Our World Cup Road Trip

24th June 2021

In June 1998, I joined the army. The Tartan Army. For 2 surreal days, I was one of many thousands of Scotland fans in Bordeaux to march, sing and support our team in the 1998 France World Cup.

It’s hard to believe now, but back then Scotland’s appearance in international football tournaments was a regular event. For this one, we’d been drawn against Brazil, Norway and Morocco. Brazil were virtually guaranteed to get through, but looking at our other two opponents, we couldn’t help but dream. We had a decent squad — not the most skillful, but plenty of Scottish grit. With a fair wind, we could surely take second place and get through the group stages for the first time. And if at all possible, I wanted to be there to see it happen.

My effort to get a ticket for any of the games was apparently futile, and with a week to go I was resigned to watching all the Scotland matches on television. Then I got the phone call that changed everything. My friend (and distant cousin) Neil. A Tartan Army stalwart. A man with connections. Neil came through with a golden ticket. Scotland v Norway, in Bordeaux. For me!

Our very own legion of the Tartan Army assembled. My friend Steven Brown also had a ticket, so we arranged to go together, along with ex-Glaswegian Anthony, and my brother Tim, ticketless, but coming anyway. For the banter.

We just had to get to Bordeaux. There were no planes, coaches or train spots left going anywhere near south-west France, and there was no accommodation within 50 miles of Bordeaux. So we did what any self-respecting Scotland fans would do. We got in the car and started driving. We’d surely find somewhere to stay (but brought tents as an absolute last resort). Fuelled by unlimited quantities of optimism and Irn Bru, we set off for Bordeaux. And so began our World Cup road trip.

It was a fair old drive to Bordeaux from London — 16 hours and 650 miles through the night, including a ferry ride across from Kent, then down most of the length of France, with Steven and me sharing the driving. I’m not sure that I gave a lot of thought to servicing the car or European roadside assistance ahead of our mammoth journey. But my beaten up old Nissan Cherry got into the giantkilling spirit, and got us all the way to Bordeaux without a hitch.

We arrived in Bordeaux in the afternoon the day before the match, parked the car, and went in search of Scotland fans. They weren’t hard to find — Bordeaux had been entirely taken over by tartan tammy hats (novelty ginger hair optional) and an equal number of viking hats (plaits optional) worn by our Norwegian friends. Our journey fatigue quickly evaporated in an atmosphere of world cup festivities.

That day and night, the Scotland and Norway fans consumed an extraordinary amount of alcohol as they sang, danced and partied through night. The locals cleared out to allow the visiting fans to take over their city centre, with every single Scotland and Norway supporter absolutely hammered. Well, every supporter save one. Remember my little car, parked somewhere in the outskirts of Bordeaux? That car had all our stuff in it, and someone had to drive it to wherever we were going to sleep that night (we knew not where). As 100,000 fans drank and danced through the night, I had contrived to be the only designated driver in Bordeaux.

Though entirely sober, I could not help but be sucked in by the good natured joy of fans all together in a spirit of footballing brotherhood or somesuch. The English fans had disgraced themselves by rioting a few days earlier in Marseilles, and the Scottish fan reaction was to collectively behave impeccably, like a squeaky clean child setting out to show up his badly behaved sibling.

There was a lot of marching that night. Thousands of us stomping through Bordeaux singing our simple songs. Listing the Scotland squad to the tune of Doe a Deer. But mainly, to the tune of Go West, we informed the good people of France, “Bordeaux, Tartan Army’s here”. Again and again and again. In the cold light of day, thousands of grown men (and women, but mainly men) marching for hours singing nursery rhymes was ridiculous. But at the time it seemed so right.

Eventually the singing had to stop, and we had to find somewhere to sleep. By this time, all talk of a hotel had fallen away, and our only chance was to find a campsite. It was about 2 in the morning, and some might argue that we had left it a little late to find a pitch in a city that was well beyond capacity, but off we went. The rest of my little gang continued to sing, joke and irritate me by being drunk when I was not. I could have done with a little less banter by that point. Bordeaux was completely full — we were turned away from every campsite, and it was starting to look like we would be spending the rest of the night in the car, when we came upon a strip of grass. Not huge, but wide enough to pitch our tents. On the go for more than 24 hours, we fell out of the car, did the minimum to get our tents upright in the dark, and collapsed into our homes for the night.

I was woken up by sunlight the next morning, and stepped out of my tent to look around. I discovered that we had pitched our tents on a grassy verge in a residential street in suburban Bordeaux. As I took in my surroundings, a woman left her home with her two children. Polite as ever, I waved to them, and greeted them with my friendliest “bonjour”. She looked a little distressed as she hurried her kids into the car, and I saw what she saw. A man in a Scotland top and boxer shorts, emerging from one of several tents that had appeared in their lovely street during the night. “Bordeaux, Tartan Army’s here”, I whispered, as she drove off to call the police.

But there was no time to worry about scaring the locals, because the big day had arrived. The day of untold promise. The hopes of a nation. Scotland v Norway. Come on!

We went back into the centre of Bordeaux for drinking, singing, marching. You know the drill. Did I have my face painted with ridiculous saltires on each cheek? Of course I did. We met a bigger group of friends and spent the build up in a potent mix of beer, whisky and heat. My brother Tim headed off to watch the game in a pub as the rest of us staggered over to the stadium to watch our bravehearts in action.

The game? Well, I’ll keep it brief, if you’ve made it this far, you’re not here for the football reportage. It was a fairly dull even game, then the Norwegians went and ruined everything by scoring just after half time. Disaster. Half an hour of pain and devastation, as we were on our way out.

And then, with 15 minutes left, Celtic midfielder (and a favourite player of mine) Craig Burley equalised. Delirium amongst the Scotland fans. It was back on! Anything could, once again, happen.

The game ended in a draw, which was fine. Norway had Brazil in their final game, and were surely out. All we had to do was beat Morocco in our last group match. Morocco? I mean, did they even know how to play football?

We drove the long way home, and I slept for a day, only remembering to remove the saltires from my cheeks when I got ready for work the following morning. We gathered in a friend’s home to watch that final match. Morocco hammered Scotland 3–0, and the dream was over.

That was 23 years ago. We never would have imagined that we would have to wait until today to once more watch Scotland in an international tournament. But now it’s here, and I cannot help but dream. We have a decent squad — not the most skillful, but plenty of Scottish grit. With a fair wind, we could surely take second place and get through the group stages for the first time.

Taps aff, here we go…come on Scotland!