The Big Red 5
By Red Resurrection
Issue 69, Summer 2005
14 April 2005
Woke up this morning before my 6 o'clock alarm and where I'd normally drift back off to sleep my mind was working out the logistics and expense of a trip to Istanbul (a place where I had no intention of going following the Leverkusen win - even if we did make it to the final!). Even if we do beat Chelsea and get to Turkey I probably won't go to the final (but even now I'm trying to convince myself it's a great idea) but it just goes to show the feelgood factor generated by two superb performances from the Reds against Juventus.
Though 'feeling good' was hardly my state last night watching on TV. In retrospect we were actually quite unperturbed and Juventus rarely threatened but it didn't feel like that at the time! I'm sure the clock on my TV screen stopped for about 10 minutes between the 72nd and 75th minute - it took an eternity. Funnily enough, in the last 5 minutes I felt we were more composed and I sort of relaxed. I was still chuffed when Buffon sliced it out of play though...top performance but I had to have a sit down before I could drive home because I was physically shaking.
18 April 2005
Again, woke up this morning before my alarm but, unlike last week, I was missing a feelgood factor, any provisional plans for Istanbul had been postponed and I had a sick, tense feeling in the pit of my stomach. The reason for this bad feeling was the excellent programme on Heysel which I had watched on BBC2 the previous evening. 'Heysel - A requiem for a Cup Final' was one of the most harrowing 90 minutes I have ever sat through. Without wanting to sound trite and obvious it was as difficult to watch in places as Jimmy McGovern's 'Hillsborough' drama.
Most of the footage was familiar to me but the intervening years had somehow lessened the impact of the pictures. Seen afresh they filled me with horror, disgust, shame and numbness. The parallels with Hillsborough were perhaps the most surprising thing I took from the programme. Inept policing, authority buck-passing, a dilapidated stadium, the images of the crush, bodies and the injured on makeshift stretchers, relatives searching hospitals for news of loved ones. Of course, the one difference with Hillsborough was the impact of crowd trouble exacerbating all of the other reasons.
The reasons for any charge by Liverpool fans were touched upon (a child being beaten up?) but quite frankly, in hindsight, ANY reason becomes flimsy and redundant when compared to the pile of bodies stacked up at the end of the evening. The personal stories of the Juve fans involved also brought it home to me how similar in so may ways their situation was to ours 4 years later. These were just people going to a football match. In one case a victim of Heysel had only gone to Belgium because his cousin had a ticket left over. He also had the car keys which his cousin had to retrieve from his body in order to make the long journey home. Absolutely shocking.
The programme thankfully didn't demonise Liverpool supporters and even some of the Italians admitted that they had their own fans intent on trouble that night. However, rather than being vilified for outright hooliganism, it has to be said that stupidity, immature bravado and misplaced patriotism played a significant part in the role of several Reds supporters that night and for that I hope they are eternally sorry.
Perhaps the most eerie images from the programme were those of Juve players and fans celebrating the goal and win as if nothing had happened. Of course they wouldn't have known the full details of what had preceded the match but seeing them cheering and hugging each other seems almost obscene in hindsight. The look of horror on Phil Neal's face as he was led to deliver his tannoy message also spoke volumes.
The images of Heysel are not as imprinted on our minds as those of Hillsborough but they should be. We should never forget and I now understand more the reactions of some Juve fans to our recent gesture of friendship. As I say, any plans for Istanbul are off. With a wife and young child I really don't want to put myself in any potentially harmful situation. Of course, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, but I'll take my chances at home rather than betting on the chance that hostile police, locals on the lookout for trouble or drunken football fans will somehow let me get home alive. This is an absolute shame and is definitely a great slur on the majority of Turks and football fans but after reflection I'll take the least risk option.
LIAR LIAR
That was then, and obviously I changed my mind. Honestly, if you'd put the events of 25th May into a screenplay and plonked it on the desk of a big-shot producer you'd have been laughed out of their office with a kick up the arse for good measure. It's now 3 weeks since 'the match' and even after watching it 3 times on video I'm still not sure it happened. 3-0 down at half time to AC Milan? And we won? Naaahhh.
And to think I was not going to go to Istanbul because I had insisted I would NOT spend more than �300 on a day trip! When everyone in work seemed to be going I thought, 'Hang on, you've only been to about 5 matches this season.�..and you're going?' - then threw caution to the wind and booked my trip for �480 (before telling the missus of course...I think it's called a fait accompli). Of course, it was the best �480 I've ever spent but I'm sure the following description of my day in Turkey will lead sane people to question this assumption.
TAXI DRIVER
I stayed at my parents� house on the Tuesday night as I was going to the match with my dad and his mate. After ZERO sleep we were picked up at 3.30am on the Wednesday morning. Our ears were assaulted by the non-stop jokes of our taxi driver (who also happens to be my uncle - no, he didn't charge us). Jokes about stool samples and sperm counts were probably not the thing you want to hear at such an ungodly hour but they added to the feeling that this was definitely NOT an ordinary day. The quiet streets of Speke gave way to the first Sea of Red of the day.
BIG WEDNESDAY
The spotlit stall outside John Lennon Airport was doing a brisk trade in scarves and flags even at 4am on a Wednesday morning but we were already kitted out. I had on my Shankly and Paisley 'Untouchables' T-shirt which had remained unbeaten in the Champions League since I bought it before the Olympiakos game. My dad was reluctantly wearing his gaudy, red and yellow 'Road to Istanbul' T-shirt which my mum had bought him the day before from Huyton village. Still, he didn't stand out because it seemed that half of the people checking in were wearing the same clobber. Despite paying almost �500 for a (less than) day trip I was still overly grateful for the "free" badge and rosette we were given by the check-in girl as if it was some unbelievable act of corporate generosity.
After a read of the papers and a cup of coffee we were called to our gate...on time! Things were going well.
AIRPLANE
Too well. Everyone on the plane at 7.10am (10 minutes after our scheduled departure) we were confident that our late take-off would not mean a late arrival. I mean, planes normally make up a bit of time in the air. However, we were still sat in the same position at 7.45am.
At this point the captain told us we would be taking off at 8.10am, an hour late but probably not that unexpected. Worryingly, by 8.45am we still hadn't moved and we had watched other planes load up with people and taxi off towards the runway. The mood was somewhat tense shall we say. At this point the captain, who was keeping a low profile, gave what can only be described as the least welcome news I have ever heard. Apparently we had missed all our slots and it would be another THREE hours before we could take off!
We'd already been on the plane 2 hours! That would mean we'd arrive in Istanbul at about 6pm. Obviously, this news went down as well as a fart in a spacesuit and, as 100 irate Reds seemed to say "You're fuckin' jokin' aren't yer!" the captain revised his statement saying news had just come in that we MAY be leaving in half an hour. 2 hours later than planned but preferable to the 5 hours late scenario. I think it's called under-promising then over-delivering. The airline we were travelling on was Blue Line Airways so I shouldn't have expected anything else really. Being English we hardly complained and sat in our seats like good boys and girls.
ROAD TRIP
After an uneventful flight we arrived in Turkey at 3pm (2 hours late). I asked an official looking person where we were supposed to get the buses into the city centre. He vaguely pointed outside. I needn't have bothered. Amassed outside was the largest number of buses I had ever seen. I don't think I'd be exaggerating in saying there were over 1,000 and we were still driving past parked-up buses 5 minutes after leaving the airport. Reds on the bus were now desperate just to get to Taksim Square and we all set about phoning our mates who were already there. "Where are you?" everyone on the bus would ask down the phone. "McDonalds" seemed to be the set response. Hope it's a big McDonalds because everyone was meeting there. (note how no one arranged to meet at, say, the Blue Mosque or the Topkapi Palace? Says a lot about our West! ern culture don't ya think?) Johnny English on the bus started panicking when he saw his first McDs on the outskirts of Istanbul and wanted to get off, thinking it was Taksim Square. He then started moaning about how no one spoke English and we could be being taken anywhere by our obviously crazy (i.e. foreign) driver. Did he really think there was just one McDs in Istanbul? Honestly, the ignorance and stupidity of some English people abroad never does cease to amaze me. At this point I received a text message from the missus back home telling me to make sure I fastened my seatbelt on the bus! A seat would have been nice!
THE BIG RED ONE
I had seen snippets of the Reds in Taksim Square on the news the previous day but nothing could have prepared me for the sight when I alighted the bus. 'Sea of Red' is a much-used metaphor but this was it. Banners everywhere, sun shining, the day was really picking up. The outright impressiveness of the scene coupled with my relief at actually finally getting there meant I was on a tremendous high as I searched for my mates by McDonalds. As McDs was draped in flags, people and banners it was quite difficult to find but after 20 minutes we had all met up and luckily my mates had already invested in a crate of Efes so I cracked open my first can of the day at about 3.30pm (how I'd lasted that long I do not know). Within 5 minutes of leaving the bus the sky had clouded over and we saw no more sun all day. Bloody typical. A final ! in Turkey at the end of May and it's cloudy; this wasn't how I'd imagined it. However, the general mood made up for the lacklustre weather. My mate had given his spare ticket (from the UEFA draw) to his workmate, who described himself as a "general" football fan (don't ask - I think his first love was Wimbledon FC!). This bloke had been to the Japan World Cup, FA Cup Finals and to Barcelona in 1999. He said he'd never seen a following like ours and it did make me feel quite proud - even though he was hardly likely to say, "You know, United's supporters piss all over this crappy effort!"
MEET THE FOKKERS
Things were warming up. Having partaken of a few beverages and with a few more in hand for the journey to the stadium we got on our bus. Everyone was in high spirits and ready for a song or two. The first 20 minutes of the journey were taken up by a non-stop epic version of La Bamba/Ra Ra Rafa Benitez with much banging of windows. Even my dad was singing! This is what it's all about I thought as the Turks waved and gave us the thumbs up.
However, rumblings of a darker mood were surfacing on the bus, which were to make it the worst part of my day. Situated towards the front of the bus was a group of 6 or 7 Reds of a broad range of ages, some standing, some sitting. 'Holding court', shall we say, was a tubbyish fella about 40. Anyway, he tries to start off some obscure songs which him and his cronies probably made up in a pub years ago. So obviously no one else on the bus can join in - the songs were shit by the way. He berates the rest of the bus for not knowing his awful song and declaring that he had been to all 5 previous European Cup finals. Challenging the rest of the bus to 'beat that' (a bit hard, considering most of the bus was in its early 20s) he then started to sing a song about HIMSELF and how grea! t a supporter he was.
The party atmosphere was rapidly disappearing on the long road to Ataturk. The songwriter and his crew sang more crappy songs and were tossing all their empty cans out of the moving bus at 60mph. So far, so annoying.
The closer we got to the stadium, the slower the bus went due to the traffic but what do you expect when you send 75,000 people down ONE road? Anyway, the slower we get the closer the locals felt they could get to the bus. For all those who didn't go (is there anyone?) the stadium really was in the middle of nowhere with the (most) local residents living in none too salubrious dwellings. Though obviously not destitute the local kids didn't look too loaded either but they stood on the central reservation waving their home-made Liverpool placards and giving us the thumbs up as we crawled past, obviously a bit bewildered by a bus crammed with grown men singing songs. As one little girl approached (7 years old?) one twat decided to throw the dregs of his vodka and orange out of t! he window and all over the poor little thing. Now I don't know whether this little girl ran off crying or thought it was a bit of a laugh but I'd guess the former. My dad (in his 60s by the way) told his mate he was out of order. So feeling the eyes of the bus upon him felt the need to defend his actions.
"Dey were probably pickpocketin uz in de square dis afternoon!" Probably because I was as tall as him he seemed to direct his defence at me and awaited a response. Feeling that someone on the bus had to say something (and encouraged by about 6 cans of Efes) I proceeded to tell him how 'brave' he was in covering a 7-year old girl in vodka. He repeated his 'pickpocketin' defence. I repeated my, admittedly, sarcastic 'brave' comment adding "Well done" on to the end. He then threatened to knock me out. Now, I'm crap at fighting (especially on a Turkish bus I'd guess) but I just kept saying �7 years old, well done� while praying him and another gimp, who had by now aroused himself into a state of bouncing, undirected aggression, wouldn'! t fill me in. As normally happens in these situations empty vessels make the most noise. I can only guess that he meant to knock me out by constantly bouncing on his toes, glaring at me and shouting 'Come on!' from a distance of 5 feet.
Anyhoo, the bus was rescued from further tedium by the sight of the stadium in the distance. All the Fokkers decided to get off the near stationary bus and walk. The Big Noise had remained strangely quiet during this altercation. I actually think he was embarrassed that one of his 'boys' had decided to take on the might of a 7 year old girl behind the defence of a moving bus. But, to be honest, they can all go and fuck themselves. I'm just left wondering what impression that young girl has of Liverpool now and hope it didn't spoil her day as much as mine.
With the Fokkers off the bus I was informed that all the studenty looking Reds at the back of the bus were ready to jump in and help if it had kicked off. I was grateful of course (though they were your weedy Coldplay-fan types) but my day had been well and truly soured (for a while anyway).
EVENT HORIZON
As the bus dawdled along, the rest of the passengers decided to walk the remaining 2 miles to the stadium. At the time it didn't really register but looking back over photographs the place really was a fucking dump! Scrambling over rubble and waste ground, no amenities, no anything! UEFA never learn do they? Greedy, self-serving twats, the lot of them. Anyway, everyone headed for yet another 'Sea of Red' behind the goal. Apparently, we'd just missed the entertainment (Pete Wylie, hysterical Turkish man etc) and we'd also ran out of ale. Luckily we bumped into my uncle and cousin who had had the foresight to purchase a sensible (i.e. ridiculous) amount of alcohol. As the skies darkened we were 'entertained' by some nutter climbing one of the huge floodlight poles (80 foot?) to raise a Liverpool flag. I was dizzy just watching h! im from the ground, God knows what he felt like.
An hour before kick-off we decided to try and enter the stadium. With no signs. No stewards. No queues. No information. Basically, the method of entry was to push your way towards the ring of Turkish police waving your ticket in the air until a steward took it off you, tore through the barcode and agreed to let you in. UEFA? Gang of incompetent, greedy twats. After guessing the vague location of our seats we took our place. After expecting the pitch to be miles away I have to admit the view was amazing, as was the rest of the stadium. It was huge, and almost three-quarters Liverpool. The Milan fans' colour-coordinated rehearsed performance paled into insignificance against the spontaneous and varied support for the Reds. I don't think I've ever felt as proud to be a Red in my! life. 40,000 people coming all that way, making all that effort to support their team. Banners of every type (except Union Jacks and St George's Cross) hung on every spare bit of stadium. This was unbelievable. The teams enter to an extraordinary din and I'm screaming my head off in support because we need all we can get to beat Milan. YNWA, Fields of Anfield Road, Scouser Tommy...Come On You Reds!
DON'T LOOK NOW
50 seconds. That's all it took to knock the wind out of my sails. From rubbing my hands with glee to sitting there looking at my dad, shaking our heads. To be fair we didn't play too badly for the next half an hour, an opinion borne out by my many reviews on video since. However, the 2 goals late in the first half (total class by the way) led to a harsh score-line. My phone was vibrating past itself; funnily enough not from gloating Blues but from concerned family members - one of them actually texted 'You never know!' I also got a text from my mate in the West Stand along the lines of 'Useless cunts, want to go home!'
Had I really endured all I have described above just to be on the receiving end of the biggest European Cup final tonking ever? I was picturing all the people in the pubs back home watching this (especially smirking bluenoses, Mancs and Chelsea fans) and just praying we could make a better show of it in the second half and keep it to 3-0. I also felt sorry for my old dad, who I'd persuaded to fork out for this sorry situation.
DELIVERANCE
From somewhere deep in our soul, Liverpool fans summoned the fortitude for a rendition of YNWA at half time. The tradition of our 'twelfth man' performances throughout this cup run not allowing us to just sit there and take it. This in turn led to the much more jolly 'We're gonna win 4-3!' as the party atmosphere attempted a comeback. I'd like to think the team heard our support in the dressing room but that is probably a romantic myth. Anyhow, I was proud to be a Red again as we roared our team back on to the pitch, and I mean roared. 'Come on Reds, just one goal', I thought. Not as the first in an amazing comeback but just for consolation because there was no way we were coming back from 3-0 down against Milan. Steven's goal (Clive Tyldesley - "Hello?! Hello?!") was met with a bit of a half hearted cheer I must admit. I think everyone was grateful more than anything. Grateful that it wouldn't be a complete whitewash. However, the tempo was upped and we started to look the part a bit more. Vladi's goal (Clive Tyldesley - "It's in! It's in!") took the proverbial roof off. I was hugging my dad, the two lads next to me - anyone. Surely we weren't going to do this? Penalty! It looked more of a cert at the game than it did on TV but the place was going berserk. 50% joy, 50% nerves. Come on Xabi. You beeeautttyyyyyyyy!!!
The rest of the match was virtually watched through my fingers and I don't remember Jerzy's double save being SO close to the end but we had somehow managed to get through to the penalty shoot out. My mate, sat towards the Milan end of the ground, said the noise from the whistles as Milan players took their pens was incredible. We were doing well - our pens were class, even Riise's was unlucky - and I just knew Schevchenko would miss. Don't know why, I just had a feeling as he ran up. Joy! Was this the best �500 I had ever spent? Are you kidding? Hugs for everyone.
The players celebrated and I think every Red was looking for Carragher more than anyone, because they wanted him to enjoy it more than anyone. Carragher came behind the goal and a young girl (9 years old?) evaded all of the security, jumped from the crowd and launched herself at him. Jamie hugged her tight and swung her round and round. I swear me and my dad stopped cheering, looked at each other with a lump in the throat and fought to hold back the tears. I can't believe this incident wasn't picked up by TV or press but if there is one abiding moment I will remember the day by, that is it. Jamie C, you are a true legend.
Following the presentation, YNWA and the most out-of-tune We Are The Champions I have ever heard we attempted to make our way back to the airport. Again, thousands of identical buses greeted us outside and we arrived at the airport 5 minutes after our plane was due to leave. No worries, I was sure Blue Line Airways had a contingency plan.
STIR CRAZY
The Turkish authorities had erected a huge tent for our benefit with stalls selling all kinds of tat. Having been awake for almost 24 hours I was in no mood to sample a bottle of Turkish wine, nor did I want a leather jacket. Still, we had plastic chairs and an information board. However, the information did not move for 7 hours. With everyone settling in for a long wait the authorities came up with a plan for the exhausted and emotionally drained masses. Booming dance music at full blast! It was like Chinese torture. Sleep deprivation, misinformation, confined in a small place. The first airing of YNWA was enthusiastically embraced, if only because it gave us a break from the hardcore techno (or whatever it was) but by its 6th airing even YNWA was grating. Please please please just get me home! As dawn broke, lethargy and apa! thy had struck the masses in the tent. Hardly anyone was moving, let alone speaking, the information board was stuck in some parallel universe and I was ready to kill the next person to whistle 'Ring of Fire' with my bare hands.
Taking things into our own hands we decided to enter the main terminal through passport control and demand some up-to-date information (wow, we were crazy! - "No copper's gonna take me alive! I need some information!"). However, the information desk had gone AWOL due to the fact that they had no information to give. My mate, flying to Luton, had asked them when his flight would be leaving. "Delayed many hours" was the reply. When he saw a similar plane to the one that had brought him take off 10 minutes later, the information board clicked his flight over to 'Departed'. Shortly afterwards, and probably to avoid a mini riot we were all ushered through customs and on to the first available flight to our destinations no matter who we'd booked with. It had been a very long day an! d the shine WAS beginning to be taken off it by the shambles at the airport, so I gratefully sank into my seat, fastened my seatbelt and dreamed of home.
COMING HOME
Arriving in Liverpool we were met by a bank of TV and press. They were probably expecting returning hordes of jubilant Reds. What they got was a ramshackle stream of downtrodden hangovers who mustered the most half-hearted cheer I can remember (like when someone drops a glass in the pub). Still, we were home. I bought about 5 papers and got in a cab decorated in red and white and began retelling my Istanbul adventures for the first time. I doubt it will be the last.
Looking back on it, I must be fucking mad.
COMPARE AND CONTRAST
1999 - MU win the European Cup. Centre stage on the rostrum/pitch? Sir Alex Ferguson. Centre stage when they take the cup back to Manchester (Trafford centre?) Why, old Taggart himself...again.
2005 - We win the cup and where's Rafa? Was he even on the rostrum? The homecoming. Wasn't he on the back seat of the bus? Nope, just gabbing away with Morientes.
Just one more reason to hate the puffed-up, lunatic old soak.
OUT OF TOWNERS
May I just take this opportunity to thank the half a million Norwegians, Irish and Singaporean Reds who, at less than 24 hours notice, managed to get to Liverpool for the homecoming of the cup. You really can't buy that kind of loyalty. Also, a mention must go to the magmanimous Bluenose landlords of most of the pubs in Wavertree High Street for allowing their premises to be decked in red and white even now, 3 weeks later. I know it must be galling for all of them but the efforts that they go to just to make all of our out of town fans welcome really is touching.
I wonder if the Liverpool Echo will still persist with its insane 'Peoples Club' label?
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