I have a number of reasons for enjoying football in the lower reaches of domestic pyramids across the world, not least because they're generally more affordable. One of my real pet hates however, and it seems to come solely from the English Football League, is fan bases comparing their relative size to one another based on average attendances.
"Oh, Wigan United Rovers Borough & Friends only had an average gate of 12,000 last season, but we here at Portsmouth Albion of the Queen's state had an average gate of 13,652.7. By logic, Wigan must be tinpot".
Obviously, I've exaggerated that statement, give or take about 0.7 of a fan, but that's how I see it. It drives me round the bend, and for that reason, lower league, or non-league if you like, football appeals to me. The grounds aren't exactly the same as the rivals ground 25 miles down the road, I can stand, watch a game of football, chat with people, roll about laughing at a piss-poor full-back, and nobody really gives a toss.
It's no different in Norway, but the grounds are seemingly more scenic. The final football day of our Norwegian adventure was to feature two extremes, third tier side Ullern IF at their 'Ullern Kunstgress' abode, before Vålerenga and their ultras that evening, but that's a story for another blog.
"Oh, Wigan United Rovers Borough & Friends only had an average gate of 12,000 last season, but we here at Portsmouth Albion of the Queen's state had an average gate of 13,652.7. By logic, Wigan must be tinpot".
Obviously, I've exaggerated that statement, give or take about 0.7 of a fan, but that's how I see it. It drives me round the bend, and for that reason, lower league, or non-league if you like, football appeals to me. The grounds aren't exactly the same as the rivals ground 25 miles down the road, I can stand, watch a game of football, chat with people, roll about laughing at a piss-poor full-back, and nobody really gives a toss.
It's no different in Norway, but the grounds are seemingly more scenic. The final football day of our Norwegian adventure was to feature two extremes, third tier side Ullern IF at their 'Ullern Kunstgress' abode, before Vålerenga and their ultras that evening, but that's a story for another blog.
The beginning of our day's exploits began with beers in the hotel as it had done the day previous, planning out any potential alternatives or extra games that we might be able to fit in to our already hectic footballing schedule. It wasn't to be, and so we boarded the metro line and headed out to Bjørnsletta, passing through Majorstuen and Frigg's home on the way. |
As it so turned out, there is nothing in Bjørnsletta. Literally nothing, apart from houses, and I might be wrong, but I think I spotted a pizza place on the map later that evening. With trudge through the residential area completed, we decided we were't going to find anything, so went for a walk through the forest surrounding the ground before arriving into the ground itself to watch the warm up, and laugh at the 'keeper for his apparent inability to catch.
Let me just put it to you now, Ullern Kunstgress is stunning. I mean, it's definitely not bereft of beauty. Like most lower league grounds in Norway, and likely Scandinavia I'd expect, the pitch itself is only an artificial surface, but the rest of the ground is top notch. The main seated area is dug into the bottom of the hill, and like Rælingen, the whole place is embedded amongst trees, making for a really scenic place to watch a game of football. It's gorgeous. I have a lot of time for the place, and wasn't even slightly annoyed when we were tracked down ten minutes before kick-off by a woman insisting we should have paid admission to sit in the stand. The game may have been crap, but the ground was worth the 100Kr. I even got a souvenir 'programme' too!
I dare any of you to tell me that this place isn't beautiful. You'll receive a strongly worded response if you do, consider yourselves warned.
As aforementioned, the game itself was nothing short of crap. Not a great deal happened, and so Andy and I resorted to wetting ourselves laughing at the Ullern number 3. He didn't come across as much of a footballer, and the centre-back had us both in stitches for long periods of the game. I'm fairly certain the two blokes next to us just joined in with the hysterics simply because we wouldn't stop laughing.
Eventually, and having had Paul berate us about the inevitable 0-0, the game exploded into life. A 90th minute penalty gave the hosts the lead, before a further two goals in stoppage time gave the hosts a 3-0 win, and all three points. In true expertise cliché style, my insightful tactical analysis was to tell everybody that would listen that it wasn't a 3-0 game. In fairness, it wasn't.
As aforementioned, the game itself was nothing short of crap. Not a great deal happened, and so Andy and I resorted to wetting ourselves laughing at the Ullern number 3. He didn't come across as much of a footballer, and the centre-back had us both in stitches for long periods of the game. I'm fairly certain the two blokes next to us just joined in with the hysterics simply because we wouldn't stop laughing.
Eventually, and having had Paul berate us about the inevitable 0-0, the game exploded into life. A 90th minute penalty gave the hosts the lead, before a further two goals in stoppage time gave the hosts a 3-0 win, and all three points. In true expertise cliché style, my insightful tactical analysis was to tell everybody that would listen that it wasn't a 3-0 game. In fairness, it wasn't.
I can't go this post without mentioning the food on offer. Everybody's favourite Pølse, and the most brilliant thing ever, Vaffel. Waffle to you uncultured swines, and oh my was it nice. My half-time Vaffel wasn't enough, and so I went hunting for more after the full-time whistle to find some more. As I probably should have expected, they had no more to sell, and so I trudged away, tear in my eye. I was heartbroken.
That was, however, after we did something you would probably never get the chance to do in England. We played on the Kunstgress. Yes, you read that right. Seemingly, the thing to do lower down the pyramid in Norway is to walk on the pitch as and when you choose, so, following the crowds a little bit, we did. Behind the goal sat a football, and the phrase 'When in Bjørnsletta...' popped into the minds of both of us. After a cheeky panna, Andy made a darting run into the middle to meet my deliciously whipped cross, and flick home Gianfranco Zola style into the bottom corner. The Ullern fans erupted, and the whole place fell into a spine-tingling state of complete delirium. It didn't, but a boy can dream.
That was, however, after we did something you would probably never get the chance to do in England. We played on the Kunstgress. Yes, you read that right. Seemingly, the thing to do lower down the pyramid in Norway is to walk on the pitch as and when you choose, so, following the crowds a little bit, we did. Behind the goal sat a football, and the phrase 'When in Bjørnsletta...' popped into the minds of both of us. After a cheeky panna, Andy made a darting run into the middle to meet my deliciously whipped cross, and flick home Gianfranco Zola style into the bottom corner. The Ullern fans erupted, and the whole place fell into a spine-tingling state of complete delirium. It didn't, but a boy can dream.
I loved it at Ullern, and I might even go as far to say that it's on par with Rælingen. I'm still undecided. One thing I do know however, next time I'm in Bjørnsletta, I will return for some more Vaffel.