At 4am on a Saturday morning, the idea of travelling across Europe suddenly lost its appeal. Drunk students were still stumbling around central Southampton and the prospect of getting to Poznan, in Eastern Poland, via Gatwick and Berlin seemed quite frankly too much to contemplate for this hour of the morning.

Still, once on board the plane, the sheer number of green shirts instantly marked it out as one of the more special trips. Mind you, watching a surprisingly high number of people swigging on Stella at 6am was a bit much for my tired eyes. The issue was less the time but more the fact any one would brave a half dozen cans of Stella 4.

Once finally at Berlin’s central train station, it looked less like a football match and more a European invasion by the Irish. Perhaps not the most appropriate thing to say about the German capital, but hey.

A trio of Dublin girls explained to me they could never understand women who say they can never find a man. Over a pint in Berlin HBF, they said if you want to find a man, just go to a football tournament – men from Italy, Spain wherever you fancied. “Look around ya, it’s a man fest” said one of the young ladies, using language that would make Molly Malone, Dublin’s ‘tart with the cart’, blush.

Still, she was right.

Next up was the rush for the platform. After five hours hanging around a train station in the German sun, a fair number of Irish were fairly desperate to get on the move to Poznan. The platform was heaving with fans singing “We all dream of a team of Gary Breens” and other traditional ditties. The on looking German police looked more confused than anything.

Anyways, on the train, it was a scene more reminiscent of a railway in Mumbai than Berlin, with it packed to the rafters. Opposite me was a young lad who had flown from Perth in Australia, via China and Paris to Berlin, all within the previous 30 hours. Considering that, he was in fairly decent form. To my right were a couple of lads who had enjoyed a night taking in Berlin’s nightlife and were now looking forward to a fortnight in a campervan with some mates who they missed after going clubbing instead.

Throw in another dozen Irish in a carriage meant for eight, a few crates of beer and a three ride, well there was only one thing that was ever going to happen – a singsong. Joxer goes to Poland, a reworking of Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start the Fire and God knows what else were all belted out before we pulled in to Poznan.

And what a sight that was. The green swamped off the train, nearly sweeping away the local TV crew.

Poland had no idea what it had let itself in for.

[youtube width=”640″ height=”480″]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GWayMKO_Vc[/youtube]