FC København: Football's greatest commute

Words: Sam McArdle

Images: Sam McArdle

If chic is what you are after, then you can’t go too far wrong with Scandinavia. And if Scandinavian chic is what you are looking to dive headfirst into, then Copenhagen is really the only option.

Even if you have not managed to make the trip yourself, you have probably seen pictures of Parken, and it might look like a brash concrete monster. A grey and shapeless cube. Well, you wouldn’t be too far wrong. But from almost any direction - by subway, ferry, bike or foot - it’s the area around the stadium that makes a trip to a FC København one of football’s greatest commutes.

Lying in the shadows of the imposing south stand are the charmingly named Brumleby Houses. Dating back to 1854, the four rows of two-storey terraced houses form one of the earliest examples of social housing in Denmark. It’s really quite surreal to peel off from the match day rat race, dart through a dense hedge and find yourself on a quiet and serene cul-de-sac. Another world, itself seemingly unchanged, dwarfed by its much younger, much bigger brother – Parken.

I stumbled back out and onto the Øster Allé. This is the main street that runs to the eastern side of Parken and is where you are most likely to see the pre-match madness (which in this case mainly consists of attractive blonde people cycling past, whistling contently to themselves). Even here, you aren’t more then 200 steps away from open green spaces, a football pitch or a pop-up bar.

Cross the street and you are swallowed up by Fælledparken, the biggest urban green space in Denmark. On this summer’s night, groups of fans sit down, proudly clad in the classic white shirt of FC København. It’s a design that has remained essentially unchanged for generations and so it really doesn’t matter too much which edition you choose to wear. But is it really an FC København, kit if it doesn’t have Carlsberg on the front?

©Sam McArdle (Stoppage Time Winner)/ Terrace Edition. FC København.

If like me, groundhopping is your thing, then the girl next door offer the only excuse you need to go at all. While there is no doubt that Parken wins the battle for space and international acclaim, the prize for most beautiful ground must surely go to the neighbouring Østerbro Stadium. Opened in 1913 following Danish footballing success at the 1908 and 1912 Olympic games, it’s blessed with a fantastic red brick athletics hall on one side and a curvaceous concrete football stand on the other.

Playing second fiddle to Copenhagen’s ‘New Firm’ teams of FC København and Brøndby in a sporting sense might be nothing new to current tenant B.93, I urge you with everything I am to go to a match here if the fixture lists allow.

Put any of these pre-match locations in the UK I’m sure they’d be littered with empty bottles of MD 20/20 while bright orange Sainsburys bags would lay hanging from nearby branches. But obviously this isn’t the UK. This is Denmark on a summer’s night, and things just seem to work out somehow.

A warning. The fairytale charms of Copenhagen could make you almost forget that you are there to watch a football match. And after all, I was there to watch two tremendously Nordic teams that I knew nothing about and couldn’t spell or pronounce, battle it out in a Champions League qualifier.

How much more invested could a person get! Time for FC København vs Breiðablik.

What unfolded over the next 90-plus-minutes was nothing short of a festival of football and enough to grab anyone by the heart strings and not let go for a while. Without a doubt FC København have one of the most tenacious and vocal ultras groups in the European game. A screaming, bouncing, confetti ladened, pyro waving wall of noise. And after a nervy start with FC København going 1-0 down on the night, the fans efforts seemed to be heard. By one player more than most.

It’s probably fair to say that this club is not a stranger to emerging talent. And in the Icelandic Orri Óskarsson they seem to have struck gold. Wherever you looked he was there.

But his story, and subsequent hat-trick amounted to near-Hamlet levels of betrayal and treachery. He was given his senior debut (by his own Dad) at the age of 13. While Óskarsson had made the leap over the sea to Denmark, his father had stayed to manage in Iceland, where he had gone on to manage Breiðablik. And his three (and it has to be said, beautiful strikes) had battered his own father out the Champions League. Ouch. Rough that.

Nine goals later and with my senses dented by a beautiful combination of the noise created by the ‘Sektion 12’ ultras along with several reasonably (by Danish standards) priced pints, it was time to rejoin the football commute back to the centre of town. My night of jumping on the concrete terraces of Parken and drinking in the tree lined Fælledparken was over.

The summer rain started to fall, and the balmy day gave way to a stormy night. All I had left to remember my night in the heart of Nordic-cool was a stomach full of hotdogs and a roll of CineStill 400 film in my dampening coat pocket.

Perfect.