 months on the project, last night provided us with just the opportunity to do so as it saw his home football team, Deinze FC, take on my adopted team, Royal Antwerp F.C. We arranged to go to the game together and grab those “few beers” that we had been threatening for so long. (Which of course, is my whole reason for starting this story in the first place).

The plan was simple: go to the “stadium” straight after work around 17:00 (to beat the inevitable rush for tickets), grab a bite to eat, have a few pre-game beers before cheering on our respective teams and abusing the others’ team - whilst sipping on some more beers.

I say that this was the plan, and to be fair, we pretty much stuck to it, but of course if that’s all that happened last night I would have just re-written the previous paragraph, wouldn’t I?

The execution of our plan involved a few moments that I feel the need to share with you, but it’s taken me so bloody long to get this far, I’m not sure if you’re still out there Dear Reader, but if you are – I thank you for sticking with it. I hope you think it worthwhile. Or perhaps you just don’t have anything better to do with your time?

Anyway….

When we arrived at the “kassa” to purchase our tickets, we were greeted with a crowd of quite literally 2 or 3, errr, old age pensioners who were stood chatting. One of which was wearing the brightest orange jacket I had ever seen, proclaiming the fact that he was involved with “SECURITY”. (I was to find out later that he was indeed head of security).

By placing an OAP in charge of security, it was obvious for all to see that Deinze FC were taking the threat of Antwerp hooligan behaviour very seriously indeed.

We said our hellos and goodbyes and then went to buy our tickets.

Except we couldn’t – for the ticket desk was closed. As it turned out – the other two gentlemen made up the entirety of the queue for tickets.

Standing around sheltering from the wind and rain, we discovered that the ticket desk opened at 18:00. I looked at my watch - 17:50. Not too bad I thought.
Just then, I was on the receiving end of another attack on my retinas, as a good looking man in an outrageously fluorescent orange-trimmed tracksuit walked past. Once again, we all said our hellos and he walked on past it.

“Did you see the state of that guys tracksuit?!”, I sniggered to Christof.

“That’s our midfield playmaker, Giovanni de Keyzer”, he responded, instantly shutting me up. Christof made some small talk with the OAP’s. From the discussion that unfolded I understood the following:

“No alcohol consumption during the game”.
“2000 Antwerp supporters expected”.
“6 van loads of riot police on the way”.
“There’s nothing I like more than being flogged with a wet lettuce whilst sitting blindfolded in a bath full of custard” (I could be wrong with this one – my Dutch is ok, but it’s certainly not great).

Another thing I heard was Christof saying:
“Jonny’s an Antwerp supporter, but he’s not a hooligan. Liverpool is his real team” (apparently he forgot the disaster that happened less than an hour up the road in the Heysel Stadium in Brussels 20 years previously, when Liverpool and Juventus supporters clashed causing a wall to collapse and killing over 30 people).

Soon after, the ticket sellers arrived and fair play to Giovanni, he returned and organised 2 free tickets.

For somebody else.

We beat the 2 OAPs in the rush for tickets and with tickets purchased for a measly 7 euros each – Antwerp charges 20 for the same “privilege” – we headed off for some food.

After dining in the less than glamorous (but no less adequate) surroundings of a “frituur” (The Belgian equivalent of a fish ‘n’ chips shop), nearby in Deinze town centre, we headed off to a pool hall to have a few beers and do a pre-match “Deinze v Antwerp” warm up pool competition.

Walking into the dimly lit room it took a while before my eyes adjusted to the site that lay before me although my ears immediately picked up on the music – The Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

Ultraviolet lights aplenty and with a loose American sports bar theme going on, the bar had one huge pool table in the middle of the bar area and snooker tables in a room at the back. A TV in the corner showed the Simpsons to nobody in particular – the three patrons of the establishment being more interested in the beers that sat in front of them.
Even I wasn’t tempted by the chance to follow the crazy goings on of a certain Homer J. Simpson, for my attention had been grabbed by the girl working behind the bar. A really cute girl in her early 20’s with a body to die for and beautiful dark eyes.

We ordered our beers and began to play pool. Both of us had talked ourselves up as good players, so were about to find out if any of it was true. There could only be one winner. Giving me the break, I duly obliged by potting and then missing a tricky follow up. Christof’s response was to pot 4 balls. I had a game on my hands here, but through some nice shots and a couple of lucky snookers, I managed to get to the black (which rather bizarrely in this ultraviolet-lit table, was a white ball with a black dot on it) one ball ahead of him.

As I was about to pot the black in the same corner pocket as my previous shot and therefore claim victory in the name of Royal Antwerp F.C., Christof then invoked that rule that so many people I play in Belgium do – that one where you have to pot the black in the directly opposite pocket from the last ball potted. I should have remembered about it but instead there followed 10 minutes of knocking the ball up and down the table (he was aiming to pot the black in the opposite pocket from me), before Deinze struck an early blow for the mighty Antwerp by sinking the black.

We retreated to the bar and leered at the barmaid – sorry – ordered some more beers. Christof got chatting to the guys at the bar (it seemed that he knew everyone we met that evening) and I divided my attention between the cute barmaid and The Simpsons. The sound was off, but the Dutch subtitles provide a good way to learn the language….Apparently Dutch for “D’Oh!!” is “D’Oh!!”.

So there you go.

After a couple of beers, Christof’s girlfriend, Ilja arrived along with their next door neighbours - a friendly couple called Frederick and Ilse. Frederick is a Club Bruges supporter – one of the biggest teams in Belgium and that night they were also playing a vital European Champions League match against Eastern European opposition. Trailing 4-1 from the first leg, Bruges had to score 4 to be assured of progression to the lucrative group stage. An early goal was vital for them and the match was to be shown live on Belgian TV, but fair play to Frederick though – he had come out in support of his local team against the big boys from Antwerp.

How wrong I was.

“Why would I sit at home and watch us get knocked out?” was his rather honest, if blunt response.

Surely he didn’t expect his humour to improve by watching my team embarrass the pub team that represented his home town?

“No – you’re probably right - we’re gonna get beat as well” he responded, shrugging his shoulders. Clearly this was a man not given to flights of fantasy when it came to his football. It got me thinking to myself that perhaps he had the right attitude. That way you’d never be disappointed…

We got into the stadium 10 minutes before kick off. There were a few more people than the two old fellas that we had met earlier, but not much. The 2000 Antwerp supporters that had been widely predicted was more like half of that, with about the same number of home support.
The stadium was errr, how should I say this? …..compact. With one covered seated stand at one side of the pitch, covered terracing on the other. At each end there were uncovered terracing.
I guess if full, the place would hold around 5000 people. The pitch itself was a credit to the club - very flat and lush, but I suppose it was only their first home match of the season.

We made our way towards the end where the Antwerp supporters were literally caged in – not to join them or even bait them – but to go into the social club that was housed at that end of the pitch. One complete wall of the clubhouse consisted of glass windows, which offered a great view of the pitch, from within the clubhouse.
A mental note was made for later.
However, as well as the pitch (and therefore the match), it also offered a view of the Antwerp supporters who were all caged in directly in front of us on the other side of the window separated only by a flimsy looking fence – although it could boast some mean looking spikes at the top of it.

Walking into the clubhouse I noticed several signs that read:
“TIJDENS DE WEDSTRIJD ALLEEN FRISDANKEN”
- which was a bit of a disappointment for me, I have to admit.

I had hoped that with Antwerp getting relegated to the second division in Belgium, things would become more relaxed but apparently not – for the sign read “Only soft drinks during the match”. Now of course when it comes to drinking the Irish have a world-renowned reputation to live down to and it was with a certain aplomb that I saw the loophole. By insinuation, this rule meant that you could order as many beers as you wanted to, before the match, at half-time and after the match, and that was exactly what we did.

Suitably supplied for the first half, we went back out to join the Deinze supporters. I made another mental note to self to keep my mouth shut – something that I find very difficult to do in the heat of a game.

On the way to the stadium, I noticed several people sporting black and orange coloured tops with the words “THE ORANGE ARMY” emblazoned on the back. It seems that this referred to the group of hardcore Deinze FC supporters, rather than a coalition of pissed off militant members of The Orange Order in Ireland, set-up by Ian Paisley to storm the security barriers at Drumcree.

I found it strange that the words would be written in English. When I commented on this to a Belgian friend of mine, she said that it was probably because it sounded better. Considering the Flemish equivalent would be “DE ORANJE LEGER”, one would have to agree with her.

Taking our positions on the terracing behind the goal, I looked over to the Antwerp supporters, located to my right, as they tied up their banners proclaiming such things as “RAFC X-Side” (a reference to a group of hooligans linked with Royal Antwerp FC). There were also English flags as well as flags representing the Dutch club, and Antwerp’s hooligan brothers, Feyenoord. I found it hard to believe that there where English supporters at the match – it was more likely a reference to the fact that they were formed by the English in 1880, to become the first official football team in Belgium, giving Antwerp the English colours of red and white.

Near to the half way line and to my right as I looked at the pitch, there was a group of about 50 to 60 spectators making some noise. “That’s the hardcore hooligan element of the orange army” Christof informed me. I looked from them over to the several hundred Antwerp supporters less than 30 feet from me. If it was a boxing match this would be a mix-match, I pondered.

My thoughts were disturbed by the sight of the footballers jogging out onto the field of play. The game was about to start.
Thanks to selling themselves to the devil, Royal Antwerp have an arrangement with the English football team, and sworn enemy of my beloved Liverpool FC, Manchester United. The arrangement means that United can loan out their young players to Antwerp so that they can gain some valuable first team experience.

As part of this arrangement - Antwerp received a penis from ManYoo.

Actually - that’s not entirely true. It would be more correct to say a “dong”, or to be more exact, the Chinese “starlet”, Dong Fangzhuo, was signed by Manchester united and immediately farmed out to Antwerp. Costing United 3.25 million pounds (almost 5 million Euros), I watched him take up his position as surely the most expensive bench warmer in the Belgian second division. But of course he wasn’t bought by ManYoo for his ability but merely to sell football shirts in the lucrative Chinese market…

After some early exchanges where both sides saw plenty of the ball, the home side were giving as good as they got until Antwerp were awarded a penalty, which was duly converted to give Antwerp a 1-0 lead going in at half time.
As the players left the pitch, we made it back to the bar for a top-up on the old liquid refreshment. The TV in the corner was showing the Bruges match and unfortunately the score was 1-1 with 30 minutes gone.
Frederick was not surprised.
Sighing heavily he said “Just as I expected. I think I’ll go to the bar and get the beers in.”

Glancing away from the TV, through the big glass windows, I noticed that several supporters from Antwerp were stood watching the TV as well, from their vantage point on the terraces in front of us. Thanks to a history of trouble between the two sets of supporters, it came as no surprise to see that they were cheering on the team from Eastern Europe. No love lost between these two sets of supporters then.

Suddenly, we watched as the referee awarded Bruges a penalty, much to the delight of a right motley looking bunch of guys to my right. I watched as they, looking more than a little the worse for wear, started making rude gestures to the Antwerp supporters and shouting all sorts of abuse that I didn’t understand. The “X-side” responded accordingly.

Back to the TV, I watched Bruges’s penalty being saved by the eastern European goalkeeper, prompting wild cries of delight from the Antwerp supporters outside and much gesturing and gesticulating as well as ironic cheers. Incredibly however, the referee ordered a retake of the penalty, which was duly converted by Bruges. Cue wild cheering, gesticulating, shouting of insults, cries of “F**K YOU ASSHOLES!!” and a lot of pointing by the guys stood in the bar less than three feet away from me.

One guy in particular, a tattooed, pierced, moustachioed bloke sporting a terrible looking Hard Rock Café Las Vegas T-Shirt, with an even worse mullet haircut was brave enough to go up to the window and start winding up the Antwerp supporters. To which the reaction of many X-side members was to form the shape of a gun with their hands and imitate the action of firing a gun at “Mr. Hard Rock” and his companions. Others adopted the different but no less intimidating gesture of slitting throats.

This was starting to get pretty nasty.

Upon seeing this, a woman with red highlights in her hair who had been shouting and gesturing along with the Bruges supporters beside me started banging on the glass. One Antwerp supporter’s reaction was to try scaling the fence. The guys to my right got extremely agitated and security arrived to calm the situation down.

Sort of.

For yes, security arrived in the shape of the OAP I had met earlier to tell everyone off. According to Christof’s translation, he apparently said “Come on folks – this isn’t decent behaviour!!”
Suitably told off, the guys promptly ignored him and continued to shout and gesticulate towards the Antwerp supporters.

As I looked through the window at the sea of snarling faces, I tried my best to convince them that in fact, I was one of “them”, rather than one of “those”. I didn’t feel entirely convincing so I went back to dividing my attention between the TV and the reason for being there in the first place – the Deinze v Antwerp match, which had just started again.

A few more security guys arrived and calmed everyone down but the bar had adopted a rather tense atmosphere.

And then Deinze equalised.

Cue much more shouting and baiting from the guys to my right and much reaction from the Antwerp supporters to the front of me.

And then - after less than two minutes from scoring, the referee sent one of the Deinze players off, immediately stirring things up again between the two supporters. At about this stage the expensive bench warmer came into the action.

And promptly scored.

It was only after the final remnants of my lungs had been expelled through cheering that the following two thoughts went through my head:

(1) This is probably the only time you’ll ever cheer a ManYoo player scoring.
(2) How incredibly stupid it was of you to cheer on an Antwerp goal, surrounded as you are by Deinze supporters in their own clubhouse and rabid Bruges supporters, pissed off because their team is only drawing 2-2.

At this point, Mr. Hard Rock came over to me and said:
“Hey – where do you come from?”
“I’m from Ireland”, I replied wondering where this was going and only too aware that several people were taking a great interest in the conversation.

This was not good.

At this point Christof interjected and spoke to the guy in Flemish, explaining that I was a colleague of his who lived in Antwerp but that my real team was Liverpool, pointing to the Liverpool polo shirt that I was wearing at the time.

“Aaaaahhhhh Liverpool!!!!”, exclaimed Mr. Hard Rock. “Good guy!!” And he offered me his hand in greeting. As we shook hands he said “Liverpool is my team too!”

Relieved to have bonded on the one, true football team, I stood listening to him rant on about his thoughts for the upcoming season and Michael Owen’s departure. He also informed me that he lived in Bristol for five years. I told him that the last time I was in Bristol was a few months ago when we travelled from there to go to Cardiff Millennium stadium to watch rugby.

His response to that was not exactly what I had expected, and sort of threw me off balance, as I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

“My wife worked as a lapdancer in Cardiff!!”

Erm, quite. Indeed. There’s not really a lot to say to that is there? “What was the nightlife like in Cardiff?” I asked, clutching at straws.

“F**king mental they are over there!”.

And there you have it, Dear Reader – the (very) rough guide to the capital city of Wales, as told to you by Mr. Hard Rock himself.

After that the conversation took another bizarre twist, when he asked: “Let me buy your shirt from you”. Knowing that it can be quite difficult to get these sort of items of clothing outside of the UK, I briefly contemplated giving him my shirt, but quickly changed my mind when I realised that I would have no shirt myself to wear, in which case he would in all likelihood offer me his terrible looking Hard Rock Café T-Shirt.

“Next time I’m here for the football I’ll bring you another shirt – I have a few others at home.”

He seemed happy enough with this and if I ever do find myself back watching Deinze FC, I’ll be sure to bring him a shirt, but as things stand, that’s looking a highly unlikely scenario – Antwerp are sitting top of the division after a 4-2 win at the weekend; Deinze are struggling in mid-table mediocrity on the back of an 8-2 defeat to their near neighbours, Waveren.

So I guess my wardrobe is pretty safe then.

The match finished 3-1 to Antwerp, Bruges got knocked out of the Champions League and the Antwerp supporters went back to their coaches to return to Antwerp, without there being any slitting of throats or shooting of guns.
I had a few more drinks with the guys before heading back to Antwerp and meeting up with some fools back in the Dubliner who also seemed to ignore the fact that it was a school night and ended up going to bed a little bit later than I would normally; but I slept well that night safe in the knowledge that Antwerp had 3 points in the bag and that I still had the shirt on my back.


As a little aside before I go. The SAP goddess that I spoke of earlier in this tale? Well, I eventually managed to get a chance to talk to her (I told you the karaoke would be a success) and she turned out to be a really nice girl, called Vicky, who lived near Bruges. We talked at length and it turned out that her pride and joy in life was a Yamaha motorbike. She showed me a picture of it and it certainly looked the part – a veritable “crotch rocket” if ever there was one. My mind wandered as she spoke about it, picturing her in full leathers, taking off her helmet and tossing her hair to let it fall on her shoulders. All of this happening in slow motion, with some “erection section” rock music playing cheesily in the background.

We swapped phone numbers and agreed to meet up in the near future. As fate would have it, the following week, Liverpool were playing in the FA Cup and the match was being shown on ITV. Just one problem though – in those days ITV wasn’t on satellite, meaning that I would not be able to watch it in any bar in Antwerp. However, the cable television providers of the region of Bruges supplied ITV as well as BBC1 and BBC2. (The Antwerp region only did the BBC channels)

I arranged with Vicky to go out in Bruges that Sunday afternoon and I “spoiled” her with brunch whilst watching the football in the Celtic Ireland pub. It seems that Vicky mustn’t have been too impressed with this as a first date, because we never did get beyond that first one….

I can’t understand why though - Robbie Fowler scored both goals as Liverpool won 2-0 and we progressed to the next round of the FA Cup…

THE END
Jonny Black
August 2004