“Guess who I’m talking to in the hotel bar”
“No idea”
“Go on guess”
“I have no idea. I’m at work and I couldn’t care less”
“Ellen MacArthur. How about that? What’s she doing at an airport? I thought she’d sail everywhere”
I guess I already knew it was a mistake allowing Anny Road to get a head start on me in the bar. Nevertheless it was with a sense of excitement that I left work and set off up the M11 on the evening of Tuesday 24th May, my destination Istanbul, via the Hilton Hotel, Stansted.
One hour later, settling into burger and chips and a pint of lager, I felt that the trip I never dreamt would happen had finally begun. I was going to see my team in the European Cup Final. Swiftly moving up a couple of gears from a regular lager to Kronenbourg (I had to catch Anny Road up somehow) the conversation began to flow. Followed by the vodka. Our sensible early night was coming to a reasonably calm close just before midnight when we retired to our room.
Walking into the room, I think Dave was a little surprised to see a bottle of ‘Evian’ and 5 cans of Red Bull sat on the shelf next to my rucksack. Evian indeed. The Evian had been poured away and replaced with Smirnoff. I had called Lonsdales earlier in the week and they assured me that the flight to Istanbul would not be dry. My ar5e. On an organised trip, you take no such chances.
“Well it’d be rude not to have a nightcap I suppose”. Because the walk up to the room had clearly made us thirsty??? A quick vodka and Red Bull (well know for aiding restful sleep!) later and it was time to kip. It was 1am and the alarm was set for 4.30.
At 1.05am the light went back on, the tv went on and two large vodka and Red Bulls were poured. We were beginning to sense it wasn’t going to be that easy to get to sleep. But before you knew it, it was 4.30 and we were up, showered, checked out and on the bus at 5am to the airport. Checked in no bother and time for breakfast. O’Neills or the rather disgustingly named juice bar ‘Lovejuice’? O’Neills it was. A couple of Extra Colds and a sausage barm and we were set.
Off to wait in the Lounge. Dave goes for his second clear-out of the day and of course the flight is called – as it was ‘free-boarding’ (i.e. first come, first served) I was off to the Gate and onto the plane while Dave finished his business and then ‘made friends’ with an Arsenal fan on the monorail to the Gate. I think he was off to Magaluf or somewhere, wherever he was going you could tell he wasn’t exactly overjoyed at seeing us all heading off to the European Cup Final. Good.
So we were on the plane and had a short delay whilst Euroepan Air Traffic Controllers tried to work out how the hell they were going to get half the world’s aircraft into a holding pattern over the Bosphorus. A bit frustrating but fair play to Lonsdales (and special mention to Steve, our LFC Steward who was a top bloke, more later) they immediately started handing out the match tickets, which soon appeased everyone before we even had time to get annoyed. Tickets in hand, we took off, just 45 minutes late.
“Excuse me love, are you serving alcohol?”
“No”
“No problem, 2 large orange juices with lots of ice please”
“Can I have another couple of orange juices please love?”
“And lots of ice please”
“Another couple of orange juices please”
Well the flight was supposed to be four hours but we were suddenly there in bright and sunny Istanbul, slightly dazed if truth be told. Straight through Passport Control, and then for a brief wait in the airport whilst they brought our coaches round. Unfortunately (for her) we spotted Alyson Rudd on our flight, the excellent sports journalist from The Times, a Liverpool fan and a rather attractive young lady to-boot. In case you didn’t see it she had written an excellent article the previous day about how she had been given Steven Gerrard’s Liverpool shirt, the one he wore the first time he captained the team, and how it had become her ‘lucky charm’. Dave had his lines all prepared “Nice article Alyson, really enjoyed that, but where’s the shirt?”. “I can’t wear it now, it might drain its magical powers”. “You scare me” and we left Alyson to it. We were genuinely scared. She was travelling with a fella who I was sure I recognised, I guessed he must have been a fellow journalist, a colleague of Alyson’s.
The coach journey to the hotel was relatively uneventful save for the whinging gits behind us who made us realise that we were wasting our time even thinking about going to the game, all our players are crap you know? Dave and I decided we’d see what was on at the pictures instead.
Oh and the Fenerbahce fan (are there any Gala fans in Istanbul??) who saved my life. Well not quite but he made it clear that wearing an HJC wristband alongside a Livestrong band was not really advisable. Fair point, well made, the yellow band was discarded immediately.
After a very efficient check-in at the Hotel Sultan in Sultanahamet, Dave had another visit to the bathroom (and then informed me that he had also put the plane toilet temporarily out of action on the way over!) and it was into a cab to Taksim Square. Well everything was going well up to this point. But the taxi journey was the most exciting, eventful and downright scary journey of my life. The traffic was quite heavy and all the drivers seemed to quite enjoy sounding their horn every 3 seconds. For some reason we suddenly turned off to make a short-cut. The atmosphere changed absolutely. The Locals started staring blankly at us, there were stray animals roaming freely, children playing with no regard whatsoever for mere traffic, washing hanging on lines across the streets, in fact it was like being back in Kenny. The sun even went in.
“Cheeeecken people” the taxi driver helpfully informed us. Well we had no bloody idea what “cheeeecken people” were but we felt we’d best hang onto the door handles keeping the doors tightly shut even when we were moving. When we stopped (all too frequently) at junctions, menacing looking local fellas appeared at our windows staring in at us. It was a little unnerving to say the least. Our driver informed us we were just a couple of hundred yards from the square now, “Shall we wal….” “No, we won’t bloody walk, Dave”. I think my ‘excitement’ was becoming rather apparent. I thought I was going to start crying (again, more of that later). Finally we rounded a corner, jumped out of the cab and almost (almost) ran to meet the others – Will, Sen, Vic and the Suttys initially.
Never in my life have I been so happy to see Will, even in that soppy hat. Sen was talking gently in his usual “I’ve had half a lager” shouting kind of way whilst Vic looked strangely distracted yet happy enough. The Suttys were the Suttys, Mr Sutty trying to convince someone else to go and get a case of beer (he had got the first) and Mrs Sutty just brightening up proceedings generally in that way she does.
The YPC wandered past and then Andy Mac arrived and we were off in a cab to Taksim. Sen in the front with a crate of Efes, me, Will and Dave in the back. For anyone who was there, the journey to the stadium is probably one experience that will live forever. It was like wacky races with all cars the same (yellow cabs), all passengers the same (Reds) and locals lining the streets in places to cheer us on. Songs were being sung, drinks were being passed between cabs, we had Saddam Hussein driving us who soon learned the tune to Ring of Fire and if ever we went quiet he’d start up “der der der der der der der der” - it was all very surreal. A quick stop at a petrol station, about an hour after first seeing the stadium, for a ‘relaxation break’ and bladders suitably emptied, we were on our way again. Only another hour to go, till the cab dropped us the best part of a mile from the stadium. People have made reference to this last leg of the journey to the ground taking on almost Biblical proportions and that is absolutely spot on. Everywhere you looked was desolate wasteland and rising like a mirage, all illuminated was this incredible looking stadium. We were there. Not in the way “we were there” back on the incredible evening of May 3rd. Now we had actually physically made it. Outside the ground we met up with a few more Reds we knew (Big Wayne, Jonesey and someone I hadn’t met before Jeff Guitar) and negotiated our way through the chaos, somehow finding our seats towards the back of Block 209, in the Lower Tier right on the aisle nearest ‘the home end’, the North Terrace.
I texted my Missus and also my Chelsea-supporting mate the same message “Milan cannot win this game. Our fans just will not allow it. This is our trophy”.
I don’t think there’s much to say about the game, to be honest. It’s all been said. Milan caught us cold with an early strike that I felt at the time Jerzy could have done better with. I didn’t think Maldini had caught it that cleanly and I was disappointed to be down so early. Seeing it again on tv and in the context of what came later, any criticism of Jerzy for the goal would have been ridiculously harsh. Then things got worse and we really started to take a beating. With ten minutes to half-time, I thought we’d be lucky to get in the dressing room just one down but at least Rafa could then work his magic and we’d be back in it. Then the world fell apart. Everything just seemed to freeze in my mind as we conceded a second and then a quite brilliant third.
It was all over. We were a long way from home and I was regretting the earlier text messages. This was going to be an embarrassment, the like of which none of us could have possibly ever imagined. 3-0 down and getting battered. Everyone was silent. You could hear a few mutterings of “f*** off” as people read their text messages from home, no doubt some bluenoses and mancs were having the time of their life. The messages I received confirmed the fact that things were as bad as they could possibly be – they were from mancs, Chelsea and Celtic fans and they all said broadly the same thing “you are getting stuffed, we feel for you, hope you can shore it up in the second half”. I would have preferred p***-taking.
I was stood with Dave and Andy Mac and we just looked at each other blankly. Jonesey appeared looking as dazed as everyone else. “What are we going to do now?” was the question. The answer was hard and unexpected “we’re going to sing, we’re in the European Cup Final and we’re going to effin well enjoy it”. A cynical “yeah right” smirk passed my lips, but how can you resist joining in with “We shall not be moved, just like a team that’s gonna win the UEFA Cup again, we shall not be moved” and “Oh we’d rather go to Warsaw than Madrid”??
“You’ll never Walk Alone” as the team came back out was one of the proudest acts of defiance I have ever witnessed or been a part of. It felt like 45,000 Reds facing the firing squad spitting in the face of the enemy – somehow incredibly satisfying but ultimately pointless.
The frankly rather ridiculous songs continued at the beginning of the second half – well they did amongst three of us in our area. What happened next is still quite unbelievable – on many levels.
I said to Dave “I’m off for a pee, it’ll all be alright when I get back” and I wandered off up the steps, just jumping on the back of someone’s seat to see Steven Gerrard rise magnificently to head home our ‘consolation goal’. I continued on my walk to the gents. As I stood and contemplated life and what the hell I had witnessed out on that pitch in the previous hour, I looked over my shoulder as the crowd rose again and this time started going absolutely mental – it seemed twice as mad as when Stevie had scored two minutes earlier. Funnily enough I just stood there, remaining perfectly calm. Looking back, I think I had accepted that fate was going to have its way that night and I felt utterly helpless to influence anything that was occurring around me.
I returned to my seat and it was chaos. A couple of minutes later and Stevie was down in the area and the Ref gave us a pen. Totally calm. Who would take it? Up stepped Xabi Alonso – the man whose name I had on the back of my Champions League Final shirt. Totally calm. After a brief flutter as Dida saved, the stadium erupted as we all saw Xabi lash the ball into the roof of the net with his left foot. The scoreboard changed to show the score was now 3-3. It wasn’t really happening.
The rest of the game passed quite quickly. I felt we took our foot off the gas for five minutes to consolidate our comeback and then when we tried to pick it up again, there was nothing there. But we were still the only team who were going to lift that trophy, I was absolutely convinced. Into extra-time and all I can remember is Jerzy Dudek. Right in front of us, Jerzy made a good save but unfortunately the rebound fell straight to Andriy Shevchenko. He doesn’t miss chances like that - I know, I read it on the YNWA forums the week before. How Jerzy made that second save I will never know. A huge slice of luck but if ever someone made his own luck, it was Jerzy at that precise moment. He flung himself at the ball and crucially stayed strong. Any other Goalkeeper who had managed to get in the way off that point-blank shot I am convinced would have merely deflected it slightly on its way into the net, the result would have been a goal. Jerzy’s strength saved us, no doubt.
I hate penalty shoot-outs. I was even strangely nervous when Arsenal had beaten Manchester United in Cardiff four days previously. But now I was absolutely calm – Dave, Andy and I all agreed, what was the worst that could happen? We could lose the Final on penalties. Compare that to an hour and a half earlier, what was the worst that could happen then? The unthinkable, we could have been humiliated in front of the entire football world.
First Milan penalty saved. I thought at the time it was going wide but seeing it again it was going right in the corner. Great save. As they stepped up to take their second I said that they had to miss this one. They did and that was that for me. Now we had won it. One last mention of the shoot-out. What other fans in the world would have stood and cheered and chanted a player’s name as he walked back to the halfway line having missed a penalty in the European Cup Final? I firmly believe that the way we reacted to John Arne Riise demonstrated once again that we are indeed unique.
All through the evening I had been glancing down at the presentation podium that sat covered up on the running track just down to our left. Now the covers were off and they wheeled it into position. The trophy appeared and it all seemed very real all of a sudden. My total calmness was beginning to wobble, just a touch. The team went up to get their medals and as Steven Gerrard waited patiently, I fell apart. By the time the trophy was held aloft in the Istanbul sky in the early hours of the morning of Thursday May 26th, I was bawling like a little child. And I am 100% proud of it.
Funny it has just come back to me - the people around us in the ground who came and found us when the team were doing their lap of honour and congratulated us on never giving up hope, even at 3-0 down. “You lads certainly did you bit tonight, you should be proud”.
After the game, we met up with the lads we had been with before the game. Will still had his stupid hat on but that was alright now. Everything was alright now. Even the text message I got from my Chelsea mate telling me what he was doing at that precise moment round at my house (details censored to protect the innocent). Walking along we got chatting to a fella and his 12-year old lad who had travelled from Australia just for the game, it was the first time that the lad had seen Liverpool play live. “You can come again lad”, “It’s like that every week”, “Can you take Harry Kewell back home with you please?”
Off into the chaotic coach park and onto a bus to Sultanahamet – took forever but who cares? The only downside was seeing the Sutty’s, Vic and Matty walking along the road as we sat in traffic – we got the doors open just as the traffic cleared and we never managed to meet up with them again that evening. That was a real shame.
The bus dropped us in town and we found the first bar we could, The Dolphin Bar. We had picked up a couple of friends along the way. A lad from Liverpool who now lived in Australia, he had flown over for two days just to see the game, we spent two hours on the bus and then the next four hours in a bar with him but made of a point of never asking his name – he looked (very vaguely) like Lee Sharpe so he was Sharpey, that was good enough. We did however make a point of finding out the names of the other two new friends we had picked up along the way. Anna and Natasha, your presence made a perfect evening complete ;-)
Tetti, Hally and friends texted us and made their way over from Taksim Square. Tetti was hugging people as though they were Luis Garcia in disguise and even after all we had witnessed that evening, one image has stuck with me more than any other. It was totally and utterly unbelievable. Jon Hall was smiling and laughing and looking like he was actually enjoying himself – now that is something that none of us will ever see again, however long we may live.
Dave was hugging ‘random Reds’, actually Paul B, but I didn’t find that out till yesterday. We were all taking the mickey out of Tetti’s new yet brilliantly out-of-date flag “FOUR stars? What’s all that FOUR stars nonsense then???”
7am, it was just Dave, Sharpey and the lovely Anna and Natasha left. Off to another bar. Sensing the evening should probably now be drawing to a close, I dragged Dave off and we crashed out for a couple of hours before hauling our tired and delighted bodies down to our hotel lobby for the Midday journey to the airport.
The miserable sods on the bus were still miserable. Happy but miserable. All looked fine at the airport, a big tent for us all to relax in and have something to eat and drink while we waited for our flights. We thought there might be a few delays but when one fella went past and said he had just been told that his flight was delayed 10 hours, we feared the worst.
This is where Steve The Steward really came into his own. Off he went to find out what was going on, returning 10 minutes later having found our Pilot and Crew and exchanged mobile phone numbers with them having extracted assurances that they would call him as soon as they had a clue what was happening. Sure enough that all went to plan and our boarding was relatively painless.
Just before we boarded we had another chat with our new mate Alyson, who was now wearing the famous Stevie G shirt and autographing the relevant article for those who recognised her. It turns out that she only put the shirt on at half-time. We didn’t believe it either but the story was verified by a witness (you know the YNWA Editorial Rules by now!). She should be burnt as a witch. Oh and never allowed to take that shirt off!!!
The flight back was quite calm really, the highlight being when the stewardess announced that she was indeed going to be serving alcohol on the flight. 9 cans of Stella for the boys and a water for the witch please. “Float in that”.
The final little amusing episode came as we waited for the shuttle bus to take us back to pick up our cars from the hotel. Some old fella, a bus driver, came up and had a chat with us about the game, congratulating us on an extraordinary win. He mentioned he was a Manc but he seemed alright. He told us about an Evertonian who works in his bus depot – he called in sick that day as he had sent too many text messages at half-time the previous evening and couldn’t face the humiliation of turning up and facing the music. Classic Blue behaviour.
And so ended the most amazing 48 hours of my life, gone in a flash, but it will stay with me until the day I die.
