Brown ale and BVB: Newcastle United at Borussia Dortmund

Words: Sam McArdle

Images: Sam McArdle

German football has long been on my bucket list. While Calcio in Italy offers the tantalising prospect of nostalgic pilgrimage, German football is, in many ways, how modern football should be. Cheap, fan focused and loud. Very loud.

So, when you get a chance to follow your boyhood club on their first European adventure for 21 years, you open Skyscanner and book the flights as soon as a confused Joe Cole has pulled the star-ball from that magical glass pot.

Ticketless, largely hapless and on a shoestring budget I grabbed my shirt, 35mm camera and joined the 15,000 Geordies swapping St James’ for Signal Iduna Park.

The day started as every satisfying day should, in Cologne. Surely one of Germany’s more eccentric and underrated towns. It’s leafy streets recently blustered clean by the second of the Autumn’s big storms. Strong German coffee in hand and the first beer of the day not too far away, I was on the train to Dortmund.

But was I the only Newcastle fan after all? Where had they all gone? Slowly, our regional and by no means express service trundled itself clumsily north along the banks of the Rhein and through increasingly forgettable towns.

Inching closer to Dusseldorf, the demographic of the passengers started to change. Commuters alighted and replacing them were the first flashes of black and white. Building like a drumroll, there were two, then five, then twelve. Morning beers in hand, sauntering through the carriages nodding a nod of recognition to those clad in black and white who were already lucky enough to have found a seat.

©Sam McArdle/ Terrace Edition. Borussia Dortmund vs Newcastle United.

‘Alreet mate’. ‘Aye, yous?’. ‘Aye, bit iffy like, but aye’.

Leaving Dusseldorf, the carriage filled with a sort of hungover anticipation. What started as a trickle had become a torrent of bleary-eyed Geordies, ‘Big Gavin’ still hoarse from last night’s karaoke and being reminded of his 1am Celine Dion. Jägermeister-ravaged minds blown by the concept of a double decker train. But they were there. We were there. On our way. Not just to a game. But a Champions League game. Against Dortmund. Coming up against the ‘yellow wall’ under the lights.

This was it.

Arriving in the city was probably a familiar experience for most of the Toon Army who had landed in gritty, one club city. Where a love of football doesn’t just reflect part of an individual’s identity but is the overpowering civic identity. Step out the station and BOOM. BVB flags, a club shop, black and yellow everywhere. Instant kinship.

And it didn’t take long for Newcastle fans to plant their flag. By 10am the main square was overwhelmingly black and white. This was a weekday and so it’s not totally unimaginable that most Dortmund fans had things called…jobs (and the idea of a €6 pints, which I assume would make most Germans white with shock), but for now this might as well have been the Bigg Market. Dire Straits, Sam Fender and even a bit of Jimmy Nail blasted out from loudspeakers.

As the day passed, bars filled to the brim and the air become heavy with Geordie songs which, belted out and seemed to balloon above your head in big bubble letters.

Initially, I’d just planned to go to Germany, have a drink and claim a very thin slice of a rarely dreamed of European adventure. I’d imagined joining the skin-fade lads in the pub reminiscing about the (still not too distant) old days of Lee Bowyer and Kieran Dier throwing punches at each other in midfield.

We’d ramble on about how birthday parties when you were 10 at Metro Land could never be topped (if you don’t know it, google it). But I met up with someone I knew from social media, he just happened have a friend who was a BVB member and found me a ticket on the resale. Did I want it even though it was with the home fans? Yes. Obviously! I now had the chance to go, to see a Champions League match live in person with my point and shoot camera fully loaded.

Suddenly, after a few beers outside the stadium, it was time to make our way into the colossal rabbit warren that is Signal Iduna Park.

Winding our way up, then down, then along the terraces, I have no shame admitting that I was a bit emotional. I wasn’t just proud because my team was there but was stood, frozen and in utter awe of the atmosphere.

The Sud stand with its 25,000-capacity all standing, all jumping, all singing mass of people. The ‘yellow wall’. Architecturally violent. Jutting up from pitch level to the heavens, gradually evaporating into the floodlit fog. And cascading down, unfurling flags as it went, an all-consuming wall of noise.

I was very ready (particularly as an away fan) to pass damning judgment on the Dortmund atmosphere. To dismiss it as one of football’s over-rated myths. Anyone that knows me will know that I’m frankly a very glum human. But even as someone that tuts at Christmas cheer and slowly claps at weddings, I can’t deny that Dortmund under the lights on a Champions League night, is special.

As bad as the result might have been for Newcastle, every Geordie I spoke to left a little bit more black and yellow. A ticket to the game had cost £18. And that’s incredible value even if you do lose 2-0.