​FOR fans of Monty Python, it was an “Eee, who’d have thought it” moment. Barely three hours after stepping onto a Ryanair flight from Stansted, five 50-ish old lads are watching the sun go down over Gothenburg.

In the bar of a cruise ship that serves as their hotel and is anchored on the banks of the river Gota Alv, they are at peace with the world at the start of an outing they’d planned six months previously.

As they savour a fifth pint of the local lager – purchased at London prices rather than the tenner a pint everyone claimed it would cost – they’ve only just noticed that it’s still daylight at 10 o’clock at night.

Why would five middle-aged men choose to spend three days in Sweden, I hear you ask.

And what do we really know about the place, if we refrain from making all the usual references to Abba, Bjorn Borg, Volvo and Ikea?

Not much, other than that people who’ve never been there tell you that it’s an expensive place to visit. Given that the attractions of other countries might seem more obvious and certainly get a better press, Sweden isn’t the obvious choice for a three day break in mid-summer.

Experiencing new lands and cultures tends to be all well and good, but not without a good reason to travel in the first place.

And for our little band of hedonistic thrill seekers, England U21s qualifying for the European Championship finals provided just that reason.

From the day the idea was first mooted, it was clear that this was one trip that would prove popular for those wishing to scratch that nagging close-season itch.

With five of us declaring ourselves as ‘up for it’ within a week, we’d set ourselves individual tasks aimed at costing what might prove to be a prohibitively expensive trip that we’d ultimately have to pull out of.

In the event, it would be a massive understatement to say that we were pleasantly surprised when everything including flights, hotels, airport transfers, match tickets and even internal train fares between Gothenburg and Helsingborg came in at considerably under £250 per head.

Accordingly, everything was booked and paid for six months before the tournament kicked off in June. Here’s what happened when we got there.

THROUGHOUT the whole of Sweden, the citizens of Gothenburg are perceived as people who think they live in Siberia and, culturally at least, are always looking to the west.

A favourite Swedish joke declares that “when it rains in London, the people of Gothenburg put up their umbrellas.” Today they didn’t need to look towards London as it poured with rain at home. And poured. And then it poured some more, leaving us to ponder ruefully on the likelihood that it’s only football fans who’d consider flying north for the summer.

Accordingly, breakfast aboard our floating and extremely comfortably appointed Ibis hotel was taken at a more leisurely pace than we’d intended as we sought alternatives to our original plans.

Two of the guys had planned to spend most of the day at Lisberg – the city’s vast amusement park – whilst I’d heard that the best way to see Gothenburg was from the deck of a boat that offered two-hour cruises on the Gota Alv.

Given the black skies and visibility of about 15 yards through the sheeting rain, those plans were soon scuppered, unlike those of the other two lads whose plans had remained unchanged. They’d planned to view Sweden’s leading port through the windows of various city centre bars anyway and merely said “see you at the game” prior to an early departure in search of cultural enlightenment.

So, nothing for it other than to have a mooch around until it was time to meet some friends at the Fanzone prior to that night’s game between England and Spain. And there are worse places to walk the streets than Gothenburg, with the Nordstan being the nation’s biggest shopping centre and the Innerstaden commercial district being just a few streets away. Hence if there’s one tip I can offer a non-football tourist in Sweden, it would be take a brolly with you as they’re a must-have item and really bloody expensive if you buy one locally. £18 was the cheapest I could find.

That said, I couldn’t quite work out how Sweden earned it’s reputation as being one of the most expensive places in Europe. Sure, there were places where a mentally defective punter could shell out £250 for a pair of trainers if that were his or her wish. Yet by the same token, the Sweden football shirt I bought was of good quality and, at barely £10, less than a third of the price I’d have expected to pay at home. And an early dinner, an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet, would have been first class at £30 per head, never mind that £7 we actually paid.

It was around early afternoon when the three of us agreed that we were not quite at our bright and ebullient best when wandering around a shopping centre, no matter how impressive that shopping centre might be. So given that the city’s vibrant main drag, the Avenyn, offered numerous welcoming cafés in which to get a little caffeine into the system whilst watching the world go by, it would have been rude not to afford them a little English bonhomie and custom. As we waited for the nearby Fanzone to open its doors, said world looked a brighter place as the rain stopped, the clouds cleared and the pavements steamed in the late afternoon sunshine.

For those that haven’t had the pleasure, I’ve always thought that, for the committed football traveller who has led a pure and selfless life, the Fanzone is where he goes when he dies, prior to his interview with St Peter. It has nothing other than beer, friendly locals and visitors, football on a big screen, banter, a little music and feels like home in a foreign land. And following the England U21 side overseas – as I’ve done on a couple of occasions now – comes with the inestimable bonus of the fact that they somehow don’t attract an element that the rest of us have to live down. Looking around at the sea of either grey or balding heads, one might think that this is the football equivalent of Last of the Summer Wine; an opportunity to be silly yet savourable and recount old tales to the few that still care to listen. Gothenburg followed all the rules in this respect and it was here that we rendezvoused with a friend from home, a chap called Simon Harris who’d flown in earlier in the day with brother Tim.

I could write a small volume on Simon’s many qualities as a human being, but for now I shall merely state my belief that he is the only person on the planet who has walked through central Minsk at 5am and heard the words; “Hello mate! How did Dover get on in the FA Cup last night?” Add several similar stories into the mix, stir in much infantile giggling and six pints of the finest ale this little corner of Scandinavia has to offer and you have accurately summarised how three blissfully happy hours were passed before we wandered off to the game.

At the Gamla Ullevi stadium – opened as recently as April 2009 – an attendance of 16,123 that wasn’t far short of capacity duly emphasised the love that Scandinavians have for English football; something they’ve been watching on live TV before we even thought of the idea. England, as illustrated by flags from all corners of the country, were well supported and had certainly earned the affection of the neutrals. Spain, with no noticeable support in the stadium, were very much the away team.

Though I couldn’t say so for certain, the stadium had seemingly filled up due to a local ‘kids for a quid’ scheme, judging from the young family groups that surrounded various little cliques of England fans and made for a smashing atmosphere before and during the game. Our seats, adjacent to one of the 18-yard lines and eight rows from the front, offered perfect vantage points and were truly a bargain for the £12 we paid for them. And from the first whistle, it was clear that we’d picked a good game to attend.

In their opening group game, England, by common consensus, had played poorly despite getting off to a winning start by beating Finland 2-1. And from our perspective, we’d travelled more in hope that expectation, knowing that we’d be on a hiding to nothing if Spain could replicate anything like the football currently being played by their full national side; arguably the best team in the world as I write.

In the event, we were pleasantly surprised as England controlled the game more or less from start to finish and could even afford the luxury of missing a first half penalty. Briefly, we felt me might have to settle for a draw before two goals in six second half minutes, from Fraizer Campbell and James Milner – atoning for his earlier miss from the spot – wrapped up a 2-0 victory that was far more comfortable than we might reasonably have hoped.

It was a good evening to be an English football fan that was celebrated with just a quick splicing of the mainbrace back at the ship/hotel. We needed to make an early start in the morning to undertake a journey that – even for middle aged football fans who reckoned to have seen most things – was to prove quite bizarre.

THERE are 146 steps up to the Karnan (Keep) of the now demolished castle, where unhindered views are afforded across to Denmark, just three miles across the Oresund sound. Below us on a grey summer morning, our home for 24 hours looks like a setting for a tale by the brothers Grimm; part sophisticated old style city with more than a hint of small town idyll. Our guide book tells us that 100,000 people live here, which makes it all the more surprising that there’s no bugger about.

Earlier, via a spotlessly clean and efficient train on which we had pre-booked tickets, we’d travelled 143 miles south of Gothenburg to Helsingborg, where we’d be taking in the hosts’ game against Italy. Looking out of the window, we could just as easily have been on the 10.03 London-Brighton service, given that there wasn’t as much as a passing elk gambolling about the landscape to alert us to the fact we were in another country. Not much looking out of the window was done, truth be told, thanks to two implausibly beautiful Icelandic air hostesses, who surprisingly chose to engage us in conversation. Addressing us as one might speak to a lunatic with a pair of scissors, they seemed keen to ascertain what could possibly butter the muffins of seven middle-aged Englishmen, who had travelled halfway across a continent to dress as Swedes and watch a game they could easily have watched from their own living rooms. The answer, delivered in broad Geordie, left them none the wiser, I fear.

Having checked into another clean, cheap and comfortable hotel that was ideal for our purposes and adjacent to the aforementioned Karnan, it was around midday and we were keen to get out and about and absorb some of the party atmosphere we felt sure the locals would put on in celebration of their nation hosting a major football tournament. But other than bumping into a couple of young Finnish lads, who weren’t exactly enamoured with our prospective support of “The Quislings,” there was barely a soul about.

After much searching and consideration of the possibility that we’d come to the wrong place on the wrong day, we found everyone quite by chance as we peered into the new bastion of 21st century culture and bonhomie.; an Irish pub called O’Brien’s. Not quite what we were looking for, perhaps, but bursting with affable, welcoming punters who seemed to find us a little bit oddball on the basis that only one of us spent any time watching Spurs. Those wearing Dover Athletic shirts were afforded immediate cult status, even though most locals seemed a little incredulous to hear that our club had just won a championship in the seventh tier of the English game and played in front of 1,000+ crowds every week.

It was upon leaving the pub and joining the now numerous locals on the short walk to the Olympia Stadium that one incident left us in stitches. It came as a stunning, raven-haired girl of around 19 summers strolled past us wearing a short sequinned green dress and carrying a bouquet of white flowers. As she walked towards the steps that led to a large church, her purpose for the afternoon could not have been made more apparent had the words “I am a bridesmaid!” been stamped on her forehead. It was at this point that one of our number looked at her in a touchingly paternal way and said: “A bit overdressed for the game, I’d have thought!”

We were still chucking when settled down with close on 12,000 others to watch what was to prove an outstanding game. It also provided the one sour note of the trip that left an impression that none of us are likely to forget.

Since we made the trip, Inter Milan striker Mario Balottelli has made a name for himself as one of the exciting young talents of the Italian game. He’s also earned an equally valid reputation for having a volatile temperament that he’ll need to control if he’s to realise his potential. Today, the Palermo-born son of Ghanaian immigrants offered ample evidence to suggest that both points of view are valid.

In the first instance, Balottelli gave Italy the lead with a fine goal, cutting in from the left to effortlessly curl the ball beyond the Swedish keeper. But 10 minutes later, the teenager’s afternoon was concluded after a horrible lunge at a Swedish defender, leaving the referee no other option than to produce a red card. It was how the Swedish crowd reacted that provided the real horror, however, with the kind of racist abuse that I hadn’t heard in an awfully long time.

OK, it came from a minority, albeit a sizeable and vocal one. And I appreciate that every country has its share of monkey chanters and knuckle-scrapers that everyone else has to live down. But all this came as a real shock in a country where we’d found everyone so friendly, helpful and accommodating. As ever, the stadium was adorned with boards that said “Let’s kick racism out of football!” And after what seemed an eternity, the public address system announced – in English, believe it or not – that UEFA and its sponsors “would not tolerate racism.” Typically, in my experience at least, several burly security staff saw and heard nothing, concentrated on a fixed spot on the horizon like models in a catalogue and indicated that they would.

Take the top off a plastic coke bottle and they’d have doubtless waded in mob handed.

It took us a while to settle into watching some football from this point, but luckily the half-time break helped calm down a few idiots. As did the fact it was a very good game indeed that had its share of stars. Most notably, Sebastian Giovinco of Juventus, a 5ft-nothing bundle of endeavour and short, sharp passing that always found its target, played superbly in Italy’s midfield. And whilst Sweden had their chances, Atalanta goalkeeper Andrea Consigli made a string of fine saves to protect his side’s lead.

Despite being a man short, Italy doubled their lead with a headed goal from Robert Acquafresca. And although Ola Toivonen pulled a goal back for the Swedes, it came too late in the game to have any effect on the outcome.

Wherever the local footballing populace had come from, they all returned there promptly within half an hour of the final whistle. On a Friday night in the middle of summer, Helsingborg had effectively closed down. Apart from seven portly middle-aged English football fans, the town was only really populated by the Italian U21 side, wandering around in little cliques of threes and fours and populating the few restaurants and cafés that had remained open. A few hands were shaken and congratulations offered and accepted with equal grace, but conversation, if cordial, was stunted and soon curtailed. Manager Pierluigi Casiraghi – who some Chelsea fans might remember from his playing days – said “Thanks mate!” but that was as near as we got to Anglo-Italian witty repartee.

As we pondered the eternal question as to why it is only Italians who can carry off wandering around together in matching shell suits and looking stylish, we briefly popped into the Fanzone that was as densely populated as the rest of the city. And it was here, during a drunken conversation with a lone Belorussian (about a) Elk migration and b) What’s the difference between a moose and an elk?) I decided that, though still relatively early, it was time for bed.

Early the next morning, we’d begin the trek to Gothenburg for our flight back to Stansted. We were almost close enough to walk to the airport at Copenhagen, but that’s another story!

BY MARK WINTER