Brendan Gallagher: To Siberia with Keeef Woodie, Dolly, yoga and a hint of vodka

It was the strangest rugby trip of my life and also, in many ways, the most memorable despite chronic jet lag, sleep deprivation and a year’s ration of vodka in one chaotic weekend. I am talking about an extraordinary visit to Krasnoyarsk in deepest Siberia where Russia tend to stage their most important World Cup qualifiers.
Next Saturday they entertain Zimbabwe in their World Cup repechage first leg encounter with Nigel Owens officiating and I’ve already tweeted Nigel to warn him it is factor-50 he will be needing not his winter thermals. Summer lasts for about a month in Siberia but when it arrives it’s like stepping into a furnace.
My visit came in 2002 when Ireland, by way of punishment for messing up against Argentina in the 1999 World Cup quarter-final play-offs, had to contest a 2003 World Cup European qualifying group with Georgia and Russia. Russia immediately opted to stage their home match against the Irish in Krasnoyarsk which in those pre-Google times took me ten minutes to locate, about 200 miles north of Outer Mongolia, 200 miles south of the infamous gulags locality and much nearer Vladivostok and the Pacific Ocean than Europe.
No matter, it was Russia’s call and it was by all accounts a major rugby stronghold with two of Russia’s eight professional clubs based there, Krasny Yar and Yenisei-STM. One north of the giant River Yenisei and the other south.
Initially my inclination was to fulfil a lifetime ambition and to travel via the Trans-Siberian Railway but the round-trip would take the best part of ten days which seemed a tad excessive for 80 minutes rugby. The IRU, mindful that they were required to play Georgia back in Dublin six days later, came to the same conclusion and decided to charter a jet – nearing its sell-by date judging from the cigarette singed broken seats – to fly to Moscow and then onwards into the unknown. On reaching the capital Russian co-pilots, not to mention accompanying KGB officers, basically took over and flew the aircraft for nearly six hours eastwards across forbidden lands containing a number of military installations. Everything had a delightful Cold War-ish whiff.

The IRU also took a very curious, far reaching and hitherto never repeated decision. This was going to be a smash and grab raid. They were going to leave Dublin early Thursday morning and be back in time for the All Ireland final between Armagh and Kerry at Croke Park on the Sunday afternoon. So excessive was the distance yet so short was the turnaround that, despite flying across seven or was it eight time zones, the entire party was going to stay on Dublin time for the duration. Just as you can apparently cheat altitude by flying in an out of your elevated venue in 48 hours, Ireland were going to cheat jet lag, by basically pretending they were still in Dublin 4. That was the theory but one thing was for certain, to function as a pressman we had to mimic their hours and live in the twilight zone.
The flight out seemed endless even if, as the sole occupants, we were free to wander around the scruffy old plane much as we wished. A couple of the Ireland team were prone to back spasms and Dennis Hickie spent virtually the entire trip curling himself tightly into a ball and rolling up and down the aisle dodging the refreshments trolley.
Occasionally he would wander down to the rear toilets area – the press were naturally seated there – and found some space to go through his yoga routine. It was downward dog and cobra all the way to Moscow and beyond for the Leinster wing.
There was a lengthy delay at Moscow’s military airport where our bags were painstakingly off-loaded only to be immediately checked back into the same plane. Time dragged and Ireland went through their lineout drills endlessly in the empty arrivals hall before eventually we flew into the gathering night and arrived at the homely Yemelyanovo Airport, 30km outside Krasnoyarsk, at 2am local time.
OK, perhaps stepping onto Siberian soil wasn’t quite the Beatles landing at JFK but seven or eight cameras crews immediately charged the plane steps with just one interviewee in mind. “Where is Keeef Woodie, we must talk wif Keeef Woodie”
‘Fester’, clearly some sort of Russian cult figure, made himself known and proceeded to talk for Ireland and while tumblers of refreshing iced vodka were handed out to camp followers with no more fuss than a physio dispensing essential isotonic drinks. “You are in Siberia now, not Russia,” we were assured with pride.
One of the TV crews at the back of the lengthening ‘Keeef Woodie’ queue spotted my Press accreditation and asked in impressively good English if I would agree to be interviewed. I graciously agreed and gathered my thoughts about Russian Rugby, the worldwide community of rugby, the sheer unexpected pleasure of finding myself in Krasnoyarsk on this splendid World Cup occasion blessed by such glorious hot weather. Camera rolling? Go.
“And now we are talking to Gallagher Brendan, rugby journalist. Gallagher Brendan, please tell me about Keeef Woodie.” There was only one show in town.

It was nearly 6am local time, daylight was breaking and breakfast smells were emanating from the kitchen by the time we finished checking into our very decent hotel. But of course it was only 10pm Thursday night back in Dublin so, mindful of our instructions to stay on Irish time, it was our sworn duty to seek out a quiet nightcap and kick back a little after a long and eventful day. Which we did.
And so the bizarre experiment in time manipulation began. Bed at 8am, sleep and ‘breakfast’ at 3pm; Ireland’s morning press conference at 5pm, Russia’s lunchtime presser 8pm, light lunch 11pm. By now the trip was getting seriously weird and the almost perpetual twilight of high summer didn’t help along with locals who seemed insomniacs to a man. Cramming it all in before the onset of endless winter no doubt.
The Press corps lost the plot big time Friday night, no question. Not wanting to peak too soon it was well past midnight – early evening Dublin time – wide-eyed and soon to be legless, we strode forth into Krasnoyarsk’s lively city centre for a modest Friday night on tour. Luckily – or unluckily – many of the bars in Krasnoyarsk stay open 24 hours of the day in summer, the place was buzzing and the entire strip we happened upon consisted of country and western bars. We might as well have been in Memphis and many of the locals clearly go the whole hog on Friday nights donning the full Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton regalia.
We gave it a minor belt and breakfast was long finished when we returned to the hotel, justifying our excesses by the comforting thought it had only just gone 1am in Dublin. Early night, deep blissful sleep. Alarm clock. Sun low in the sky, What the? Panic. Jasus the bloody match was kicking off in an hour. Sprint down to the ground on an island in the middle of the huge Yenisei river, where a colourful 20,000 crowd were just finishing their al fresco picnics and beers, all wearing the colours of the two local clubs or Russian red. A thoroughly heartwarming rugby scene. The rumours were true.
Before the game I had spoken to Kevin Moloney, then the head of Guinness in Russia: “I always look on Krasnoyarsk as the Limerick of Russia,” he insisted. “In many ways it’s the only true rugby city in Russia, where rugby is truly the No.1 sport. Rugby is the main sport in the local papers and rugby dominated the bar-room talk.
We were just in time, though, because a few minutes after arriving the partying crowd virtually stopped eating and drinking as one and marched into the ground. In Krasnoyarsk the massive electronic steel gates slide shut ten minutes before kick-off as the team run out for the anthems and don’t open again until half-time. It doesn’t do to indulge in a late Dublin-style walk-up.
The Russians were a rugged bunch up front – we later discovered two of their pack were South African ringers or certainly the paperwork for their Russian grandparents was never found – but Ireland were in steely mood and finished off a thoroughly professional job, 35-3. Job done and time for a vodka fuelled tour of the sights and watering holes for the squad with their generous hosts.
One or two – no names no pack drill – were treated to a high-speed drive to Krasnoyarsk 26 the fabled underground city 50km north of Krasnoyarsk proper which was one of their main nuclear sites and arsenals during the Cold War and where the huge underground caverns, many empty and derelict, house hundreds of mothballed aircraft. There are hectares of levelled ground to spare and the some of the empty “hangers” made perfect training areas with their own constant micro climate while winter and minus 50 degree temperatures raged above ground. Both Krasnoyarsk teams train there when arctic weather descends on the area.
The vodka was sensational and it was a dishevelled party that gathered at the airport early on Sunday morning. Ireland centre Rob Henderson had taken to playing his guitar and belting out some Bob Dylan and Oasis dirges and a number of locals, hardly flush you would guess, started to take pity on the struggling troubadour and throw roubles in his direction. Hendo left Siberia quite a wealthy man.
The daytime return flight across Siberia was extraordinary. For three hours or so you fly across a green ocean, a vista broken up occasionally by a long winding road leading to a hill-top clearing where military installations and radar domes glisten.
It was all rather lost, however, on Keith Wood who had badly damaged a bone in his neck the previous day and was high as a kite on painkillers and muscle relaxants designed to keep him going until he could reach London for an operation.
Ignorant of his plight and what planet he was on I approached ‘Keeef Woodie’ for a brief follow-up interview and he proceed to talk nonstop for ten minutes about Killaloe Castle and Brian Borru, king of the Irish. Assuming he had been on the vodka I made my excuses and left and returned to my seat, hurdling over Hickie doing his downward bloody dog and Brian O’Driscoll stretching tight hamstrings.
There was the cruellest sting to this tale. Despite everything we arrived back pretty much on time and, being a humble charter, were taxied out to the corner of Dublin airport where we proceeded to wait, and wait and the wait some more, cooped up in the plane.
Sure didn’t we know it was the All-Ireland final and the bus drivers were so busy watching it on TV that none could be found for the time being. One of the Ulster guys fished out a radio and for a while we all crowded around listening but by the end most of us were asleep.
We might have been clever dicks and never left Dublin time but Krasnoyarsk had the last laugh. Back in Siberia it was early Monday and to a man we were totally bladdered. Never again, but what a trip.
Three days later I received a phone call from our Krasnoyarsk hotel. My NUJ card had been found in the lobby, where could they post it onto? I thanked them kindly and exchanged a few pleasantries. Did they still have the glorious sunshine? There was a philosophical laugh at the end of the line. “No, the snow has arrived today.” Summer ended on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday was autumn and now they were straight into winter. Nigel Owens be warned. Perhaps you should pack those thermals after all.
*This article was first published in The Rugby Paper on July 27.