Topic: RAWK European Cup Memories

[MichaelA]

Istanbul provided all Liverpool fans with an unforgettable experience. For many of us, raised on a diet of trophies and European glory, 25th May 2005 proved to be a cathartic experience. After two decades of underperformance on the field, and traumatic events away from it, we are able to look forward to the new season with an air of confidence. The European Cup campaign and the trip to Istanbul also produced some great writing from fans on the site.

To commemorate the achievement in Istanbul, we would like to put together an archive of fans recollections of our European Cup campaign last season. This project is intended to become a permanent area on RAWK, which will record the best pieces of writing provided by forum users. The project will initially be an online endeavour; however we are seriously considering the possibility of producing a one off fanzine, or a book. This will depend upon the quality and quantity of the submissions, and the perceived demand for it.

We would like to invite all RAWK users to submit their own work for consideration. Please post your piece in this thread; or provide a link to it. Please be aware that in posting your own work, you are acknowledging the right of the RAWK website to publish the work under copyright in an online or offline manner; no payments will be made to individuals for their contribution, and no free copies will be made available either!

Please do not post links to other people's work; it is important that you only post your own writings! As RAWK is intended primarily a site for match going Reds, submissions from those with first hand experiences of the European Cup campaign will be given priority. However, if your story is suitable, interesting, entertaining or just plain amazing, we would hope to include it!

If you have any questions regarding the project please IM myself or Matt (Armin).

[Jaron]

Good plan. I'd encourage all RAWKites who enjoy writing to record their experiences, otherwise in a couple of years you'll never believe your own memories!

I've already posted my experience of That Night, here:
http://www.redandwhitekop.com/forum/index.php/topic,68662.0.html

It's a 'Sky witness' rather than an eye witness report, but if it's what you're looking for, you're welcome to use it.

[Hugh]

My story:

Istanbul '05: An impossible dream that became a reality

Even now, three days on when I’m home and have slept on it, have read countless match reports, watched many scenes from the homecoming and the tape of the game at least three times, still all manner of words do not do the whole thing justice. Being European Champions is still quite unbelievable!

Let me start though by saying this victory was the greatest of all five (Five! Bloody brilliant!). I was not old enough to witness Rome, Wembley, Paris or Rome again but everything I have seen shows that they were sensational in their own way, all of them. From beating the mighty Real Madrid in ’81 to beating Roma in their own backyard in ‘84 but this one, this one was special.

To be 3-0 down, to comeback so incredibly, to take it on penalties so dramatically and to win the whole thing outright when we’ve been written off from the very start, to win it with what it must be said is a team that Rafael Benitez will have made many changes to by next season is truly special, the stuff not even dreams are made of.

All that in my view makes it the best European Cup win of them all and I struggle to see how people could disagree.

On a personal level, it was undoubtedly the greatest night of my life so far. My only previous experiences of seeing the Reds play was league and cup games at Anfield, the biggest being a derby in the nineties. This was a hundred, no, a thousand times bigger if not more.

To be there, to be involved in the most incredible atmosphere and to see the Reds return to the top of European football having been away for so long, again words simply do not do justice to my feelings about it all. I cannot describe it.

I can tell the story though, that’s easy.

My Dad and myself took a daytrip option with work commitments meaning it could be the only way. We would fly from Dublin to Manchester on Tuesday night and then from Manchester to Istanbul on Wednesday morning and back again early Thursday before a late afternoon flight back to Dublin.

The Tuesday night flight to Manchester passed without incident. No delays, smooth as you like and a new friend on the way over Seamus was from Northern Ireland and was also on his way to Turkey, on his own and keen it seemed to make acquaintances along the way.

Seamus was a strange character, very soft-spoken but extremely likeable. He was, he told us, a shareholder and thus could get tickets to all games yet he said he hadn’t been to a league game in many years and had given his season ticket up as well. Stranger still he wore a Tyrone GAA jersey (To the game as well!) having not bought a Liverpool one “since Rush was playing.”

While we met many Reds on the way, Seamus was the one guy who’s name we actually found out and who was with us at various legs of the trip, not just one or two. The plan on Tuesday night had been to sleep in Manchester airport but the Radisson hotel across the road from the airport proved tempting.

A few hours kip in a proper bed and a shower before a ridiculously early start would have us in good shape. While there were no rooms available there, the concierge Nigel was extremely helpful in ringing a number of hotels and eventually finding the last room available within a 25 mile radius of the airport. It was calling out to us!

And so we secured a few or so hours of proper sleep, a refreshing shower and a 3.45am taxi to the airport for what would be the longest of days. Check in was fine once we found the desk, Reds everywhere and even a good luck message on one of the airports screens.

Our flight boarded on time as Colin Murphy from Radio One was getting the songs going with a few of his mates in the departure area but once on board the plane we were told we had missed our take off slot or something and thus we waited in the plane for around two hours before take off.

Frustrated but not overly so, when we did take off the flight passed without incident, as some slept, some chatted and almost all hummed, whistled or sang Ring of Fire at various stages of the journey. We arrived in Istanbul at 3pm local time, two hours late and rather frustrated with valuable drinking time lost!

Once through customs we were told it would be better to go to the stadium as Taksim square was overcrowded, while I didn’t doubt this I was gutted if I’m honest. Spending hours at the stadium when it was so far out of town didn’t really appeal to me but onto the bus for the Ataturk we went, Seamus again in tow having not seen him since arriving at Manchester. He seemed to have found a new friend in a pudgy Scottish chap, also on the bus and saying very little.

The journey we were told was half an hour but of course as most who traveled will tell you it was three times that if not worse. An endless motorway (if you can call it that) as we crossed the Bosphorous and saw many a mosque but this was the closest we were going to get to actually seeing the city of Istanbul, a big disappointment for me as I had expected to spend some time in the city.

But the craic on the bus was good as the stadium came into view but was still a good half hour away. Those on board made much fun of the rather mad locals from the lone madmen standing on the street, not waving, not smiling and with look of “I’ll fucking kill you all” to the hyper kids waving and desperate that we wave back making us all feel a million dollars! Well me anyway!

And so the stadium neared and we seemed to cross a mountain range and go down a valley before it came into good view and there were fellow Reds walking the route, as taxis, buses and cars all came to a jam. Eventually the bus opened it’s doors and allowed us to walk the rest of way.

The route being through a downward path of muck, to a European Cup final, some of the magic disappeared right there but the fan festival brought it back despite the shambles in terms of organization that it was.

The presence of so many Reds, singing, great banners, great craic and some good live music made up for the shittiness of one programme stall, one merchandise stand, one food stand and all with massive queues and some very unhappy punters.

Yes some came round selling crisps and rolls but organization could have been far better (considering they put 16 months of work into this or so they say) as no one came round selling programmes, which would have solved many problems. It summed it all up really when they ran out of programmes at our end and people just started taken a piss in what had been the stall. Served them right too!

We ventured down to the Milan end of the ground not in any way nervous as we had seen Milan fans down our end as well. Down there was less people and less atmosphere, no live music just a DJ and their stall had also run out of programmes.

I managed to swap scarfs with a Milan fan, something I was very chuffed about considering he approached me and I not having not done something like that before. Losing my European away virginity at the biggest game of them all was very pleasing I must say!

We returned to the Liverpool end where the live music was well and truly underway and Pete Wylie and The Mighty Wah (I hope I’ve got that right, hell of a name!) had the crowd going, flags waving, banners, the atmosphere building nicely. When the music finished fans took over the makeshift stage, which was the cue for the funniest of safety warnings you’ll ever hear!

Some desperate Turkish steward in a voice that could only make you assume he was in the midst of a nervous breakdown pleaded with the fans to get off the stage: "Dear Liverpool Fans, This is seriously dangerous, this is seriously dangerous........please leave the stage, the stadium doors are now open...........the stage is going to collapse, this is seriously dangerous!”

Eventually they took the warning and left but not after the poor lad had been laughed at endlessly by just about everyone there. After mulling about for a bit longer, finishing off those pitiful last (warm!) cans of Amstel we had bought for some extortionate price and taking a few pictures of some of the class banners on display, we headed for the stadium.

This was a around two hours before kick but plenty of others were heading in as well, before we took our seats and having got through the turnstiles we looked out over the ground below us as various ‘anyone who’s anybody’s’ arrived and discussed with a fellow fan just how incredible this all was. We agreed there and then that there was no way we could lose with all these fans in this rather beautiful if totally inadequate setting.

Block 911 of the West Stand was supposedly neutral but was packed with Reds. There were three or four Milan fans in our section that I saw and there was a heated exchange of words between them and a couple of wankers passing off as Liverpool fans a few rows down from us but nothing more serious than that. I recall most people shaking their hands after the game, a lovely touch.

The players then came out for the warm up to be greeted by a wonderful and the first of what would be many renditions of You’ll Never Walk Alone as the stadium was fast filling up.

The opening ceremony confused the fuck out of everyone and pissed me off no end. Get off the fucking pitch there’s a game here, a bloody big one too!! Eight bloody minutes?! Hurry up! Eventually the teams arrived on the field and the silly dancing finished, the noise was deafening and off we went on a magical journey to utopia….

The start of course was horrible, our pre match dreams being wrecked inside a minute with Maldini’s volley that took everyone by shock. All we could do was keep singing and help the lands get back into it with still most of the game to go but it gradually fell apart as the half wore on.

The feeling I got from the first half was that these players were playing the biggest game of their lives and had completely frozen, not able to grasp the enormity of it all. Misplaced passes, sloppy play, rushed play, this was Liverpool of Selhurst Park and St Mary’s not Stamford Bridge and the Stadio Delle Alpi.

Kewell’s departure was to a chorus of boos, I only counted myself as having clapped him in our section. Smicer’s arrival to more sighs and groans of disbelief, how wrong we would all be come 1am.

Yet for now, the game was slipping further from our grasp as were torn to shreds at the back and Crespo got the second and then that sublime pass by Kaka that took out our entire back four and allowed Crespo in for 3-0. Sheer disbelief and astonishment, how on earth had we thrown this away so quickly and so, it seemed, easily?

All the work from Graz last August to Anfield earlier in the month towards this joyous moment of being in with a shout of European glory and we’d blown it, just like that. At half time, the faces around me told the story, stunned disbelief. Heads in scarfs, heads in hands, heads trying to get round it all.

Me? Silence. Dad asking could they get back in it? “No, not gonna happen” I said firmly preparing myself for the agony of defeat like this, dreading the journey home absolutely dreading it. Much money borrowed to fund this trip and all it would leave me with was bad, bad memories.

You’ll Never Walk Alone was sung by all at the break, a rallying call much needed but I admit to not singing with my heart in it, only because as my fan it was my duty to get behind the lads. I sunk to my seat when it finished and “4-3! We’re gonna win 4-3!” began. I didn’t bother joining in, heartbreak had, by now, consumed me.

Hamann had been warming up all through the break with Pako Ayesteran, as he began the second half there were few comments from anyone, the feeling being: “Well he’s got to change something but he’s (Hamann) not really gonna change this game is he?”

The teams arrived back out for the second half, the clearest memory I have of that particular moment was of Gattuso raising his arms to the Milan fans as if in celebration of victory. There seemed no logical, possible way of them throwing this away.

That belief was enforced by the early stages of the second half, rather than the Reds bombing forward, it was Milan who won an early free kick in a decent position and it was Milan who looked hungry for more but it all changed on 54 minutes.

Neat build up, neat passing and a fine cross from Riise headed home superbly by Gerrard into the far corner and a goal that was early enough to give the Reds a glimmer of hope. Rafa stressed the importance of getting one goal at least at half time, we’d done it and there was time, lots of it.

We could not have prepared ourselves for what came next though. Within two minutes Smicer, who was fast emerging as a superb performer on the night, lashed in a shot into the far corner from the edge of the area that Dida misjudged and suddenly, unexpectedly we were within touching distance, the half not 15 minutes old.

Then on the hour, Gerrard stormed through, ‘fucking hell, we’re gonna do it!’ Hauled down, penalty, no doubts. I don’t usually celebrate the awarding of penalties but I did this one as nerves engulfed me almost immediately afterwards.

Thoughts raced through my head. It was Alonso to take it. Ok if he misses we’ve still got loads of time I thought, preparing myself for the worst as always and then of course he did but within a second he’d smashed it in and that brief moment of dejection when it was saved was replaced by sheer ecstasy all around me! Hugging the fan beside me I’d been taking to increasingly as the game progressed.

Half and hour to go, bloody hell! Shouldn’t there only be a few minutes left you felt? The nature of the comeback in such a short space of time was quite unbelievable in fact I still can’t believe it! The songs flowed from there, all of them and that word destiny creeped into my mind, it was there at the very back but I ignored it for Milan began to take control again.

Immediately after the game I would have said that we both threatened in the hour (including extra time) that followed our levelling of the game but in hindsight Milan always looked most likely to break the deadlock but thankfully we had returned to our old selves in defence: every ball blocked or cleared away.

Cisse arrived with five minutes in normal time to a rapturous welcome, Rafa was going for the win in normal time but as players have said since there was nothing left in the tank after the exertions of those crazy six minutes. Extra time passed without incident until the last five minutes.

Some say Shevchencko missed badly, others Dudek saved brilliantly, either way Milan had been denied again with three minutes left in extra time and immediately after the ball went out after Dudek had got what his brother called ‘The Hand of God’ to it my Dad said we were going to win.

Destiny now was more than just a word at the very back of my mind, how could we not win after all this? Yet still the nerves dominated as we had one last chance with the free kick in extra time stoppage time.

The lad beside me was sure Gerrard was going to score and I could certainly see the logic, destiny was again mentioned. He didn’t though, Riise fluffing the lay off as the whistle blew, penalties it was.

I was less than confident. For all the destiny in the world Milan still had an expert penalty saver in Dida who had already saved Alonso’s and of course as we well knew we had not practiced penalties before the game. All logic pointed towards a Milan win as we prepared for spot kicks at their end of the ground.

But destiny overcame logic quickly in the shootout as Serginiho skied it, Hamann planted his despite much nervousness following his Cardiff miss in 2001 then Pirlo had his saved and Cisse but us 2-0 ahead. Could we really throw it away now?

The now legendary Dudek shuffle, jig or whatever it may be called was not so visible for us up in the top tier of the West stand but we could see him moving on the line and handing the ball to Milan players, staring them out of it, it was all part of putting them off as my Dad said later and it worked a treat.

Tomasson finally got Milan off the mark, Riise of all people was not expected to miss but did, Kaka scored his as Dudek went wobbly in the legs beyond reason! But Smicer restored the one goal advantage in what was his last act as a Liverpool player. Kissing the badge in celebration, many may do it but you felt this one was really meant by the Czech, he’s been frustrating for six years at Anfield but we might all forget that now he is a hero of Istanbul ’05 and clearly loves the club.

His conversion meant it was down to Shevchenko to keep Milan in it. I think we all expected him to score, Europe’s finest striker, no doubt he’d dispatch it confidently and keep Milan in the shootout at least.

But had we seen the look on his face that the TV pictures showed we perhaps would have thought differently. This guy was a beaten man and so it proved. Up he stepped, he hit the shot, Dudek dived in it’s direction, it failed to pass him and what followed was SHEER BLISS!

I hugged the lad beside me of course, screaming in his ear “We’ve fucking done it!!” they seemed the most appropriate words at the time before he mysteriously disappeared into the crowd in front of us for me never to see him again.

I never caught his name, my abiding memory of him will be shivering like fuck in shorts and t shirt as the temperature dropped but together w shared the most incredible 120 minutes or so we are ever likely to witness as football fans. I won’t forget that for sure.

I hugged many more around me with a few high fives in between and my Dad of course, who although delighted was never as ecstatic at me, he’s just not fucking crazy about the Redmen but that didn’t matter, it never has, he’ll listen and he’ll share in the joy as he did that night, that’s all that matters.

What mattered most though was that Liverpool were Champions of Europe for a fifth time, a feeling like no other, a feeling many in the stadium had not experienced before for it was 21 long years ago. The wait was over, the cup was ours again and this times for keeps!

Some couldn’t get their heads round a first half collapse like no others but everyone couldn’t get their heads around what we had just done, not just the belief defying comeback but the fact that we’d won the European Cup in Rafa’s first season at the club with a squad that is expected to be dismantled this summer and who had suffered 14, yes 14 league defeats!

How on earth had we achieved such a feat? How had we done such an incredible thing? It was just…just….just oh bloody hell what was it!!!??? Words just cannot describe the feeling.

A proud, proud moment as the boyhood Red fulfilled that long held childhood dream after inspiring a comeback like no other, this time it really was fairytale stuff for Steven Gerrard. Leave? How could he?

A final You’ll Never Walk Alone as they paraded the trophy around the ¾’s of the stadium packed with jubilant Reds. Followed by We Are the Champios and the atrocious Simply The Best. You’ll Never Walk Alone played again as we left the stadium and the team made their way back to the dressing room.

As we made our way to buses there was high fives and handshakes with the stewards and locals who’s organisation left a lot to be desired but who’s kindness and warm heartedness for me was undoubted.

We quickly located the right bus as many went to Taksim, how I longed to join them but there was a flight to catch and we found the airport buses amazingly finding ourselves reunited with Seamus having not seen him since the bus to stadium all those many hours ago.

“What a game, eh?,” we said but such words sounded hollow in my view, no words could do justice to what we had just witnessed. On board Ring of Fire and Campioni were in full flow as we pulled out of the stadium but tiredness soon consumed us all, certainly myself.

Emotionally fantastic, yet draining. Fists were shook and thumbs up a plenty from other buses and taxis passing us by as we departed slowly back to the airport, a long journey ahead but one we could hardly moan about for nothing was worth moaning about at this stage, Liverpool were Kings of Europe and that’s all that mattered!

As I began drifting into a night’s sleep we reached the airport, queuing for the security check before we arrived inside to free t-shirts and souvenirs and a departures board riddled with the word ‘Delayed’. We settled down on the marble floor, a long night/morning seemed assured but a happy one at least.

Some chose to complain at the information desk, some chose to sleep and some just chose to sit on the ground and take it all in, I was amongst those people. I chatted briefly to people beside me about the programme fiasco, none available at the airport as promised but Seamus, the kind and sound man that he is, gave me one of the three he had bought.

The souvenir ‘I was there’ packs were everywhere while the cardboard boxes that carried them all were taken by fans and slept on, others just used their bag as a headrest as I did, nodding into a deep night’s sleep.

I awoke three hours later with the sun having risen and the place a little more tidier than it had been when I nodded off. The departures board had barely changed, few flights seemed to have left.

My father had got some information on our own Air Atlanta flight which he was told would board in the next 15 minutes, two hours later still no movement as some fans began ringing home and making alternative arrangements, some having missed their flights having not been notified they were departing such was the chaos at an airport poorly managed for such a big event and volume of people.

Eventually we boarded our plane seven hours later than displayed on our itinerary and waited for another hour for 30 passengers that hadn’t been found, we eventually took off minus three of them. I can only hope they were celebrating in Taksim and not waiting in the tent outside the airport, unaware their flight had left like some of the horror stories I have heard since my return.

On board we spoke with a fan living Blackburn beside us, he talked of how he’d be going home to stick it to all the Manc mates from work and from where he lived. That summed it all up really.

At last we had full gloating rights, we had won the biggest prize of them all. No more ‘mickey mouse treble’! They could have no answer for this, the bloody European Cup! Even better was arriving back in Manchester as Champions of Europe.

As we went through arrivals, we searched for someone in a Man U shirt, all of us like lions searching for their prey, we needed some serious gloating but were not satisfied in the end settling for renditions of Ring of Fire and Campioni as we walked through. You can’t have it all I guess!

First stop was the paper shop and I bought the lot. Reading about our success in the media that simply had to be praising this time and not spiteful like they have been all season would be great pleasure as we waited for our connecting flight back to Dublin.

On board the penultimate leg of the journey, Seamus and I exchanged numbers with the promise that he could secure me tickets for most home games. With the Super Cup on my mind as a possible trip next season he assured me he could get tickets for me but when I asked would he not be going himself he said no ‘cause he was there in 2001.

It summed up the strange thing about Seamus, ok he’d seen Monaco before but why not go again if he had the chance (Which he had) to see the Reds lift another cup? To me, being eligable for tickets for most games would be just heaven, it just doesn’t seem to float the boats of other Reds though who have the chance and that will always amaze me.

We said our goodbyes at Dublin airport nonetheless having at various points along the way shared in something extraordinary and while we may meet again, nothing will ever match this first time.

The final leg was the car journey back to Kildare, when we reached home I turned on the telly and there was the Reds on the bus going through Liverpool, a million people out in force to see them bring home the cup for good and later I watched the tape of the game, finally remembering how Smicer scored having forgotten almost immediately after his excellent strike!

Yet still it hadn’t quite all sunk in and it will take some time to do so.

This report may not be as exciting as others have or will be when people tell of the madness in Taksim square or the 14 hour bus rides from Bulgaria or the drunken nights leading up to the game when they happened to meet Alan Kennedy who was pissed or the chance meeting with DJ Spoony, who’s actually quite sound.

The nearest I got to celebrity was Colin Murphy and LFC Museum curator Stephen Done. But this is my own account of what was just the most amazing experience of my life to date.

It was the fulfilment of a dream I never thought possible as a Liverpool fan and when impossible dreams come through like they did on that enchanted night in Istanbul on May 25th 2005, then you can dream many other impossible things and truly believe they will come through.

Hugh O’Connell
May 28th 2005.

[Mikie]

It's at times like this where I wish I had the ability to write like Paul, Evo and many others.  I will just have to make do with my own personal memories, and boy were they f'kin good ones.  There is nothing on this planet that makes you buzz like this, even two weeks after.

Mikie   

[[delete]]

Here's mine ...

We'd travelled Europe in 2005,
Getting our money to see Rafa's side,
France, Germany, bottles thrown in Italy,
None to compare with our trip to Turkey

Few bevvys at the airport, all on the plane,
Two hours delay, gonna be straight the game,
Tickets sorted, the ale's now flowing,
Couple of thousand feet up, the songs all get going

"We'll win it five times", we all concurred,
Now it's on the vodka, so the songs are more slurred,
Get off the plane, onto some dirty bus,
Made the fucking 79 even look plush

Dusty roads clogged up by singing Reds all the way,
We'd never thought we'd see this day,
Liverpool in the European Cup final, a sea of colour and sound,
Fuck this traffic jam, we'll march the ground

Over the dusty bumps and hills, we all get to the stage,
A mad arse Turk getting in a rage,
"Get off the stage it's gonna go",
Johnny Cash rings round, everyone's in full flow

The sky get's darker, the nerves kick in,
Meet up with the lads, everyone's shittin,
Get the banner up, start a few flares,
Some mad show on the pitch, no-one cares

Teams come out, everything's ready,
Come on lads, just defend steady,
Thrown out the window, defence stand still,
Milan 1 Redmen nil

It seemed the lads had not bothered to turn up,
The last thing on everyone's mind now is lifting the cup,
Handball down one end, Crespo's through,
Liverpool 0 Milan two

By this time all hope has gone, Milan taking the piss,
Three, four, five, maybe six?
If anybody thought there was hope still,
Milan 3 Liverpool nil

We had a few drinks of whisky someone'd smuggled in,
Got out the flares lit them again,
Sung a bit, let's not let them get us down anymore,
Let's get bladdered off cheap whisky fuck the score

Hamann comes on, things are changing for the better,
Milan are beaten by Stevie's header,
Looking better now, no longer outclassed,
3-1, and we're all fuckin smashed

Eyesights blurry, are we the ones in red?
Playing with a bit of pride, the games on it's head,
Gave Smicer loads everytime he was in the team,
All forgiven now lad, 3-2, now we can dream

Penno for us, everyone in proper full song,
Fucking hell this isn't real, that ale was strong,
It's beyond belief, look at the fucking score,
3-3, but we've only got a flare for one more!

From being outclassed, outfought and outwit,
The ones doing the playing are in the Red kit,
Daring to even think about the cup,
Pray hard that they don't go an fuck it up

The thirty extra time come and go, with Dudek saving our skin,
Penno time, can't even talk, the emotions are overflowin,
After what seems like an hour and some Dudek magic we're a penno away,
Still struggling to take it all in, it's got to be our day

Shevchenko v Dudek, the striker steps up,
A Dudek save, we've won the cup,
Next thing I'm running round, we're European champs,
Back from the dead, had no fucking chance

Everyone's going hypo, the team are going mad,
Carragher going crazy, go ed lad,
"Campiona" been a long time since we sung that,
But how the fuck this get pulled out the hat

Gerrard pauses, and lifts up the cup
Fourty-odd thousand Reds erupt,
Showing our appreiecation for the Redmen,
As the banner said "Them Scousers Again"

Get back the tent, get more tanked up,
People walking round shellshocked, we've won the fuckin cup,
the tannoy plays victory songs, it's 5am and we're still in full flow,
Even singing to Queen and Status fuckin Quo!

The plane back's late, but everyone's still on the booze,
Arrive at John Lennon to loads of camera crews,
"What's your message to Manchester" one asked,
"Who'se fucking arsed?  We're the kings again at last"

The next 90 hours are all a daze,
Finally made it back to ours after five days,
And finally after hearing the stories of Paris and Rome,
I've got one now I can call me own.

Gary Ablett [Mark P]

[hoonin]

Gary Ablett is Mark P?

[[delete]]

Shit ...

[Tim]

Nice one Mark.

[Hightown Phil]

Boss poem that.

My effort:

Day One

Ataturk OLYMPIC stadium. Forget the Olympic bit from now on, just call it the Ataturk. If they get the Olympics there will be some very rich delegates of that particular organisation. Probably slightly richer than the UEFA ones who decided that Istanbul should host the 2005 Champions League final. It was chaos. But you can have more of that later.

The journey started at about half past one on the Tuesday afternoon when I left college. For a reason unbeknown to ran, my group of friends not only thought it would be a good idea to jump on top of me (10 of them piled high), they thought it would be a good idea to give me a round of applause as I got into my car. Why, I will never really know. They’re a strange bunch.

Ended up in Liverpool airport, stood waiting for my Dad. For an absolute age. He arrived completely stressed out, hardly a surprise given his current circumstances and something that would re-appear throughout the trip. His whole two days seemed to be stress caused by either me or lack of food. Or in one amusing situation both.

Went and got in the check in queue to find that SKY Sports were interviewing people checking onto out flight. Fella in front of me got interviewed, he’d been ready for it for twenty years apparently. Can’t really blame him can you? Checked in, walked up past John Lennon wearing a jester hat and a Liverpool scarf.

Up the stairs I clock a Wetherspoons. Great I say, Dad says nay, you’re on your own. Off I trundle and end up talking to two fellas. One who was from Cornwall and had ended up paying £710 for a ticket of one of these thieving agencies. Unfortunately for him he had ended up paying that horrendous amount for a ticket in the Milan end. Whoops. Bet he doesn’t care now though. Saw myself on Sky Sports News as well. Cameras don’t put on 10lbs. I’m just a bit overweight.

Finish pint number three and then casually walk out to find my Dad, he wasn’t happy with being left to himself as it was, but he was about to get a lot more stressed. I fancied a Burger, he wanted to go through security and wait for our plane to be called. “We might miss it.” He says. “We might see it land I said.” It was over an hour before it took off. Jesus, chill out man. I got my burger, we got through security and we got on the plane on time. 4 hours passed and a few events happened, got my match ticket and one knob on the plane though it would be funny to act like a knob. Ended up in a Turkish Police cell, which you can’t say he didn’t deserve.

We landed at some military airport in the arsehole of nowhere (a resounding theme throughout the trip), got through passport control and boarded my coach for a hotel that I could find absolutely no record of on the Internet. The coach by the way, led to some hilarious moments. Comments such as “F*ckin hell, it’s big this place, I thought it was something like Birkenhead,” and sights such as seeing around fifty people, no I’m not exaggerating, in the back of a Ford Transit mini bus, kept us amused on the 50 minute or so journey. As we got on the coach my Dad had entrusted me with his treasured carrier bag containing things such as bottle water and chocolate raisins. I managed to forget the bag and he was waterless and foodless.

It took us both about half an hour to realise this. He flew of the handle, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It was half an hour before he talked to me. I found it quite amusing that I was so dosey as to forget it. We both had things in the bag mind. He had food, I had revision notes that I’d been doing for months for an exam on Thursday morning. I didn’t care, I was about to experience the best day of my life.

Day Two

I woke up at about 9.20 on the Wednesday morning feeling sick. Suppose it was probably hunger. If only I’d have had those raisins eh? We went down for our breakfast and the restaurant was a sea of red. Most bizarre breakfast I’ve ever seen. I ended up eating a chicken sandwich and a piece of cake. Checked out of the hotel and ended up at the Blue Mosque and the Topkapi Palace. Very impressive.

We decided that as we didn’t know the way from these particular places we’d get a taxi. To be quite honest, I’m surprised I’m still alive. Reversing down a road at 20mph, going the wrong way down one way streets, running red lights, opening my door to make sure it was closed while we were moving and also having arguments with drivers who wouldn’t let him out of the way were just a few mad cap things he did. And there were no seat belts either. He then had the cheek to ask for 20 lira, it was no more than 4 miles, the thieving bastard.

He did however take us to our coach. Off to the European Cup Final I went. Just. We left the hotel at about 5.45 and ended up getting to the ground at about 8. Over two hours to go around twenty miles. The journey was eventful to say the least, with one of our travelling companions acquiring an Osama Bin Laden mask with hilarious consequences. Turks pointing and laughing all over the place. 20 minutes after the coach left our hotel, we drove past the shop where everyone had bought their ale. Cue 39 annoyed Scousers, 20 minutes wasted because the coach driver couldn’t be arsed parking on the end of the road. We then proceeded to make our way to the ground. Laura our steward got pestered to let us all have a piss stop and eventually relented. Cue twenty of us piling into a petrol station after just jumping off the coach, the coach by the way didn’t stop. We all had a piss and then casually walked out to the coach. It had gone. Cue pandemonium. Twenty of us, big and bigger, ended up sprinting a quarter of a mile to where it had gone to. One poor fella must have been about twenty stone. Who cares? We’re nearly there we all thought. Except we weren’t. We rounded a corner and saw a valley that must have been over 2 miles wide and the road went round in a horse shoe shape. We could see the ground as well. That made it more infuriating. Turks had piled out of their flats to come and applaud us. Mad. It then got more mad when taxi’s refused to take people any further and they were forced to walk the final two to three miles across hills and rocky terrain. I’ve heard someone say that they walked to the ground with cows. It honestly wouldn’t surprise me if they were being serious.

People then needed to piss again, the doors of the coach stayed open as we made our way up the hill and people jumped off, and on if they could catch the thing again. Some people even got on the wrong coach, we decided if anyone did we wouldn’t tell them or talk to them just to make them feel embarrassed. Three time it happened and each time it was equally funny.

Eventually got the ground to find carnage. No programmes, no food or drink, no ale and the entertainment finished as we got there. Great. In the ground we went in search of food. I say in the ground we queued up for ages as the stewards didn’t understand how the turnstiles worked. People ended up showing their ticket, getting the nod and climbing an eight-foot wall.

Food was found. Sort of. Salmonella in a bun, or burgers as they’re commonly called were available. My Dad declined, then decided at 9.42 he’d go and queue for one causing him to first the first ten minutes of the game. Food causes him high levels of stress. Speaking of the game, lows, followed by high’s, followed by complete ecstasy. Need I say anything more?

Ended up getting back on the coach to the airport where we waited for two retarded woman for an hour. How can 37 people find the coach within 15 minutes of each other and then two bints take another hour? No apology either.
Bin Laden made a reappearance on the jounrye back, some wag shouted "Tell George Bush that Ossie's been here, he'll bomb the f*cker and we won't have to come back" .Bizarrely we made the airport in 45 minutes. Despite it being further than the middle of the ‘Bul.

I say airport, it was more like a taxi rank. “Would anyone travelling with Monarch go and get on a plane” I managed to get on the first plane that landed in Liverpool to be greeted by TV cameras. Obviously wasn’t good looking enough for them though as they didn’t want me on. Their loss. Cained it home from the airport and got a quick bacon butty down my neck before doing an exam, which I f*cked up big time.

Who cares though? We’re the Greatest Team in Europe

[[delete]]

Nice one Phil lad ... can't believe you made your exam inall!

[Hightown Phil]

Me neither lad. On reflection though, may as well have just fucked it off and saved a three hundred quid or so and actually had some money to spend on holiday.

Couldn't careless now though.

[Jonathan Hall ☆☆☆☆☆☆]

Mine can be found just here...

http://www.redandwhitekop.com/forum/index.php/topic,70326.0.html

Everyday is a winding road

Yes title is nicked from Sheryl Crow but thought it would be a good option as the road to Ataturk was slow and winding, and was almost (yes almost) a waste of time. More later about that.

Right then where to start with this old long winded trip to Istanbul?

Well I suppose it started at my local pub exiled in Northampton. The White Elephant it was then to watch the 2005 FA Cup Final between Manchester United and Arsenal. A few beers later after watching Arsenal somehow win the cup without threatening whilst being completely outplayed was quite funny.

So, after the final whistle off to Heathrow to stay the night at a hotel before my lunchtime flight on the Sunday before the final. Would have travelled down on the day but public transport being what it is I had a choice of one coach which if it didn’t arrive meant missing the first flight of four, OR getting the replacement coach for the obligatory no trains on the west coast mainline cos it’s a Sunday option. Took the easy option of staying overnight to enable some more alcohol to be drank.

Easy start on the Sunday to catch my Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt, Wetherspoons open for beer and a sausage sarnie, and more beer of course. Why Frankfurt you ask? Well it was one of the cheapest options I could find and the total trip minus beer and food money, which included two return flights, one night in Heathrow and three in Istanbul cost just under £500 including the cost of the match ticket.

What to do for almost twenty four  hours between arriving at Frankfurt and leaving the following day for Istanbul. Well since one of the RAWK mods had decided to try his arm at being a spaceman, I was able to stay in Griesheim (just outside Darmstadt for you geography lovers out there?) So off to stay at Gareths for the night, only to find that due to dodgy food he’d had he was ill and didn’t really fancy going out, not that he didn’t come out for a beer and food, but when did being ill put him off the ale. Gareth might make someone a good wife after he remembered to clear up a certain mess behind his toilet. And if you have ever met Gareth then you will know how good he is at losing things, normally his mobile phone but this time his wallet. Last time he had it was in the supermarket the day before. Honest these germans aren’t they as he got it back with nothing missing.

Amazing how the german transport system works isn’t it, on the way to Darmstadt when I landed I got two surburban trains and had three minutes between connections, and strangely they worked. In the uk I’d still be sitting waiting for the connection. On the way back on the Monday I used the airport bus instead and thirty minutes later had checked in for my Turkish Airlines flight. What to do for two hours? Ah is that a bar selling draft Bitburger or should I just drink the Weissbier instead. Hard choices are awful, Weissbier it was then. Hate airports and the waiting around so surprise surprise flight was thirty minutes late, oh well another beer then.

Never been on Turkish Airlines before, bloody hell the stewardesses were how shall I say, bleeding gorgeous, and a novelty for once a decent airline meal with decent red wine to go with it. We manage to get to Istanbul Ataturk on time, now knowing I needed to get this free visa by showing match ticket I made sure I got to the visa queue quickly only to find once there I didn’t have to and was asked to go to passport control, where hopefully I’d get the stamp. Within five minutes of walking off the plane I was through passport control and off to find my bag. Even the luggage handlers were on my side and within ten minutes I was on the light metro from the airport which took me to the tram line, so with the tram stop right outside the Holiday Inn Istanbul city I was checked into the hotel by 5pm, less than an hour after arrival.

With a limited amount of people that I knew being already in town, went off to meet Roger who at the time was also on his own, so after quite a few beers for me and beers and Raki for Roger, he wanded off round the corner leaving his sunglasses in the bar.

Later on that night met up with the welshies and entourage ( aka Jon G, Lee & Ali J, Kirsty, Christine, John & Shazz and Brenda) for some more drinks at Bache bar, where we were suffered out first power cut, cue Christine mentioning about robbing the till. Typical girl…

Ah well Monday safely put to bed, mind having to share a room with Merthy Tydfill’s answer to Meatloaf is enough to make you drink. Have you had the promised haircut Jon G?

Oh and more to the point did you pay me for that fucking chocolate bar you took out of the minibar?

Tuesday arrives and guess what, yep off into Sultanahmet to find where Christine and Brenda were hiding, so after going to Sultans café first, finally find them outside Sultans pub (talk about stereotypical pub names – was half expecting to find one could the Fez’s moustache)
Not slow these waiters outside the bars, already by Tuesday lunchtime they had learnt the ring of fire tune, anything to get up in the bars. Christine and Brenda had decided since they were on holiday, they could have cocktails and didn’t they just. Mind we moved next door due to the price being cheaper, only for the girls to start bartering for larger cocktails at the same price, well it half worked.
After the other reprobates turned up, I found out by text from the uk the reason Roger had been trying to find out if I had his sunglasses, as he’d been robbed the night before and was pickpocketed the next day (quite ironic in a really ironic way – hold on that’s Alanis Morrisette not Sheryl Crow)

Our motley crew then decided to move on and use the tram to get towards Galata bridge to try the bars out under the bridge, nice tram shame about the fact we could have walked quicker due to the traffic and it was my suggestion, have you lot not realised never to get on public transport with me.
Galata bridge for people who don’t know link the two parts of the European side of Istanbul and has loads of restaurants underneath and loads of fishermen on top.
Checking the beer prices and first bar was two and a half euros for basically a half, next bar tried to get us in with their amazing offer of three and a half euros for a half, and after bartering they got as low as three euros, which for some reason they couldn’t understand why we wanted to drink elsewhere. So further along we settled down to drink loads more local beer and could while our time away looking out over the Bospherous and having a great chat and joke.
After a while Kirsty rejoined us (another story there eh K :-p) and later by Chahine (and if thats spelt wrong blam Lee J), who to anyone who knows him posts on RAWK as Anfield Reds and is from Paris, apart from being French he’s a great lad.
Never in a lifetime of seeing fish have I ever seen anyone as ecstatic as Lee J watching the fish going passed the bar on the fishing lines (get out more) and can’t remember when the pun about ‘do you like fish? Yes, do you like bread? Yes, then how about a fish sandwich’ came about but was funny at the time, so yes Lee and Shazz’s John went off to haggle for a fish sandwich on our early evening trek up towards Taksim Square.

At this point we should really have jumped a taxi, that fucking hill towards Taksim was one mighty steep hill, so I think we were all glad to arrive at the first bar we picked. A decent singsong while drinking draught Becks didn’t go amiss.
Then news of the YNWA crew who had asked where we were, by the time we got there the bar was closing and they couldn’t get in, only to find that in the alleyway was a beer barrel and pump which had now turned into the next bar on the trek.
Alley pub highlights were Mini Pavarotti turning up and Lee J falling off his chair (obviously not drunk)
Terri had also turned up by this point, no doubt upset that Luis Garcia was nowhere to be seen.

Taksim square was heaving when we got there, and what was that bloke doing with all the camera’s and police following him. Was he a local nutcase or someone famous in turkey? Just seemed strange even when slightly or totally pissed.

Wednesday and match day, by this time I’d seen about five Milan fans, and considering we’d spent most of our time in Sultanahmet which was supposed to be their side of town, then I could only gather most were coming on the day, which by lunchtime appeared to be the case, but we finally started retaking our bars one by one, but still had a good singsong when Bob K, Dave W & Christine, Mad Lee and Ewok.
A few chants towards a Des Lynam and Al Fayed look-alikes, along with the obligatory passport jokes, and then even better a bloke with a Chelsea shirt on.
Now if you’re going to dye your hair for the final then at least make sure it turns red, as orange is not the new red, so Armin what the fuck happened, probably the funniest sight of the trip, and I think Bob K’s song when something like this?

It’s red
It’s Pink
He did it in the sink
Armins hair, Armins hair

Mad Lee then decides to jump in the fountain and misjudged the deepness slightly as he was absolutely soaked from head to toe. Bob K gets his shoes polished twice (superstition from last visit or so he claims) and then proceeds to take the piss out of Jon G’s very unpolished shoes. eight euros for a polish, the shoeshine man drove off in his Ferrari.

Time to make a move to Taksim, so Jon G, Terri, Kirsty and I walk down towards the river to get a taxi to ensure we get to the square in plenty of time to catch the free buses. One hour later we get there.
Now don’t get me wrong, I was one of the ones who had no objections to the final being played in Istanbul irregardless of the long winded way myself and many others had to go to get there. The point is when will UEFA ever learn how to choose a venue or do they just do this when we’re in town. We make great progress towards the stadium including being passed by John Aldridge in a taxi who was as happy to see all the bus going mental towards him as he was to us. Liverpool through and through that man, was a pleasure seeing the massive smile on his face.
Finally see the stadium in the distance for the first time in the middle of nowhere, then we turn the corned and about a mile away see the traffic jam from hell, thank god we left Taksim before 6pm, two hours after starting off we finally decide to get off the bus and walk.
Now, THIS was a sight to behold (but not before Jon G and I got a beer off a complete stranger) In the distance you could see the ground, but inbetween on the wasteland all you could see was a long line of red disciples who had also abandoned any hope of getting all the way on the bus. Life of Brian sprung to mind, as if over the next hill JC was there (Jesus not Jamie, though Jamie must be a better bet these days)

We got there too late for the fans festival but the lack of facillitoes for the fans that UEFA put on was all we should expect. No way had only twenty thousand reds turned up, in the ground looked like about forty thousand, and if we hadn’t UEFA would have been shown up to be the incompetent morons they usually are, as the stadium would have only been half full. Maybe they will ensure all future venues have good transport connection BEFORE giving them the final.

Wee, what can I say about the match which hasn’t been covered elsewhere. Three nil down which could have been seven to one of the best teams in the world, we were that woeful and some reds had seen enough. They obviously have never learnt with the amount of times we’ve scored late winning goals. Eight minutes into second half and consolation goal comes along, quickly followed by an amazing turnaround and two more goals. Here we go, we’ll win this. Extra time followed where we hung on and once Dudek somehow saved twice from Shevchenko and took us to the dreaded penalties. Now you know how it is, you just knew we would win, and I’ve been involved in some great occasions since growing up in Maghull in the seventies but never anything like this. My first European cup final and probably one of the best if not the best finals ever. It just doesn’t get any better than this (until we win the league again that is)

Now the hard bit, yep another two and a half hours in a fucking bus to get back to Taksim, surrounded by quite a few people I know and considering I thought I was on me own quite a good choice of bus. Olly, Jimbo and Aidan (the Dave version) all dressed up as Sultans and accompanied by Status Quo with ‘gown gown wearing a gown’ being sung at them.

Back to Taksim and over six hours without beer, so what does a man have to do, yep nick Jon G’s water as I was thirsty as hell. Met with Terri and Raj (I think it was Raj? Memory not working completely) and we went off to Sultanahmet as we’d been advised that Jonny Vegas was outside a bar there (well it was Anny Road from YNWA but he sounds the same)
Finally left in a taxi about 6.20am to get a few hours kip before getting two flights to get back home. Ataturk airport bar was showing the game so bar was packed awaiting various planes to various points across Europe. I had just over two hours wait at Frankfurt so went to a bar airside to be met by two Liverpudlian businessmen on same flight, who just wanted to know as much as they could about Istanbul and the atmosphere, bet they wish they’d be there and not Frankfurt watching in a bar.
Now considering I’ve work for a german company for almost seventeen years my german knowledge is woeful but even I can understand the work kaput and yep the plane was kaput, thankfully it was only a half hour delay while they found and refuelled a different plane.

Got home about 11.30pm on the Thursday night only to have to unpack and repack as was flying to Athens less than twenty four hours later.
By the time I got to Athens I’d had about eight hours sleep in four days and been awake for thirty six hours non stop. Absolutely shattered but not a care in the world and no way was the smile leaving my face.

Been a very poor season in the league but I would have taken fourth from bottom never mind top to be able to see what myself and thousands of others had witnessed.

A great trip and a great if not the greatest victory from the jaws of defeat I have ever seen. Might have a been a long and winding round but I was privelledged to be there. Many friends were absent and a few who would have been there if they were still alive, I hope that you all saw the game for free, wherever you are.

Liverpool FC ‘We are the champions, champions of europe’

We have the cup for keeps with it being number five, and only two teams have won it more than us. Now that is what I call a proud history of which we can finally say is up to the present day.

See you next season wherever we are, you are all children of the Rafalution.

Edit: to put the story in this thread, will make it easier to collate

[Armin]

It's at times like this where I wish I had the ability to write like Paul, Evo and many others.  I will just have to make do with my own personal memories, and boy were they f'kin good ones.  There is nothing on this planet that makes you buzz like this, even two weeks after.

Mikie   

To which I'd only say, put down your memories in whatever form you choose!  It doesn't have to be in a particular style or written in the kind of English you might read in a newspaper or novel.  What's importatnt is that you write with honesty and feeling, the commas, and colons can be put in later and a bit of editing may tidy things up for the reader but really its all about the stories and the experiences.  Don't be put off from submitting because you don't think your writing is 'good' enough.  In years to come we want this to be something which all of us can look back on and share in. 

So get writing!

[JohnLFC]

Here's my Story.

Could I fuck kip. The alarm went off on me mobile about 3 bells. I’d just been lying there for 4 hours, eyes shut but me mind was going like the clappers. The 25th of May had arrived. I had a quick shower and a bowl of Shreddies while havin a quick shuftee on the RAOTL forum. Brian and Chris picked me up in the taxi and we were off.

There weren’t even a queue at the check-in desk, we just walked straight up, checked in, no problem. If only it would be that easy comin home. After getting our photies took with John Lennon (scarfed up and fezzed up) we had a few nerve-settling bevvies at the bar by the Starbucks.

I had to buzz off me mate, Dixon, running after that actor from Casualty/Brookie to get his photie took with him.

The flight over there was sound, went dead quick. Had a good read of the papers, fanzines, and internet articles that I’d printed out.

When we got to the airport, we were greeted by the first You’ll Never Walk Alone of the day. (Actually, it was my second cos I threw it on when I got out the shower earlier on. Wool as Fuck!!)

We got to our hotel later than what we expected. Don’t know what happened there, we were thinking we’d get there about 1.30 and spend the rest of the day drinking in Taksim Square, but it was a bout 3:30 so we just got a taxi straight to Taksim to bevy away an hour or two before we set off for the stadium. (by the way, we had accounted for the time diff.)

The taxi took about 45mins to get us there cos of the traffic being that bad, rush hour an that. How mad are them drivers? There were no lanes or nothing, just pure chaos.

We finally got to Taksim Square and spotted the lads we were meeting cos one of them was shimmyin up a big lamp post to plant an LFC flag at the top. When he reached the top and began to wave the flag, it flew off the pole. He used his initiative though and tied the scarf he was wearing to the flag pole and waved that instead. We found out a few minutes later that his new nickname was “Treeboy” and he’d been in all the papers including being on the front page of Istanbuls equivalent to the Echo. I’d read something about “Treeboy” in a paper on the flight over as well.

We bought a few cans of Efes Pilsen off the fella’s walkin round sellin them and had a good arl sing song. The “Luis Garcia drinks Sangria” song came of age that afternoon.

After a bit, we bought some cans and made our way to where the coaches were leaving from. On out way down there we saw Vegard Heggem, just standin there, LFC trakkied up, havin a quiet gab with about 3 of his mates. He looked fuckin terrified when we mobbed him, singin Heggem songs and takin photies an that. He looked especially terrified when Tony started kissin his feet.

When we got to the bus pick up point we got split up cos a few of the lads needed a Geoff Hurst while the other half of them had already got on the bus.

When we finally got on a bus, we got the backseat, singin our heads off, all the way there. These 2 turkish lads took the knock a bit cos we were banging the windows and shakin the seats an that. “Just because you on holiday, it does not mean you can shake seats!” Fuck off knobheads, jib it.

On the bus, it was like I kept tryin to pinch meself. Was this really happening. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Me phone was goin off every 2 minutes, texts from people who were here “Where are youse?” and from people back home “Whats it like la?” It was fuckin mad on that bus. We sung the “La Bamba” Rafa song for about an hour non-stop. Me voice was proper fucked so I had to hold back a bit. Save the arl vocal chords an that for the boys.

One of the lads with us couldn’t hold his Geoff in so tried to do it in a can. He missed like Gudjohnson, so there was hit and miss all over the back seats, so needless to say, we were standing for the rest of the journey.

It was off it the way people were lining the streets, waving, and made up to see us. Imagine tens of thousands of Turks going through the streets of Liverpool, at the very least they’d be getting V’s flicked at them. (Although I did hear later that me mates Da had a rock thrown at him through the open taxi window and had a pure cut chin on all his victory photies.)

Cos of the traffic jam, we ended up catchin up with the lads who we were split up from earlier. As we jumped off our bus, there they were, bus surfin’, hopping from one bus to the other, fuckin mad. We got back on the bus and took a few photies an that before deciding, swerve this, we’ll walk the rest of the way.

What a fuckin amazing sight. And this seems to be everyones most vivid memory of the day. The Red Pilgrimage. What a sight to behold? The Stadium, in the distance, with a Red river twisting its way towards to it. It was like a scene from an arl film, with a Volcano in the distance and a narrow sea of lava snaking its way away from it. It was here that I got a photie of Gavin enforcing the Boss Wednesday agreement by ripping up a St Georges Cross flag that he and Tony had just snatched from 2 lads getting there photie took with it. Keep Flags Scouse and never forget it!!!

The closer we got the more amazing the sight became. When we reached the top of one particular hill, the true beauty was fully exposed. The Red river turned into a Red reservoir. Tens of thousand of die hard Reds in the area in front of the Attaturk.Singing, dancing, waving flags. It was fantatstic.

Only problem was, no fuckin Lager. And I could’ve murdered an arl hamburger as well. Nothin doin though. We got down there amongst our fellow Reds and joined in the festivities, Didn’t see any live music, just a load of Reds up on the stage singin, “We all dream of a team of Carraghers” That and “Ring of Fire” were the songs of the day.

Anyway, back to bevvy drought. Me and Brian walked back up the hill cos we heard there were some taxi drivers sellin cans from the boots of their cars, but there was nothing doin. Some taxi driver said if we give him the dough, he’d drive to the nearest supermarket and bring our ale back here for us. Yeh, alright lad.

Ahh fuck it, lets get in the ground. I missed the kick off at Dortmund cos of bein in the boozer, I’m not gonna let a bevvy get in the way this time. I am not missing a second of this game.

There was murder trying to get in the ground. When we walked up to our entrance, there was only a little queue, the type that goes down after 3 minutes outside entrance E1 of the Kop on a European night, but this weren’t shifting. Plus, there was loads bunkin in at the sides. It turned out, the hold up was due to the barcodes on the tickets that they were scanning. In the end they decided to just rip the barcode instead of scanning it. That got the queue movin a bit faster and soon we were in.

It was great walkin towards my stand. You couldn’t see the pitch at first, but the closer I got to the back row, the pitch just appeared in front of me. Istanbul was full of special images like that. Images that’ll stay with me for the rest of life.

By this time I was fuckin Hank Marvin so went to the scran gaff to see if I could get a burger or something. Fuck all. Not even a drink. Me belly would have to wait till later.

We went down to our seats and spent some time just looking around in awe, reading all the flags on display, in my mind thanking the Lord me arl fella weren’t a blue. Redness, the greatest gift a Father can give his son.

Then the match. It started off boss, just before kick off an that, everyone waving their scarfs above their heads singin Ring of fire. It was a kaleidoscope of colour and noise. Lookin round, you’d think they’d spiked the Efes and I was trippin me tits off.

How could we not win? Lookin at the Italians in their colour co-ordinated plazzy bibs. Beauts! Far too organised that shit. Not us though. Lads who wouldn’t dream of goin the game in anything but a Navy Paul & Shark jumper were Redded and scarfed up to the fuckin eyeballs! And is right! This was it, the big one. The league title may be our bread and butter but the European Cup is the one that we seem to most closely associate ourselves with. Look at our flags, you hardly ever see images of the League title trophy. Whereas, 80% of flags have at least 4 images of Arl Big Ears on them. What’s gonna happen to all them flags? There’ll be thousands of redundant flags with 4 European cups on them and no room to add a fifth. There should be a flag amnesty for charity, all bring your out of date flags to be used as bedding in some out the way impoverished shanty town.

The first half over. Gutted, absolutely devastated. It was fuckin horrible. Fights were going off around by where we were sitting. Possibly the worst ive ever felt as a Liverpudlian. 3-0 down and now Red on Red scrappin. What the fuck was going on? Scouse solidarity ? Nah, not today.

The crowd was flat. Everyone had the shite knocked out of them by what they’d just witnessed. There was singing going on but it weren’t passion. Just people pissed. What the fuck was going on? I just couldn’t get me head round it. We were Liverpool! We don’t get beat on occasions like this. This weren’t going to plan. I never dreamed for a second that we could actually lose this game and go home empty handed. We are special. I always just thought our ‘Xfactor’ would get us through. After their 3rd goal went in, I was numb. I tried to sing along but the words weren’t making sense. Everything was different. Even them “We’re gonna win 4-3” songs, I was thinking, “Fuckin behave will ye, that’s the anthem of the loser.” We hear them songs sung in jest at Anfield by shite teams who are getting leathered 3-0. We haven’t sunk that low that we’re singing stupid fuckin jokey songs about miraculous comebacks. If only I’d have known what lay ahead of me.

To be honest, I did believe. In fact, I’d go as far as to say, deep down, even at half time, 3-0 down against the Mighty AC Milan. I knew we were going home with the Cup. I just didn’t know how we were going to do it. I remember turning to Brian and saying “This is either going to be about 8 or 9 nil and the most embarrassing moment in the history of our club or we were gonna make a comeback and go on to witness the greatest, most glorious moment in the history of LFC.

I remember reading an article on the Red and White Kop website about the power of YNWA, and the lad who wrote it said that the most greatest YNWA he’s ever been a part of was at old Trafford when we were 4-0 down a few years ago. This is what the YNWA at half time in Istanbul was like. No more drunken, jokey 4-3 songs. This was pure passion. This was the big one. I usually hold me hands open when singing YNWA. This was the clenched fist version. There were fuckin veins poppin out everywhere, tears rolling down faces, dripping off chins, eyes bulged and drenched. This was the fuckin Daddy of all YNWA’s…and it worked. We did it! The 12th man got through again, just as we did against Chelsea in the 2nd leg of the semi. Luis Garcia said that the inspiration for the comeback came from the Red armys singing at half time. Garcia said: "We were sitting in the dressing room and we could clearly hear thousands of fans singing You'll Never Walk Alone. Can you imagine how that felt? We were 3-0 down in the Champions League final and all we could hear were 45,000 people letting us know they still believed in us.
We knew they had endured a long journey and made so many sacrifices to be there. It was at that point we started to believe too.". It worked.

For each goal that went in, I got a kiss on the bonce from the fella to my left (He ran up to me in Taksim square on the Thursday afternoon and planted another smacker on me swede, saying “I’ve just gotta kiss this head one more time”). I felt like fuckin Barthez.

Penalties. I watched, peering through the gaps in my fingers that were covering my face. Nervous as fuck but knowing deep down we’d won. I said to Brian straight after the double save from Shevschenko, “We’ve won it. It’s over!”

When Jerzy saved that final pen, there seemed to be a milli-second of quietness, just a tiny moment where every one of us mustv’e just recognised the magnitude of what had just happened. We had done it. Then, pandemonium. The volcano that was the Attaturk erupted ferociously. I remember thinking, what do you do? I mean, I’m screaming, my arms are flailing, but this is how I celebrated Dudeks last minute penalty save at Pride Park to win us 3 points about 4 years ago. How do you celebrate Dudeks penalty save at the Attaturk to win us the European Cup after being 3-0 down at half time against a team such as AC Milan? Nothing any of us could do would do this victory justice.

Anyway, the party started there. I was just crying me eyes out watchin our boys bounce around the pitch with The Cup. Champions of Europe. Jamie Carra, from our school, from by ours, Liverpool player, European Champion. Un-fuckin-believable.

I even sung along to Tina turners “Simply the Best” (only the chorus like). What the fuck was the pertinence of that Bon Jovi song though? “We are the Champions”? Yes, we are. “Simply the Best”? Yes we are. “It’s my life”? Eh? Still scratchin me head over that.

Outside, we met up, and hugged and just spent about half an hour putting our hands on out heads and just wondering what the fuckin ell had just happened. I don’t think I’ll ever grasp the enormity of it. Maybe I was trying too hard to analyse the sitch. I was constantly aware that it was the thing to which the rest of my life will be compared, and I will be reliving it throughout the rest of my life. I wanted to savour every second of this great occasion that I will be telling me grand-kids about, and when my time comes and I’m on my death bed and I look back at my life, the first thing I’ll think of is Istanbul 2005.

The chaos that followed with regards to getting back to Taksim square was both shite and expected. I knew there was gonna be murder getting back, but I just weren’t arsed in the slightest. I just floated around that car park getting nowhere. The only real pain in the arse is that we got split up again so we never got to go back to Taksim mob handed for a proper celebratory piss up and sing song.

We eventually found a Lonsdale coach with 3 empty seats on it so blagged our way onto that. It was about 4:30 by the time we got back to where the coach dropped us so we swerved Taksim square and just got a taxi back to our digs.

Back at the hotel, we ended up havin a good few bevvies and a good arl sing song. They showed the highlights of the penalty shootout on the arl Roger Mellie which was sound.

By this time, I remembered one thing, I was fuckin starving, we all were. Hadn’t had a scran since the plane about 20 odd hours earlier, so one of the lads got the hotel manager “Roman” (a dead ringer for Abromovich) to go out in his motor and get us some scran. He came back about half an hour later with 15 kebabs and 4 whole roast chickens.

I remember saying, a couple of weeks ago that the best scrans are when you’re starving. This was an analogy referring to 2005 being our best European Cup win cos we’ve been starved of it for 21 years. But in this case, we were literally starving and that scran got killed in about 10 minutes.

This was the life. Grubbin on big fat kebabs in an Istanbul Hotel bar, neckin back bottles of ice cold Efes pilsen, singing glorious Red Army songs and reminiscing about our European cup win, not from the 70’s, not from the 80’s But 2005. A few hours earlier. It was too good to be true.

One of the lads had to get his head down in our room cos his room in his own hotel was commandeered. We had a single and double bed in our room so him and Brian kipped in the double bed. This was not a problem for us. Although, if he informed us that he was gonna get up, use all our hot water, stink the gaff out with his Eartha, and then use all our shit roll, we may have had second thoughts. ( only jokin T )

It mustv’e been about 6 bells when we finally went to bed, just as I get in me pit, the lad in the mosque over the road gets on the microphone and starts givin it the bifters. I could’ve sworn I heard him give it the arl “De de de de de, der de derrrr!!!” but I mustve nodded off and dreamt that last bit.

The Thursday in Istanbul was sound. The heaven of being bladdered in Taksim Square and the city centre turned into the hell of the airport chaos (we got the airport at 9.30pm English time and I got back me house at 9.30am English time). But fuck it. Champions Of Europe.

The problem is, where do we go from here? Rafa’s first season and he springs that on us. We’ve won the marathon before he learnt us how to crawl. It’s like, dunno about you, but I like to be wined and dined first. None of that with Rafa la, just keks off and down to business with him.

I’ve been saying for years how the 12th of May 2001 is by far the greatest moment of my life and it will never be topped but the ‘Bul 2005 has well and truly surpassed it.

Nice one and Is Right to everyone involved in making Istanbul 2005 the highlight of my 30 years on this earth.

Especially, Dudek; Finnan, Hamann, Carragher, Hyypia, Traore; Garcia, Alonso, Gerrard Riise; Kewell, Smicer Baros and Cisse

In our eyes you are immortal
In our hearts you’ll live forever

John Maguire.

[Rod118]

My tale begins in the Hedgehog & Bucket bar in Belfast (My Local) where after a typical Saturday session my friend Robert planted the seed of thought in my head that we should travel to Istanbul to support our beloved Liverpool FC and to hell with the costs (He's somewhat better off financially than me but kindly offered to loan me the necessary funding to make this dream a reality).

After a day or two of thinking and weighing up my debts I realised that I would be insane not to go and so gave the thumbs up to Robert to set things in motion. 
Through a Belfast travel agent he got us places on a package deal with 'Celtic Horizons' in Dublin and so the real story begins: -

Monday night (After a hard days work) and Robert drives us down to Dublin airport (To save any worry our families where told that the flights where very early in the morning and that we wouldn't have to hang around long in the airport - We lied!!).  We actually arrived at the airport in time for a couple of pints of the Black Stuff before the bars closed.  Then after what seemed like an eternity (Probably eight or nine hours really) milling about in a ghost town of an airport and fretting about meeting our 'Celtic Horizons' contact things eventually started to buzz into life. 
If it's ok with you I'll skip the boring bit about getting our tickets, flying out and being bussed to our hotel and get to the good bits after reaching Istanbul (This was on the Tuesday).

At this stage there seemed to be only one thought in the collective mind of all Liverpool Supporters - Lets get the party started.  So we hailed a local taxi (If ever you get one just close your eyes and pray - those boys make Schumacher look slow and play dodgems with everything else on the road) and headed off to Taksim Square.
We where greeted with a sea of Red already in full party mode so after a short look at what Uefa had laid on (They couldn’t organise the proverbial piss up in a brewery) we decided it would be impolite not to join in with the revelry and so headed for the pubs and joined in the singing ( My own personal favourite was ‘We all dream of a team of Carraghers’).  The atmosphere around the whole place was electric (I know it’s a cliché) and really good natured, so much so that I even noticed two lonesome Milan fans in the melee enjoying themselves.  Credit here must also to be given to the Turkish locals themselves for their own good natured approach to the whole scenario and their appreciation of the Liverpool supporters (I think every Turk in Istanbul is an honorary Red now).  The drinking, singing and partying continued until the small hours of the Wednesday morning (Ok I confess at some stage I apparently fell asleep in some Hotel bar near to our own Hotel – If I didn’t tell you Robert would!)

Wednesday – Match day. 
After a few hours kip we got up and headed back to Taksim to see what was happening, we had a few quiet drinks and soaked up some more of the atmosphere, then thoughts turned to the task in hand so it was back to the Hotel where our minibus was to collect us and bring us to the ground.  One of my most enduring memories is that journey – I’m not actually sure how but we ended up in a convoy of buses and taxis that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see – All bristling with Liverpool supporters, and this sight was matched if not surpassed by what seemed more like a homecoming parade when tens of thousands of locals (Factory workers, school kids, mums and dads) lining the streets waving their Liverpool colours and cheering us on our way.  Eventually we made it to the stadium (A fantastic building in the middle of nowhere) and on to our allocated seats in the sky.

The Match
Don’t care what anyone says – we were only toying with AC and we were so confident that we deliberately gave them a 3 goal head start (and in the process gave me heartaches and heart attacks).  Then the real Liverpool arrived, If anyone ever refers to Bryan Robson as Captain Marvel again just point Stevie out to them and they’ll soon shut up, then Vladi (Poor keeping to be honest, but so pleased for the team and for Smicer, a nice way to go out), Alonso up to the plate next and 3-3 thank you very much!! 6 Minutes of insanity (But brilliant insanity if you know what I mean).  Everyone fought their hearts out right to the end (Personified by Jamie’s treatment for cramp and lunging tackle in the same minute!!).  A personal thank you also to ‘The Dude’ for his saves and the very big part he played in our 5th (Yes that says 5th) European Cup.

What memories, I could probably fill a book on my own with the bits I have skipped, an amazing adventure – and another personal thank you to Robert for his part in probably the best three days of my life. 
 
 

[Joe Rogans Chin]

I’ve travelled a fair bit to far flung places, never before to watch the mighty reds play away apart from a couple of trips to Elland road and Old Trafford. So the thought of going to see the European Cup final filled me with feelings of anxiety and excitement in equal measure. The 48 hours or so that followed will undoubtedly be the most bizarre of my life.

I was on a londsdale trip; travelling early, the day of the game and having a night over after the game had ended.  The journey was fine, Bacon butty in speak, Breakfast on the plane, landing in the airport sooner than expected and none of the much anticipated delays at passport control. The Airport staff were very friendly and some bright spark, who deserves special mention decided to have You’ll never Walk alone playing in a continuous loop and a massive banner hung in the arrival lounge with ‘Good luck Liverpool’ or something of that nature – a truly nice touch.

We boarded our coach and were set for the transfer to the hotel. We arrived about 70 mins later. We drove through Istanbul’s never ending rush hour and if I’m honest weren’t greeted by that many friendly faces along the way. Maybe I was a bit tired or was looking at people the wrong way, but during the rest of my Time in Istanbul the people were so hospitable, so very friendly.

We got off the coach and checked into the hotel. It’s name ‘History’ the history hotel, I was fucking over the moon. My uncle and his best mate thought I was making too much of it. Apart from the Cara hotel (word got round that there was a hotel with this name in Istanbul) I thought to myself ‘ this is great, we are hear to make history and I’m staying in the best named hotel in Istanbul -  ‘the history hotel’

After we checked in we found a nearby café to have a few beers and a kebab. The ‘plan’ was to have about 4 pints worth of Effes Pilsner, so not to spoil the game. The plan quickly went out the window. There we where eating the nicest kebab I’ve ever tasted and I couldn’t get the name of our hotel out my head. This years route to the CL final threw up some poignant memories, The Juventus Tie with all it’s connotations and the 6 minutes of extra time in the Chelsea game - 96 in total.  I hope I wasn’t the only one thinking that after the final whistle in the semi final. Anyway with all this in mind and the name of our hotel, I says to my uncles mate – ‘do you believe in Fate’ ….. ‘No’ was his emphatic reply.
I just couldn’t help but feel that this was meant to be our year.

We got back to talking about less serious things, we agreed that if our coach to take us to the ground didn’t arrive by 6 o’clock we would jump a cab instead.
 A few more beers and six o’clock came and went with out much to write about. Taxis duly hailed and know doubt like many reds will tell you the journey to the ground was truly amazing.
Not only because the Turks are nuts when it comes to driving, Our taxi driver was doing his best impression of Michael Schmacher. But when we got to a sort of shanty town, the locals, people of all ages lined the streets and were giving us a right good sending off. Kids were adorned with All sorts of Liverpool gear fellow reds were throwing to them. I lashed a scarf to a group of kids. A scarf Iv’e had since 1986. I hope the kid who fought the most to get it will be a Red for the rest of his life.
The highlight of the journey for me was when the traffic really started to back up from the ground. People were playing footy on the highway, bartering for beers with other reds and taking breaks to have a slash. You could easily catch up with your taxi or bus because they only really moved a couple of yards at a time.
 Any way I’m having a slash against some small hill at the side of the road. Who starts to take a piss right next to me? It was only fucking Veggard Heggam. I let on and then as soon as he put his lash away I ran back to my taxi, grabbed my camera and got a picture taken with him.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not star struck and I know it was only Veggard Heggam, but it was the manner in which it happened that delighted me the most. Ex player travelling to a European cup final with the fans, getting pissed with the fans, taking a piss with the fans – It wouldn’t happen at any other football club!
I got back in the cab and after a short time we got to the point on the highway were everyone and I mean everyone abandon their chosen mode of transport. You see there was a bend in the highway and on the right hand side there was a big hill that blocked the view of a stadium that we were still not aware of. Once people got round this bend, people mostly in anticipation though ‘fuck it’ I’m going to walk the rest of the way.

For me what followed was my best memory of the whole trip, better than dudek’s double save, better than Stevie lifting that famous old trophy. As I approached the ground, as far as the eye could see was this see of red and white. I haven’t got the words to describe what it looked like; my uncle summed it up best when he said it was like a pilgrimage. I had to agree and at the point I realised how luck I was to be there and just felt an immense sense of pride for being a supporter of Liverpool football club.

If I’m honest and you want a truly accurate version of what happened on my trip, there were few things to gripe about. The fact that we won the trophy means that they don’t matter. However, the much vaunted fans festival had well and truly fucked off by the time I arrived, maybe the 30 odd thousand Scousers drank and ate the place dry.
Then there was entry to the ground. I was in the North stand, which holds upto 13,000 fans. So how many turnstiles were in operation, you guessed it two.
TWO for gods sake! I don’t blame the Turks, I blame UEFA and if there's one thing that this trip has taught me is that UEFA couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery. I really do wonder if they have learned anything from history.

To the game, I have very few memories of the match itself. I just remember the worst start possible, Garcia’s squewered shot, kewells departure to jeers and looking at the clock after 30 mins and thinking ‘were did all that time go?”
The rest as they say is history, I couldn’t actually watch Alonso's penalty and sheer relief replaced the joy you usually associate with the knowledge that Liverpool have scored. Extra time came and went, except I counted down every minute in that second period of Extra time.
To penalties, like every other red I had been put through an emotional ringer and I just turned to my uncle and said ‘ I don’t care if we win or lose on pens, the lads have done us proud, I couldn’t of asked more of them’.
To be honest after Schvchenko missed that penalty I was physically and emotionally shattered and seeing Stevie lift the cup was a bit of an anti climax for me.
Perhaps if the game had been a stinker and we had won 1 nil it might have been different, but I only enjoyed seeing him do it on the telly a couple of days later.

The Trip back to the hotel wasn’t as bad as the trip to the ground.
We just had to find the coach we were supposed to be on, we found it after about half an hour of looking. Not bad considering it was parked with about a million others. Within about Half an hour we were outside the History hotel and my uncle’ mate turned to me and said ‘you know what Dosy? now I believe in fate’ After what we had just witnessed that said it all really.

We toyed with the idea of going for a bevy, we were all knackered so decided to get some sleep.
I slept like a baby and I was just up in time to get a quick shower and check out of our hotel. We had 9 hours to kill before we left for the airport, so we got a taxi to Taksim square and found a nice row of bars, packed with other jubilant reds, we decided to have a beer or two. Most of the English newspapers had sold out, so I had to borrow a couple to see what people back home though about it all. For the first time that’s when it really hit me, I thought  ‘ fuck me we are 5 time European champs’ the rest of the day was a bit of a blur as I steadily got more drunk. All I can remember is this massive beer tent at the airport and the ensuing chaos as we tried to board our plane back to Liverpool. My uncle later told me that cheeky scousers were getting on which ever flight they liked as long as it was going back to Liverpool.
When I think back to the chaos at the airport and UEFA’s mistakes at the ground, it does not really matters, because my team is European champions once again.
For me, the trip was worth it – But I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t have to go through all that and see my team lose!

[leonmc0708]

The trip started with an alarm call at 4am.  Then a text to the boys, Murf, Jay and Dean before a quick shower and then stuff in the car off to pick the boys up. First stop is Murfs, then Dean’s on Southport Road before heading into Wavertree and picking Jay up. We then sped along the M62 and onto the M6 in an attempt to locate the park and drive where we booked in to leave the car.

First problem comes when "Navigator" Dean decided this would be a good time to forget how to read a map and directions so we spent 30 mins up and down roads in Manchester trying to find the car park. Lo and behold, we make our way back to the first road we looked down and this is the right one! That sod fella has a lot to answer for with these laws he invented.

Onto the mini bus, at around 6.15 am and its Stella’s all round for the boys. Murf starts the trip as he means to go on by dropping his guts and the mini bus is smogged up. We arrived at the airport at about 6.50am and headed straight to the T1 check in area. We joined what we thought was the right queue and waited for fifteen minutes until a commotion kicked up by some other scouser alerted us to the fact that Sporting Options had decided to change where we checked in to T2 without telling anyone.

A few swear words later and we headed to “the station” to check in. Huge queues and we joined the back! An hour later and we neared the front of the queue. This was the cue for Dean and Jay to move into another queue. Sod and his bloodly laws came into play again when we moved into an adjacent and seemingly quicker moving queue. We watched in dismay as the queue we left went quicker than buffet in a weight watchers convention. We did however persevere and waited, and waited and waited. Fifteen minutes later and we got to the front of the queue where Danny Le Rue proceeded to check us in whilst doing his best impression of Graham Norton!! “ I may have to have you boys upstairs” was a chilling thought, but turned out to be a great move.

We got on the plane and made our way upstairs into business class, loads of room and three seats for Leon to spread out on. Unfortunatly, some idiot downstairs did not intend for us to make it to Istanbul, and proceeded to smoke in the toilets on three separate occasions. 2 whole hours later and we where ready for the off, not before hearing stories of fighting and police on the other flight scheduled to take off around the same time as us. As usual, food was OK, lager was warm and expensive and the banter was great.

Just 3 hours and forty minutes later and we where readying for touchdown at Ataturk airport Istanbul. We got off the plane and where greeted by what my nan, (god rest her soul) would describe as close and muggy weather. Hot, but overcast and the fresh air seemed in short supply. Seventy odd piled onto the 50 seater bus and we ambled towards the terminal. The phone went back on and beeped for ten minutes solid with messages from fellow reds just embarking on the journey or wanting to know where we could meet up. Game on….

We got to the passport control, and the stories of ten-pound notes and photocopied passports seemed lost on most people. The strange version of you’ll never walk alone barely audible over the tannoy system was an indication of the warm hospitality that lay ahead. Some gave photocopies, some never, did not hear of anyone having to pay the ayrton senna either. Match tickets where also not requested, and the strict checking of documents, tickets and passports we had been told of never really materialised. Then out into the chaos of trying to find a coach to get you to the hotel. We checked the names at the front of the coaches, but no sign of the Konak hotel we where destined to stay in. The decision was then made to get a taxi to the hotel, so we walked up to find one. We avoided the dodgy looking yellow cabs that looked like they had come from a New York scrap yard and opted for a new looking VW Passatt.

Turkish driving and roads have few rules from what I can gather, to summarise:

1) All drivers must smoke at least 1 cigarette per two mile trip. Our taxi driver going the game managed to smoke two 20 boxes of fags in a forty minute trip, but more of that later….
2) A tune that goes something like “Ali Alaaaay, Hali Ali” must be played full whack throughout the journey. Top tune by the way, and if anyone knows what its called and how to get it let me know.
3) You must drive as fast as you can in the outside lane as close to the bumper of the driver in front whilst frantically flashing your headlights.
4) The car horn must be sounded at least every thirty seconds, and the more cars around you the more frequent the horn tooting should become.
5) In the event of a crash, you must immediately exit the vehicle and argue with the driver of the other vehicle. Whomsoever is the loser of the argument is at fault for the crash. Do not however exchange details, simply drive off sounding your horn in disproval.

The fact that people try to sell everything from bottled water to pretzels and from chewing gum to cigarettes in the middle of bust motorway lanes just adds to the sense of being on another planet.

Anyway back to the story, and we could not get the driver to understand “Konak” hotel, so told him (as we where reliably informed by the hotel) that it was close to the Hilton hotel. He knew instantly where this was so sped off at countless miles per hour on the journey. After around an hour, we got to the Hilton and tried to ask a valet for the location of the Konak Hotel. He did not know, but still insisted on sticking his head into the car through the window, and, displaying his hairy teeth, gave me a face full of heavy breathing so that I understood what the breath of one thousand camels smelt like.

We eventually found the hotel, and went to check in. I decided I needed to take a seat and grab a fag, so I sat down and asked the bell boy if I could smoke here. “This is Turkey my friend, you can smoke everywhere” came the reply, and how true he was. People smoked in McNasty's, Pizza hut in fact everywhere! We got into the lift, which was small, with our bags and pressed the button for our floor. The lift then decided it did not fancy the journey so stopped and turned the lights out. The initial humour of the situation was lost amidst Jamie threatening to kick the doors in as he felt uncomfortable with his “Classtraphobia” as he called it. For what seemed like ten minutes we shouted for help, then I decided to try the handle, which opened instantly in strict accordance to the laws of sod. Typical! We piled out embarrassed and red faced so we took the stairs.

The rooms where excellent, so we put the flag out the window and wanted to go exploring. If we where coming to Istanbul, we had to take in some of the sights, soak up the culture and appreciate the locals right? Wrong! We walked up the road about half a mile and back down the road before deciding to go the offy and get some cans. We then approached the local boys in blue to enquire as to the location of “Taksim Square”, the hallowed meeting point for all things Red. The response from the plod was typical of the pathetic prejudice Liverpool fans have tried to shake off for twenty odd years. “Hooligan Hooligan” the policeman shouted and pointed towards us before laughing their tits off and walking way from us. We would show them though why we are the greatest supporters in the World before the trip was over.

We decided to get something to eat, what would we go for ? A Kebab ? Maybe a Turkish restaurant ? No, we found a Chinese restaurant and made a beeline for it. We sat down and looked through the menu, all looked nice, but the prices had all been changed, crossed out with a pencil and almost doubled. This was a sign of the times; we later found that everywhere we went they actively increased the price for tourists as opposed to the price Turks paid. We ordered soups, prawn crackers, meals and chips, or so we thought! Anyway we got our drinks and looked forward to the meal when a group of Reds where exiting the restaurant, and offered us some advice “Its  in here lads, and a rip off”.

They where right as well. The soups came over and looked lovely, but that was a mere illusion. Bland was not in it, and then came the icing on the cake, the guy brought out a plate of Frisps and said here are your chips! We decided to cut our losses and leave, so asked for the bill, the waiter said our meals where ready, but after much persuasion, he brought us the bill. 100Lira ! That’s roughly £50 for four soups, two beers and a coke. We paid and left, straight to the Pizza hut and all you can eat buffets for 8Lira (£4). Then we went home to get a quick shower before hitting Taksim square.

Taksim was booming, and we took our place right by the Irregulars flag opposite McNasty's. Tree boy (video to follow) hung in a tree drinking beer and singing songs for almost twelve hours solid. No mean feat. “Luis Garcia, he drinks Sangria…” that was the song that sticks in the mind from the trip, it was getting bellowed all over. TV crews captured signing, dancing, drinking and singing and drinking and singing. To say we had a buzz would be the understatement of the year. Loads of friendly faces, and loads of the boys showed up at various points through the night. The locals seemed in awe of us, and who could blame them. We painted Taksim red big time, and contrary to the police from earlier, we behaved impeccably, made a bit of a mess with the empties, but we at least piled them in the same place.

When tree boy finally came down, at around 3am, we watched as a few others climbed the tree to chorus of “Are you tree boy in disguise?” And we laughed as one fell from the top of the tree, the fool. We decided to take a look round and happened upon another gathering of the mighty red army at a crossroads. We found a group of Beskitas fans, and joined them singing and dancing. Again videos will follow later, but we had a great big crowd around as we sang Beskitas songs, followed by Liverpool ones and alternated the songs all night. Four scousers  as newts in the middle of around fifty Beskitas loons, and we had a ball. It all went a little nasty when a gang of Fenerbache fans moved over, and one of the Beskitas fans, known only to us as “older man” offered us the opportunity to join them for a “boom boom boom” as he called it. He pulled a twelve-inch blade and gestured that we should join them in bashing the Fenerbache boys. We politely declined and took our leave before the police moved in.

Back to the hotel at around 4.30am and done in, we went to bed, only to be rudely awoken at 5.30am in the morning by some  hole on a megaphone shouting all kinds of gibberish in Turkish. We later found out that this was in fact calling people to pray at the countless mosques in and around Istanbul.

The day of the game we decided to take in the sights a little and ventured as far as the shops. We bartered our way through most of the day and came away with no end of rubbish, and a Liverpool flag. On the way back we noticed a protest going on, you know the sort loads of people with banners and stuff. A perfect photo opportunity, so I made my way over to join in, hoping it was not a protest against English people or tourists. As I went over, I was initially pleased to see it was all longhaired women, wouldn’t mind getting in amongst them I thought. Then I realised that they where indeed longhaired, but women they were not. They were transvestites. What they where protesting against or for I do not have a clue, but I joined in anyway much to the amusement of the locals and press there. Great photo to follow…

We joined in the fans festival in Taksim, singing and drinking and getting sunburnt to death. Nervous of the events about to unfold, we where unsure as to the best thing to do about going the game. We had heard horror stories of there being NO BOOZE available by the ground, and so we decided to hang around and have a few beers before heading up the ground. We also decided to give the free bus service a wide berth and grab a cab to the ground. Two mistakes. We got in the cab and he was a loon in comparison to the other drivers we had seen, and that is saying something. He stopped off at the garage to fuel up and buy forty cigarettes, and then proceeded to smoke them all before we got out of the garage forecourt!

We approached the ground and as it got closer, the nerves where building and anticipation was high. Following a short cut, we realise that the driver was on the wrong side of the ground, and the “one road in and out of the ground” was on the other side of the hill! He then proceeded to drive around some dirt tracks and make out like he knew what he was doing. Did he ! We spent half an hour driving round in circles less than half a mile from the ground, but with a big ravine blocking our path. Eventually the driver bit the bullet and went back onto the right road, but by this time it was chocker block with cars, bus’s coaches bikes and everything. As it was only an hour and a half to kick off, and the ground was only actually one mile away (or so we thought) we paid the fool and set off on foot. The idea caught on as the traffic never moved for ages. Before we knew it, some five thousands reds converged on a four mile treck up and down winding roads to get to the ground which was actually less than a mile away on the horizon.

By the time we got to the ground, totally knackered, everyone was trying to get in. At times it was little scary as some ten thousand people tried to squeeze past the barriers and gates to get into the North end. The security was lapse, and a simple tear was made about one quarter of an inch into the ticket. Mine already had one tear in it that was bigger! You could easily have passed the tickets back like we used to with the “saveaway’s” on the bus rides into town as kids. Taking the seats was not an option as it was rammed, so we stood at the top of the stairs and waited with baited breath.

The pre match show seemed to go on for a bit, but was well choreographed and the lads dressed in red marching round seemed appropriate some how. I looked around at the stadium; architecturally (is that a real word ?) it was breath taking. It was kind of dug out, so the level you entered the stadium at was the top of the end, and it went down to the track and pitch. The long sweeping stands on the side where lit up magnificently, and as I looked round I felt like I imagine Hugh Heffner does, I felt I was in paradise. A few songs where started, and swept round but it was really difficult to get a real good atmosphere going as there was no roof really, it was not closed in or nothing. I got the flag a nice spot on the few rows of seats that are cordoned off at the bottom and took my place by the lads for what I had thought was going to be a magnificent first half. How wrong can you be?

The game kicked off, and it seemed almost instant that they where awarded a free kick after Djimi’s lunge. What happened next was surreal. When Maldini (superbly by the way) volleyed the opening goal, there was almost a deafly silence. I could see the small pocket of Milan fans in the South End moving, but I could not hear any noise. It was like watching European games where an eastern block team scores in the Nou Camp or something, no noise. It makes you question what your eyes have just seen. It then sunk in that they had scored, and I remember saying to one of the lads “Oh no, they will just sit back and defend this till the bitter end” How wrong was I again!

Until I got home and watched the game again, I was mistakenly under the impression that we where totally over run in the first half. However in a fairly even first half hour, we had some good passages of play, highlighted when Garcia went forward and appealed for the handball. I thought we where back in it. As football can make you feel like you are on top of the world (see the last two weeks) it can also plunge the knife deep into your heart, and it did here. As we screamed and looked at one another for a penalty, Milan stormed up the field and scored again. I started to wonder, but I felt that the injustice of what had happened would come full circle and we would get back in to the game soon. I thought we would nick a goal and go in at half time on the up. Again, how wrong can you be?

On the stroke of half time (cliché!) with a sweeping move, class from start to finish, I thought I had seen Crespo (it would have to be him) finish expertly to seal our fate. Thankfully, this time being wrong was a good thing.

At half time, we where downtrodden. Bumped into loads I knew and the story was the same, anger at the manner of the score line, rage at the fact Kewell had gone off after 20 mins cus we where behind and he did not fancy it, and disbelief that this day that we all believed was to be our return to grace was going horribly and wickedly wrong.

I do not mind admitting that I had all but given up hope. I stared at the night sky and was almost reduced to tears after all the build up and hype, and then this. I then did something I have not done since I was in school and I said a prayer. I forgot about religion following the death of some close family members, so to pray was weird. It was surreal, I found myself hands clasped together, looking at the heavens offering to go to church, stop my bad ways, quit on the drink and drugs, in fact anything if he could just put things right tonight.

Then something magical happened, the stuff of legend, Liverpool legend. “We’re gonna win four three, we’re gonna win four three, we’re gonna win four three, FOUR THREE…”. The chant went round, and at first people nervously laughed, then as more joined in, people started to believe. Faces changed from anxious to determined, and so the fairytale began. An unbelievable stirring rendition of You’ll Never Walk Alone closely followed, and from then on, it seemed as though the 12th man would control the destiny of that magic night. The players must have got word of the noise; in fact they must have felt it. You could feel the noise.

When Riise crossed and Stevie leaped like a salmon, the place went mad. Where we where at the top of the stairs, the surge knocked a few people over, and unfortunately one never got back up. I looked down and the red paint on his hair looked like blood to me, so amidst the euphoria, passion and nerves, people panicked a little. I ran over to the police area to get them to get some help, but they where clueless and instead drew batons as I ran towards them, and ushered me away. It seemed to take an age to get this guy help, and his daughter was really upset, I tried to comfort her but it was useless. I remember seeing her later after we had won it and she said he was OK, so I was relieved.

When we scored the second I was starting to think my prayers where being answered, and it was testament to the heat and euphoria of the moment that I did not know who scored the goal until someone mentioned it the next day. When we got a penalty it was like I was dreaming, then to see it saved and then scored at the next attempt I was convinced someone upstairs was  with me. Many words have been written about the game, and I don’t pretend to be a match summariser, all I can do is offer my thoughts and feelings. The rest of the game felt like it went on for an eternity, and it was angst and relief in equal measure. I remember thinking back to half time and the four three songs and thinking that someone knew something I never. Alas, that score line was not to be and it did (as you know) end up penalties, but not before the big guy upstairs came to answer my prayers.

Last three minutes of extra time and that Shevchenko header and volley that Jerzy saved. Now I have heard all kinds of things said, read all kinds of explanations and none of them are true. That sequence was simply divine intervention. My prayers answered and my promise to go to church every week about to be tested. The header save was good, and I can live with that being down to Jerzy, however the volley save simply beggars belief. The way that ball was sucked up straight to the heavens tells me that someone not of this earth made it happen.

The penalties, and “the Dudek” as the song recently released prophesises, will go down as legendary, and rightly so. Carra’s advice to Jerzy to remember Grobelaar was inspirational, and I cannot speak highly enough about JC’s contribution to last season and the Champions League win. Whilst the penalties where going on, a strange thing happened. I have an alternative viewpoint on it, but I will explain first.

When the first pen was skied, we where all jumping around, and somehow I caught the eye of a guy who was ten to fifteen rows in front and about twenty seats to the right of where we stood. He knowingly nodded at me, smiled and mouthed “Its ours lad, its ours lad”. Then he disappeared in the crowd. Didi slotted and then Jerzy saved their second penalty. As we jumped around again, the same guy caught my eye again and this time he nodded as he mouthed “its ours, its ours”, thing was he was stood over to our left this time. I did not think anything of it at the time. When Shevchenko had his penalty saved, and we jumped around like lunatics the guy was stood by us, and he was jumping with us, and hugging us and shouting, “I told you didn’t I, told you we would do it.” We got some photographs taken with and by the man, and then following the crazy scenes said we would meet up later in Taksim square.

The bus back to Taksim was strange, although everyone was overjoyed; the thought of a long arduous journey back to Taksim almost dampened people’s spirits. We started a few good songs on the back of the bus, and had a wail of a time, and when we got to Taksim it was magic. We went back to the hotel to put our stuff in and Jay and decided to call it a day so Dean and me headed up to Taksim for the victorious celebrations. It was great, and Vladimir Smicer was even bouncing around with us outside some Irish pub later on, but we did not see any other players. Flares where burning people’s clothes but no one seemed to care. It was awesome, and I will never forget it. Every time I think about it I smile from ear to ear.

The journey home was pretty uneventful, apart from seeing Aldo in the tent at the airport and playing football in the terminal building. With no voice left, and following just four hours sleep in three days, a seven hour delay and chaos in the airport meant we wearily made our way back to Manchester airport, and then home.

Totally magical, time of our lives and never to be forgotten.

We got the pictures developed, (I will post a few soon) and there is no sign of that guy from the ground on any of them. I reckon it was an angel, and a Liverpool supporting angel at that. How else could those events have unfolded otherwise?  Nice thought anyway……

[Armin]

Great stuff so far.  If you've already posted your account elsewhere on the site please let us know as Jon H did above and we can collate into this thread.

[[delete]]

Here's mine ...

any chance of this poem going under my name on frontpage.  not arsed if it's up there at front of site, just maybe that when you click my name it's there

[Armin]

any chance of this poem going under my name on frontpage.  not arsed if it's up there at front of site, just maybe that when you click my name it's there

Which name would you like

[nozza]

I am new to the board. I went to Rome in 84 when i was 16, ex season ticket holder who followed the reds extensively until I moved to the States in 98. I get home a couple of times a year and try to catch at least six games..I hate watching the match on the telly but that is all I have over here. I now  live in Dallas Texas..here is my story on my  trip to Istanbul.

I was sat in a pub in Dallas after the second leg against Chelsea, exhausted, elated, absolutely spent.....six fucking minutes, all that after the eider miss just about killed me. When you have followed your team home and away in the past it is a complete anti climax when you are in a foreign country after such a  game. My mobile was red hot...brothers..mates uncles, me dad all calling from the Sandon after the game...as I said,  gutted for not being there but elated...we are in the champions league final...and fuck it I am going.
                                 The next morning at work I started my search for flights, should i go direct from here...maybe go to Sofia and take the train, should i go home first, take a week and have a  Bevvy with all me mates and family...then it dawned on me that i had better tell  my American wife that was was leaving for a week to Istanbul to watch the game!!
                                 Fair doo's she was cool about me going, she knows what the Red's mean to me and I pulled a master stroke by taking my six year old boy Ethan with me ,  while I went off to the match, he could stay with his Nan and granddad , and if we win he could maybe. ... .just maybe watch the reds bring the cup back home...an experience I remember well  in 77 when my dad went to Rome and I had to stay behind,  but the homecoming in 77 has always stuck with me....History repeating itself..now it is my turn to show my son what it is all about...I hope we win.
                             So I booked, we leave  from Dallas the Sat before the game and get home early Sunday morning, I have a good mate over here who is American and has become a staunch Liverpool fan .  He has made the trip home with me a few times and come to the match, his name is Wilson and he dreams of fish chips and curry  on a regular basis after I introduced him to it at last years Southampton home game at Christmas. When I told him I was going to Istanbul he said fuck it, I am going too!!. On the way over to England he asked me what to expect from the coming week. I told him it would probably be the experience of a lifetime but when we leave for the match that he has to be on his toes at all times, follow my lead as sometimes things can get crazy when travelling to away matches..it turned about to be good advice.
                            We had a proper Roast dinner on the Sunday and then got bladdered. Monday afternoon I met my cousin Matty in the Yates on  Allerton Rd, he goes home and away and his dad and brother could not go to Istanbul but they still got their tickets and gave them to me and Wilson..that  is  what family is for ..right. Block 309 row 35 seat 449, heaven ....it   only truly sunk in once the tickets were in hand.
                            Matty was leaving at 6 Tuesday Morning with Lonsdale, We were booked with a company called independent travel out of Chester, out of the back of the Echo...600 quid for 2 nights in an unknown hotel...I was told it was somehere near the blue mosque but was never given a name or address.....it sounded a bit dodgy to say the least.
                            We arrived at John Lennon at 11, our flight is at 2, we  check in and go upstairs for a few ales. The next five hours was a fucking mad rollercoaster to say the least. We boarded our Air Malta flight..no seat allocations....just sit where you like!  I got right at the front second row, I thought if they do serve up any ale it will come from the front first. I was right,  as the plane soared over the city and headed east there was a feeling of Yes..this is it...i am going to Istanbul.All i wanted to do was get there, get in the hotel and get out on the raz.
                           When the steward opened the bar at the front of the plane everybody rushed it and i swear the fucking plane dipped down at the front! An hour into the flight and it was like a friggin Zoo. the singing started and got louder then 2 hours into the flight people were actually kicking off with each other..i thought fuck me this is all I need...I JUST WANT TO GET THERE.
                         Things went west from that point on..they started serving the miniatures and it was every man for himself..it got that rowdy that the Captain came out got on the tannoy and asked everybody to calm down...the reply from the nause at the back came back '' fuck off baldy who is driving the plane"  That did not go down well and about half an hour later both toilets were blocked and there was literally piss running down the aisles..nightmare..I just want to get there.
                           I wish I would of took a picture of my mate Wilsons face..he was fucking gobsmacked, eventually when the Captain  was threatening to divert to Bulgaria things calmed down but what a friggin plane ride, I was off the thing like a shot once we landed and only started to calm down when the bus pulled away and we headed into the city.....
                           Istanbul was massive,  even though it was dark you could see the vastness off it.  We crossed over the Bospherus and eventually headed into the center... I  was thinking i hope my hotel is near the square. We actually drove right into Taxim square and i could not have dreamt a better scene than awaited..a sea of red and white, banners , flags people...oh yes..this is going to be special. Our Hotel was within a half mile of the sqaure nestled between some great bars off the main shopping drag. We got a quick shower and tripped the light fantastic, singing , drinking it was just heaven, I had this weird confidence about us winning...a confidence that i have never had before  but i could just feel it and you could sense on the Tuesday night that everybody felt the same. I got to bed about five wednesday morning and was up again at 10 feeling rough as a bears arse. The mobile was red hot again....all the lads were arriving at different times and heading to Taxim so off we went.  It was too early to start drinking so we all decided to go down to the Bospherus once we all met up..we all new it was going to be long day so a ferry ride was  just the trick, blew away the cobwebs and got some great photies.
                                             When we got off the ferry around 1 we stayed in the area and had some scran....we actually saw a few Milan fans down that part of town but they were very subdued.
I was itching to get back to the sqaure as more and more mates were turning up and phoning, Wilson my american mate decided that he wanted to sightsee some more  and said he would meet up later at the hotel, this proved to be a bad move as he never had a working mobile on him. I thought worst scenario he has his ticket and I will see him at the game so off to the square we went full of anticipation. There was a group of about 20 of  us once we all met up, a few cousins..good mates, we stood on the grass next to the subway station as just got drunk and had a great time, the weather was dead on, at around 4.30 we decided to make a move..still no sign of Wilson, still no phone call. I went back to my hotel and left him a note...leaving on the bus with the lads...left my phone ## see you at the match..
                                                 Our Bus left from a different hotel about a mile away..I just jumped on a lonsdale one with the lads bus #93 ,it took about an hour to get out of the city centre but we we didn't care.... more ale ..more singing ....more anticipation , just a frigginn allround great time. As we neared the ground the traffic got heavier and heavier , we all got more and more impatient and it was around 8.00 when we jumped off and joined the Pilgrimage to the ground...Masses of  red and white walking toward what was described best in a Times article as what looked like a stranded spaceship in the middle of the rocky valley. I was sitting in the North stand some of the lads were sitting in the west and some in the east..we all just split up before going in...bladdered and not even making a meeting point for after the game...but we all had mobiles..little did we know that they would not work!!
                                         Actually getting in was a little dodgy It seemed like there were only 4 turnstiles and it got a bit crushed getting thru the gates, a slight tear my ticket and I was in. The site that awaited was one to behold and one that will live in my memory for ever, i could not get over how many red's had actually made the trip, I went to Rome in 84 and there were 10,000 of  us  there but this was something else.....something magnificent, we had at least 2 thirds of the ground and i was here ready to watch the Red's bring home # 5  what a feeling ...Football heaven.
                                        I  got to my seat and no sign of my mate Wilson..where the fuck is he i thought...all this way and he is not here what the fuck is going on.. he will get here I thought..probably stuck in the traffic.....   For some reason unknown to myself I moved out into the aisle, I just could not sit down..the pre match bollocks went by in a blur, i did not even take any notice of what team he had picked, a belly full of ale and anticipation i did not care..i was here.... the match is starting and i have nearly lost my voice already.
                                         I remember vividly the foul by Traore, i remember thinking the worse scenario and a second later it was reality..stunned...i thought this is typical us, we always make it difficult for ourselves..fuck it come on lads we can still do it..fight for every ball fight, for every tackle we are going to win. The rest of the half is like a blur, I know they looked good and were strolling through the midfield but we had a few chances, anyway i am  still fucking singing. And then they get two just like that as Tommy Cooper would say. I was devastated..the same knot in my stomach and the same feeling of devistation that I felt standing in the Kop when Michael Thomas stroked the ball in with the last kick of the season to snatch the title away from us.
                                           I went for a piss at half time and at the top of the stairs there was a Turkish fella on a wheelchair, he stopped me and offered me a drink of water, I was fucking parched and was greatfull to say the least, he asked me to take a photo of him and his mate and I did, for some reason I stayed up at the top of the stairs for the start of the second half.
                                           We all know what happened next,  I do not know if i can describe it..Miracle..football fucking heaven ..elation beyond belief... like taking my first e when i was a young fool ( good times though).  Gerrard rose like tommy smith in 77, Vladi smashed one in like his mate paddy Berger and then the new legend in the making Alonso who is just pure fucking class smart enough and quick enough to follow up...that is... it....it  is fucking ours...we are watching history here I thought.  Then john arne smashes one toward goal and my heart nearly gives in..fuck me i need to sit down. I went back down to my seat..still no sign of Wilson...must be sat somewhere else...Ineed a break. I got back t my seat and still did not sit down.
                                                   After the relief of the Jerzy super save..(Gordan banks,he has you beat mate sorry) we all knew, we shall not be moved and we were not moved, we were fucking solid, talk about  pride, passion, heart..this will never be topped ...  ever...And I was  there watching history.
                                                    When they missed the first two i was dancing like that twat out of lords of the dance, I must admit my arse was twitching after John Arne missed but this was our night we deserved it and when the whisper went round much the same as it did in Rome in 84 ...If he misses this we win it, pure fucking pandemonium, relief ,happiness.....it is weird how in them situations  you hug complete fucking strangers like they were your long lost brother...but that is what we were that night ...one big happy scouse family and this was christmas morning ten times over.
                                          I carried on dancing all night, we all somehow found  each other after the match, all except for Wilson  ...where the fuck was he??.
                                          We watched the sun come up in Taxim Square in a bar opposite Burger king on the corner... we sang fuck off Murinho ..we won it five times over and over..the song still rings in my ears to this day, i left the lads at 7 am...i had a plane to catch at and we were leaving the hotel at 10...on my way back to the hotel some dodgy looking bird put her arm around me and tried to dip my wallet...i caught her just as she was lifting it and near broke the bitches arm in two...i would of been fucked if she would of got away with it but somehow..even in the state i was in nothing was going to spoil this day.
   I got back to the Hotel and there was Wilson...where the fuck were you he said,...I said the same thing..it turns out we were standing about 10 feet away from each other for most of the match...weird shit but maybe it was meant to be....he had the time of his life and said he doubts whether or not he will ever experience anything like it again.
That is until we got to the Airport..you have heard all the horror stories of delays, we got there at 1 and were supposed to leave at 2, we should of got back in time for the Parade  where my son was waiting for me dressed in Red..I was gutted that I missed the Parade  but history did repeat itself and my lad got to see his heroes with the cup. I got back to Liverpool at one in the morning...I was greeted by me dad and me son..his first words were watch dad..this is called the Dudek and he wiggled his legs and did the Dance.......Football Heaven.

[GioKie]

So, for the European Cup Final, we found ourselves in Asia.  From Liverpool to Manc in a taxi, Manc to Munich in a plane, overnight stop, then on to Sofia.  And from there, on Tuesday evening, everyone aboard the fun bus to Istanbul.  A seven-hour journey, that turned into 10 hours, thanks to the great relationship the Bulgarian and Turkish border authorities have with each other, and Wednesday morning we finally got to the Attaturk stadium around 9am.  It was deserted.  Apart from the odd steward.  Good job too, as one of them understood we needed a taxi.  Not that any of them could get us one – it fell to the local plod to radio some in for us.  One hair-raising cab ride later, and we find ourselves in town, a mere 20 kilometres or so from the ground...!

We rendezvoused at the Blue Mosque, the meeting place for Milanista.  Then, after a morning spent on the European side of the Bosphorous mingling with both Milan and Liverpool fans, including a Turkish bath which not only cleaned and refreshed, but battered and bruised, we strolled over the bridge, into Asia, and made our way up to Taksim square, the meeting place for the Liverpool fans.  What a site to behold.  The party had been going for a couple of days already when we arrived, but was still in full swing.  Banners everywhere, incessant chanting, and a sea of red, red, red. 

It was time to return to the stadium though, so we jumped in a cab (after a bit of bartering, of course...Taxi: ”70 lira” Us: “No, 50” Taxi: “Ok, 65” Us: “No, 50” Taxi:“60...?” Us: “No, 50” Taxi: “Ok, let’s go!”), and we’re on our way.  The stadium is in a desolate part of the city, and the housing looked a little like the shantytowns you see in South America on television.  Although that didn’t stop the kids running to the side of the road to cheer on the supporters making their (long, hard) way to the ground.

The fans had been allocated each end of the stadium, Liverpool North, Milan South.  Outside there were stages, and games to be played.  The North end was awash with colour, and thousands of fans, the South, subdued, leaving us wondering where on earth the Milan fans were...

Inevitably, as there was only one road to and from the stadium, the buses and taxis started tailing back for miles, so people just got out and walked.  To look upon them coming down the hill from the North end was to see an ocean of red pouring like the Bosphorous itself towards the stadium.

So finally we entered the stadium.  40 000 Liverpool fans filling two thirds, 18 000 Milan fans, out of an allocation of 20 000 each.  There was no way Liverpool could be beaten.  The chants were constant, the volume was immense, and whilst the orchestrated Milan end looked very impressive before kick-off, there was just no way their fans were up for it like we were, and to us, this meant that there was no way the Milan team would be up for it the way ours would be.  How wrong can you be...?

Before having time to sing ‘you could have come in a taxi’, a free kick had been whipped in and Maldini, the veteran of (count ‘em!) seven, yes seven European Cup finals had given Milan the lead.  43 seconds gone.  Oh dear.

It’s fine, we all thought.  No problem, plenty of time left.  Then it started to become clear – plenty of time left for Milan to dish out the mother of all hidings.  The half wore on.  Milan’s class showed.  It was professionals against amateurs, men against boys.  But for all their better play, the slicker passing, the midfield dynamism, the potent strike force, the impenetrable defence, not to mention the goal not given for offside that wasn’t, it was still only 1-0 with only about five minutes to half time.  If we could just hold out until then...  Oh dear.

A great passing move rips through our defence, and it’s two.  It’s ok, it’s still only two, we told ourselves, and it’s practically half time, a chance to re-group.  But Milan were still not done.  Kaka, the player of the half, plays a delicious ball, again through the heart of our defence, and Crespo is in for the best goal of the lot.  Oh Dear.

Now it was disaster time.  Humbled, humiliated, the only thought was how are we going to get any pride back.  How will we be able to show our faces in England, in Manchester, in London, not to mention in our own city with so many Evertonians?  We were the representatives of English football, more importantly, the representatives of LFC, and not only had we just been given a lesson, there was still another 45 minutes to go.

In retrospect, that third, brilliantly finished goal was probably the key moment in the game.  At 2-0, the game is still on.  We think we can still win it, and Milan know it still isn’t over.  But at 3, it’s different.  It’s game over.  We only have pride to play for, Milan know they just have to concentrate, and they will get closer to Real Madrid’s record haul of 9 titles.

As the whistle for half time went, the first thing I expected was text after text from gloating Evertonians, Mancs, Chelsea fans...But even they were silent, maybe they too in shock at the ruins left of English football by the rampant, ravaging Milan. 

Shock and disappointment abound, grown men are in tears.  But after the initial jolt, the fight back, the fight for pride, started in the North end.  At first the chant, more in jest than in belief, was “We’re gonna win 4-3”.  Then reality dawned, the truth that this could be the worst mauling of all time, so “You’ll Never Walk Alone” was struck up.  Tentatively at first, then, as the voices increased, and people lifted their heads and their chins from the floor, the noise grew and grew, until we were sure they could hear us in the dressing room.  I’m sure not many people actually believed we could win, but we had to let the players know we believed.

The manager did his job at half time, and as the second half started, we hoped, and the players played, to get a goal back.  Just one goal, to give us some pride.  Alonso rifles one just wide, and belief grows.  Then, just as we wished, Gerrard rises, unmarked, to give us our pride back.  But we don’t have time to feel it, because within seconds, we have scored again.  Bedlam.  From praying for pride, we are now back in the game!  And there is still half an hour to go!  What’s going on?  Then the unimaginable.  Penalty, and a chance to equalise.  Xabi Alonso follows in the tradition of recent Liverpool penalty takers, and misses from 12 yards.  But whilst Gattuso stands with his hands on his hips, (and Cafu with his on his tezzies!) Alonso follows up and buries the rebound, and astonishing though it is, it is now 3-3. 

The next 10 minutes go in a blur.  Joyous singing, urging the team on to get the winner.  Milan just shell-shocked.  Then though, the adrenalin subsides, and the energy spent getting the game back, both by the players and the fans, is gone.  Milan re-take control.  Chance after chance after chance come and go.  The Liverpool players are on their last legs, the supporter’s voices hoarse, but neither gives in.  Jerzy Dudek, at times calamitous in the past, makes the best double save of the season, maybe of the decade, maybe of all time.  And from being humiliated in the eyes of the watching world at half time, Liverpool have the chance to take the title on penalties.

A crescendo of boos and whistles ring around the ground as Serginho steps up, and you can see from his face on the giant screen that he has lost his nerve, and is going to miss the first for Milan.  Then a German steps up for Liverpool, and as we all know, Germans never miss penalties.  We lead, for the first time in the tie, and never give it up.  The nails get bitten down, the heart rate rises, and eventually, the most certain goal scorer on the pitch misses his penalty, and an outpouring of emotion like I have never experienced, begins.  There were tears of sadness at halftime, but when Gerrard lifts the European Cup for Liverpool’s fifth title, there are only tears of joy.

[Farman]

Pleasure to the point of pain

Since returning from Turkey, football supporting and non-football supporting friends alike have been asking me how it was, what it was like. What can you possibly say in response? My only reply was that the right words have not yet been invented to describe the emotion I and so many thousands of others went through in Istanbul. Yet now here I am trying to put the words to it.

Euphoria, incredulity, utter joy and happiness…all fair efforts, yet none quite catch it. There is only one word that I can think of which comes close, a word I learnt the meaning of as a GCSE student. My memory of most things from school is sepia-tinted at best, but I remember quite clearly one English lesson when we asked our teacher what his favourite word was. ‘Ecstasy’ he replied, without even thinking. Surprised, I asked him why he’d choose such a common word which was also, topically at the time, associated with a media-demonised drug. ‘Because most people don’t know the actual beauty of what the word means’, he replied. ‘What does it mean?’ came the natural response. ‘It means’ he said, looking directly at me, ‘pleasure to the point of pain’.

And so it was for me on the 26th May 2005 (no doubt it will be remembered as 25th in song and verse, but 26th it was). God bless Welsh Grand Slams, Corrie weddings and the like. The denouement of a crazy season in which, according the glorious anti-logic of football, we are simultaneously the best team in Europe and the second-best team on Merseyside. But the mechanics, mathematics, money and the rest are not for here. The excellent consequences of winning the European Cup, and in that manner, should not cloud what for me was the best fact about the whole thing. And that is this – that, as football fans, we always want to see and be part of the ultimate moment, the holy grail of football fandom. Quite simply, no football moment, no matter how long we live, could ever be as wonderful as Istanbul. Liverpool FC was there before us, and will be there after us (I remember the first time, as a child, that the stark reality of my own mortality struck me was when I realised that I was bound to die before a Liverpool match, and I would therefore never know the score). For all of us Reds able to take this in this was, in football terms, the match that defines us, our ultimate moment as fans and the one that we will recall with most fondness the instant before we take our place on the great Kop in the sky.


Planning

My tale of the trip begins in my local Thomson holiday shop, in the warm afterglow of Jose Mourinho’s ‘the best team lost’. I was as eager as anyone to sort out my passage to the Bosphorus, but I was unfortunately waiting on decisions by a couple of mates as to whether they would be able to come, due to work and money restrictions. My usual travelling partner for Euro aways in the last few years, my ex-girlfriend, was…well, my EX-girlfriend. I’d resigned myself to having to book a late day trip on my own if they couldn’t manage it, but in the meantime I thought I’d pick up a couple of brochures for package holidays, seeing as direct flights seemed to have sold out while I was still singing in block 204 on 3rd May. I have to say I’m fairly well travelled, for both footy and otherwise, but organising and coordinating this trip took me literally days, full time.

The initial plan, based on my fairly ropey geographical knowledge of South-Eastern Europe, was to book a holiday for a few days in the Halkidiki resort near Thessalonica in North-East Greece, then hire a car and drive to Istanbul. This fell through partly because we wouldn’t be allowed a car across the border and partly because Istanbul is not ‘just down the road’ from Thessalonica but in fact eight hours away (it really doesn’t look that far on a map of Europe, but then again I spend most of my map-reading time looking at the scale illustrated by the AA Road Map of the Midlands). Public transport looked a bit awkward too, so I switched to looking at a Turkish resort and flying up from there.

By this time it was apparent that the only real cost-effective option would be a full week in southern Turkey. Cue much gentle persuasion of the aforementioned mates – known affectionately as Saz and Burner – with liberal mentions of the words ‘five-star bargain’, ‘all-you-can-eat’, ‘free 24-hour booze’, ‘thirty degree heat’ and ‘Eastern European fitties’. For Saz, fellow Red but Euro away virgin, the words ‘Liverpool – European Cup final’ was always the key point, but for Burner, a bodybuilding, multi-dyed-mullet-wearing fitness-instructing Spurs fan, the word that swung it was, I kid you not, ‘suntan’ (though at the time that our holiday became touched by God he was singing with the best of them, bless him).

The resorts of Marmaris and Bodrum gave us no options for flights to Istanbul by the time we were ready to book, so we looked to Antalya, which is a big enough city in itself for there to be plenty of daily flights to Istanbul. Once internal flights were booked with Turkish Airlines for about £100 return each we were able to confirm our holiday – the five-star all-inclusive Barut Lara Beach Resort and Spa (I was fully sold on the words ‘and Spa’ – you’ll never find a bad hotel with those fabulously pretentious words after the title) for around £520 including flights, transfers etc. With a Gatwick parking bill split three ways plus a bit of cash for our driver, Burner, and his asthmatic-sounding Vauxhall Corsa, the whole shebang came to around £650.

So off we went, armed with a copy of Lonely Planet Turkey, lots of clothes you only ever wear on holiday and a couple of litres of grossly low-factor sun cream for (the now very pink) Burner.


Antalya

Transport, airport and flight were all relatively trouble-free, other than a couple of occasions where we ended up hitting the same old man whilst attempting keepie-uppie at check-in, and apart from the fact that Saz kept telling me he’d hidden a small stash of something to smoke in his Head and Shoulders (it’s the sort of thing he’d do and was making me worried. By the time he told me it was only a wind up, as we left the airport in Turkey, I’d rather been hoping it wasn’t). Unlike most people we actually had a bit of trouble at immigration, I imagine because most people going to the Champions League Final would not be landing in Antalya in the small hours on the day of the match. After a slight delay we got through without payment, caught the transfer to the hotel and were on our way to around 6 hours kip before getting a taxi back to the airport.

Or at least, that was the plan. It was just after checking in to our outstanding hotel that the full, gloriously-illustrated meaning of the phrase ‘free 24-hour booze’ struck us with the full force of inebriety.  Our barman, who seemed to work 24 hours and had the perma-grin that can only come from banging far more than his fair share of Russian lovelies, was only too happy to pour us drink after drink. And like wide-eyed teenagers on first introduction to Diamond White, we completely overdid it. This was to be a reoccurring theme of the trip, as most Euro aways tend to be. The problem, and difference, here was that, what with it being free, we tried lots of different combinations of those kind of cocktails that end up costing a day’s wage in nightclubs (though ordering a Screaming Orgasm and a Sex on the Beach and looking into a grin that said ‘I know more about those two than you ever will, sunshine’ took a bit of the sting out for us). Anyway, a formula learnt from the trip by us all was that Alcohol + Combination = Bad Idea.

Our precious night’s sleep ended up turning into a ten-minute pause in between going up and down the lift (one of those posh lifts that has the courtesy of saying ‘going down’ when it is doing so…after which, without fail, I would always mentally add the words ‘…with the blueshite’). A quick bite, or should I say pissed-up morning feast, at our all-inclusive breakfast buffet later, and a Fiat Multipla-taxi ride onwards, and we were checking in to our flight to ‘Bul.

There were loads of Reds about, and just the hint of an early-morning snowdrop of atmosphere that would lead inexorably on to the avalanche. I’m sure there were plenty of people there that I’d know from on here, but of course the problem with the Internet is that you don’t know what people look like (as true a general statement as ever there was). I’d like to know who the bloke was who was sat halfway down the aisle on the plane and was already pissed, kept on singing and kept telling everyone it was the greatest day of their lives. I’m not sure the bewildered locals sat next to him would have agreed. As far as I’m concerned though, he was right.


On to Istanbul

The two airports of Istanbul are on opposite sides of the city, and although Reds had been told to go to Sabiha Gokcen airport I was glad that our flights landed at Ataturk, from where most of the action was easier to access – a kind of Heathrow to Sabiha Gokcen’s Gatwick. We'd arrived a good 11 hours before kick-off, and seeing as we were basically still pissed, and still had plenty of 'hair of the dog' time left, we thought we'd get the free bus to the stadium, buy a few souvenirs and programmes, and then get the free bus into the city centre.

And so began our involuntary insight into the blundering organisation surrounding the 2005 Champions League Final. We boarded an empty bus marked 'Liverpool supporters - Ataturk airport to stadium' and proceeded to wait an hour and a half before it left, whilst our driver popped in from cigarette breaks every ten minutes to hold up a hand and say 'five minutes, five minutes' through crooked, yellowed teeth (what is it about dental hygiene and middle-aged Turkish men?).

It took about a half hour to get to the stadium, which really did look like it had been built in the middle of nowhere. It was, of course, fairly quiet that early, but we were able to buy a few souvenirs, though no programmes had arrived as yet, and I was able to dish out a few canings at the Playstation tent. We walked round to the side stand to see if any programmes were there, with no luck, although we did see a bus load of Turkey’s finest young ladies receiving final instructions on how best to serve people in the VIP tent. Apparently our tickets labelled ‘Finalist North’ did not allow us VIP treatment. Never have I wanted so much to be a prawn sandwich-eater.

By now it was time for a drink or ten, and with no alcohol being served within a million mile radius of the stadium it was time for the free bus to the city. Except for the fact there was no free bus. So we got together with a few Irish fellows (with accents so strong you really had to concentrate and think about each word…I’m sure the Irish sometimes throw in a word or two of Gaelic just for their own amusement) and commandeered a minibus with a driver who had nothing better to do for the next hour or two. A little tip goes a long way.

It took around an hour to Taksim Square, and that was with fairly light traffic. But what a sight to behold when we got there – there was red simply everywhere, with thousands of Reds merrily drinking in the baking afternoon sun. Our banner culture is so much more advanced than at any other club, and every spare bit of wall was taken up with messages witty, poignant and poetic. Local traders were doing a roaring trade selling tinnies and draught beer, the lovely ‘Efes’ being the brand of choice (I thought he played for Yeovil?). It was funny how the price kept going up after every pint – they just charged what they wanted, though I’d lay a heavy wager, following many Reds doing their best impression of Robin Hood, that they’ll have found at the end of the day that their profits were pretty much what they would have been on any given Wednesday.

The atmosphere really was excellent, with perfect weather making it exactly what the build-up to the European Cup Final should be like. We spent a good few hours there drinking, and eating lovely kebabs, before I decided I wanted to catch up with some sleep. Lying down on a rare bit of grass verge, the final thought that crossed my mind as I drifted out of consciousness was that I hadn’t told the others I was going for a kip, their mobies were out of battery and I had all the match tickets.

Efes is not solely useful for drinking. A pint of the stuff poured suddenly over the face of a man in deep sleep has the dual purpose of both comprehensively waking him up and of telling him he’s been a silly tit to go for an hour’s kip while his mates have been waiting for him to deliver his round. It was five o’clock, and time to head for the stadium, to beat the traffic and take in the pre-game festivities.

Except we couldn’t find the free bus. Worried about the time, we thought we’d just get a cab. We jumped into one with a South African who was heading for the game and set off on our last leg on the road to the final.


To the stadium

Now, most guides seem to have Iran down as having the most nightmarish traffic and driving etiquette in the world. I have been there numerous times, and I am totally used to it. But I can honestly say that the trip to the stadium was the most scared for my life that I have ever been. Our driver was, quite simply, absolutely mental. Getting there in one piece was a bigger miracle than what happened from half-time onwards. If that driver is still alive today then I need no further proof – canonise the man.

Sitting in the front seat, I tried about ten times to put the safety belt on. Every time he took his eyes of the road and hands off the wheel to unclip it. In the end I thought it best to leave it undone and pray. Anyone who’s played the computer game ‘Crazy Taxi’ will have an idea of what followed. This madman, singing Trabzonspor songs non-stop and whacking every car we overtook through the window with his free hand at 120 kph, took us on a ride that Universal Studios Hollywood could turn to Virtual Reality and have the world’s scariest theme park ride. His 100 kph diversion non-stop through a petrol garage to overtake a few cars was one thing; his unshakable certainty that all other road users would get out of his way on pain of death was another, together with his absolute conviction that there would be no oncoming traffic just round the forthcoming blind turn. No exaggeration, I could have played Russian Roulette and had more chance of surviving.

Anyway, survive we did, passing numerous buses packed with Reds like sardines in a tin. As I’m sure everyone is aware by now the access to the stadium was atrocious, so like many others when in sight we got out and walked across the barren wilderness towards the stadium. Looking back, it really was like a quasi-religious experience, thousands of Red disciples filing past to the stadium on the mount.

By the time we arrived outside the stadium some half-baked Robin Hood (one that steals from the rich but has no intention of redistributing to the poor) had done away with the match programmes. The weather was turning cold, leaving us feeling very silly in our flip flops and sandals, and queues for any food, drink or entertainment were so long as not to be worthwhile. There was, of course, a sea of Reds, but the atmosphere was not as good as you’d have expected, probably because of a lack of booze and sleep catching up with most, possibly combined with the sobering image of lives flashing before eyes on the journey to the stadium. We thought it best to get inside sooner, even though there were 3 hours to kick-off, and do without the rather uninspiring concert outside.

In we went (no name-checks for anyone; don’t be fooled be the spiel in the future) and into the worst two hours of the day. The lovely afternoon sunshine was turning into a genuinely cold night, with the wind blowing right across us in the open bowl. I was forced into wearing all the souvenirs I’d bought that day, and ended up looking like a UEFA manikin (with an added bonus: the fashion faux-pas of socks as well as sandals).

Yet more disorganisation was to be found on the concourse – it took one hour to get a cup of water and a burger each. This was two hours before kick-off. The staff really were clueless. Although it was nice of them to leave crisps on the counter ready for all and sundry to help themselves to.

Until the players came out to have a look around, life was all about trying to get ourselves warm and sobered up. Mr. Efe had put a bit of a dampener on our pre-match anticipation. Whereas a pint of his finest over my head had roused me from my slumbers a few hours earlier, it was the tannoy announcer’s declaration that Kewell would start and not Hamann that did the trick this time.

The incredibly noisy loudspeakers did their best to drown out any effort the fans made to get songs going, right up until just before kick-off.  To be fair, the layout of the stadium hardly helped either. The Ataturk is basically a large hole in the ground, with seats built in to the side of the hole, plus a single-tier stand on top on one side and a two-tier stand on the other side. We had loads of support, but it was thinly-spread and with awful acoustics. Normally chants start in a certain block of supporters and spread out, but such was the stadium that, apart from at certain obvious points such as the singing of YNWA, different parts of the ground would be singing different songs, and the resulting effect was quite underwhelming. Everyone was doing their best and singing well, but it wasn’t quite unified like it should be.

The pre-match entertainment was bizarre to say the least. I still have no idea what the purpose was of allowing a legion of red-clad men, numerous enough to invade a medium-sized third world nation, onto the pitch to run around in straight lines. The fact that they then proceeded to take up about 2,000 seats that people back home would have killed for grated even more.

The Milan fans, though outnumbered and out sung, were incredibly organised. I for one was extremely impressed with the Ultra-led co-ordination of colour in their ranks where they stood, the raising and lowering of giant banners and the waving of those white things, whatever they were. It was terrific, the influence of Ultra culture – a community of fans acting as one – at its best.


The match

Following a decent enough chorus of YNWA, we had kick off. Time to settle in to the much-promised war of attrition. Traore foul, no danger, their threat is more from open play. Up pops Maldini, free as the omnipresent stadium breeze, to lash the ball home.

I doubt there is a current player in the world that symbolises a club like the legendary Paolo Maldini does Milan.  The man has won and achieved so much across a 20-year period and is matched only by Franco Baresi in Milanese affections. You could make a strong case for this one-club man being the greatest defender ever to play football. Before the match, I thought we’d win. But following the opener, I thought ‘big ears’ was destined for Italy. People since the final have talked so much about fate. A Maldini goal winning the cup for Milan would have a greater resonance about it to the wider football world than anything Gerrard, Carragher or Cisse could supply.

Following the first few minutes we seemed to come into the game a bit more, though Traore was having a 24-carat ‘mare at the back. Kewell soon went of injured. Whilst the decision to play him was wrong in hindsight I am quite surprised at how much the man has been castigated since. Yes, he has been a disappointment overall since signing, but to suggest he would feign injury and bottle a European Cup Final is utter nonsense. The fact that he’s had an operation since seems to have passed most people by.

Soon there followed the moment I thought had decided the match. What looked like a handball in the area by the Milan defence was missed, or at least not given, by the referee, Milan broke away and scored. Crespo. Revenge for his paymasters at Chelsea and all that.

The third, another by Crespo, came minutes later. That really was it then. The half-time whistle blew, and we slumped back into our seats, staring into space, brutally aware of the desertion of the warmth in the air, Lady Luck on the pitch and Efes from our bodies.

I began to think of the efforts that it took to get there, by both the players on the pitch and the fans in the stands. I began to wish that at least if the opener had come a bit later we’d have enjoyed a bit more of the game. I even began to think that perhaps it would have been better if Gudjohnsen’s shot had actually gone in. To make the final is an achievement and a pleasure in itself, but to then get there and be utterly humiliated by a supreme opposition negates that pleasure entirely.

Somebody near me said ‘remember Olympiakos’, but how could you compare a home game against the Greeks with Milan in the European Cup Final? In any case, when you need three goals and you are playing well you might believe, but when you need three goals and you are being comprehensively outplayed it’s another matter.

Someone started the chant ‘we’re gonna win four-three’. I do not believe for one moment that anyone singing it really thought that would happen. I hated that song, it made me angry. That’s the sort of thing that little clubs sing in cup competitions at Anfield, a song that makes us smile and give them a patronising clap because, even though they don’t believe it’ll happen, it symbolises the eternal struggle and hope of the football fan that unites us all. But bollocks to that, I thought. We’re Liverpool Football Club. We’re above playing the chirpy-little-club role.

Then someone started a song that was altogether more appropriate, one I was only too happy to join in with. The great thing about YNWA is that it is so appropriate in wildly-varying circumstances. It can be a tragic lament, a cry to arms, a song of unity or a glorious victory call. For the fans that sang it that evening, it may have held any one or combination of those meanings. Whatever we sang it for, it was a great moment that will always be one of the highlights of Istanbul, and I knew it was something I could always carry with me no matter what the result.

As the players came out for the second half, I looked to my right. A giant of a man that had been spilling forth some of the vilest racist abuse I have ever heard at a football match had not returned to his seat. He had walked off telling everyone who didn’t care that he was leaving at half-time. He never did return. Poetic Justice had struck a blow, and not for the last time that night.


The comeback

The second half initially started as the first had ended. Dudek saved well from a fiercely-struck Shevchenko free kick. But Hamann, who was now on playing ahead of a re-jigged back three, added much-needed composure. I’ve always thought Hamann is underrated by our own fans, and his impact was to be tremendous, but Rafa earned his corn more than anybody that night by going to a flat back three, a formation that we hadn’t actually played in that way before. It was a move Saz actually suggested at half-time when he picked up on the lack of overlaps wide on the Milan attacks. Later that night his self-satisfied grin at his tactical astuteness was more than a match for anything our barman back in Antalya could produce.

Then Gerrard scored. I can only recall the cross and the header, but what a goal it was. Headers, no matter how good, rarely look as spectacular as 30-yard screamers, but anyone who has played football will appreciate the skill involved in getting the power and precision that Stevie G conjured. Loads of people around me went mental, but not me. I still didn’t believe that it could be any more than a lessening of the humiliation.

And then Smicer scored. From our angle it seemed a bit unreal that it went in. But 3-2, and this time I went mad with the rest of them. Game on, just one more now, over 30 minutes to get it and Milan are on the ropes.

Now the songs started, and belief was flowing back into Red hearts. Another attack and then…penalty! Is it? Yes he’s given it! Shit who takes it? Alonso! Go on son! Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit…NO!...YES! YEEEEES! Pande-fucking-monium.

It was just unreal, the sorts of thing that, cliché aside, really does only happen in dreams. The intensity of blood feeding my brain, my lack of sleep and the battering I’d given my own body with alcohol combined to give the kind of giddy feeling you get when you really aren’t quite sure if you’re awake or asleep.

Riise had another shot well saved, but alas the fourth didn’t come and the tide began to turn. Our players began to tire and Milan closed the game as the stronger side. They had recently lost good leads in Serie A to hand the title to Juventus, and no doubt that played a part mentally once Gerrard scored, but they showed their class by looking increasingly dangerous as the 120 minutes came to a close.

As we were hanging on for penalties up popped Shevchenko to score the winner. They are the words I should be writing now. Quite why I’m not is something I still don’t understand. I still haven’t seen any of the action on TV so the only thing I can say is that it was a cast-iron stare-at-your-neighbour-and-say-‘what-the-fuck?’ moment. The players have since said that’s when they knew it was ours. I’m sure the fact that ball stayed out gave belief to our penalty takers and shattered the Milan boys in equal measure. That was the save that won the European Cup.

I remember watching the Milan-Juve final a couple of years ago. Just before it went to penalties they showed some of the fan’s faces. I wondered how they could cope with such an intense moment. My own way of coping was to convince myself we’d loose, which somehow worked and made me a lot calmer than I should have been for the shootout.

If there was a straight shootout and no game, I’d have backed Milan to win. But the nature of what happened previously surely played a part. Dudek, whose confidence often seems fragile, was full of himself. Two nil up was a perfect start.

The fact that Milan put away the next two and Riise’s decent effort was well saved meant that Smicer’s effort was absolutely critical. Had he missed, the psychological aspect would have come full circle and it would have been us on the verge of throwing it away. In that parallel universe, level pegging with Shevchenko and Gerrard the remaining takers, I wouldn’t have fancied us.

But the last time Vladi struck a ball for Liverpool Football Club it hit the net. He’s not had the best of times at Anfield but his last match ensures he’ll be very fondly remembered. Good luck at Bordeaux lad; have a glass of red on me.

On with the penalties. Shevchenko, who Milan fans will tell you never misses, missed. There then followed that second or two that it always seems to take for your brain to register something monumental. Then my aforementioned brain exploded.


Post-match

I can’t remember much of what I did with myself those few minutes, though Saz told me he’d never seen me loose it like that in all the years he’s known me, thumping my own head like a berserk, screaming, trembling, crying. The intensity of the feeling itself was something astonishing. 35,000 others were feeling the same inside, but manifesting it in different ways, some just holding their heads shocked, some hugging strangers, some screaming and waving, some doing all three. Extreme emotion makes us do strange things.

By the time Stevie lifted the Cup to make Liverpool European Champions most people had come down to a level of just plain ordinary euphoria. That was when I could begin to take it in and observe what was going on. One hundred stewards holding hands and all jigging along to the left or right depending on where the European Cup was going was a funny sight. Mind you, I’d already seen enough strange things that night. My brain was telling me ‘fuck off pal, I just don’t need that much blood’, but I couldn’t help it. I was in heaven.

I saw a few familiar faces coming out of the stadium and we thought we’d follow the crowd to Taksim Square. We boarded a bus and did our best tin-of-sardines impression while the bus progressed about 200 metres in 2 hours. Familiar now with the methods of the taxi drivers of Istanbul, and with sleep telling us it was urgently required round about now, we decided to cross the carriageway, hail a taxi and tell it to drive up the wrong way on the hard shoulder. This was something he did without a fuss, but by the time we were back in the city we were all so knackered that we just wanted to find somewhere to sleep. Strange really, you’d think we’d want to carry on celebrating into the night, but rather like in Dortmund 2001 the overwhelming feeling after a match like that was just utter exhaustion.

We ended up in Sultanhamet, in the old city, and found a dorm with beds available. We had just a quick pint with Roger and the others and then went up to the room to sleep. For the first time, I was not dreaming dreams, but dreaming memories.


Around Istanbul

We had planned our trip so that we’d leave Istanbul late on Thursday, so we’d have a bit of time to look around the city. And what a city it is. All the marketing guff about East meets West, historic charm and modern city is true. Its not quite oriental enough to be bumping into robed, scimitar-carrying locals all the time, nor is there a bearded snake-charmer on the corner of every crooked alleyway, but there’s enough about the place to really enjoy yourself, even without the warm post-coital glow inside of Liverpool winning the European Cup. The mosques, churches, bazaars and waterways are wonderful, and the people, though always fully aware of the opportunity to make a dollar or two, are warm and friendly. I for one felt that although the stadium and organisation surrounding the event were very poor, the actual host city couldn’t be bettered. People parochially suggesting that Istanbul should never have got the final because it was too far away should maybe consider how South-Eastern Europeans might feel about a final in Liverpool or Manchester.

Funny incidents on the day were too numerous to mention, though worthy of note was Saz pretending to be a Turkish trader in the Grand Bazaar and successfully selling a bag he’d just bought for twice the price to an American tourist, and a shoeshine man who made out for all the world that the one minute shoeshine he’d just given us would be free and then proceeded to ask for the equivalent of forty quid. He looked unspeakably insulted when we gave him four. Also Burner’s assessment that ‘intelligence is all in the mind’ should give you all the information you need to cast judgement on the peculiar workings of his brain. I’m sure it’s just as big as anyone else’s, but there are surely certain efficiency issues there.


Back to Antalya

The trip back to Antalya was uneventful, and the holiday we had there was just brilliant, save for one particularly nasty pissed-up row at 4am where a hi-fi loudspeaker ended up being lobbed off the balcony, a bed was broken and the concierge called to see if everything was alright sir.

The hotel couldn’t be bettered. Multiple bars, theatres, discos, three freshwater pools, right on the beach, and a Spa with a Turkish Bath, a Thessalo, Jacuzzi and steam rooms and all the best food and drink you can consume. Plus I can move in posh circles now, because I know what a Thessalo is. Quite what the fellow guests – mostly the nouveau-riche children of the Russian mafia but with a decent sprinkling of well-heeled European blue-bloods - made of three lads from England farting and belching their way through a gorgeous five-star hotel is anyone’s guess. And the women…my God, the women! Let’s just say there are some stories you just can’t tell.

Just lying in the sun, in the lap of luxury, thinking about Istanbul was almost as great as the night itself. I remember buying Turkish newspapers the day after, not knowing what any of the words meant but revelling in the pictures. One had Gerrard lifting the cup on the entire front cover under the one-word headline ‘Champions’. Just seeing that made me feel ten feet tall.

Antalya itself is a lovely place. We only went once, since we had everything we needed at our hotel, but the water park was fun, and the shops and area around the old harbour was beautiful for an early evening stroll (apologies if that sounds like something out of the ‘Golden Years’ catalogue). Next time I’ll have to take one of the many boat rides being offered as day trips from the harbour.

So that’s my tale of Turkey, the best holiday I am ever likely to take. Now we know that despite the FA playing ‘chicken’ with UEFA whilst having Liverpool Football Club tied firmly to the front bumper, we will defend the trophy from the off. UEFA’s only blunder was on the clarity of the rules; they have at least been well-intentioned since. It is our own FA who should hang their heads in shame for jeopardising our right in the first place. But it’s done now, and on to next season.

I’m getting married in the summer. This was my last game before that momentous event in my life. For ten years now, not as long as many I know, but long enough in the context of my life, I have followed the Reds home and away whenever I could. Who knows if I’ll be able to do that in the future? When commitments come along and you are responsible for others, some things have to give.

I hope that doesn’t happen for a while, but for me personally, this is the perfect ending to the period of my life where football was unquestionably my be-all-and-end-all. I, and I’m sure many of you, feel incredibly lucky to have been able to experience the ecstasy of Liverpool Football Club becoming the Champions of Europe.

[bazjones]

First of all the last thing I thought id be doing on 25th May 2005 was taking a day trip to Istanbul. Id been mentioning going the final if we got their to be old fella a few times before the Chelsea game but he was having none of it saying that we have to get their first. He’s pushing 50 and been to a few cup finals in his time including Paris and Wembley.

Next thing I new I was sitting in work on me mobile to one of me mates debating whether or not we would be able to get tickets and if so how much if was realistically going to cost. I spent the whole of the next 3 days getting in touch with anyone I knew who had a season ticket and had been to most of the Champions League home games. I spoke to me dad and he mentioned an old family friend who I hadn’t spoken to in years. I got me Mum on the phone and convinced her to ring this old school friend, after a good half an hour of attempting to convince she gave in and agreed to give her a ring. After mentioning this to me mate we decided that if we were going to be lucky enough to get our dirty mitts on a season ticket that qualified for a Champions League final ticket then the best and most affordable option would be to take the Lonsdale Day Trip.

It got to 5PM on the Tuesday, exactly the time that Lonsdale started to sell their packages and I was shitting myself, I rang me Mum and asked her what was going on she said she had left a message and was waiting for her friend to get back in touch. I remember sitting around my girlfriends house, well not sitting continuously walking up and down hoping that they would have a couple of tickets available for me and me mate. All of a sudden about 6.30pm me mobile rang, it was me Mother, she was buzzing and managed to scream that she had got 2 tickets of her mate. As she calmed down she read out the fan card details to me I made a note of them and told her to friggin get off the phone whilst I rang Lonsdale. I dialled the Lonsdale Number and heard that, now familiar, engaged sound. I hung up and pressed the redial button, “Fuck Off” I shouted as I realised that the redial button on the phone wasn’t working. Ringing Lonsdale then took over me Tuesday night, it got to 9.30pm when the phone lines closed until 9am the next morning and I had to give up for the night. All of the time that I was on the blower trying to get through to Lonsdale me mate was attempting the book online, as advised by Lonsdale, unfortunately Lonsdale’s website wasn’t working, therefore not allowing the booking of day trips.

The next morning I got up early for work and got myself sitting at me desk for 8.45am which, for me, is unheard of. Straight away i found a phone that the redial button was working on and began the days deed. It got to midday and I had now spent 3 solid hours pressing the redial button. Suddenly me mobile began ringing, it was me mate who had also been trying to get through to Lonsdale and luckily enough he had got through to some bird who was going to take the booking. As soon as I got off the phone to him I began jumping around the office chanting the familiar sound of Ring Of Fire by Johnny Cash (De de de de de de de derrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!). Now unfortunately I had about a 2-week wait until we headed off to Istanbul. 

It got to Tuesday 24th May and I was still loving it, stating to get the butterflies in me stomach and couldn’t do anything in work through thinking about what was to come over the next couple of days. I ended up leaving work early for the drive back home to Liverpool. Finally got home, had a munch and began getting me stuff ready for the day trip. Planned on having a nice early night, maybe about 9pm, but it got to 9.30 and I was still finding daft things to do. Me dad shouted up that there was a programme coming on Sky Sports 1 about Liverpool and the Champions League Final in Istanbul. Sitting there watching it was unreal, I was still trying to get over the shock of our team getting into the Champions League final, never mind the excitement of managing to get me hands on a ticket. I eventually went to be about midnight but as expected couldn’t sleep.

Next thing me dad knocking on me bedroom door at 3am telling me I had to get up. Jumped in the shower got ready, checked me bag and went downstairs to wait for the taxi booked for 4am, by the time id had a cup of tea the taxi was outside. Grabbed me flag, scarf and rucksack and jumped into the taxi ready pick me mate up. Got the usual loon of a taxi driver that I always seem to get whenever I cant be arsed with one, but hey fuck it I’ve got more important things to think about than this crank.

Finally arrived at the airport, did the usual airport thing like get ripped off for food and drink that you’re not really arsed about. Took a few pictures of the banners people where holding up and jumped on the plane. Sat at the front of the plane and got chatting to a few of the club stewards who were on our flight, they were just as exited as us the fans but then again most if not all of them are fans as well. One of the stewards had a signed shirt which they did a raffle for, £1 a strip. Didn’t win but wasn’t that arsed when I realised that it had Diao on the back and he had worn it in a match last season.

Whey we had arrived in Istanbul got me stuff together, through passport control and jumped on a bus heading towards Taksim Square. Was a bit of a giddy journey but not as giddy as was still to come. Soon we got to our destination, Taksim Square, Istanbul. It was awesome just a sea of red, and the chants were going off large. Had a quick walk round the square getting pics of various banners and flags. We decided to try and get a few cans, asked another fan where to get a bevy from and he pointed me in the direction of an off-licence. When we got there it must have been the best day of this fella life, he was getting a fortune off all these mad Liverpool fans all buying crates and crates at a time. Grabbed a few cans each and headed to find a kebab stand, wasn’t long before we came across one. Kebab wasn’t bad but not as good as I had expected from the Country of Origin.

Time flew by as we sat off in the square, drinking beer and chatting to locals. Joined in with the chants and songs that were being started by all the mad people who were sat onto of them shops. Got to about 5pm and we decided to find the buses that were taking fans from the square to the Olympic Ataturk Stadium. Took a good hour but the whole journey was brilliant. Everyone was just buzzing and singing. Was pretty much a hand full of songs being sung, my favourite being “We All Dream of a Team of Carraghers, from the minute we left the square until the minute we got to the stadium.

When we arrived at the stadium, well as close as we could get to the stadium, pretty much everyone jumped off the coach and headed for a good old piss. We decided to head for the mass crowd of red and the temporary stage that had been erected. Straight away I went to grab a programme but already they were sold out. After a few songs had been played on the stage including YNWA and Ring of Fire, came possibly the funniest moment of the whole trip. Liverpool fans all crowded onto the stage and began jumping up and down singing, some European bloke came over the tannoy “Dear Liverpool fans you must get off the stage, this is not safe, PLEASE Liverpool fans, someone is going to get seriously injured”, he kept repeating this over and over for about 15 minutes. Everyone was pissing themselves and still I think it must have been a windup.

Next we started to make our way into the ground, on the way I changed from me shorts into me jeans. Getting through the ticket gates at the stadium was a bit of a free for all but got to me seat eventually about an hour before kick off. Had a little wave of me flag and took out me camera to get some pictures of the stadium and the amount of Liverpool fans that were there. The players were on the pitch at this point having a look round and soon after the came out again to have a warm up session. When it got to about 20 minutes before kick off I couldn’t believe the amount of Liverpool fans that were in the stadium, the Ataturk had been taken over by Liverpool red and Milan must have only had ¼ of the ground to themselves.

It wasn’t long before the two teams came out to the sound of the champions league theme tune, as they lined up in front of the dugouts with the referee. Both teams then went their separate ways for their team photos, before sprinting into their designated half to get ready for the kick off. No sooner had the match got underway had Milan been gifted a free kick in a dangerous position on their right wing. Pirlo crossed the ball and Maldini volleyed in, not the start that we had expected or hoped for. I remember sitting down on my seat and thinking we are going to have to pull something special out of the bag to come from 1–0 down against a team that has arguably the best defence in the world. Things started going from bad to worse as Milan began to dominate the play with slick and decisive passing cutting through the Liverpool defence. Next up was Shevchenko’s chance as he finished in style only for it to be disallowed by the linesman for a correct offside decision. Soon came Milans second with Crespo finishing from close range, with this goal came not a lot of hope and once again my head was buried in my scarf. As soon as I had gotten over the shock of being 2-0 down Kaka played an immense ball through to Crespo who again neatly finished, chipping over our helpless Dudek. Not only were we being battered but it was an unwanted Chelsea player who was doing the damage. The half time whistle blew and the first half was over. I found myself sitting in my seat hoping that we were not going to get embarrassed, I had began to give up hope on us winning the European Cup for the 5th time. The out of the blue came an emotional airing of You’ll Never Walk Alone, a song that we have come to know and love so much. In this case it meant the world. We the fans had began to see a glimmer at the end of the tunnel, although it still seemed very distant. Next came the classic comedy chant of 4-3 were gonna win it 4-3, were gonna win it 4-3, were gonna win it 4-3. Although at the time it seemed ridiculous we all joined in and it went off big time. It was about this time that the next to me mentioned that Kelly and Paul Dalglish were sat on the row behind us.

Now it was time for the now memorable second half. It started well as we seemed to come out the blocks like Rafa had given them a right bollocking at half time. Milan didn’t know what had hit them and were forced on the defensive for really the first time in the match. Before we knew it Riise put a great ball in the box and Stevie G leaped like a salmon the head the ball into the corner of the net, giving Dida no chance. Suddenyl the stadium erupted and that little glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel had gotten bigger, we found ourselves thinking there was a chance especially if we got another in the next ten minutes. Almost as soon as Milan had kicked of the ball was being passed around the edge of their box, suddenly it fell to Smicer who was in space, he took one touch and bang belted it into the bottom left hand corner of the goal. Some say Dida may have been to blame but I say it was a great piece of individual play by Vladi, who had not always been my favourite player but had now made his way up the ranks. By this time all the Liverpool fans were going mental including, Paul and Kelly Dalglish. The chants were really starting to bellow around the Ataturk. Unbelievable atmosphere and now the dream was definitely back on track. Again next thing I remember was Carra bombing forward and playing a ball through the middle, somehow it reach Gerrard as he powered into the box he was brought down and the ref seemed to indicate a penalty had been given. The atmosphere was full of confusion as Carra began protesting towards the referee. In my mind I though the ref had changed his mind and not given if. This confusion carried out for about 30 seconds before I saw Alonso place the ball on the penalty spot then I finally realised he had given the penalty. Alonso went on to take the penalty which was brilliantly saved by Dida but then it came back out and Xabi lifted it over Dida into the roof of the net. This was now getting ridiculous; all I could find myself doing was jumping up and down screaming, “This type of thing doesn’t happen in the European Cup Final”. From that moment on me and 39,999 other Liverpool fans that were in that stadium knew we were going to go on and win it.

Next up was Extra time, although Milan had the more attacking chances Liverpool managed to keep it tight at the back and passed the ball around the middle of the park with confidence. It got to the second half of extra time and the nerves were starting to get the better of me, every time Milan went on the attack I was struggling to watch. All of a sudden I remember the ball coming into the box from either a cross, freekick or corner and Shevchenko connecting with it. I thought that was it but Dudek carried out an amazing save, it fell again to Shevchenko but again Dudek was equal to it pulling off the best save I have ever seen and managing to get it safe over the bar. At this point fate was on our side. The final whistle soon sounded and the match went to penalties.

Having been sat at the Liverpool end of the ground, I had not seen any of the goals up close as they were all scored at the opposite end. It was then announced to us that the penalties were to be taken at the Milan end of the ground, which is was gutted about, as I always feels this gives that ends supporters the advantage. As Rafa wandered around the players, he was making notes as to who would take the pens. Both keepers made their way to the end where the penalties were to be taken. They shook hands and Dudek made his way into the goal. First up to take a penalty was Silvinho, Milans regular penalty taker. Dudek began dancing on his line, which obviously put Silvinho off as he blasted high and wide of the goal, the Liverpool fans cheered although they knew it didn’t yet mean anything. First up for Liverpool was Didi Hamman the hero of the second half. He confidently placed the ball down and slotted it into the back of the net. Pirlo stepped up next for Milan, their dead ball specialist, Dudek carried on where he left of dancing and jiggling on the line which seemed to work again as he saved the spot kick from Pirlo. Next it was the responsibility of Cisse, who took a massive run up and sent Dida the wrong way and putting it in the net. Next up for Milan was Thomasson, who took no notice of Dudeks antics on the line and powered it straight down the middle into the goal. For Liverpool up stepped Riise, he tried to place it in the corner but Dida saved well and it was getting close again. Kaka was next for Milan, he took a big run up and took a great penalty, straight into the net. Smicer took next for Liverpool and sent the keeper the wrong way, he had scored. This meant that if Milan missed their next penalty we had won. Up stepped Shevchenko, the best player in the world. Dudek carried on with his on the line dancing and wobbling, Shevchecnko went to place it but Dudek got a hand to it. At this point being at the other end of the ground I couldn’t tell whether or not the ball had crossed the line, as I saw Dudek run off to his right hand side I realised that he had saved it!!!

All my dreams had come true and we were once again the Champions of Europe. The celebration then began as the team ran around hugging and shouting. I climbed up the railing to my left hand side with my flag and scarf, couldn’t believe what had just happened, absolute amazing scenes which we fully deserved. The buzz still hasn’t gone away and probably never will for the rest of my life. The perfect moment to top of this miraculous victory was watching Steven Gerrard, our captain fantastic; lift the greatest trophy in the world. After receiving the trophy the team did a lap of honour with the cup, celebrating as they went. I got some great pictures before the team went down the tunnel. We began to head out the ground to find a coach that was heading to the airport as we had a flight to catch straight back to Liverpool. On the coach everyone began chanting but soon everyone realised they were absolutely exhausted and most people tried to get some rest before the flight home.

We got to the airport and everything started going wrong but im not going to talk about that because I don’t care anymore, looking back it was the greatest night of my life and always will be. Thank you LFC for all the great memories you have given me, I now have them in my mind and they will stay with me for the rest of my life.

 

[fintanm]

My effort...


www.maxisite.co.uk/liverpool

[Armin]

Thanks everyone for your contributions.  I'm going to do a bit of surfing to find any others that might have been missed before penning my own contribution.  We'll look at producing something incorporating these accounts, possibly in the form of an Ebook or just in a locked off area of the site...

Added

http://www.redandwhitekop.com/forum/index.php/topic,68389.msg1072399.html#msg1072399

[MichaelA]

Great big bump. Has anyone got any links or stories that they would like to add to this topic? I would particularly like to draw your attention to the paragraph here:

We would like to invite all RAWK users to submit their own work for consideration. Please post your piece in this thread; or provide a link to it. Please be aware that in posting your own work, you are acknowledging the right of the RAWK website to publish the work under copyright in an online or offline manner; no payments will be made to individuals for their contribution, and no free copies will be made available either!

I would add that we're only interested in original work that was originally published on RAWK by yourself. We would also consider submissions from anyone who originally posted their piece on YNWA.tv too.

Cheers, thanks, ta! 

[MichaelA]

Another big edit - links to or submissions of stories about other European Cup Finals would also be welcomed. Cheers!

[Hightown Phil]

I feel that it would only be appropriate to add to this that I did my exam.

I got 19 out of 90.

[Kez]

Is it just Euro Cup stories you're looking for, or anything LFC related?

[MichaelA]

Is it just Euro Cup stories you're looking for, or anything LFC related?

Just Euro Cup Finals.

[-HH-]

http://www.redandwhitekop.com/forum/index.php?topic=69344.0

It's THAT day for me today. You know the one, you have to go back to work after witnessing your team win a European Cup...I feel I've skipped ahead a bit with the story there, but let's face it you'd have to have been living on Mars to have missed it. I felt that today was the perfect day to recount my tale, and give me a lift out of the lull I feel from returning to the 9-5.

Sunday 22nd May - We were due to fly out from Heathrow at 8:40 Monday morning. Rhi arrived at mine on Sunday evening, and after a nervous evening where we both clearly had our minds on nothing but Istanbul, we retired to our beds early. In my case, I was up until 2:30am with my alarm set for just 2 hours later, waching the official history DVD. This was a bad idea because I finally started to see what everyone was talking about - this IS our year, it's written. 20 years on from Heysel, Kenny's boys who by rights should have won a European Cup and suddenly all I can think is that it's our year, we ARE about to witness Stevie lifting the European Cup for a fifth time. For keeps.

Monday 23rd May - Having got my Dad out of bed for 4:30am we decided to check in online, meaning we didn't have to leave for the airport until later. I'm not a nervous flyer, but I've never been so anxious on a flight. I entertained Rhi by singing random songs to pass the time, which I'm sure will prevent her from coming on any Euro aways with me in future. The time dragged on slowly until finally the plane touched down in Attaturk airport. We had arrived. It was 11pm local time.

I texted Mivi, aware that his flight was at a similar time, however recieving no reply we jumped in a taxi, passing the driver the peice of paper with our hotel name on it. After an animated discussion with other taxi drivers and much pointing at the aforementioned peice of paper, we were on our way to the Palace. The Hotel Sidera Palace to be exact, which has about as much in common with a Palace as Woodison has with a modern, state of the art stadium. Our driver finds Sultanahmet with very little difficulty, but it's here that things start to go wrong. He takes us along a variety of roads in Sultanahmet with just one thing in common - our hotel wasn't on them. At one point, he pulled up the cab in the middle of the road and proceeded to take our piece of paper out to show yet more cab drivers. More pointing and yelling ensued, along with much beeping from other drivers that we were to become very much accustomed to over the course of the trip. Mivi rang, only to piss himslef laughing at the image of us in an abandoned taxi while our driver legged it across the hills of Sultanahmet muttering to himself about 'bloody tourists...'

Our journey to this point had been punctuated with frantic omen searching: 'That sign says 5, it's an omen!!' etc. etc.

Upon arrival at our hotel we got one more call from Miv - 'We're heading out in a bit if you want to meet up' - 'Sound', I say. Hanging up my mobile I realise just how tired I am, and Rhi starts talking about just having a quick wander round the block then back to our hotel or just staying for one drink and the wind goes out of my sails. 'A walk round the block sounds good, just to get our bearings.' And off we go, guide in hand to find the Blue Mosque. A confusing thing about the Blue Mosque at night is that it's well, how should I put it...? Not very blue. I ring Mivi and he says we've just come out and we can hear You'll Never Walk Alone' from somewhere...quality. Can you hear it? Ok, bye' We can hear nothing. After circling the Mosque we come across some well lubricated reds fucking up the words to every song who point us in the direction of a gathering. Our joy on arrival at Seeing Mivi, Steff and Phil is only tempered by the knobheads repeatedly singing 'We all LIVE in a TEAM OF CARRAGHER'S'. Kinky.
Gradually others arrive, including Bachi, Nancy, Kirsty and Piddster. One drink turns into a couple before we make our way back to the hotel an hour or 2 later, block well and truly walked, crashing pretty much straight into bed.

Tuesday 24th May - We had arranged the previous night to go sightseeing with the others, however in a sign of things to come we overslept, getting up eventually around midday. After Rhi took what was to become a customary age to get ready, it was straight out into the streets of Istanbul. As we were walking around the park outside our hotel, Rhi started a very random conversation. 'You know that saying 'Red Sky at Night, Shepherd's delight?' 'What? Yes, why?' 'Red Sky at Night, Turkish Delight'. We had been trying all trip to think of a worthy banner for the ocassion, and as soon as Rhi mentioned it I knew it just had to be made. With one problem of course, how the fuck do you make a banner in one day in a foreign country where the majority only speak very broken English and you have no material, paint, glue or anything that might actually help with the making of a banner? So off we headed to the Grand Bazaar. Grand is too small a word for the place, it's fuckin huge!! As soon as we arrived, we were immersed in row after row of small shops selling just about anything with no way out. People will hound you trying to sell anything and there is great value in the ability to say no - and even that sometimes won't help you. I said earlier that the Grand Bazaar sells just about anything...anything that is, except simple material. Silk and cashmere fine, but cotton? No chance. After a good 2 and a half hours wandering with one T-Shirt bought just for the hell of it, we exited the bazaar. First shop we came across was an art type shop, where we asked for paint and were told no. The next shop, big fuck off rolls of material in any colour you like. Smashing. After a drawn out discussion on how much it would cost, we walked out with a shit load of material for the equivalent of 5 quid. Next stop the art shop we were at, where glue and scissors were easily obtained. We were on our way.
The making of a banner is a complex art, as Roper will no doubt tell you, but it's made all the more difficult when you have no material, templates, measuring devices or anything. Templates were still a problem, but through a mish mesh of using Rhi's Carra banner to trace from, some elaborate guess work and a lot of persistence, we left for Taksim Square that night with the glue drying on what we still consider to be a fairly boss banner. The circumstances in which we made it, make it something I'm extremely proud of.
Taksim Square was heaving by the time we arrived. Songs were going, flares were being lit, red was the colour wherever you looked and drink was cheap, as long as you were prepared to walk to an offy rather than attempting to barter with the numerous opportunists carrying around crates of Efes (a smashing beer by the way.) We spent a fair portion of our time in Taksim square with Ian-TN, his Dad and mate, before walking down the backroads to find yet more reds, including the group from the first night. We joined in with songs with Beşiktaş and Fenerbahce fans, and the atmosphere was buoyant. We bumped into Graeme, to whom we offered our spare bed for the time he was staying in Bul. You couldn't help but feel confident about what was going to happen the following day. We truly were a red army. We were everywhere. Noisy, colourful, strong in heart and mind, and with this lot behind us how could we possibly come home empty-handed?

Wednesday 25th May - Another lie in, although I think for Rhi, Graeme and myself sleep was punctuated by waking up and realising judgement day was upon us. For all the fun, the beer, the colour, the singing, the sightseeing and the laughter, this was what we were here for. We were here to see our team lift the European Cup for the fifth time. Having spent the weekend down in Cardiff earlier in the season I knew only too well what defeat can take out of a trip like this. While there can be great memories it's just not the same talking about it as a great trip when you've lost the game. Everyone knows you wouldn't have spent what you did to go to Istanbul at this time of year otherwise, so there's no use denying it either.
We met up with Sarah (Sez_20) in the hotel lobby having found out that she had been staying about a minute away from us for a whole day without any of us realising. After the 'Rhian Williams getting ready hour - sponsored by Nivea' we jumped in the first taxi we could find and made our way to Taksim Square. A discussion ensued on who had the luckiest scarf with Rhi, Graeme and Sarah all supposedly wearing their lucky scarfs. I pitched in that mine had been at a lot of late shows this season (Olympiakos, Spurs Carling Cup, Arsenal) but I didn't really believe that meant anything. It's been to a hell of a lot of games too.
The scariest taxi ride on earth since...well...the last taxi ride we had in Istanbul was again a source of many omens. 'That sign says Dudek, it's an omen!!' Ridiculous, but we had to pass the time somehow.
As we arrived in Taksim Square we realised that last night had been a quiet one. Those on the day trips had arrived and Taksim Square was covered. Above McNasty's there were some UEFA events going on, hardest shot etc. We couldn't be bothered with them and followed Helly and Phil (raptor) round to a verge of grass, where we lay our banner and took a load off. I think I had one beer in Taksim Square, there was no point in having more. I wanted to remember my first European Cup final.
We headed for the ground at 4pm, 8 of us jumping in 2 taxis all ready to enjoy the 'fans festival'. To go into everything wrong with this event I'd have to start a new post, but let's start with the basics. Pick a ground that's not fully finished with one access road, surround it with rubble, give each set of fans an area with one food and drink area and one programme stall, choose a ground with 7 fucking turnstiles at one end for a fucking final...UEFA = knobheads. Some of the entertainment wasn't bad, that guy on about the stage collapsing - dead funny he was (whether he meant to be or not.) For those of you who don't get it, sorry, but you really did have to be there. The idea to open the mic up to lost people was a masterstroke because it actually did provide some much needed entertainment. 'Jonno you fat fuck get your arse down here' and such like were common. Not so common were a couple of real gems: 'Paolo Maldini could you please come and pick up your losers medal' was one classic. My personal favourite was 'Jose Mourinho if you've got nothing planned tonight could you please tape Emmerdale Farm for me?'

The queue to get into the ground was a nightmare. We were queueing for at least 45 minutes to get in, while they searched every single bag to a ridiculous level of detail. Rhi, for instance, had put a very miniature bottle of moisturiser in my bag with the banner in. The banner was frisked as thoroughly as me, this tiny bottle recovered, sprayed into the lid and smelt by at least 3 separate people before it was allowed through. All this time my tracing paper ticket was disintegrating in my pocket. As we were going through the banners one of our party was involved in some trouble with this guy who was encouraging us to push, and when we wouldn't, pushed in front of us and began pushing himself. When he was kindly asked not to push in he let his arms loose, hitting Rhi a few times in the process telling us he'd 'been pushing in for years' and 'how dare you tell me I can't push in'. Well sir, you are a wanker. I've never seen such a big bloke look so small. Hitting a young woman of 19, feel very big do ya? Nob'head!
That safely negotiated and there was a game to be won...

THE MATCH - You all know what happened, so there's not really much to say, except that I've never felt prouder of our fans than I did that night. That chorus of You'll Never Walk Alone at half time was truly heartfelt. We all felt the same as fans I'm sure: gutted, tired, angry at the ref and desperately hoping our players could avoid a hammering. To drag ourselves out of that to try and lift not only the players but our own spirits took a lot. I'm proud that I was there, and if you were then you should be too. 'We're gonna win 4-3' then lightened the mood for me and what was impossible felt just about possible again, as long as we could get an early goal. Nothing else to say really, the trophy is now ours to keep.

The aftermath was a strangely subdued affair. We finally got back to Taksim Square at about 3am but were back in our hotel room by 4. We were emotionally and physically drained, having been on our feet since about midday. We spent an enjoyable hour before going to sleep doing very poor impressions of the fella doing that announcement: ' PLEEEEEEAAASE, Liverpool fans go to your seat the stage is about to collapse. ' Graeme and Rhi had me in stitches with some of the situations they put him in, including on an aeroplane and doing the 'operation anfield exercise' announcements. Every now and again one of us would say 'we were dead and buried' or simply '5 times' and we'd all lie back and remember that we had all seen the same thing and it wasn't just a dream.

Thursday 26th May - I'm not ashamed to say I dreamt of being Stevie lifting the cup. We didn't get up till 3ish and it's just about all I dreamed of to be honest. Still not quite believing, we went out and found an internet cafe to see some reaction to the game, just to try and bring it home. As we went to pay, Rhi put her bag down with the zip open, only for her purse to be nicked from it. Luckily, it was reported to a sound policeman who not only recovered it but actually tracked us down and delievered it back - thank you that man! I should take this opportunity to point out that although there were a few items stolen that we heard of, that reports of poor safety in Istanbul were hugely exaggerated and I wouldn't hesitate to come back (as long as we're playing at a different stadium!)
We then ran into Bachi, Nancy, Phil and Steff, who had found copies of the English papers. We read a little, and then went for a meal in Sultanahmet. A rumour quickly spread that there was a big screen nearby replaying the match, so we ate up quick and headed down. With a poor view of the screen, Bachi cleverly had the idea to use random discared items on the floor to build our new Spion Kop (copyright Bachi Metha, 2005.) The banter watching the replay was excellent, mainly cos we knew what was going to happen, and the songs were belting out - 'It's orange, it's pink, he dyed it in the sink, Armin's hair, Armin's hair!' 'John Arne Riise - oooh aaaah, I wanna knoooow how you missed that pen!' and later '3 nil down, then 3-3, then we won on penalites. Dudek saved from Shevchenko, then we brought the trophy home' and 'We all dream of a team of Vladi Smicer's'. For us, it was the celebration we should have had the night before if we could have done.

Unfortunately, copious amounts of alcohol shortened our enjoyment...

Friday 27th May - 08:15am Rhi (in quiet voice) - Mark, it's 8:15, we've missed our flight.
Mark (sitting up sharply) - What? Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

We rushed our way to the airport, although Rhi still managed to take an age getting ready. Upon arrival we attempted to sort a new flight, and the one we finally found was actually arriving back before the one we had booked. Small problem, Rhi had cancelled her cards when we thought her purse was gone for good and I'd maxed out every single penny from my various bank balances/credit cards to get to Bul in the first place. The combination of cash, credit and debit cards we used had to be seen to be believed but we got the flight booked via Warsaw. Rhi was still panicking because she was convinced she'd put the wrong pin in on her card and it should have been cancelled. I tried to reassure her but she was adamant. We were both pissed off, hungover and tetchy and we argued about it most of the way through the gates to our flight and then sat down at the gate in silence waiting for boarding. Rhi broke the silence '5 countries in 5 days, I can't believe it.' '5 countries in 5 days?' I ask, 'It's an omen!!' Tension lifted, we make our way back, hangovers dampening our spirits but not coming close to convincing us that it wouldn't be worth declaring bankrupcy and dying of liver poisoning just to see Stevie hold that Cup aloft.

Now, anyone got any ideas what I can do for the next 2 months...?

[-HH-]

http://www.redandwhitekop.com/forum/index.php?topic=63404.0

This fits in to the 'European Cup Run of 2005' category if not the Cup Finals category.

[-HH-]

Would also suggest someone contacts Mooro to see if his 'Twas the night before Chelsea' piece too, absolute quality that and was deffo posted on here first.

http://www.redandwhitekop.com/forum/index.php?topic=63507.0

[corbyRed]

will try and make an effort to finish my Istanbul tale which i started back in 05!
it's still as clear as day in my mind so will get it done soon!

[Ceebs]

Began writing this the day I arrived in Istanbul. Updated it as I went along, and sometimes a day or two later. Never posted it before, but felt it might evoke a few memories and get people in the mood (like you need to be put in the mood at this stage!). Did it with the intention of trying to post as I went along, but never quite got around to it, but better late than never...


Tell me ma, me ma,
We're going to Istanbul...

Everything, or nearly everything, fell into place at the last moment. After watching flight prices rocket in a matter of hours after we beat Chelsea, and almost having a flight and accommodation booked for a week for a grand total of £350 I ended up paying £270 for a flight alone two days later.

Somewhere to stay could wait, tickets were the priority for now. After hanging on waiting on the Uefa draw results I finally get the email telling me I was unsuccessful on Friday around lunchtime. Bollocks. How am I going to get a ticket now? Haven't been to enough games to qualify, so it's a case of asking around, putting my name on the list on RAWK and hoping. As a fairly new poster, although reasonably long time lurker, it's a case of figuring that the best option is to try to pick one up in Istanbul. There's bound to be loads about on match day anyway, isn't there? Plus I arrive before most so I've a decent chance of picking one up in the run in to the game.

Back online to try to book a hotel. What happened there? From seeming to be rooms everywhere suddenly everything has gone. Travel agents have booked everything solid and the usual places are looking silly money for a room. Can't believe some online sites are actually trying to make £2,300 for one night! These rooms cost about £60 normally. Bollocks to that.

So, with two days to go, and nothing other than a flight organised I'm starting to sweat. Or at least more than normal. Then, something magical happens. A colleague at work has got two spares. TWO! His mate has had to pull out, so he offered them to me. Magic. How excited am I? Also means all three of us who are going are now sorted for tickets. Sanj managed to get one through the club as they lower the number of games on the fan card, so me and Dee are now all set too.

Friday morning comes and I'm on the plane to Istanbul. Looks like a few other reds are on the plane, but it's not until I arrive at the airport I realise how many there actuallly were. Loads of people heading over to the queue for visas and quite a few in the champions league lanes in passport control. Anyway get through the passport control, pick up my bag and head to the hotel reservation place in the airport.

Looks like I'm going to struggle finding somewhere to stay. Guy is trying to offer me somewhere for three nights, another for one night (both in Sultanahmet) and then four out by the airport. Tell him to forget the airport as I don't want to be travelling all the way from there for my last four days. So he books me into a hotel, says it a nice little place and has been talking about three star places. Fair enough, I think, sounds reasonable. And if the worst comes to the worst I can kip on Sanj and Dee's floor for the nights around the match. Jump in a cab and head into the old town...

You'll never walk alone...
Not in this town anyway...

On the journey in to Sultanahmet I realise all those things you hear about not driving in Istanbul are right. It's like the fucking dodgems on the dual carriageway. Cars are weaving in and out of lanes, some are just doing a Robbie and driving right down the white lines. Smack bang in the middle of both lanes. How crazy is this? Still, it's exciting seeing all the huge ships and tankers sitting out on the Mamara sea on one side and Istanbul's suburbs building up around you on the other. Pass some shopping mall place and there are two huge banners hanging from it. One says Forza Milan. The other? Come on you reds! Nice one.

Friend had told me that a lot of taxi drivers don't always know the way around all the little backstreets, especially if they're not from that part of town. It soon became clear my taxi driver wasn't from this part of Istanbul. We were up and down tiny little streets (Istanbul is like a maze) that seem to cling to the side of a hill. One we went up was so steep I thought I was going to have to get out and push. Who knew Istanbul was so hilly? Well, other than anyone who's been there before. But after a little while and the driver asking for directions the bloke he asked sort of grins and points down the street behind us. Ok, so we're there, or nearly. There's no chance of turning on these streets so we do a quick circle around what might pass for a block, although it's not quite laid out in those terms. I'm there! Fantastic! Street seems a little run down, but go into the hotel reception and it looks ok. Then I'm taken to my room.

Jesus Christ! It's like a room from the Jamaica Inn in Liverpool. Now I've never stayed there, but Sanj once booked a room there for us for a game one weekend. When we asked Michael our helpful taxi driver to take us there he just looked at us and said, "Lads you don't want to be staying there." He was right. Luckily he stayed outside while we went in to have a look at the room. The carpet used to have a pattern in the room we looked at, but now it was just black with dirt and god knows what that had dripped on it over the years. There was a hole in the door. I told Sanj I'd be afraid to take my socks off in there. He just laughed and said I was looking for somewhere posh. No, just somewhere I might not catch a tropical disease from the furniture. Anyway, I digress. Back to Istanbul.

The hotel room has two beds almost on the floor. They get their carpet from the same place as the Jamaica Inn. The bog has various souvenirs from the last resident. CSI would have a field day in here. Dread to think what the sheets might throw up with one of those UV lights, and it smells of...well it smells of Manchester (I'm reminded of that banner somebody had in Trafalgar Square that said London smells of rats piss, but I live in London and it only smells of rats piss in certain parts).

Anyway, pretty sure I couldn't stay here based on the smell alone, so leave my bags and head out to the streets to explore. Pretty soon I find myself on one of the main streets the trams run down in Sultanahmet. I've already had some kid try to talk me into getting a shoe shine, and then as I'm walking along the street some bloke next to me turns around and says, "Hey, fat man".

Now, he has a point, but I don't generally start conversations with hey ugly fucker, or hey skinny bitch, or hey you big nosed bastard so I'm thinking should I walk on or just twat him. "Hey, skinny man". Now he's grinning like a fool and I'm thinking I've just met the only nutter in the village. Then he launches into his spiel. Where you from, why you here, who you supporting, who's going to win? So as I walk, he talks and he's friendly enough (he would be seeing he's a clip joint merchant) so I forgive him his earlier opening gambit on the basis he's just making a living.

Now, fairly quickly I realised what he was doing. I'd been warned of blokes who'd chat to you, then invite you for a drink, maybe in a bar with some nice women, where he buys you a drink, then you buy him and unknown to you everyone else in the joint a drink or it costs vast amounts. Living in London you hear similar stories about tourists being lured into Soho bars, or clip joints. Bills are huge, women overly friendly and the bouncers huge. No sir, you won't be leaving until you pay your bill, that sort of thing. So, I'm happy enough to chat to the bloke who's giving me a run down on the buildings we pass and the history of the place. He is friendly enough, I mean he has to be to lure your average punter in I suppose, but every time he tries to bring the conversation around to bars or strippers I'm just throwing him a random question about Sultan Ahmet, or the mosques, or Attaturk.

Anyway, we get as far as Laleli where I've been told some of the dodgier bars are, I smile and tell him I'm crossing the street to walk back the way we came on the other side. He offers me a drink...says it's hospitality and all that. I thank him for his kind offer, but explain I'm out to explore the city. Just walk around, have a look. He realises he's on to a loser here, and I hope he realises he's been had this time rather than the other way around. As we had walked along the road chatting there were a lot of other men who he clearly knew, so there must be a lot of them working the main street. Strangely enough as I walk back no-one bothers me this time. By the time I've got back to where I met him, he's already there, looking for more tourists.

On my walk I've been checking out various hotels so I go back to the ones that look reasonable and start checking availability. Not having a lot of luck until I come to one that has a single for the eight nights I'm staying. Ask to see the room, and it's small, but clean and decent. After a bit of haggling over the price we agree on a rate that doesn't involve them sticking the price up to silly ones closer to match day. Check in then go get my bags from the other hotel.

Later that night I'm lying in bed wondering why there's a really long, but not very tall mirror next to the bed. I mean I'm short but when I stand up I can't even see my head. So while I'm lying there looking back on myself it suddenly dawns on me....
Still, perhaps it's a hangover from a previous life, or maybe when the tourists aren't in town the rooms get booked for something else...

I wake up during the night and while I'm a little disorientated I'm confused...did I pull a stinker last night? Oh, no, wait...that's just that fekkin mirror again....
Earlier in the evening the mosques had played the call to prayers over their loudspeakers (it being Friday and all that) and it was quite amazing. These voices floating out over the air from different directions and suddenly everything seemed very still. Streets that had kids playing football on them only thirty minutes ago now only seem to have mewling feral cats replying to the muezzin's call. And me carting my suitcase to my new hotel.
So, as I'm lying in bed at around 4.30am Istanbul time (2.30am in the UK) suddenly this musical voice starts again in the distance. Not sure if there's an early call to prayer or what it is, but it's quite strange lying here in the dark and suddenly hearing the sound come drifting into the room. This seems like an interesting city, so I thought I'd share some of it with those who couldn't travel. Been up for a couple of hours knocking this together and reflecting on my first day, but I think I'm going to go back to sleep now. Even though I haven't yet told you about Ramazan and his carpet shop, apple tea and laid back attitude to selling his carpets. I'll save that for later.

Hey you, get off of my cloud...

Just had my dinner on the roof terrace of my hotel and it was another fantastic experience. Today hasn't had the best of weather and it's probably more akin to weather we get back home. For most of the day it just drizzled. The sort of rain you can't be bothered getting an umbrella for as it's only on for a little while, then goes off again. Anyway, it's made for a pretty cloudy and overcast day. So as I'm up on the roof terrace, just me and Gulhan who's running the cafe tonight, I see what looks like white smoke drifting past. The view from the terrace is pretty good, with a view out over the Sultan Ahmet or Blue Mosque, with another slightly closer mosque just across the street. But I still can't figure out how there's so much smoke and why it's moving more sideways than upwards. And then it slowly dawns on me. We're sitting in the clouds! Now I know Istanbul is on a hill, and I'm on the 4th floor of the hotel on the terrace, but I never thought the cloud cover could be so low! Needless to say it's quite spectacular and just another added bonus on this trip.

Earlier in the day I did a few of the sights, but the shoeshine men are really starting to do my head in. If it's not them it's the clip joint merchants or traders trying to talk you into coming to see their carpets. Some of them are really pushy and a real pain in the arse. Nothing like Ramazan who I met last night walking back to the hotel after going out to pick up something to drink. He was standing outside his shop and I was having a look in as I went past so he said hello, and did the usual pleasantries. After a brief chat he invited me in to the shop and I told him I wasn't buying any carpets, so he says well do you want to learn about carpets. I thought fair enough, will be interesting at the very least. So we go in and he starts showing me various carpets and telling me how the different types are made. Now, no doubt this is all part of his spiel, but he seemed quite accepting of the fact I wasn't buying. Anyway we sit down, have some apple tea, and he gives me a basic lesson in carpets. Have a decent chat and then as the shop is starting to get a bit busier I thank him and let him get back to some potential customers who might actually buy something. Perhaps all the sellers are like that, and it's just the people touting for business aren't so laid back...

Champions League, we're having kebabs...

Spent yesterday seeing the sights as today was the day Sanj and Dee were arriving and I figured it was probably the last chance for a bit of culture, so all in all it was a pretty quiet day, although still quite impressive as I spent it in the Topkapi palace. There are some pretty impressive views from that place. Anyway, had planned on trying to watch Fenerbache play Galatasaray in the big match on Sunday evening but didn't realise it wasn't going to be on TV. So as I was sat flicking the channels trying to find a station it was going to be on, I came across a news programme which was showing the build up to the match. It was a bit of a shock to be honest, but the build up seemed to involve a lot of fighting. There was a ferry arriving and people were throwing things from it at the opposing fans waiting on its arrival. Riots in what looked like a train station or bus depot and clashes on the streets, with the police doing their best to stop it. Football, bloody hell. Nevertheless, Fener won 1-0, although I never got to see the match, and in the process ended up winning the league. The TV channels had endless Fener celebrations all night.

So anyway, the boys have finally made it after spending a night kipping on the floor in Brussels airport. I'm expecting them to want to spend a few hours getting some kip, but they're having none of it. Go and meet them at their hotel and find them with a bloke they've met on the flight on the way over. His name is Donald and while originally from Liverpool he now lives in Canada. He'd flown over for the game, and had nowhere to stay so got a cab with them from the airport and managed to get a room in their hotel. So the four of us head out and grab something to eat...well it has to be really doesn't it...kebabs all round.

We spend that night on a bit of a pub crawl along Iskadlil cadessi, or at least I think that's what the street that runs off Taksim square is called. End up going from bar to bar as we move up the street the mile and a half it takes to get to the square from the end we started at. On the way we bump into more reds in some of the bars, although there aren't many until we get as far as Fado's up near the square where more seem to be drinking.

After a few hours drinking and hitting various pubs and what passes for clubs we call it a night and head back to Sultanahmet about four in the morning. Donald's turned out to be a really interesting bloke, and tells us of various trips he made to the earlier cup triumphs. It's interesting for us to hear because Dee, Sanj and I are all 32/33, and from Belfast. Our only memories of the early cup finals are from watching them on TV when we were too young to have travelled to games.

Reliving some of those through Donald's stories is fantastic, but also has its poignant moments. He tells us of Heysel, and how he hopes this match will provide some sort of catharsis for him, closure on painful memories, which I realise must be the case for a lot of other travelling supporters. The fact that it's 20 years on and that we've played Juve on the way to Istanbul only heightens the feeling that this will be something special this time around.

I'm sure most of you know what I mean when I say that this year has just had some sort of strange, magical feeling to it as we've moved from the group stages with the Olympiakos match to Istanbul. Perhaps it's easier to say that with hindsight, but there has been something spellbinding about the road to Istanbul. Sanj's shirt has Destiny 05 on the back, and I'm sure there's a few more of those around, but call it what you want. Fairytale, lucky, destiny, kismet, blessed. Whatever you call it, there's something special about this year.

Rawkin all over the world...

The international nation of Liverpool. How else can you describe our supporters? Day before match day and we hit the grand bazaar first off. Dee buys some lucky red trainers off some stall in the bazaar while the rest of us fend off blokes selling socks and perfume! Once the touristy shopping bit is done we head off to a bar for a drink. Have one before heading downhill from the bazaar as far as the coast. Quick wander along the coast before cutting back into Sultanahmet. Not sure what the area was called but we end up in a bar on the corner of where about five streets meet.

Seems to be a few hotels around here with a lot of reds in them, as banners are going up outside windows. Anyway, we sit down next to a crowd of fans and start getting the beers in. As the afternoon progresses we realise just how widespread the support is. Table next to us has lads who have travelled from Kuwait, Hong Kong, Australia, US, and Brazil. There's even a set of proclaimer lookalike twins who every so often get a chorus of dah dah da da (well, I would walk 500 miles...). Anyway, the afternoon slowly slides into a mildly drunken stupor, with hubbly bubbly pipe called for which only seems to make matters worse.  But they can't be that bad, as the bar owner points out a Turkish man who's just arrived and sat at a nearby table as the chief of police for the stadium. Looking back we really should have asked him a few questions rather than just saying hello. Anyway, he's onto the nargile pipe as well. Sanj's two month break from smoking goes out the window and the apple tobacco and nicotine gives him enough of a buzz to make him look like he needs a kip! But there's no time for kipping! It's back to the hotels before a quick scoot round to the backpackers.

There's a real party atmosphere around here with lots of reds staying in the various hotels on the street. East of Anfield banners are draped out of the higher floors along with other flags and a This is Anfield flag above the door of one of the pubs. Stay there for a few drinks but they're a bit pricey compared to some of the other bars. And we want to head up to Taskim Square to see what's going on up there.

A quick taxi ride gets us up there, but the taxi drivers really are having a laugh around here. Can't be arsed arguing but he doesn't put the meter on and just picks a figure for us to pay, which I think was around 15million. Bail out of the cab and almost immediately are surprised by the noise and number of fans who are already in place singing their hearts out. It looks good, and the irregulars have their big banner up, with lots of others hanging off that funny raised bit above the shops.

Donald bumps into some of his old mates so we leave him to go off and catch up with them, and head over to let Sanj get his banner up above McNasty's. While he's doing that notice some bloke who looks like he took a bit of a tumble off the roof of the shops. Thankfully he seems ok, as it looks like he's sitting up talking, but an ambulance comes and I think he's taken off in that. Hopefully he was ok and wasn't badly hurt, and managed to get to the match.

After that we mill around for a bit, sing a few songs, have a few beers and then head off to hit some of the bars. We end up in the covered arcade halfway along the street that runs past the Galatasaray Lycee. End up at a bar called Lambos where there's a good old sing song going. The bar manager hangs the banner above the bar from a balcony and a crowd of Norwegians end up next to us. They've got a lovely Turkish girl with them who's working for Uefa, and is scheduled to go meet and greet incoming Milan fans in the morning, take them on a bit of a tour and then deliver them to the match. End up chatting to her and she points us in the direction of another bar where her friends work, so we head down there to continue the party. It has to be said it is getting a bit messy at this point. Sanj has his shirt on back to front, Dee's trying it on with the lovely Turkish lady and a crowd of fans next to us have just swopped shirts with some Beşiktaş fans. But it's still a cracking night.

End up in the other bar suggested by Turkish lady which has a bit of rock music playing and are eventually joined by the Norwegians. One of them is called Life. I think it's one of his mates who asks if we know a song called Live is life or something similar. If you know it, you know the one I'm talking about, and everyone is singing it within seconds as it's quite a singalong sort of song with lots of na na na na nas. You can tell he's loving it, and doesn't get this everywhere he goes. Much. The night eventually degenerates into beers coming in ever increasing sizes, lots of arm wrestling (I don't know why either) and eventually dancing on tables. You really can't beat a bit of Istanbully as another banner said. Several mini kebabs later, Sanj is sleeping under his banner outside the Gala Lycee while I'm trying to explain to the taxi driver I know how much it costs to get back to Sultanahmet, and he can take the 10YTL or put the meter on, his choice...and at 5.30am he may as well take whatever business he can get.

You've only won if the loser agrees

Match day. After last night it's not quite as early a start as we were planning but there's not really any big rush. Plans to go to Taksim get ditched after bloke in the hotel says the roads are getting blocked, and we're probably best to go straight to the stadium. Lots of Milan fans were milling around Sultanahmet early in the day, but after we grab something to eat, realise they've all gone on buses already. Try to see if any buses from there will be going to our end but it doesn't seem like it, so we grab a cab and head for the stadium.

The taxi driver does his best to talk to us in English and it's better than our Turkish, but he's up for the craic and is beeping every other Liverpool fan we pass and any taxi we pass or that passes us is greeted with a ring of fire chorus while he joins in on the horn. The drivers are something else over here. The speed limit seems to be just that. The limit at which you shouldn't go any slower, so as soon as he gets a chance the driver is flooring it and weaving between buses, cars and traffic police who seem to be trying to stop some taxis and check tickets. There's a winding, alpine style road that dips and weaves then climbs to the stadium and we get pretty close before the driver is told by police he can't go any further. Get out and start heading to the stadium, taking a few pics with the banner and some other fans on their way to the "festival". Atmosphere is good, although a few people are looking a bit worse for wear at this stage. Still, plenty of time before kick off as it's only around 3.30ish or thereabouts.

Go down to the stage so Sanj and Dee can put the banner up with the rest of them and then mill about with the rest of the reds who have arrived. Have a look at the queues for a programme but give up after it looks like it's going to take forever to get one. Instead we decide to take a walk around to the Milan side to see what's going on around there and have a chat with some of the Italians. They're all telling us they're going to win and by how many, but the banter is good natured and we all have a laugh and pose for a few pictures. Then it's back round to our side and time for a few more beers.

As we walked back I remember looking back up the hill to see the river of red running down towards the stadium. That sight takes your breath away, when you realise just how many people were here and making their way down to the stadium. Back round to the stage and everyone's getting in the party spirit. More and more people are getting up on the stage where bands have been performing and it's starting to get a bit crowded. Then there's a classic moment when the Greek official starts trying to get everyone off the stage which is literally bouncing with the number of people. His panic escalates until he's screaming for people to get off the stage. Apparently it was seriously dangerous.

Join the queues to get into the stadium and make our way to our seats. Sanj is in the Liverpool end, Dee and I are in one of the main stands. Trek up those huge cement staircases and make our way to our seats. From this point on there's not much to say, so will keep it brief. Everyone knows what happened next. We were devastated by half time. I got a load of texts all at once from a Manc supporting mate. There was about four. Mostly each one looked like it had been sent after each goal and was gloating at our apparent imminent loss. I remember dejectedly, but proudly, sending one back saying it's never over until the final whistle, at least we are here, and that no other club had the kind of history we do. 'Remember, we are Liverpool' was the last line. Was more about trying to salvage some pride than anything else, but looking back on it, it's just another one of those moments that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Turned to Dee and ask him why his lucky red trainers have been so shit. Get him to click his heels together three times like in the Wizard of Oz. He humours me. Thank fuck for lucky trainers. Then the singing starts. Everyone who was there knows how moving that was, and what it felt like at that point in time. Really was something special. After that, well, it's all a bit of a blur. I remember Riise coming out and trying to get the crowd to crank it up even more on our side. Then the goals come.

When the first one went in I was just happy we had something to celebrate, but there was a buzz that came with it. The team were looking more like they were up for it. When the second goal came so quickly after the first, I was stunned. Remember being shocked, and thinking 'did we really just do that?' Couldn't quite believe it, but the adrenalin was going now and Dee and I were jumping around, hugging each other, screaming, cheering. When Gerrard got through and we got the penalty it was incredible. Remember as it went in I couldn't cheer. I was really gobsmacked at that moment. Didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and probably did both. I felt like that bloke on the DVD of the match looks after the second goes in, hand to head looking baffled. Extra-time. That save. Penalties. What a game. What a result. Can't believe what we've just seen. Football. Bloody hell.

The strange part was the next couple of hours. While elated, we were all completely exhausted, and drained from the match. The bus on the way back to Taskim Square was really quiet. A combination of relief, elation, exhaustion. There was the odd song, but for the most part people just looked at each other and grinned. Back in the square we found a bar and sat down for a few drinks. Again singing would break out sporadically but seemed that everyone was shattered. The rest of the night is a bit hazy, but I do remember it slowly dissolved into the next day and memories that will last a lifetime.

[Terry de Niro]

Bump ^^^