Match day innit.
“Sir, that’s a raw egg!”
I narrowly avoided a culinary disaster in the egg department. Turns out they don’t put boiled eggs out for breakfast, they put out raw eggs next to a pot of boiling water. Eight minutes for best results folks.
When I sat down, the couple next to us were busily wiping raw egg off themselves. Clearly I was lucky the waiter had spotted me.
After breakfast, full of vim and vigor, we went back to bed.
Once our batteries were fully recharged, both literally and metaphorically, we looked online and found a website where we bought a 48 hour pass that would cover us on all forms of public transport around Lisbon. Allegedly.
A note comes up on the book of faces stating that no power banks bigger than your phone would be allowed in the stadium. This was a source of much ire in Turkey, with all power banks being confiscated. I ponder on this information. I picked my phone up cheap off Owain Glyndwr, so the battery doesn’t last long these days. I contemplate the consequences of this message. Part of me is thinking ‘I have three power banks, so if caught I can take the hit’ and part of me is thinking ‘Corky does err on the side of caution with his messages’. I decided to take a gamble and took a power pack with me.
We walk out of the hotel and it’s like walking into an oven. So we reverse straight back into the hotel and have a cool cider. Then give it another go, but this time prepared for the blowtorch-like experience.
We saunter down the hill, filled with the confidence of people with 48 hour travel passes and stopped off at a bakery to try the legendary custard tarts that Lisbon is famous for. Then head for the Metro and fail to get our passes to work. Apparently they work on all public transport except the fucking Metro. We end up just tapping our debit cards and descending into the underground.
We are soon walking across Praca Do Comercio, probably Lisbon’s most famous square. At one end is Rua Augusto Arch – an Arc-De-Triumph style archy thing that was built to commemorate the earthquake of 1755. The opposite end is the river, which was built by God to commemorate the end of the ice-age. The other two sides are lined with bars with waiters who might serve you if they have finished doing their crossword. We are quickly getting the vibe that, just like Murray Mints, the Portuguese are not into hurrying.
In the centre of the square is a statue of King Jose I, commissioned in 1770, to honour his ‘capable’ response to the 1755 earthquake. And fair play to the Portuguese, they don’t mess about when they knock up a statue. There are several of them around the city and each one of them is quite magnificent. And meaningful. Some of you will remember the hundreds of statues in Skopje, North Macedonia, which were slung up twenty years ago to make the city look impressive – made of fibreglass and falling apart. None of that nonsense here. These statues are the business.
There are a number of beautiful bars along the river, but few of them offer any shade. Quite a few of them appear to lack toilet facilities. We eventually plot up inside a restaurant that has uncharacteristically attentive staff and drink sangria to wash down our tapas.
Eventually we decide we need to find where all the action is. It is match day after all. That’s why we do Wales Away rather than visit these places when it’s cheap. We wander down to Pink Street, which is full of bucket hats, beers and songs.
We catch up with old friends but decide not to stop – although I couldn’t resist checking out the bookshop with a bar.
We pop around the corner and re-plot up in a bar with the coolest (literally and figuratively) pint glasses I’ve ever seen. They are double glazed with a void between the beer and the hand. So the beer remains cold and is not warmed by your hand grasping the glass. All beer glasses should be like this.
We are soon joined by Richard the Gog. He confuses everything by, secretly, actually paying for a round when he orders it. So when I get the bill the waitress is confused as to why I want to pay more than we owe. I’m confused as to why we don’t owe more. But fair play to them for not just taking my money.
Just over the road from the pub is a metro station that will take us direct to the stadium. (This might sound like an amazing coincidence, but it’s why we picked this pub. That, and the shade. And the lack of queue.)
The metro station is literally right outside the stadium. Home and away fans mingle without any problems – although with everyone wearing red it’s difficult to work out who is who at times.
I do a ‘Sparky special’. My late great mate Sparky got searched five times in one day in Dublin and each time held his hands up in the air whilst they searched him. Nothing was found, but he was holding an ounce of squidgy black up in the air. I’m not carrying any hashish, but I do have an oversized power pack. Same technique works. I think to myself that the security aren’t that thorough.
Then I have to wait whilst Megan is having the entire contents of her handbag rummaged through. When she’s finally allowed through she tells me her searcher had been very enthusiastic. She later posted on Facebook
Ladies: did anyone else have an “over enthusiastic” body search getting into the ground tonight? I’m talking hand inside my bra (through my top), fingers up my arse crack (again through my trousers) & just general over the top touching. I’m starting to talk myself out of complaining but I think it’s valid. Just interested to hear if anyone experienced the same treatment… I’m not really concerned about having every inch of my handbag searched & having to explain what everything was… it was the body search that I found so intrusive.
From the responses, it seems this was how many women fans were treated. An official complaint has since gone in.
We then have to climb ten thousand steps to get to our seats. No lifts available.
Estadio Da Luz * is the home of club side Benfica and has a capacity of sixty-eight thousand. It only opened in 2003 – you would think they would have been thinking about lifts by then.
*EDIT to correct: Since posting this is have been reliably informed the game was actually at Esatado Jose Avalande home of Sporting CP. Thanks to the keen eyed readers for pointing this out.
The stadium is almost full when we arrive so just grab two convenient seats. Our view is obstructed by security netting and fences – but not as bad as the stadium in Turkey.
The beer on sale is alcohol free. Kinky from the Rhondda tells me, “It’s rubbish. It tastes like Bovril, only warmer.”
The three thousand Wales fans in the stadium are in good cheer. I don’t think any of us expected to come away with any points, but the lads put a good shift in and I think everyone was pleasantly surprised that we only lost one-nil. Ronaldo came in for some stick, his missing of a free-kick prompted chants of “You’re just a shit Gareth Bale”.
As expected, we were kept in at the end of the game, to allow the home fans to clear the area. Forty minutes was a bit excessive though and the police were in danger of turning a cheerful bunch of footy fans into a raging horde.
When finally released the route to the Metro was lined with paramilitary-looking police. We were guided out to a different station to the one we arrived at, but it was the start of the line so the train was completely empty when it arrived. It soon filled up and as we pulled out there were still fans on the platform waiting for the next train.
After half a dozen stops the train broke down – no doubt due to the overloading. Everyone was told to get off, but this was perfect for us, as we were going to get off and change lines anyway.
Eventually we climbed out of the bowels of the earth onto street level. It’s approaching midnight but it’s still shirt sleeves weather. We walk past many closed bars, eventually stumbling into a microbrewery close to our hotel. The beer is nice, but once again the service is incredibly slow. Around 1am we walk back to the hotel, unsure if the bar would be open. It was. And it was full. The Saga wing of Wonky Sheep are giving the youngsters a lesson in pacing yourself and we eventually head to our room around 3am.
Wales Away, ah ha ah ha, I like it.