Sunday morning, 6am, after a day on the lash watching the Mancs lose at Cardiff and then watching Eurovision in an attempt to sober up. It sort of worked. I stayed over at a mate’s house in West London with a very lightly packed bag – hand luggage only. The taxi turned up on time, and the journey began.

Looking around for reds at Heathrow, but I suppose it was too early to see any at that point. There were a few English lads getting on my plane for Prague, but they might have been going on a stag weekend. I got stuck into the Sunday papers and my ipod. Great flight to Prague, brief stopover and then flight to Sofia. Sofia, so good. To the taxi rank where the self-appointed chief asked me where I was going.

“The bus station, Sofia.”

“Why”

“I have to get a bus.”

“Where are you going? I will take you.”

“I’m going to Istanbul.”

“There are no more buses today to Istanbul”

It wasn’t like I’m cynical, but I thought he had a vested interest in my not getting to the coach station.

“It’s OK. I’ll take my chances.”

We left for the coach station in the first of many death-defying taxi rides that would be the leitmotif of the next few days. A pretty desolate area, including a railway station which had the first indoor fog I’ve ever seen. Bought a coach ticket, and waited five long hours for the coach. Two really nice modern coaches arrived near to my stop. My heart leapt – a bit of comfort for the ten hours to come. Then my coach pulled up. It was like one of Barry Cooper’s that we used to travel to school trips on. Random bits of carpet and crappy seats. Still, not busy, so room to stretch out.

I don’t sleep well on public transport so stayed awake until Plovdiv. And at Plovdiv things started to get strange. A mass influx of locals, excitable, noisy and who looked at me like I had just got off the spaceship. “Ingliska, ingliska” they said, and they weren’t wrong.

Still, they settled, although the woman next to me started crying. That bad already….I applied the Lynx surreptitiously.

We stopped for a leg stretch, and a slash break, about two hours later. It was now after midnight. A ramshackle collection of shops and cafes with about five hundred HGVs all parked up. Everyone got off the bus, and I wandered around to get some fresh air. It was raining. I hadn’t brought a jacket.

I got back on the coach and the guy who was in charge jumped on and began to shout at some kid about five rows in front. He was messing around with some ciggies. The guy then addressed everyone and the word ‘Ciggrettska’ popped up time and time again. I thought little of it. We got to the border and began the routine of getting on and off and on and off the coach. Four times we did it.

At the main Turkish checkpoint I queued up. Showed my passport.

“Visa” she said.

“No!” I said in triumph. “Football” I waved my ticket around.

“You must go police station.” She said. She waved airily back down the dark and rainy road. I couldn’t see a police station. I was nearly at the back of the queue and worried that the coach would just go without me. I had a quick think and decided to simply walk across the border where they couldn’t see me. This was possibly a silly idea. I approached the coach and the main man says, “Visa?”

“Er, no.”

“No visa?”

“No. Football. Ticket.” I waved the ticket with slightly less of a flourish.

Much mumbled Bulgarian. He led me back by the arm to the checkpoint. A sharp exchange of words and he led me to the visa office. I proffered my match ticket, to a shrugging of shoulders. He got the stamps out and I decided to pay anyway. Couldn’t be bothered to argue. Bought the stamp and back to glowering border guard.

“NO! No! No!” she cried, leaving her booth. “Police station!”

We tramped off into the dark, consoled at least that the bus wouldn’t leave without the boss. 300 yards away was the police station. Much discussion before I produced my ticket. I seemed to be the first person through the checkpoint as they passed the ticket round and shouted ‘Liverpool!’, and held up fingers to show 5-0. The passport was stamped, and there was that smudgy ink mark that would always be mine. ‘UEFA ECLF.”

Back to the visa office for a refund and through the border. Result.

The coach ploughed on another 200 yards and our bags were sort of checked. Then a final passport check on board. We made it through the last checkpoint and ground to a sudden halt about 100 yards further away. The Plovdivians looked around anxiously. At the front of the coach a very severe looking chap in army fatigues got on. He had a torch. The mumbling and coughing got louder. He went from seat to seat, aggressively demanding that passengers stood up and opened their plastic bags. There was much pleading and sulking. He took a few cartons of cigarettes from someone and threw them from the coach. Then he arrived near the back of the coach, where I was sat.

A roly-poly old woman and another middle aged one sat together. The army guy motioned at them to stand. The old woman wouldn’t budge. Much shouting. She began to weep, he shouted louder. Eventually he encouraged her out. She was sat on two plastic bags full of cigarettes. He moved in front of her and shined his torch under her seat. Meanwhile, she began to pull packets of cigarettes from every part of her clothing. Down her skirt, her bra, her headscarf, everywhere. And while his back was turned, she hurled them around the coach to her friends who caught them like practising slip fielders. Every time the guy stood up, she stopped, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. His back turned, she again produced hails of fag packets.

I had to jab myself in the thigh to stop laughing. Eventually, after hustling a few people off the coach for a telling off, they returned to their seats and we were in transit. I feel asleep and didn’t wake until we were in the outskirts of Istanbul. I glanced up through the grey morning and saw, by chance, the roof of the Ataturk stadium floating over the landscape, and then the top of the stands. A chance viewing I was delighted to get.

Totally knackered by this point, we crawled into the coach station as the rain pelted down. Damn that jacket decision. I ran for a taxi, and James Gandolfini’s long-lost twin beckoned me towards his yellow jalopy. ‘TAKSIM’ I said. And we were off.

The most beautiful thing to happen so far was arriving at 7am at my hotel overlooking Taksim Square, to find they let me check in so early, and my room had a grade one view of the big screen on the Square, which constantly seemed to be replaying Luis García’s semi-final goal. I took a quick breakfast, and went to sleep.

I got up around lunchtime, bought some papers, and found an internet shop. Quick scan, I spent an hour trying to find a couple of adaptors. One English, for my mobile, and one American, for the ipod. That would later be crucial. Eventually after trying four different shops, a tiny back street led me to an electrical shop which seemed to specialise in the little beggars. I went for lunch and settled back for a few hours. I tipped everyone like crazy, grateful to have got there relatively easily.

A quick trot round Taksim Square. The fan zone, which at that point consisted of a single merchandising tent, was unimpressive, it had to be said. I suppose it was still early.

A bit more skulking around, and I contacted Sutty, who had just arrived with the wonderful Mrs Sutty. We arranged to meet a bit later and I started on my quest to empty the mini-bar. Two cans of the excellent Efes and the evening was beginning. Helpfully, Sutty told me the name of the bar next to the one he was in. Very useful, considering I didn’t know where that was. Still, I found him, and they were with Molby and Mrs Molby (the poster not the player). We got stuck into the booze good style.

After a fair bit of time wandering around the dark back streets around Taksim, we found a couple of agreeable bars. One in which the DJ didn’t so much spin the wheels of steel as click his mouse on the toolbar of plastic. Good effort. The next looked more promising. Lively, people dancing, and a very friendly barman who invited us in heartily. We sat down and were surprised to see only the women dancing, while all the men looked on. Fair enough, we thought.

After some more refreshment, we were again encouraged to take part in the revelries. Molby in particular was appreciated by the barman, whose tongue seemed to be in our favourite flat-owner's ear. Nevertheless, Mrs Molby and I took a turn on the ‘dancefloor’, and if memory serves, were followed by Mrs Sutty.

Within a couple of minutes the music died, to be replaced by silence, before from the back of the bar, a stringed instrument appeared. An old man took it up, and began one of those laments undoubtedly familiar to the Irish among you. 58 verses, and all of them about some tragedy or other. Every now and again the assembled broke into respectful applause. We weren’t disrespecting Turkish folklore at all, but it was a kind of downer. Mrs Molby said it best. “This is rubbish”, with some vigour. We made attempts to empathise, but were too lacquered. We left for another bar.

Massive orders of spirits were made, the final straw for some. As ‘It’s Raining Men’ came on the sound system, and some bloke bumped into me a bit too vigorously with his crotch, we gently decided to slope away, saving ourselves for Tuesday.

Tuesday morning, and I had no right to feel so…OK. Swan Red, news had it, was arriving, and due to the serendipitous discovery that I had a twin room, not a single, he was on his way to my hotel. His journey was by far the best of the stories I heard on the road to Istanbul, so I’ll let him tell it.

We shuffled off from the hotel to find lunch and to see some sights. An excellent lunch was had, even if it was a bit of a lucky dip what the waiters arrived with. We found a cab and headed for Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. The Blue Mosque was stunning, exquisitely decorated and yet simplicity itself. The first mosque I have ever been into, and quite awe-inspiring in its workmanship. We stared in wonder for some time and paid our respects.

We crossed over to Hagia Sophia, and spent a while in there. It’s what I had really been looking forward to, and it didn’t disappoint. Always a pain to find somewhere with scaffolding up, but no matter. The incredible achievement of building this at that time, and its condition now, 1500 years later, is breathtaking. I urge anyone who has never been to Istanbul to go and see it. Needless to say, it cannot be described easily, so I won’t try. Brilliant moment came when Swan Red and I had walked in silent wonder around it, before coming to the descriptive panels at the porch, and the last thing we saw was a picture of Thatcher. I had to laugh. Swan was mortified. I blamed Thatcher.

We had a coffee in a caf’ around the back of Hagia Sophia, and planned our next moves. Vic was clear. A nice relaxed beer, a quality meal in the evening, and then a few drinks somewhere. Then Sutty called, and he was a hundred yards away. The agenda was set.
What followed can only be described as the biggest change of plan since Balaclava.
One beer turned into four, we drank Chelsea Knockout Cocktails at the Suttys' hotel, and got quite mind-bendingly totalled over the space of 11 hours. Yes, we did get the quality meal though, although we never actually ordered anything from my memory of it. The waiter just kept bringing these large dishes, a bit like the Spanish raciones. At one point, across the table, I noticed that either we were all sinking, or Mrs Sutty was listing precariously on her chair. It was the latter. She sank, not without some grace, from her chair, as its leg slid down into a gully. In perfect slow motion. Later, Sutty himself made up numbers by trying to destroy the cigar case that was mysteriously located at the end of our table. [By the way, fact fans, a cigar case is also called a humidor.] Swan then went for a vast Castro-style cigar which he smoked over several hours.

Happily we subsequently located a large gathering of reds, singing and dancing with the match less than 24 hours away. In this little square, we sat and sang all the songs we knew, wore silly hats and bartered for souvenirs into the wee small hours. Swan made his own request to the waiter.

“Can I have six stupid cocktails?”

“I’ll get you the menu.”

“I don’t want the menu, I just want six stupid cocktails. You know, with umbrellas and sparklers and stuff.”

The result, while drinkable, was odd.

I managed to upset the only Milan fans we met with a chorus of a couple of Inter’s finest ditties. They understood and we had a good chat with them, even though Sutty gave me a good lecture. I tried to explain Italian politics to Sutty but I fear that whichever language I was speaking, it was previously unknown to man.

Back to the hotel, and while the mini-bar was only partially attacked, we managed to get the hotel staff to go out for kebabs at 4am. Swan saved half of his for breakfast, proving again, if it were necessary, his working class credentials.

Wednesday

Match day, obviously. Also check-out-of-hotel day. We couldn’t extend our stay in the hotel, but not a problem, they’d look after our bags. We nursed our hangovers and decided what to do for the best. My ipod was charged and now I fulfilled what has been my pre-eminent superstition of this European Cup campaign. Since before the Olympiacos game I have listened to all or part of Revolver before the European ties. And if I can’t listen to all of it, I had to at least listen to Yellow Submarine. Aye, I can pick ‘em.

Most of match day was as I guess everyone experienced it. We hung around in Taksim Square after locating Cobs and Carl, and the drinking began. Although not for me, as I took an executive decision not to get bladdered before the match, largely due to wanting to actually savour and witness the game, and also because I feared for me internal organs. Various forumites turned up, from Jonesy, Will and Big Wayne, to Spike and Stevieboy, Murph and Gravy, to the ridiculously cheerful Vlad Jr, whose banner was a masterpiece of modern tapestry. A long future in sewing and embroidery awaits that lad.

The weather got cooler, and people started to drift off to the stadium, with some dire warnings about how long it would take beginning to filter through. I headed for a cab with Cobs, Carl and Murphman.

Our first encounter on the road to the stadium was a very merry chap who hung out of his cab window with a massive Welsh flag, singing “ARE YOU HAVING SOME OF THAT?” Carl and Cobs quickly decided “WE’RE NOT HAVING ANY OF THAT.” This guy didn’t let up all the way as far as we could see.

The journey to the Ataturk stadium has passed into folklore, the kids high-fiving us, the taxi driver who Murph was convinced he could understand, the housing estates behind the barbed wire, the gutter we drove through. And then the stadium came into view, rising out of the arid landscape like something out of Blade Runner. And the biblical scene of all the thousands of people walking through the dust in their red shirts. It started to get cold. I hadn’t brought a jacket, did I mention that?

The fans festival was not unadjacent to a primary school sports day. As Mike later said, ‘like an Aldi car park’. But with less atmosphere. You all know about the stage invasion and the woman trying to get them off there. Priceless. We saw James A, clearly a broken man as he recounted how the match programmes had been nicked.

I decided to get inside the ground, convinced that things would be better. Saw Maradona, who was subject to some cruel taunts but waved at us nonetheless. Then I went and stood inside the ground, taking in the atmosphere. It seemed to me that the reds were very slow getting into the ground. I was sat just to the left of the Liverpool dug-out in the lower tier. The Milan fans were all in position, and I was wondering where everyone was. It was getting colder.

Vic and the Sutty’s finally appeared. Vic’s first words were, “It’s a home game. It’s a f***ing home game.” And he was right. While the Milan fans took up their end and a few seats to either side, a swathe of red cut through the Istanbul night like a meteor. I introduced myself to London Liverpool Fan and Ant M, saw Mike, who was calm and said “As long as we give a good account of ourselves….” And the match began.

I hardly need to explain the match to you. But at half time, I remembered Mike’s words. LLF was the only person who seemed to have any hope. “If we change things round.” He said. Ant M and I were not so hopeful. That second half is still a blur. At the time of writing I haven’t seen the whole game again, and still find it difficult to come to terms with. Weirdly, and I don’t know why even now, I never felt as nervous in the rest of that game as I had throughout the second leg of the semi. I think I had abandoned all dreams at half time and was so resigned to the idea of defeat that I couldn’t bring myself to believe that we might do it.

The match passed, and just flashes remain, burned into my brain. Djimi’s clearance, Luis giving the ball away just outside the area, Jerzy’s save, and the look on LLF’s face, mirrored, I think, in mine, the pens and the rest. I said a lot of prayers during that match, and if there is someone up there…he’s a red. At the end, as in that nanosecond we realised that, yes, Shevchenko hadn’t scored, Jerzy had saved it, and we were champions of Europe, something happened. We abandoned ourselves to emotion and as Mike clambered across seats and we shouted at the same time, “We’ve won it. We’ve f***king won it,” a million dreams came true.

The rest of that night was weird. Everyone was knackered. The late kick off, the draining weight of the drama, and for most, but not me, the lakes of booze consumed, all combined and outside the stadium there was near silence. People tried to get to a bus, a coach, or look for a cab. But it was disbelief, I think. What we had witnessed was unheard of.

We found a cab and those great guys selling cans of Efes along the road were a Godsend. The sweetest beer I’ve ever had. Or the warmest, one of the two. We went back to Taksim but, after meeting Canadian Ken, (who hell he?), and drinking some fizzy battery acid, we went off to find RP, Anny Road and the lads. Well, I’ve never sat in a taxi so long. All the bridges across the water seemed closed, and we drove for hours. We finally pitched up somewhere bizarre, and ended up in a little street with a couple of bars and a restaurant or two.

As we entered one of these bars, I noticed the preponderance of heavily made-up ladies. Inside, some thumping house music was blasting out, and some rather dubious British guys who were both chatting up the ladies, and managing to be ridiculously camp. Given all that had happened that day, this was a head trip too far. We downed the beer and legged it.

We wandered round for a while, meeting Istanbul’s answer to Chewbacca, but no sign of the lads. We headed back to the Suttys' hotel and watched a replay of the end of the match, while Vic bought the most expensive champagne they had. We had some Milan knockout cocktails (sounds familiar), before repairing to the breakfast room. I unfortunately tried to be funny and crack my boiled egg on my forehead to take the shell off. They were very, very soft boiled eggs. I wiped the sopping egg off my head and managed to eat heartily. Vic and the Sutty’s had a bit of a threesome, and I slept on the floor. For all of four hours, when we awoke to a greenish haze, which may or may not have been my fault. Mrs Sutty was not impressed.

We met Andy Mac later and headed back on the coach, to find that the cross border cigarette trade was still in full flow. I still don’t know how it makes economic sense to trade cigarettes across both borders, but hey.

As we left Istanbul, and we all started to slumber gently, I glanced to my right, and saw the roof, and the stands of the Ataturk gleaming in the evening sun. The enormity of what had happened started to sink in, and, be it tiredness, or be it exhilaration, tears began to roll down my face. It happened again at Prague airport on the stopover, and again back in London, when I got home. You see, ever since the great days, or probably since we started to decline around 1991, I’ve had an image of what I wanted from football, and from Liverpool. Watching the Madrids and Milans and Munichs in the final and doubting we’d ever be back there. Having to put up with Mancs ruling the roost, seeing our boys frustrate and infuriate, and wondering when the hell we would be back up there. And since the Champions League came into being, I’ve doubted, I admit, if we could ever get back there.

And when I closed my eyes and pictured what I desired for Liverpool, it was what happened on the night of the 25th May. The perfect circle closed. It was 25th May 1977, when my Dad let me stay up at the age of five, long past my bedtime to watch this football match. On that old rented telly we watched it, although I confess I don’t remember much. That was the day I became a red. And here I was, jammy to get a ticket, and having crossed a continent from top to bottom to see everything I think football should be about.

We’re lucky. To have a team like this that can do the impossible. That can come from nowhere to breathe new life into what most people thought was a long dead legend. And to make a million dreams come true.