Wales at Euro 2016 - Qualifying and the group stage.
Sacré Bleu, we're going to France!
While the World Cup is dominating the football world, there’s another tournament on my mind. The greatest summer in Welsh football history was 10 years ago. In addition to this making me feel about 3000 years old, seeing the reminders of those magical days in Bordeaux, Toulouse, Paris, and Lille has transported me back to those days (and nights) that I’ll remember forever.
For a long time, watching Wales was tough. There was Jari Litmanen taking us to pieces for Finland at the Millennium Stadium, despite the fact he was well into his 40’s and pretty much didn’t leave the centre circle all game. A 5-1 home defeat to Slovakia where we were lucky to get one, numerous defeats to countries that didn’t even exist when I went to my first Wales game, and the ultimate pain for most Welsh football fans my age - the Russia playoff.
I had long given up on Wales ever making a tournament. But then Gareth Bale and Aaron Ramsey came along, and everything changed.
We headed into Euro 2016 qualifying with real optimism. The expanded tournament format meant that Belgium being in our group didn’t mean it was all over before it even began as it would have done in the past, and the lineup of Andorra, Bosnia, Cyprus, and Occupied Palestine meant that for the first time since 2003, there was hope.
That hope lasted exactly six minutes, as we went 1-0 down in Andorra. We did come back to win, but only thanks to a retaken Gareth Bale free kick with less than 10 minutes remaining. “Well, we’re definitely not qualifying” I said to my dad at full time.
A month later we drew 0-0 at home to Bosnia and beat Cyprus 2-1, good results on paper, but still not enough to truly believe that 58 years of hurt were about to come to an end.
Then in Brussels, we started to believe. Wales put in a fantastic defensive performance at Heysel, drawing 0-0 in front of thousands of delirious fans who were starting to dare to dream. Bosnia had lost 3-0 in Haifa, meaning the unexpected point of our own had the table looking very positive indeed.
Our next fixture was in Haifa, as Wales put on one of the very best away performances I’d ever seen to win 3-0, with goals from the Bale and Ramsey duo. Now, we really believed, although I was still more on the “How are we going to f*ck this up” side of the scale, rather than the “Oh my god, we’re actually going to do it” end.
12th June 2015, and the doubt faded away. Wales beat Belgium 1-0 at home, with a goal from Bale after 25 minutes. It was one of the most agonising matches I’ve ever watched, and it feels like I spent the entire 65 minutes after we took the lead checking the Cardiff City Stadium clock, cursing that only 30 seconds had passed since the last time I checked, when it had felt like it must have been at least 10 minutes.
We held on. Wales took 3 points, and the Red Wall shook with a mixture of joy and disbelief. With very forgiving fixtures left, it would have taken the most spectacular collapse in our history not to make it now.
The three month wait for the next international break felt agonising. Beat Cyprus away and our other group opponents at home a few days later, and it would be a done deal.
We were made to wait in Cyprus, in a game that will mostly be remembered for being one of the drunkest away ends in Wales Away history (who thought a 21:45 kick off was a good idea?) and an iconic half time dance to Zorba the Greek. With eight minutes to go, Gareth Bale saved the day. Of course he did, he always did.
I went to jump on the back of my friend George, who simultaneously went to jump on me. I tumbled down the concrete Nicosia stairs and my knee exploded. I’m not sure how many ligaments there are in a knee, but I’m pretty sure this goal broke all of them. I forgive you, Gareth.
I couldn’t walk properly for a few weeks after this, which meant I wasn’t too disappointed when a 0-0 draw at home three days later prevented the deal from being sealed. When you’ve waited your entire life for a tournament, you can wait another month.
Five weeks later, Wales went to Zenica, and I was just about able to walk again. We lost 2-0, but a win for Cyprus elsewhere meant that it didn’t matter, and we had qualified. I cried, I hugged every single person in the away end, I watched my former boss and his brother smoke the biggest cigar I’ve ever seen in my life.
We took the bus back to Sarajevo, and decided that we’d head to the very first pub we saw and stay there until they kicked us out. This pub turned out to be the Elvis Presley fan club bar of Bosnia, where myself and roughly 15 other Wales fans were told “You drink, we open. You stop drink, we close”. The challenge was accepted, and we left at about 7am the next morning. This time, I didn’t have a knee injury to blame for why I had forgotten how to walk.
I checked out of my unslept in hotel room, and got ready to book flights for an international tournament for the very first time. The party was rounded off with a 2-0 home win over Andorra a few days later, and then the wait was on.
Drawn against Slovakia, England, and Russia - I wasn’t too confident about making it out of the group. I decided to book the time off work until the day after the Last 16 just in case, and also picked up a few tickets to other matches to ensure I made the most of my first major tournament. Little did I know, the butterfly effect of spending so much time on the ticket sale portal would lead to a marriage and the birth of a child (neither of which were mine).
After convincing my dad to join me for the opening game in Bordeaux (it was a difficult process that took about 5 seconds), the wait was finally over. I wore a full Wales kit including the socks to my last day in work before the trip, and had a very simple hope for the three matches to come - score a goal. If I saw Wales score a goal at a major tournament, I’d be happy. If we won a game, I’d never ask for anything ever again, and we could lose every other match for the rest of my life 5-0 for all I cared. We did a bit better than that.
On a perfect sunny day in Bordeaux, thousands upon thousands of Welsh fans got to support their team at a tournament for the first time. Supporting whoever England are playing is really fun, but this was next level. The stadium holds 42,000, and there must have been 35,000 Welsh fans in the ground. Everywhere you looked was a sea of red, with a small group of Slovakian fans and French locals, most of whom had quickly adopted the Welsh.
For years I had dreamed of the first anthem at a tournament, and it didn’t disappoint. Millions of people around the world heard the Welsh anthem for the first time, and the term “ambassadors in bucket hats” was born. While English fans often spent their time at tournaments ridding the world of plastic furniture one chair at a time, our supporters were on their best behaviour, mingling with the locals. I had built this anthem up in my head to a level that would be almost impossible to reach, and somehow it surpassed it.
I was stood next to a Wales fan living in Derby, I’d never met him before and have never met him since, but we’ll both remember each other until the day we die, as we both screamed the anthem in a way that would have Simon Cowell begging for mercy, before both hugging each other in floods of tears. Wherever you are, Wales Derby Anthem Man - I hope you’re doing well!
Into the game itself, and after so many decades of waiting, it almost went to shit inside three minutes. Hamsik of Slovakia left half of our team in the dust, only for Ben Davies to deny him from one of the goals of the tournament with a block on the line. Had that ball gone in, we would probably have been packing our bags for home a few days later.
It was the most important kick of a ball in Welsh history for 58 years, and it kept that title for all of six minutes. Wales get a free kick a considerable distance outside the box, and we don’t even pretend it’s going to be anything else than a Bale shot. With the way the keeper is positioned, the only way to score would be putting it to his right. The keeper knows this, everyone in the stadium knows this, and Gareth says “Watch this”.
He puts his free kick to the keepers left, wrong-footing him and scoring the first Welsh goal at a major tournament since Terry Medwin on the 17th June 1958. The scenes inside the stadium were reminiscent of a Welsh pub on a Friday night that had just announced all their Strongbow was about to go off and it had been reduced to 50p a pint. Limbs flailed wildly into the sunny Bordeaux sky, seats were tumbled over, we hugged friends and strangers, and I smashed my shins so hard into the seat in front of me to the extent they’ve never been the same since. It was our first shot on target ever at a Euros, and it had gone in.
We’d fucking scored at a major tournament. Not only had we scored, but we’d scored to take the lead! I tried to soak in every second of the celebrations, but somehow it just didn’t actually feel real. VAR didn’t even exist by this point, but it felt as if someone was going to come along and say “Ok Wales, you’ve had your fun, but actually this isn’t happening and was all just a mass hallucination across a nation”.
20 minutes later, things should have got even better. Martin Skrtel elbows Jonny Williams in the head in the penalty box about a metre away from the official. It’s such an obvious red card that they should have invented something worse than a red card to give him. It would have got him disqualified from a fight, never mind a football match - but somehow nothing is given. Any person in the stadium or watching back at home instantly knows we’re going to lose 2-1 in the last minute with a Skrtel goal, because that’s just the kind of thing that happens to us.
I’ve rarely seen a worse decision on a football pitch, and the average level of football I usually watch features 65 year old referees who had 10 pints the night before.
We maintain our 1-0 lead until half time, as the Red Wall unleashes every song we know (and a few we don’t) in ultimate party mode. Unlike that Belgium qualifier that seemed to last for about three days, the game is passing by in the blink of an eye.
With an hour on the clock, it’s back to reality as Slovakia find the net. After what had been a pretty dominant first half for Wales, the second period was quite the opposite, and the goal had been coming. A change was needed, and Chris Coleman delivered, bringing on Joe Ledley and Hal Robson-Kanu. Oh, Hal.
Hal Robson-Kanu ranks as one of my favourite footballers of all time, despite being, let’s be honest, not that good at football. Apart from Bale himself, his name was the one that would be sung the most by our supporters, and I had biked through Vondelpark in Amsterdam singing “Hal, Robson, Hal Robson'-Kanu!” far more times that I care to admit. Going into Euro 2016 he had two goals in 30 appearances for Wales. He would leave it as a legend.
Ten minutes after the double substitution, Ledley played the ball to Aaron Ramsey, who was doubling up being a footballer with being an Eminem lookalike. Ramsey found Hal Robson-Kanu, who unleashed an unstoppable drive that flew into the net.
Well, ok. He shinned it. But it definitely flew into the net. Fine, it bobbled along at about 3mph and somehow crossed the line, sending the Wales fans into an even greater state of delirium than the one which greeted the opener. While I remember everything about the moments after Bale’s goal, I think my mind shut down during the celebrations of this one, because I can’t recall a single thing.
Hal Robson-Kanu scoring a late winning goal at a major tournament was just too much to comprehend. It’s the kind of scenario you dream up with your friends after consuming far too many pints “Ha, wouldn’t it be class if Hal scored the winner”.
The remaining 9 minutes of the match took far longer than the 81 that had come before it. Every clearance or tackle was treated like a goal, and every time Slovakia had the ball I just waited for it to hit the back of the net and wake me up from the dream that was unfolding in front of me.
But the Slovakia goal never came. Full time, and it was Wales 2 - Slovakia 1. With England and Russia yet to play, we were top of the group!
The celebrations lasted long after the final whistle, as the travelling Wales fans partied like it was 1958. I was one of the last to leave, taking a moment to sit on one of the steps at the end of the game and take it all in. It was never going to get any better than this, and I made sure to make the most of every minute of it.
I reunited with my dad outside of the stadium, having had tickets in different parts of the ground. A French jazz band was playing, and Wales fans were leaping around in delight, twirling each other by the arm, and bringing out the kind of dance moves best left to a dark nightclub at 3am where nobody can see you. It was perfect.
The celebrations moved into the city centre, and it seemed like everyone in Wales was there. As a Llantwit Major AFC fan, it was lucky we didn’t have a game that weekend, because I saw at least 9 of the team and the manager, and it wasn’t water and Lucozade they were consuming by the gallon.
Just when you thought the day couldn’t get any better, Russia scored a last minute equaliser against England, and for a brief moment it rained beer in Bordeaux, as plastic fanzone glasses soared through the sky. Being realistic, Russia picking up a point was probably a bad thing for our qualification hopes, but everyone had had far too many pints to be concerned about that.
It was a night that most people would have gladly seen go on forever, but it did eventually come to an end. All Welsh fans gained a place in their heart for Bordeaux, and Bordeaux absolute reciprocated, with the tourist board of the city writing an open letter inviting us to come back anytime, and French newspaper L’Equipe writing:
“An anthem to give you goosebumps, never-ending singing and the impression all you can see is red: the show was also in the stands, yesterday at Bordeaux, where Wales beat Slovakia (2-1) in its first major tournament for 58 years.
“After such a long wait, the fans were thirsty for victory but not only that. The Welsh are many, noisy, sometimes a little rowdy but mostly peaceful. They must tolerate drink better than others. The coach Chris Coleman and the players have all paid tribute to this extraordinary popular support, of the kind that gives you strength and an indestructible confidence.”
It’ll never be forgotten.
The next game was the one the media would have you believe we were most looking forward to, and for 99% of Wales fans was the one game we wished wasn’t happening. Playing England is shit, and I would quite happily never see a 49 year old man from Burnley dressed as a crusader ever again. I’m not going to spend too much time on this game, apart from the fact it almost lead to my first ever tattoo.
Just before half time, Wales have a free kick absolutely miles out. It’s way too far to shoot, and I angrily say “Why the fuck is he shooting from there?” to the guy next to me.
Obviously, it goes in. Had we held on and won the game, I made a promise to myself to apologise to Bale by getting the phrase tattooed, but of course, we lost with pretty much the last kick of the game. It’s strange how the mind works, and my main memory of this game was getting a lift back to Paris with some random Wales fans who saw me walking to the train station and offered, only to sit in awkward silence the entire way when two of them in the backseat had an absolutely blazing row with each other, where it felt like 20 years of secret resentment came out. A 0/10 day out.
With that circus over, it was on to what I expected to be the grand finale - Russia in Toulouse. It was a chance at the ultimate payback for the despair of the playoffs in 2003, or, what I thought was more likely - another heartbreak at the hands of the Russians. On reflection I can probably admit that beating us at football 1-0 is not the worst thing Russia has ever done in another country, but it kind of felt like it at the time.
I already knew I was holding on to some pretty severe trauma from that game, but it only increased when I saw a Russian fan wearing a t-shirt with the result of the match printed on it. I can’t remember the exact words I used when I saw this, but I certainly wasn’t able to be nonchalant about it.
Going into the final round of games, England were on 4 points, ourselves and Slovakia had 3, and Russia were on just 1. With England playing Slovakia and certain to win, it meant we would guarantee our place in the knockout stages with a win by finishing second, while a loss would most likely send us home unless we were extremely lucky with the ranking of the 3rd place teams.
Before the game, I thought it was the end. I had successfully avoided the giant Euro 2016 merchandise stalls at the first two games, but I could wait no longer. I absolutely raided the stall for anything which had a Welsh flag and Euro 2016 written on it, reluctantly accepting that this was going to be the final match of our tournament.
Not quite.
For the best experience over the next few lines, I recommend you start listening to Heather Small - Proud while you read.
In what is probably the best 90 minutes of football Wales have ever produced, we absolutely dismantled the Russians. The football was beautiful, and so was the backdrop - with a stunning sunset providing the kind of setting that such a magical display deserved. By the 20th minute, it was pretty much over. Aaron Ramsey scored with a confident finish, and Neil Taylor added a second with the exact opposite of a confident finish.
Any hopes of a Russian comeback were extinguished on the hour mark as Gareth Bale got his goal - meaning he had scored in every game of the group stage. From some brief research, only four players in history have ever done that, with Lukaku, Shearer and Kluivert pretty decent company to be keeping.
The rest of the game passed by in a dreamlike state, as the heroes in red pulled out back heel passes, keep ups and nutmegs, and every touch being cheered to the rafters by the disbelieving Welsh fans. Of course, the biggest cheer was still to come.
There had been whispers throughout the game that England hadn’t scored yet. During the entire 90 minutes, I hadn’t even thought about the other game in the group, because an England win was so nailed on. As the final score came in, it showed why I write for a living, rather than being a professional gambler.
England 0 - Slovakia 0. We’d won the group.
Welsh fans once again took up more than 3/4 of the stadium, and just as had happened in Bordeaux a week earlier, the place was rocking long after full time as the magnitude of what had just happened sunk in. I had optimistically booked a flight to Nice before the tournament began, thinking there was perhaps a chance we would edge Russia to second place. I stared at the booking on my phone, thinking about how it was the best money I ever wasted. We were going to Paris as group winners.
Outside the ground, I saw one of my Wales away companions, and assumed he had also seen me. I went to jump on his in celebration, only to realise that he had not in fact seen me, and I had just brutally tackled him to the ground.
After the Russian fans had been very naughty boys the week before, the city was on high alert - making it difficult to celebrate in the way such a victory deserved. Me and George were in the mood for merriment and tomfoolery, and an alcohol ban wasn’t going to stop us for long.
After being turned away at several bars, we finally found one that would serve us. It was a wine bar, with an unusual gimmick where you loaded money onto a card, which you could then tap against 40 or so different bottles of wine around the bar, automatically dispensing a glass for you. Sensing this was going to be the best bet for the evening, we loaded €50 onto a card and prepared to settle in for the long haul.
Less than 5 minutes later, it was announced that the bar had to close as soon as possible. Drink €50 of wine in 10 minutes? Challenge accepted.
We decided to splash out on a glass of champagne each, before downing as many glasses of the cheapest thing we could find until the card stopped working. An expensive few minutes later, we headed back out into the street, just as four large French policemen headed into the bar. If the perfect crime truly does exist, we had just pulled it off.
After encountering a few more closed bars, it seemed as if the night of our lives was going to end with us far more sober than we wanted to be. But then, salvation.
A loophole in the alcohol laws meant that places were allowed to serve booze to Welsh fans if they were having a meal, and we found one bar that was offering a very generous definition of ‘meal’. “Bonjour butt, a bowl of chips and 6 pints of Kronenbourg please” was all we needed to hear, and we knew we had found exactly where we needed to be.
For some reason, Ian Rush was there, a fact I discovered when I was carrying a bowl of chips and 6 pints of Kronenbourg back to a table. By the time I came back inside to get a photo with him, he was tucking into a bowl of chips of his own, so I left him be.
After selling more bowls of chips than they had ever done in all the years they had been open, the bar eventually closed at some time in the early hours of the morning. Rumours spread amongst the Welsh fans that a disco club was open somewhere in the city, and we spent at least an hour looking for it. We never did find that disco, instead holding one of our own, dancing with joy in the streets until our legs couldn’t cope anymore.
When I got back to the hotel, I discovered that the owner had left a bottle of champagne outside my door in celebration of the Welsh victory.
Life couldn’t get any better than this, could it?
-End of part one-