16/9/00 Hull 1 Parscelona 4

September 15-17th 2000

Parscelona's first away tie of the new season took them all the way to Hull for a friendly.

Departing on Friday evening (with no problems arising from the fuel crisis), the team has for once not been tanked up before setting off, and so it is not until quite a while after Ross, Keith and Fraser have been picked up in Edinburgh that the first drink-induced nonsense takes place, involving Ross Arnott, a can of beer, an open window and Colin McKean.

In an impressive display of stamina (and possibly due to the lack of Steven Clark) the minibus makes it all the way to Berwick before a convenience stop. Most people go for MacDonalds, some of us opt for sandwiches, and closet girly Grant Macleod goes for a quiche lorraine and pasta salad. I also purchase a Kinder Surprise, the surprise being that the toy inside is crap.

The bus journey is passed with the usual renditions of Pars songs, Alex Mercer occasionally bringing out a video camera to film our words of wisdom and Ross Arnott steaming up the windows with the vilest odours in human history. Meanwhile down the front of the bus (at the sober end) we have such excitement as Chris Ozog reading a Kia-Ora bottle and me doing a wonderful impression of "I Feel Love" by Donna Summer. It was number one the week I was born, you know.

After one dodgy piss-stop outside someone's house (about two hundred yards from a police car) and another in a service station (full of policemen again) we make it to Hull. Following the directions on the map, we then have the fun task of trying to phone Martin from the Hull team to find out where we're going. Sounds easy but sadly it isn't - first those of us in the front seat tell Fraser where we are, then he tells Martin in a drunken Scottish accent down a mobile. In the end we may as well be playing Chinese whispers.

Eventually we make it to the pub where Martin and MC Vie (that's his real name, honest, it says so on his shirt) of Hull are waiting, along with drunken bint Lynne and Marky Mark sans Funky Bunch. With no chance of getting into any pubs (not that our bunch of drunken fools grasp this concept easily) we head back to the hotel.

By this time, the majority of Pars people are pished. Lynne wanders around with a glazed look in her eye filming people being drunk and establishing that Chris and I are scared of her; Mark Falconer occasionally bursts into song only to go back into a coma again after the first line; some people play pool; Davie Sanders slags off the sober people for not saying anything; the sober people sit and chat to our hosts, Martin Beecroft and MC Vie (that's his real name, honest, it says so on his shirt) and are instantly made to feel welcome thanks to kind words about this website and slaggings of Falkirk and Kirkcaldy.

After Keith Rapley and I thrash Grant Macleod and Chris Ozog at pool, we sit and chat a bit more. Finally I go off to bed at about half past one, in order to get some sleep before the next morning's game (not a shower though, because it doesn't work).

And so, at last I have tranquility. A packet of sweets, a copy of "Marriage" by HG Wells and a reasonably warm bed. Until of course my roommate Grant Macleod shows up with Ozog.

"I thought I'd invite Chris up for a wee while," says Grant. And so we sit and chat until I finally manage to get to bed at about four.

Up early next morning (though not early enough for breakfast) and Martin arrives to take us to the pitch - which is about ten miles away. Eventually however we arrive and get down to a serious warm up. Or at least we kick several footballs at Keith Mackie, who is to be goalkeeper for the first half.

THE GAME

There was not much to report in the first half - indeed, whoever was taking notes on the game has made the first note at 12 minutes - "I'm cold. And tired. Need tea..."

I could have sworn I forced the keeper into a save with a shot from just inside the box but since it's not mentioned in the notes I must be imagining it.

The players were at least awarded a laugh in the nineteenth minute when the Hull linesman, while fetching the ball, tripped on a small fence and was sent sprawling across the grass.

Such was the excitement for those not playing that the spectators started discussing which women they like. While a game of footy went on in front of them, it was established that Alex likes Shania Twain, Marky Mark likes Lisa Snowdon and Keith Rapley for some reason does not like Jennifer Lopez.

With twenty-four minutes on the clock, Davie Sanders just failed to grab a goal for Parscelona by hitting the post and consequently blowing Alan's "first scorer sweep" chances out his arse. The ball was cleared, but from the ensuing corner, Alan's knock-down fell to the feet of Mark Falconer who lobs the ball into the top corner from the edge of the box. And Fraser likes Kylie Minogue apparently.

Four minutes later Davie had another chance after beating two Hull men, but his shot was sent over the bar from twenty yards. Keith Rapley likes Sarah Cracknell. She's no Bella Emberg though.

On the half-hour mark, Colin McKean's shot was tipped over the bar by the Hull keeper, and the same player put a free kick over the bar four minutes later.

Right on the stroke of half-time, it was established that Lynne likes Michael LeGreco.

At half time, Parscelona made a few changes - goalkeeper Keith Mackie and striker Alan Maxwell swapped places, and someone with worse handwriting appears to have taken over the note-writing duties.

With only a minute gone, Alan was called into action and with a mighty cry of "KEEPER'S... not getting it" dived at the feet of a Hull attacker, who put his shot wide shortly before the keeper tried to eat his shinpad. After lying still and bleeding a bit, Alan got up (what a hero, eh?) and the game continued.

Parscelona were straight onto the attack and Ross Arnott sent a left footed effort curling over the bar.

In the 52nd minute, Ross turned provider with a brilliant run followed by a through ball to Colin, but the captain (yes, the captain) put the ball just wide. Colin had another shot saved seven minutes later.

Three minutes later, Johnnie established that he likes Heather. Chief note-taker adds the word "aw..."

In the 66th minute, Hull went level. With Parscelona defending too deep, Martin Beecroft beat the offside trap and fired a shot in. Alan Maxwell was in the right position but let it slide under his body as he went down too late (oo-er, fnar, fwaf, etc.). The sun comes out.

With five minutes remaining, Colin finally grabbed the goal he'd been threatening all game - after evading the Hull defence, his first effort was kept out by the keeper but he made sure with his second. And guess what, it's Parscelona's hundredth goal! Except it's not. Fraser has it wrong, as does the person making notes. This is number 98.

On what should have been full time, Colin made it two for him and three for the Pars with another solo run ending with him putting it past the advancing Hull keeper from eight yards.

Two minutes into injury time, Colin wraps the game up with his hat-trick, with yet another fine solo effort, and this time it really is PARSCELONA'S HUNDREDTH GOAL!!! WOO-HOO!!! Etc.

THE AFTERMATH

Now it's off to the showers followed by a trip into the bar at the rather well-equipped sports facilities (and the Parscelona youth policy pays dividends as Scott Smyth is awarded man of the match, as voted for by us). Our hosts have kindly laid on chip butties for us all. Unfortunately the combination of tomato sauce and burst lip proves to be somewhat painful. Everyone sits around watching the pre-match footy stuff on the telly, until eventually we head off to the big game - Hull versus Shrewsbury.

The game is pretty forgettable, but Hull win 1-0, so the very fact that there was a goal elevates it above the Huddersfield game we saw earlier in the year. The standard of football is pretty poor, but there's a bit of excitement at least. And burgers. And I got in the kid's gate.

After the game, we all head out for a meal at night to some Asian place round the corner from the hotel. Martin joins us and manages to quite competently finish his meal while explaining why he supports Hull and Ipswich at the same time. I meanwhile fail to get even halfway through a pizza, and Chris Ozog loses his Indian food virginity, under careful instruction from the man Rapley, who also informs me about a film I should see, involving giant rabbits.

The majority of the squad then head out for the night to sample the nightlife and women of Hull. Nobody scores. Meanwhile, the boring people stay at the hotel - me (non-drinker and wounded), Grant Macleod (recovering from illness), Scott Smyth and Chris Ozog (both young chaps) all sit down with crap food and crapper TV. If we establish one thing, it's that even while sober "Big Trouble in Little China" makes little sense, especially if you tune in halfway through.

On Sunday, we once again fail to rise in time for breakfast (though some apparently do), with Ross Arnott managing to sleep in the longest - such is the life of a camera man / dolphin trainer / US government official.

Back on the road, it's a more subdued journey, with only one main stop for toilets and junk food, and another to drop off Ross, Fraser and Keith Mackie. As has been promised all weekend, Keith Rapley's tape of Laszlo Komar, Hungarian Elvis impersonator, is put on. I've always wanted to hear American Trilogy in Hungarian. The rest of the bus love it too.

"This is jolly good, can I have a copy?" shouts Johnnie.

"Yes, I wholeheartedly concur, it's a joy to hear," says Colin.

"Yes, please turn up the volume," comes another voice.

I think that's what they were saying anyway, I couldn't hear them over the strained tones of a Hungarian "Moody Blue".

So there you have it - we avoided the fuel crisis, we won an away game, we scored our one-hundredth goal, and I played 45 minutes in goal and only let in one. And we met a great bunch of lads in Hull's internet team (website here). We really should do this more often.

Pars squad: R. Arnott, F. Clark, M. Falconer, C. McKean, A. Mercer, K. Mackie, G. Macleod, D. Sanders, K. Rapley, C. Ozog, S. Smyth, A. Maxwell, J. MacDougall