Euro 2008

Basel - 490 miles travelled

Sunday morning just after 10 o'clock and I am stood outside Basel railway station staring up at the leaden sky, feeling ever so slightly lethargic.

"Hey Paul, fancy a beer or something?" said Roy, who appeared out of nowhere. And so began my day with four Scots from Livingston.

Roy, brother Davey, Fred and his son Matt provided an object lesson in popularity, organisation and enjoyment.

Popularity because the positively mesmersing effect of a kilt on a sizeable gathering of Dutchmen, or indeed any other nation you care to mention, cannot be underestimated.

Organisation because Roy, head of the group's travel committee, in fact the only member of it, has laminated the details of every stop on their tour of Switzerland in case anyone gets lost when a little worse for wear.

Roy, who got in touch to suggest that I might like to meet him and his mates, has tried absolutely everything to get hold of some tickets for Euro 2008. He eventually struck gold through a ballot in France. His reward? Two tickets for the match between the French and the Romanians.

And enjoyable because we are talking about four fellas who know how to have a good time.

Take, for example, Livingston taxi driver Fred, the joker of the pack.

"When are you lot here until, Fred?"

"No idea, ask Roy. What day is it anyway?"

Fred doesn't stand very tall but with his constant one-liners, practical jokes, Hawaiian shirt and tartan trousers he certainly packs a punch.

The four of them, three fast approaching the big 50, are youth hostelling their way around the country.

I can only imagine the sheer horror experienced by one unsuspecting backpacker when the Scottish quartet arrived back at their hostel in Basel at 2am on Saturday to discover a fellow guest fast asleep on the top bunk.

"Youse alright, pal?" Fred asked the sleeper.

The man in question, who did not say a word in response, was last seen in the corridor putting on his clothes while Fred ran around with a sheet over his head pretending to be a ghost.

Roy, a lover of Falkirk, Scotland and the beautiful game in general, is suffering for his patriotic refusal to take off his kilt.

At one point he could be heard responding to questions about the practical value of wearing a kilt with the line: "The worst thing is the chafed thighs. That's why I have the Vaseline on me." You can only imagine the varied and rich material this afforded Fred.

Fred, incidentally, used to play football with Gordon Strachan as a youngster - their respective grandparents lived next door to each other - and his mother knew Sean Connery.

And if you ask him whether there has been anyone famous in his cab you had better make sure you have time on your hands. It is with utter disbelief that Fred recounts the time Will Young asked everyone in the taxi with him to put in a pound to cover the fare.

The boys are operating a one-stop strategy - Basel, Berne, Zurich and Geneva in the space of four days - and are a great advert for British football.

Friendly, welcoming and warm, they relish the atmosphere and the opportunity to laugh and joke with other nationalities.

On the train from Basel to Berne on Sunday morning, the constant wisecracking had ignited the subdued atmosphere. Matt wondered whether to buy a toblerone. After his Dad snatched it from his hand and snapped it in two, he had little choice.

I left the boys at Berne station to find my hotel. They headed to the famous bear pits. Except several of them thought Roy had been talking about beers not bears and were less than thrilled to see an actual grizzly.

In truth, I stalled meeting them for as long as I could, fearing the consequences of the sort of hangovers most of them were sporting when I first saw them.

We met at the fan zone later in the afternoon and marvelled at the sight of all the orange as the Dutch fans hit town ahead of their game with Italy on Monday. And it soon transpired that I had little to worry about.

Roy, for example, does not like to get too smashed. According to his brother, Roy announced at the start of his stag do that he could not get too drunk because he wanted to watch a junior football match early the next day.

And serious drinking was undermined by a general dissatisfaction with the official beer of Euro 2008.

Having said that, I bade farewell to my new Scottish friends at a very modest hour, as soon as the Germany versus Poland match finished.

I felt as though I had known them for longer than one day and a part of me would like to have taken Roy up on his offer of the spare bed at the hostel.

But then the prospect of having to last the rest of the night watching Fred run around with a sheet over his head persuaded me that I should beat a modest retreat to my hotel.

Later, as I lay in bed in my room, I received a text from Roy.

"I'm getting too old for this game," it said.