For Manchester United supporters in the 1990s and early 2000s, Europe was the pinnacle. The biggest teams, famous stadiums and unfamiliar cities, with an excitement around the trips that began long before kick-off. Getting there was part of the adventure: planes, trains, minibuses, missed connections, police escorts, packed away ends and the occasional unlikely encounter with Alex Ferguson and the United team themselves. Duncan Quinton travelled to 36 United European away games before calling time in 2005. Through his own collect photographs and memories, he revisits four trips from an era when following United across Europe felt like a proper adventure.
Manchester United Euro Away Days, 1990s-00s. Words and collect photos: Duncan Quinton
I’ve been fortunate over the years to attend some big United games in the league and various cups, and even bigger games in finals down at Wembley or, for a time, Cardiff. But the ultimate was always going overseas to watch United.
The team were pitting themselves against the crème de la crème, whilst for us supporters it wasn’t a tram ride or a tank of petrol to watch United, but a plane, train or automobile – and often a combination.
My 36th and final European away match was way back in 2005, as United bowed out of the Champions League to Benfica in Lisbon. But I still have the memories. And the photos…
Lille away, 2001/02 – Stade Bollaert-Delelis, Lens
A typically French affair.
A minibus from Manchester, with various stops around the Cheshire countryside to collect randoms, was driven by a mate of a mate who was a teetotal long-distance lorry driver. So, given we were in the hands of a professional, I’ve no idea why it took us 36 hours to make the 100km drive from Calais to Lens.
Maybe it was coming off that big roundabout not far from the EastEnders cash and carry, only to find ourselves on the wrong side of the motorway. Maybe it was the fact that the first car coming the other way was one with a blue flashing light on it. Luckily, “English pigs” and lots of laughter at our stupidity was as stern as it got.
We eventually reached the Stade Bollaert-Delelis, where the police were, as usual, less than welcoming – and so was the entrance to the away end. A long underground tunnel that seemed to go on forever. Lads occasionally looking back at mates for reassurance, their minds thinking, “Is this right?”, before we finally popped up in the away end.
An equaliser by Ole marked the end of a nondescript game before we were shepherded out of the away end by our baton-wielding friends, who marched us for what seemed like an eternity through a pitch-black forest.
Lads tripped and stumbled over tree roots. We could barely see our hands in front of our faces and, like magic, the police vanished to somewhere or other, leaving us stranded with Lens miles away in the distance.
A good ploy to keep the English pigs away from the late-night bars.
Valencia away, 1999/2000 – Mestalla Stadium
Our easyJet flights landed in Barcelona in the dead of night. We had no accommodation, but one elderly gent ushered us down narrow alleyways in the Gothic Quarter to either a potential mugging or a €10 nap in an old convent.
A nun sat outside our dorm to ensure we didn’t sneak across the hallway to the girls’ room. The other half of our group were instead ushered into a penthouse apartment down by the port for just €30 and were enjoying the delights of the jacuzzi when the owner came home screaming and ruined it. Cue screaming and legging it out of the door for some of Sale’s finest.
The morning after the night before saw a sign on the platform for the Valencia train: “No English”. No problem. Hiding behind copies of big Spanish broadsheet papers, we skipped past the police and jibbed onto the train.
Then, about an hour from Valencia, it broke down. We naturally went to the back of the replacement coach whilst the driver did a quick headcount and set off, when we noticed a group of old ladies left behind in the car park as said coach was full…
The trip may have been lined with orange groves, but Valencia was hammering it down and empty. We bagged €8 tickets behind the goal in the home end and hid in a doorway for shelter, where we heard a gruff Scot ask us, “What you lads up to?”, only to discover it was Fergie himself.
“Wanna come training, boys, and get out of the rain?”
And so he led us into the stands before designating one mate to hand out media packs to the travelling hacks, whilst my job was to help pick up the training tops.
Following an hour or so watching the likes of Beckham and Yorke ping the ball to each other from one byline to another, ‘work’ was now over and we took photos from outside the away dressing room. Keane’s face: “What the f*ck are you doing here?”
The match was a drab 0–0 washout, but on the flight back a lad tapped us on the shoulder.
“Is that you?”
He showed us a copy of The Times, with my bald bonce clearly recognisable behind Bosnich’s goal.
Juventus away, 1996 – Stadio Delle Alpi
I’ve had better trips to Juve in terms of laughs and football, but this one was special. United were still finding their feet in Europe and these were the real deal.
Off the pitch it was moody. A lad we were with was chased around the streets by bamboo stick-wielding ultras, whilst you had to be wary of lads zipping past on Vespas – rumours were rife about flickknives at 30mph.
The Stadio Delle Alpi was unwanted and unloved, and apparently only ever sold out for the visit of United, but I liked it. Memories of Italia ’90 and superb architecture. Inside, pyros and drumbeats made it otherworldly.
A post-match altercation with the local Carabinieri saw one lad board our plane with a riot helmet, whilst many others boarded without tickets, hiding in the toilets or lying across the floor under our feet.
To Pay Is To Fail…
Benfica away, 2005 – Estádio da Luz
Ever missed a plane? Giuseppe Rossi and Gerard Piqué had, resulting in Ferguson ordering them to board a later flight with supporters.
As the pair meekly boarded and ended up sitting next to yours truly, I could only imagine what was going through their minds throughout the flight to Lisbon, knowing they had to face Fergie. Meanwhile, I met up with mates who’d flown out a couple of days before, only for them to inform me Eusébio had just left the bar.
The day after, we did the sights and ascended to the top of the Victorian lift. A splendid wrought-iron structure offering splendid views of the city.
There’s also a bar at the top and, a few pints in, one United fan decided to relieve himself off the top into the city-centre streets below. Smart. Especially when there was only one, slow route down the 100ft to escape.
We left and headed to the Estádio da Luz. A superb arena which was surprisingly loud. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect such an atmosphere. Just constant whistling that went up a notch again, again and again, while United went down a notch again, again and again.
Ronaldo lost his head and was shown a red as Benfica turned around an early Paul Scholes goal to win 2–1 and send United crashing out after coming third in a weak group containing Lille and Basel.
As the draw was made last week, like I do every season we qualify, I still ‘choose’ the teams I’d like to visit – from the atmosphere of Naples to the lesser-known away trips of Bratislava – but knowing it’s unlikely I’ll return.
The streets of M16 are as far as I get these days.
Featured Lower Block Editions
More from the Lower Block Archive