City of Spires

I'm one of the lucky ones.

I will be flying to Prague tomorrow, from Stansted airport via Easyjet no less.

Can't wait to return to the scene of my first European venture with Villa: the mighty Marila Pribram in the InterToto Cup.

The date: July 2000. The score: 0-0. And a red card to current youth coach Mark Delaney to boot.

Not to worry, Villa polished the Czechs off easily at Villa Park before falling to Celta Vigo.

Back then we (I mean the press aswell as the fans) expected European nights every season.

But it was sadly not to be. The nest season I was despatched to Slaven Belupo, Rennais, Basel and Varteks, and the following year Zurich and Lille.

I was even sent to Lisbon to cover David Ginola's debut.

Then of course as quickly as it all started, it was all over. Who'd have thought that home defeat to Lille would mark the last game for six years in Europe?

All would be good memories if I could remember a single thing about those matches other than the fact that the company was good, the nights were sometimes long and the beer ridiculously cheap. (You could go out with 50 pence and still come back with change).

That first trip to Prague will forever live in the memory.

I was with a small group of English reporters who sneaked out late one night and could not find a damn thing open near the hotel.

Just when we were about to give up and head back for an early night we stumbled upon what can only be described as a working men's club.

But it was open, and serving pints. Five or so were ordered and it came to a little under a pound. One pound. We drank like thirsty camels in a particularly hot desert.

(I think Prague will have cottoned on to the English by now. I've heard we might be accepted to pay as much as a pound a pint each this week).

Anyway, that night eight years ago was as good as you could ever imagine.

With only local hack Ged and Alex from the Villa web-site (who still possesses a remarkable resemblance to Alan McInally) now standing we stumbled upon a loud and bright club. The rest is history.

There is the tale of a flannel placed precariously over the privates and thus sparing the blushes of a journalist who had fallen asleep on his bed just as six foot tall Kathy L Fortmann, an attractive American brunette, wandered in to say hello.

He knows who he is. The flannel, it has to be said, was clean but was extremely small.

By this time of course I had made my excuses and left.