It’s been a few months since the 2018 World Cup, but my liver still remembers it vividly. So does my wardrobe — particularly the Strip Tees shirts I insisted on wearing through thick and thin, which is to say: heat, hangovers, and heartbreak. It’s hard to sum up Russia in a tidy sentence — partly because it’s massive, and partly because it managed to slap me silly with surprise on an almost hourly basis. Going in, I had all the usual preconceived ideas: stoic people, drab food, Soviet bleakness, and a healthy fear of local law enforcement. What I got instead was hospitality, style, charm, and a crash course in metro navigation delivered with a smile (and some impressive miming).
Jet lag, Uber and the smell of optimism
Let’s start with the arrival. The flight was long, the Uber driver was terrifying, and the air smelt faintly of possibility… or borscht. Hard to tell. After a solid 36 hours of sleepless travel and the kind of airport snacks that haunt dreams, I emerged blinking into Moscow’s daylight wearing my trusty Aaron Mooy tee. I was expecting hard stares. Grim faces. Maybe a babushka shaking her head at me for daring to smile in public. Instead, I was greeted by several friendly locals who helped us decipher the Moscow Metro map with a kindness I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t extend to someone confused on the Sydney train network. Cue stereotype destruction #1: the people.
Vassily and the Vodka Breathing Technique™️
Our first night in Moscow also happened to be the opening night of the World Cup — Russia vs Saudi Arabia. The atmosphere was electric. Every Russian was out in force — the good, the bad, and the beautifully intoxicated. Every tourist too, it seemed, had descended onto the streets, eager to be part of history. As we shimmied our way from the hotel down towards Red Square, we met amazing people from every corner of the planet — Colombians in luchador masks, Nigerians with drums, Peruvians handing out pisco shots to strangers. It was the kind of party that makes you believe in the power of sport to unite, or at least to temporarily forget your jet lag.
We eventually stumbled into a bar — not difficult, there’s one every twenty metres — and met Vassily. Vassily was the kind of man you assume played centre-back for Spartak Moscow in the 90s. Tough, gruff and unmistakable Russian. Instead, he told us he was a school teacher. And an amateur vodka sommelier. “Breathe in. Sip. Breathe out,” he instructed, like some kind of spiritual guide through the minefield of Russian drinking culture. “If you do it right, no headache.” Spoiler: I did not do it right. But I appreciated the effort, and the fact that he and his friends took time out of their night to show us around like we were long-lost cousins from the other side of the globe. Which, I suppose, in a World Cup year, we kind of were.
That night didn’t end with Vassily. A little while later, we met Ivan and David — a local couple holding court near Red Square. We were standing awkwardly in a crowd when they swooped in with perfect English, an infectious laugh, and a refusal to let us buy our own drinks. “You’re our guests!” they insisted — and before we knew it, we were on a full-blown tour of Moscow nightlife, bouncing from rooftop bars to basement dives to some place that may or may not have been someone’s kitchen.
They introduced us to barmen like old friends, demanded we try cherry vodka shots, and told hilarious, unfiltered stories about life in Moscow. It wasn’t just a good night out — it was one of the warmest welcomes I’ve ever experienced anywhere. By sunrise, we were exhausted, slightly broken, but deeply thankful — and pretty sure we’d just had a very real, very human moment in a country we’d been taught to fear. Another stereotype gone: Russians don’t just drink hard — they host even harder.
But not everything sat so comfortably
A few days later, we were in Saint Petersburg watching one of the Russian matches in what could only be described as the ultimate hipster bar. The kind of place with industrial lighting, ironic cocktails, and staff who looked like they’d stepped straight off a fashion shoot in Collingwood. It felt modern, progressive, cosmopolitan — until it really didn’t. Midway through the match, a chant erupted. Loud, passionate, full of energy. I turned to one of my new Russian mates and asked what it meant. He hesitated, then shrugged: “It’s… homophobic. Very common.” And just like that, the vibe crashed. I looked around. Everyone was still chanting. Laughing. Filming it for Instagram. The same people wearing Carhartt beanies and sipping on Moscow Mules. It was jarring — like watching someone in a Greenpeace t-shirt casually kick a puppy. It was a reminder, I guess, that progress doesn’t always run evenly. That even in the most outwardly modern spaces, some things are still dragging way behind. I didn’t say anything — honestly, I didn’t know how to — but it stuck with me. And still does. Russia surprised me in so many good ways. But that moment? That was one of the few that felt exactly like the stereotypes I’d been hoping to unlearn.
Strip Tees makes a scene in Red Square
Wearing Strip Tees gear in Russia was unexpectedly educational. I got stopped twice by curious fans who wanted to know who this bearded warrior on my shirt was styled like a Russian propaganda poster, complete with the title Supreme Leader. “You know, Mile the Central Coast legend who went on to captain Crystal Palace…” I explained. In my head it sounded helpful. In reality, I probably just confused him more. One guy looked at me like I’d claimed Matt Ryan was better than Lev Yashin.
And then there was the time I wore my Aaron Mooy “Mooyakovski” shirt — a tribute to both our midfield maestro and Soviet futurist art — while visiting, of all places, the Propaganda Museum in Saint Petersburg. I thought it was clever. The museum attendant stared at it for a good ten seconds, raised an eyebrow, and said something in Russian that I think translated to “bold choice.” I took it as a compliment. Possibly shouldn’t have. It became a weird kind of social pass. Other football fans spotted the shirts and smiled. Locals pointed and asked questions. One security guard squinted at the Super Timmy tee like it was a political statement. I considered explaining it was just art-meets-culture-meets-slightly-hipster-football-nerdery, but instead I smiled, nodded, and said “Australia,” like that explained everything. It usually did.
I wore my “Aaron Aaron Aaron / Mooy Mooy Mooy” shirt to a fan zone in Kazan. I humbly thought it was funny — a gentle, winking nod to Australia’s most dire chant. Bold green type on a white tee. A bit of football poetry meets daggy dad joke. Basically, if the Socceroos had a visual identity designed by a Bauhaus dropout after three beers, this was it. I was proud. I was ready. I was completely misunderstood. I walked in expecting nods of appreciation, maybe even a compliment from a hipster German fan. Instead, I got blank stares. One guy asked me if it was a reference to a techno DJ. Another asked if Mooy was a Russian beer. My personal favourite was the local who read it slowly and said, “Is this… a new religion?” In hindsight, maybe it was a bit much. But this shirt always made me laugh. A tribute to the simplest, purest form of Aussie terrace chanting. And a subtle flex that I, too, could repeat the same three words six times and call it fan culture. No one else laughed — but honestly, that just made it funnier.
The food didn’t suck
Now, I’m a food guy. I love it, I plan trips around it, and I fear it when it involves suspicious stews or grey meats. I went to Russia expecting to live off potatoes and regret. What I got was genuinely excellent food: beetroot salads that didn’t taste like punishment, soups that revived my soul, and dumplings I still think about more than some of my exes. We tried everything: Georgian khachapuri, smoked fish by the river, and more pickles than I ever thought possible. All washed down with vodka so smooth I questioned the previous 30 years of my drinking life.
And then there was Sochi. We arrived hungry and a little sunburnt, expecting the usual hearty Russian fare — but instead stumbled into a breezy seaside café serving the kind of Mediterranean spread you'd expect in Greece, not the Black Sea. Grilled eggplant, vibrant salads, tzatziki, olive oil drizzled like it was going out of fashion. I blinked at the waiter and double-checked the menu to make sure we hadn’t been teleported to Santorini. Turns out Sochi’s subtropical climate brings more than just beaches — it brings flavour. That meal alone justified the detour. I still dream about those tomatoes. Stereotype #2 obliterated: the food is good — dangerously good, and occasionally confusingly Mediterranean.
Champagne football (and champagne)
Oh, and then there was that Denmark game. Let me explain. My mate and I missed out on the first two rounds of World Cup ticket sales because we were too slow, too casual, and far too optimistic about our chances of scoring last-minute seats. So when the third round opened, we panicked — and in our desperation, ended up booking a hospitality package that promised “unparalleled access” and a “premium fan experience.” Translation: a stupidly expensive private box with more velvet rope than atmosphere.
So we did what any thrifty, football-mad Aussies would do — we got there the second the gates opened and proceeded to treat the entire experience like a game of Survivor: Buffet Island. The prawns were exquisite. The vodka? Free-flowing. At one point I found myself holding a glass of rosé while screaming “GET STUCK IN!” at the pitch. Confusing for everyone involved, especially me.
On the way in, we met Denmark’s answer to Fatboy Slim — a tall, leather-jacketed DJ who looked like he had his own Absolut vodka flavour. He and his crew turned out to be some of the warmest, weirdest, most loyal fans we met. We still follow each other on Instagram. I think one of them is now an MP?
And then came the game itself. Jedinak! Our bearded midfield enforcer, delivering from the penalty spot with all the calm of a man ordering coffee. We hugged Danes. The Danes hugged back. It was beautiful. Maybe even worth the $900 worth of canapés we consumed in a panic-fuelled attempt to justify the cost.
Moscow is basically a Bond set
I knew Moscow was big, but I wasn’t prepared for how big. Everything is supersized. The streets. The buildings. The history. The egos. But damn, it was gorgeous. Red Square was cinematic, the Kremlin was majestic, and St Basil’s looked like it had been designed by someone who got bored halfway through a Candy Crush level and decided to become an architect instead.
Beyond Moscow, things got even better. Saint Petersburg? Pure style. Like if Milan and Stockholm had a baby with access to tsar-level wealth. Kazan? A charming, football-mad, incredibly underrated city. Sochi? Surprisingly delightful. Samara? Okay, Samara was exactly what I expected: Soviet Lego set meets end-of-days brutalism. But even Samara had its charm — mostly the people who again, proved me wrong by being lovely. That’s stereotype #3 done: Russia’s cities are not grey, soulless places. They’re stunning, weird, and endlessly fascinating.
“Are we going to get arrested?”: A safety interlude
Let’s be real — the only thing scarier than running into opposition ultras is running into Russian police. Or so I thought. The reality? Pretty chill. Despite the chaos of tens of thousands of people descending on each host city, things ran (mostly) smoothly. Security was there, sure, but not in a way that made you feel like you’d accidentally wandered onto a movie set about Cold War espionage. If you looked carefully, there were snipers in Red Square, but the only time we really interacted with the police was when my mate tried to climb a statue in Samara. We got a stern look, but no batons. That’s a win in my book. Stereotype #4: safe as houses.
Trains, planes and nausea
The only part of the experience that did live up to the warnings? Russian taxis. Every ride was a gamble. One minute you’re cruising calmly, the next you’re being flung around like a ragdoll in a 1993 Lada going 140km/h through a roundabout. I still get flashbacks.
And then there was the infamous Sochi stadium incident. We’d booked a taxi from our hotel to the stadium for the big game against Peru. Spirits were high. We were wearing full kit with prematurely inflated kangaroos on our laps, buzzing on pre-match adrenaline, and ready for what we hoped was a classic. What we got instead was a wild-eyed driver with no English, a suspicious detour, and a growing sense that we were being taken anywhere but the stadium.
Roughly halfway through the ride — in what looked like the outskirts of nowhere — he pulled over, locked the doors, and started angrily tapping at his phone. Through the miracle of Google Translate, we found ourselves in a full-blown, multilingual shouting match. The app offered us gems like “you pay now or walk forever” and “this not Peru this is Sochi,” which wasn’t comforting. Eventually, after some frantic bargaining and a lot of theatrical sighing (on both sides), he relented and drove us the rest of the way. We made it just in time for kickoff — rattled, sweaty, and suddenly far more emotionally invested in not losing to Peru.
Stereotype #5: getting around was smoother than expected — with the exception of the adrenaline sport that is Uber... and hostage-level Sochi cabs.
The football. Oh, the football.
Look, I’ve gotten this far without really talking about the games. But you know what? They were epic. Electric. Emotional. Everything you want from a World Cup. But that wasn’t what I’ll remember most.
It was the German fans shaking hands with Mexican fans. The Senegalese supporters dancing with Polish tourists. The Russian blokes in their 50s embracing Japanese students after a match. The sense that, just for a few fleeting moments, we all forgot about borders and politics and time zones and just came together to scream about offsides and missed penalties.
While I wore kits to every game, everywhere else it was Strip Tees gear. Not just to support the team, but because — weirdly — it made me feel at home. Like I was part of a bigger footballing tribe — slightly offbeat, a little bit niche, and full of love for the game. Also, they looked good. Even after being soaked in beer and sweat. (Mine and strangers’.)
Russia surprised me. It didn’t feel cold — physically or emotionally. It felt alive. Warm. Weird in the best ways. I came home with a full heart, an empty wallet, three new friends named Igor (no joke), and a suitcase full of stained but resilient Strip Tees gear that had seen the world and lived to tell the tale.
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
Would I pack more electrolytes next time? Also yes.
And if you’re wondering whether football can still bring people together? It can. It did. It will again. As long as we keep showing up — in loud shirts, open minds, and with just enough breath to yell "YES MILE!" at strangers.
Wore Strip Tees. Made friends. Drank vodka. Lived football. 10/10 trip.
