OK, just for Guy - here is the Dunderhead version of the Troyes experience...

As a johnny-come-lately Glory Hunter, I had less than a week to make my arrangements for Troyes. You all saw my whingeing on list about the ticket office lottery for serial winners, so it was a surprise to get a call on the Wednesday before from the TO offering me an official ticket.

Dunderhead Enterprises (European Tours) Inc immediately stepped up a gear and hit the usual web-sites for accommodation, as well as the links posted to the list. After much telephoning, a la Franglais - with the emphasis on the anglais - and e-mailing, I eventually scored a couple of nights at the Troyes Airport Novotel. I had already decided that this trip was going to be a leisurely motoring holiday, accompanied by my carer (aka Margaret, Madame Dunderhead, long-standing ManUre fan and Leeds-hater) so we booked for our first trip on Le Shuttle.

At that point, Damian kindly invited us to stay with him and Sue at Pussay. He also asked me if I would like to play footy for Pussay as they had re-arranged a match because the Lards had wimped out of the proposed international. I quickly altered our travel plans and we set off for Pussay.

Pussay is a charming little farming village between Paris and Orleans. We were made extremely welcome by Damian and his family and we enjoyed our little insight into real village life. I haven't read Peter Mayle's popular books but I'd bet that Damian could do a Jeffrey Archer one of these days.

The Pussay veterans' team take their football very, very seriously and understand the importance of a proper warm-up for an athlete to perform. Without betraying any sporting confidences, I can reveal that the Pussay warm-up is based on a mixture of pastis and water, taken copiously and internally. Mind you it was a chilly night.

My services were not required, mercifully, as the Pussay squad for the match had about twenty willing players, including Pierrot - the Lards ringer from WorldspaceNet. This was good grass-roots football played in the true spirit (Ricard probably) of the game. An informal approach to frequent substitution meant that the veterans could come and go from the game at will, taking ten minutes off for a breather, a fag or whatever.

The opposing team Etampes were trying to be extremely organised and professional. Consequently, I don't think that they got the same satisfaction as the Pussay players. Mind you half a bottle of pastis could be a mellowing influence ;)

I thought the final score was 9-2 to Etampes but Damian assured me that it was only 7-3. Still I enjoyed the little Gallic differences - the players were less vociferous than Brits, apparently in French Senior Amateur football the players are not supposed to call for the ball and must not shout to each other. My favourite moments were these:

A late tackle almost resulted in a bout of fisticuffs - it was more like Jacques Tati versus Marcel Marceau than Tyson versus Bruno though.

As a concession to the veteran status of the teams, the match consisted of two halves of only 40 minutes. However, in the 55th minute of the second half, the linesman on the far side of the pitch gave up hope of a final whistle and trudged his way across the half-way line to the dressing room. On his way past the "referee" he obviously explained his actions but the "referee" wasn't too bothered as he was deep in conversation on his mobile at the time!

Eventually, the whistle went and the teams retired. Damian re-appeared from the changing room with a beer for me - good lad - and went back to get changed. About ten minutes later he invited me to join the team for a drink in the changing room. Forget corporate hospitality, this is how to do it - there was an informal assortment of Ricard, whisky, beer and savoury nibbles - all in generous proportions. Then after a few bracers, we moved into the home dressing room for a snack - full charcuterie service and a case of wine. Hmm... I was enjoying this trip. Especially when the Pussay team demonstrated their party-piece for me - a word perfect collective rendition, in English, of "Shit on the Villa" - a souvenir of their trip to Coventry a couple of years ago. I tried to extend their repertoire to "stand up if you hate ManU" to no avail.

So a very pleasant hour or two in the company of the Pussay veterans.

Back to chez Damian for a well-earned kip and a reunion with my very understanding wife.

After a hearty breakfast we bade our farewells to our hosts and began our cross country drive to Troyes. We arrived at the Novotel just as the Pieman and Jacob Burns were coming down the hotel steps. I wished Mark the best of luck and he was his usual very friendly self. I hope he gives Kewell a few pointers on the Quantas shuttle this week.

So into the chaos that was reception. The Novotel was the team hotel and also the choice of many fans. Michael Dubery was chatting nonchalantly to a couple of fans. Eirik Bakke was wandering round with his customary wrinkled brow - he always looks to me like he has been startled from a very frightening dream. Nigel Martyn was doing his Cheshire Cat (no reference to Bonetti intended) impressions and making all the time in the world for autographs and photographs.

Meanwhile, most of the team were relaxing on the restaurant terrace, soaking up the November sun.

The receptionist told us that our room was not quite ready and that it might be ready soon, although she did not say this in a very convincing way. So we retired to the bar for a coffee. Honestly.

After we had eventually checked in, we asked for a taxi into town. This was not quite as easy as you would expect from an "airport" hotel. Perhaps we might like to walk into town instead? suggested the good lady on reception when the only known taxi number in Troyes failed to answer within five rings. Perhaps not, I replied, knowing that it was at least three miles and how much damage that little walk might do in the matrimonial goodwill department. So we persisted until they managed to find another taxi service, that "might" arrive soon. Eventually a taxi did arrive so we were spared what turned out to be at least five miles. As it turned out, this was a pleasure deferred rather than denied.

Almost as soon as we got out of our cab, I was accosted by a certain Mr Dellow and friends who had spied me from the vantage point in a bar. At the time I was desperately checking my pockets for my mobile, which I thought I had lost. Alan and chums were very concerned about this because they thought that I couldn't find the match tickets I was supposed to pass on from Damian. No problem - I had the tickets but not my mobile, which I had left on top of the TV in the hotel bedroom. At least I hadn't picked up the TV remote instead, that would have been foolish.

I reckoned that decorum might progressively deteriorate into debauchery as the afternoon wore on so Margaret and I retired to a local restaurant for a spot of Lunch, rejoining the List meet an hour or so later. Damian and the Pussay guys had arrived so I queued at the bar to get a round of drinks in. After 15 minutes, the manageress explained, in her best French, to the guy in front of me that the police had asked her to close the bar immediately. Obviously unimpressed, the lad from Starbeck responded with "two pints please luv." The original message was repeated by the land-lady. Harrogate's finest looked quizzically at her and said "I don't understand luv, can I have a couple of pints please?" I translated for him and pointed out, in French, that we had been queuing for about 20 minutes. This then brought about a change of tack. It seemed now that the pub had no beer (remember Slim Dusty's top ten hit from the 1960's anyone?) and there was a little pantomime with the beer taps.

Time for a tactical withdrawal. We took our thirst elsewhere, assisted by Damian and his native trackers. We moved on to a very amenable bar close to the Cathedral and the various elements of the list contingent were alerted by mobile calls to all and sundry. For the next hour or two, there were frantic exchanges between the bar, next to the Cathedral remember, and lost listers, close to the Abbey, or another larger Church. Doh - shouldn't be let out alone if they can't tell the difference between an Abbey and a Cathedral ;)

The cocktail hour soon passed and I escorted my good lady safely to a taxi (which must have been visiting Troyes from another planet because it was visible). I rejoined the throng in the bar and rediscovered the joyful exuberance of the Leeds faithful on tour. As I re-entered the bar, there was a Robert Plant wannabe, called Tom, delighting the occupants of a side-room with a working demonstration of his private parts, having undone his zip for the purpose. One of his audience was a dead-spit of the Rhinestone Cowboy, probably on a spying mission for Harrogate Town.

Next, the two toilet cubicles adjoining the bar were a popular destination and an orderly queue ensued. One cheeky chappy couldn't wait so did his John Brauns impression in the sink nearby. Not a good move for the entente cordiale methinks.

We had a good sing-song in the bar though and I even instigated an appropriate rendition of "we're the best behaved supporters in the land (when we win...)" somebody next to me said that they hadn't heard that for years. I must be getting old. Old enough to know better, obviously.

On to the ground itself. Where we found that everyone in the lower tier had to go through a different entrance, with the home supporters. No problemo, apart from the very intimate body searches by the CRS proctologists. Amused myself with an impromptu "Bin Laden is a Leeds fan, nah, nah, nah."

Oops - I forgot to mention Mike Sewell's suggestion for the list chant for the night: "You've got Dom Perignon, we've got Dom Matteo..." sounds good to me.

Anyway, having crossed the cordon bleu, we arrived in the ground, only after passing through another search party, arriving at, surprise, surprise, the entrance we would have reached if we had been allowed to go with the main body of leeds ticket holders. Couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery.

Inside the ground. No stewards, at all. Everyone had their own seat to stand on, very similar seats to the San Siro BTW. I decided that it was a good idea to stick close to Alan Dellow (ooer Missus) so that I would have a better than 50:50 chance of finding my way back to the Novotel after the game. Couldn't see Alan, or any other listers for that matter, in the lower tier so at half-time I went up to the upper tier and found Dellow and Wiggy. We couldn't work out if the one-man WATCOE in the Troyes main stand was Jabba or not. It was.

As the game restarted I went to find a vacant seat/ stand and found a spot next to someone I had last spoken to in the check-in queue at Malpensa last November. So I spent the second half chatting with this guy and then at the final whistle caught up with Alan Dellow. We walked back into town, only to find that our pre-match bar was over-subscribed and not taking any new punters. Time for a kebab, in the company of Thirkers and Lucy. Thirkers on best behaviour and looking after Lucy as a very caring parent.

On the way back from the ground, Dellow had shouted across the street to my second-half neighbour, who unknown to me was Pete Southam. Small world innit.

Anyway, I digress. After our kebab we all agreed to go back to the hotel for a beer or two, in case it was difficult getting a taxi in the early hours. Fools that we were. It was not difficult, it was completely impossible. Troyes was the first European town that I have ever visited without any visible taxis.

We decided that the station was our best bet. Fools. The location of the railway station was a closely guarded secret. An ostensibly helpful map was deliberately misleading. Consequently my finely honed mapreading skills were frustrated, as were my assorted walking companions. Mind you, when we realised that we were in the wrong direction, one of our number instantly observed that he knew where the station was. Thanks, pal.

Time to ask for directions. I approached a night security patrol, complete with muzzled Alsation, and asked, in French, "ou est la gare s'il vous plait?" he replied in English "I don't speak English" Very hospitable les grenouiles, n'est pas?

To cut a long story short, we ended up walking back to the hotel. At least that was our intention. A stray taxi passed us at the 50 minute point and offered to make two trips so that the eight of us could get back. I went in the first round and that was the end of my "list" trip to Troyes.

Nothing more to report, except perhaps for the complete lack of security at the Calais terminal for the Eurotunnel. Our passports were not checked. The French customs lady enquired if we had any pets with us. My wife stopped me physically when I replied, only the two Afghans in the boot...

Fin

Dunderhead

P.S. can I have the last ninety minutes of my life back now please?