le post de trebble2001 sur istanbul

Walking through Concert Square a few hours after just watching the Reds beat the Champions elect to reach the European Cup final, I racked my brains for ways of raising the money to go. I couldn’t celebrate like the hordes of people around me until I was certain that I’d be going; with no job and very little time to raise the money needed, whilst everyone was pissed up round me, I just couldn’t start celebrating too much yet.

Of course I was happy that we’d got into the European Cup final, for the first time I’ve been capable of walking. Of course I felt ten foot tall and was as happy as. But ever since I’ve been about five, relatives, work colleagues and just general pissheads on coaches have talked about Rome, Wembley and Paris. Whilst in the 90’s we came close to a trip to Rotterdam, 2001 we won the UEFA Cup final and 2002 we were a few minutes away from a semi, a European Cup final has always seemed so far away. I had always hoped we might get there one day; in fact expected we would. But never did I expect it so soon.

Having just got home from a night celebration, a phone call ensured that I would be loaned the money. The lads were going to Bulgaria and had a very attractive deal for a week over there; my Dad, Uncle and his mate wanted to do the daytrip for financial and work related reasons. Whilst I wanted to have a weeks holiday full of ale, brasses and the likes, it seemed only right to do the biggest game of my life going with my dad et al, so we booked to leave Liverpool airport at 0730 on the 25th May.

Liverpool in the weeks that followed was superb. Everywhere you went; pubs, clubs, café’s, shops etc; all anyone spoke about was the final. I can recall a night, I think it was the Sunday prior to the final, when at 4am every time I tried to get some, by this stage much needed, kip I felt butterflies in my stomach and nearly knocked it every time. With the flights on the Wednesday being so early, I thought it be a wise idea to stay up all Monday night and get my head down Tuesday afternoon, thus ensuring a decent kip.

I was in a lovely comatose state when the phone goes. With the light outside shining in my eyes I genuinely thought we’d overslept and it was light on the Wednesday. I answered the phone and glanced at the time to see I’d been asleep about three hours – and it was them f***ing clowns in Bulgaria pissed up. That was it, every little sound, and every text message (Again mostly off them t***s – although their LINE FOR MY MEN WE RIDE AT DAWN banner was a good one) made me jump and any shut eye was restricted for fear of missing it.

We had to go and pick up one of the four in Kirkby, and the drive from Netherley to Kirkby and back to Speke seemed to take an age. I’d just caught scenes from Taksim Square of the night before on Sky Sports, and all I wanted to do was get there. It had looked a real party, banners, scarves and colour everywhere. We got to Liverpool Airport where thousands seemed to be waiting for their flights, not to mention half the nation’s media including the delightful Kelly Dalglish.

We had a few bevvys at the airport, and saw Mssrs Kirkland, Mellor and Welsh around. Any attempts for tickets were fruitless and we started fearing the worst that there’d be no chance upon getting over there. In fact, things got off to a worst possible start when we got on the plane only to be told we would have to be delayed until 1030, and no alcohol would be served in that time. Half an hour into the two hour delay and the pilot swung his cabin door open, nearly knocking some poor lad out, screaming “WE CAN GO!” to the amusement of everyone on board.

The lager onboard was sold out by the time the cabin crew had got past the first row, so all that was left buy a s***load of red and white wine. Now I can’t stand the stuff and would’ve rather have even had a bottle of £2 White Lightning, but anything would do, and by the time we were heading across Europe, we were all well and truly on our way.

A singsong many thousand feet above the ground got everyone in good spirits and by the time we got to Istanbul, with a robbed bottle of Vodka in hand, the wine and nerves were starting to combine. Everyone going on and on about none of us getting into Istanbul without a ticket and needing visa’s and ten pounds and the like proved to be bulls***, as the feller looking at passports could’ve been looking at Papa Diop’s passport and still let me in.

As time was of the essence we jumped aboard a bus going straight to the ground, and everyone was singing and in good spirits aboard the bus. Everywhere seemed to be similar to slums, roads merely dirt tracks and houses that looked like they’d been built from left over Coke cans. The kids from the villages and houses were all lined up along the roads clapping us, and loads of Reds threw their scarf or stupid hat thing from Liverpool Airport to them, which they’d all have mass brawls over!

By the time we could make the stadium out in the distance everyone decided we wouldn’t be getting there anytime soon. The coach driver, who had been singing along all the way (Well, “Liverpool, Liverpool.”) got a tip, obviously helped with the vodka, that almost made him cry. I think it was about fifteen quid, but he was made up. And he only took us half the way, robbing b*****d.

The rocky road to the Ataturk was dubious, nearly resulting in a broken ankle a fair few times. We had, by this stage, been sorted for tickets, and with three bought on the plane and one from a forum member. In fact I bought one too many and had to go around looking to offload it. As I went to ask the feller at the stage to ask if anyone needed one, a feller asked about it, saying his kid had been let down. I think it was for 70 Euros or so, so I told him to just chip me in with £35 or so. Next thing he gives us two crates of Efes of 40 quid – nice one!

I got dragged onto the stage and gave it loads on there as the Ring Of Fire rang out, and could feel the stage creaking. Next thing the poor Turkish lad on the microphone started doing his nut, going down permanently in Liverpool history. “The stage is about the collapse. Please get off the stage” as loads of Reds on it were bouncing to Johnny Cash.

The sky started darkening and the jovially mood of everyone started turning more serious. We split up to take our place in the ground, with my seat being in the stand to left of the Liverpool fans behind the goal. I remember the words of the man next to me as he said to me “Your arld feller talks about Rome, Paris and Wembley – this will be yours and it will better”. The dancers on the pitch, coupled with the music being played meant that it was time to start worrying and smoking as many Lambert & Butlers as possible.

The Milan end, probably about a quarter of the overall ground, wasn’t particularly loud, but pleasing on the eye. They had co-ordinated themselves with coats on with matching colours, creating a mosaic effect with black, white and red. Our (three) stands were also impressive, a flurry of banners, colours, flares and singing. “You’ll Never Walk Alone” was belted out as the players went through the usual UEFA obligations on the pitch.

From the moment the referee had blown full time on Chelsea’s hopes of going to Turkey, there was never a moment were it really dawned on me that we were going to be in the premier game of season, worldwide. Whilst celebrating round Anfield and town that night there was the worry about finding money, then in the run up there was the worry something would f*** up, then there was the worry over tickets. Only now had it sunk in that I was witnessing something that would go down with Rome, Paris, Wembley, Heysel and Rome again. My new found excitement lasted all of three minutes ..

Maldini’s goal seemed to take the wind out of everyone. I think everyone was so wound up with everything and had talked about how we’d win so much that there was no way we could lose. But suddenly we had it all to do. My initial thoughts were that we could do it; but looking at their defence, experienced heads like Maldini, Cafu and Stam; it was going to be tough. Milan Baros had hardly set the World alight, and I feared even then that what could’ve been the greatest night would fall flat on it’s a*** before we’d even settled down.

The rest of the first half seemed to be a daze. Kewell going off and Smicer coming on seemed like a tactically change from where I was, and I booed Kewell, believing that Benitez had brought him off after his abject performance. The goals that flowed in where followed by half hearted chants from our end, but everything seemed to be happening round me. Milan just eased through us, a goal with every attack.

At half I went down to behind the goal and met up with the lads who’d gone to Bulgaria. Talking to them about the match, everyone seemed gutted, although one whipping out the bottle of Bulgarian brandy helped ease the pain. As everyone sung YNWA, one of the lads passed a flare that they’d bought a jobs lot of to me. Our end looked great as, 3-0 down and defeated, everyone sung passionately, and looked even better for all the flares and scarves throughout our end. As I light this flare, I looked up and thought that maybe my brandy addled brain was suddenly colour blind as I was the only c*** around us with a yellow flare! Everyone had these boss Red flares that looked great, here was I like the only k****ead who hadn’t been told we were playing in our home kit.

The Reds came out and everyone said the same; play for pride. Dietmar Hamann came on, but to be honest I couldn’t have told you that the next day. All these details that were so significant in the match didn’t become apparent until I watched it again a week or so later. An old feller in front of, probably around fifty turned round to us and told us to “Believe”. Obviously at the time we thought he was on the Rhaki, but he proved to us that it’s never over.

The first went in and by this stage I was right at the front at pitch level so couldn’t really see it. I can’t even remember if I celebrated, I just remember thinking ‘well it’s one’. Next thing Smicer scored. At this stage I thought their defence looked shaky, but like every other aspect of this story so far, I looked at the negative side; I thought we’d be merely trying all game to get the third and fail.

When Gerrard went down and won our penalty, again I told everyone “He’ll miss.” Xabi scored and it just didn’t seem real, the only time the score would start making sense was the lad behind screaming every two seconds throughout the rest of the game “THREE f***IN’ THREE!!” Now we were rocking. Everyone was singing, and even from a fair distance, the Milan end looked deflated.

From this stage until the final whistle I felt like I was going to be physically sick everytime Milan looked like they were going to start an attack. It sounds like I’m being overdramatic here, but I honestly thought I was going to knock it, and when the referee blew for full time I went behind the stand to the (Supposed) Refreshment thingy and sat on the floor smoking like a trooper.

I didn’t want to watch anymore. I wanted to stay here and someone come up to me and say ‘It’s over we’ve won’. I paced up and down for thirty minutes. Everytime I’d hear everyone gasp, for example Shevchenko’s near miss, I’d freeze. As the whistle went for full time I wanted to go and watch; but I couldn’t. To be honest the one thing I’d change about the night is not actually watching the penalties, being too much of a s***house to see them.

I remember praying to f***. The last time I went into a church was my communion, I hate the places, but I was praying like a Priest. Not just hands clenched together, I mean head up to Sky really asking God to do it for us. There were around forty other people pacing the back of the stand along me, only one word utterances between us about not being able to watch said to each other.

First penno; f***ing get in! Our one, spot on! Their second; f*** me! I started to believe. For the first time since just before kick off, I started to believe. Our second cemented this belief and after they scored the third I had a peek over the shoulders of our lot to see Riise’s penalty.

That was it. f***in hell we can’t mess it up now. Kaka, or someone or other, scored their third and if our next one (Later found out it was Smicer of course) f***ed up we’d be back to square one. Every second lasted hours; every prayer and ciggie made me sicker.

The relief at the cheers from Smicer’s penalty was so great it felt like a ‘not guilty’ verdict at a trial were I was about to get life. My thinking over what I was hoping and praying for was clear; we only needed to score the last penalty. It’s funny, but everything else bypassed me, but I knew exactly what team had scored what in the pennos and what was needed to win or lose.

Next thing, everyone was running from the stand to behind the stand. You know what; I can’t even remember what I was thinking. I was running round at full force, past everyone. Every disappointed, hopeful, nervous, excited and every other mood was changed into one of elation. I ran from celebrating towards the stand, and got right to the front.

As I was going mad, I stood on one of the seats and looked around. Everyone, everywhere was going absolutely mad. There were flares lighting up our end and producing clouds of smoke; people waving scarves. There was no one song being sung, but it seemed about twenty different songs all creating a wall of noise. The players were in front of us, joining us in fact, celebrating in the exact same fashion as us. They felt it the same as us. I wouldn’t swap that moment for anything else; I can vividly remember it to this day.

The trophy was lifted and off we went. We jumped on a bus marked ‘Airport’, and everyone got on and looked f***ed. Honestly, I’ve been on buses coming home from Portsmouth after a loss, Paris after a loss, even Marseilles and Monaco after a loss, but they’ve never been as down as this bus. People tried to sleep on floors, those who were awake supped warm ale. I felt like I’d ran a marathon, and as most feel asleep we got some lager from a Turk outside. I remember looking at me arld feller and we both just shook our heads.

We got to the airport, only to find it dead. Wrong f***ing airport. We were having a slash in the bushes near it waiting for a taxi when next thing about 40 Turkish Robocops came. I’d just finished and started talking to the copper about Fenerbache, telling him I liked Anelka and Alex – thank f*** for Champ Man!

We got a taxi to the right airport, were everyone woke up. The ale was s**** and overpriced, everyone was asleep on the floor, but I was as happy as a pig in s***. They played YNWA, “We are the Champions” all kinds, and after a few kebabs, a game of footy and a fair few cans we checked in to wait for our flight.

We were in a pub at the airport waiting for our flight to be called, as the sunlight was just appearing through the glass windows. The last time we’d seem daylight was just as we made our way into the Ataturk Stadium – how much had happened since then.

On the plane everyone fell asleep, but we traded all our Turkish money for another tray, sharing it with the lads next to us and talking it over. As we went to land, one of them says “I f***ing hate landing” to which the other replied “I can die happy now, I’m not arsed.”

As we got off the plane everyone awoke and started singing, and the assorted airport staff on the runway clapped us off, although a few I know are Mongrels obviously scuttled off. When we got through customs and that s***, there were loads of camera crews and the like waiting for us, and hundreds of copies of papers were bought.

We went straight from the airport to town and then I managed to get home from there on the Sunday – tired, battered, but feeling like I was floating on air. The parade was something special and to see the both I realise I was lucky as not many did. Everyone was there, from those who were genuinely made up and happy, to those who weren’t too arsed but wanted to see it all.

I’ve never felt so many emotions over a day, and I never will. I had always hoped that I’d see us win the big one one day, but to do like that and so soon was amazing. I asked my Grandad on return did it compare to the other four. “No la” he said “It was f***ing better”. Those were nights everyone under a certain age has had to listen to stories about and wished they’d been apart of it, and now we had one of our own to match.

This was our Rome, Paris, Wembley et al, and one to tell the grandchildren about in later years. The only worry is that they won’t believe us!