In the summer of 2006, I tied the knot with the love of my life on a fantastic warm and sunny day. As my new father-in-law finished his speech to a great round of applause, I rose nervously, but thankfully relatively soberly, from my seat, cleared my throat and told the following ‘joke’:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I was just sitting here gazing at my new, beautiful wife [loud cheers] and looking around the room and seeing my closest friends and family, and I thought to myself, ‘Phil old son, this must be the happiest day of your entire bloody life’” [more cheers].....[dramatic pause]....”then I remembered that 12 months ago I went to Istanbul”....boom boom.
Luckily, the missus took it in good heart and was still speaking to me afterwards. Luckier still, her family (all Man United fans unfortunately) and most of the other guests thought I was joking and gave me the sort of sympathetic laugh designed to give nervous grooms and best men the early boost they need. But looking round the room, I could tell by the smiles on the faces of some of the Liverpool lads that at least a few of the guests knew 100%, without ANY shadow of ANY doubt, that this (as Rafa might say) had simply been a statement of fact.
Of course, I could have added that I was also thinking of the day in Cardiff when Michael Owen bagged a couple of late goals to condemn us all to those bruises on the calves and shins that only appear after moments like that...but I didn’t want to push my luck, so kept that one to myself.
So, Istanbul. Did it really happen? The memories are strong and yet already fading with time. As much as the final itself, it was the run of games leading up to the final that made it so incredible. The 3-3 was unbelievable, the highest form of footballing drama, but it was the nature of the campaign as a whole that makes it all seem like a dream; the best dream you could ever imagine.
My journey to Istanbul started at 5am on a chilly morning outside Anfield. As I joined the queue of hopefuls, I was praying there were no more than 1,000 people in the queue in front of me. My four mates who I’d be travelling to Turkey with were presumably all still tucked up in bed, dreaming peacefully of a large silver pot with great big ears, tickets already secured due to having more credits than me. This was the last chance saloon; less than 2,000 left according to the Echo, and the number of credits needed reduced by 1 for as long as supplies last (which we all knew would be about five seconds).
There was plenty of time, four hours at least, till the ticket office opened to serve the lucky few. Plenty of time to try to count for the fifteenth time the number of heads between Shanks’s statue and the corner Kop entrance where I’d joined the back of the wide snake of Reds; a fat anaconda that was rapidly uncoiling down towards the Centenary stand. “I’ve got no chance”, I thought. “Why didn’t you get here at 4am as planned, you idiot”, I silently berated myself. “And why didn’t you buy a bloody paper to read?!”
In the end, time passed quickly. Strangers became accomplices and stories were shared to ramp up the excitement levels. One lad had been in the bar in Leverkusen when Rafa had popped in for a pint. We’d been in Germany too, but in the wrong bar, damn! But we’d still been ecstatically ‘Rockin’ All Over The World’ by the end of the match.
I shared our stories of Olympiacos away, where the warmth of the Gate 7 fan club had overwhelmed us after we’d paid our respects at the memorial; where we’d blagged our way into the stadium bar the night before the game to watch Liverpool train and been given free beers for our trouble; and where it nearly all ended in disappointment on the night of the match when the half bottle of ouzo hidden in my shorts had fallen out and smashed on the floor right in front of the coppers at the entrance gate. “Oops, sorry lads, don’t know where that came from”.
...And suddenly the queue lurched forward. This was it. No more stories, just anxious faces turned towards the ticket office windows and a thousand minds silently urging, “Keep serving, just keep bloody serving...that’s it, and another one, keep it up, nearly there...YEEESSSSS, GET IN!!! Look at that! WE’RE ON THE MARCH WITH RAFA’S AR-MY...!!! COME ON!!!!”
The journey to Istanbul was via Berlin; fairly straight-forward compared to some. We left first thing in the morning the day before the game and by early afternoon were walking through the terminal of Ataturk International, getting a nice souvenir stamp in the passport, nerves and adrenaline bubbling nicely just under the surface.
Before carrying on, I need to point something out here. This trip wasn’t going to be your normal Euro away trip, i.e. bag the cheapest flights, then worry about a bed later or just kip on someone’s floor/on a window sill/in a bathroom/or forget sleep altogether but make sure you blag the ‘free’ breakfast the next morning. (This last comment is in honour of the Cologne hostal owner the morning after the Leverkusen game looking all confused, scratching his head and saying to his missus, “Zer must be 60 people in zee restaurant Helga...und vee only have 7 rooms!”, as another fella shouted, “Two more teas and some toast over ‘ere please love”.)
Anyway, as I was saying, this one was going to be different. The ‘tour leader’ was Andy or ‘Wack’ as he’s better known, an incredibly loyal home and away Red since the early 80’s, euro away veteran, and most important of all, a good mate. He’d organised everything and to be honest it was all a bit mysterious...in a good way. Nobody really bothered questioning him about details, we just knew that the word ‘boat’ had been mentioned somewhere along the way.
As the boss of a steel company, one of his biggest suppliers is based in Istanbul. So when we got to the final, phone calls were made and favours called in and that was that. Suddenly we were on a corporate jolly, something that was completely new to me, Jason, Dave and Rob, but that Wack seemed to think was fairly normal and just repeated, “Trust me” to the occasional request for more details. From some of our mates those words would have instilled scepticism or downright fear, but coming from him we were all reassured.
So that’s how we came to be met at the airport by someone holding one of those signs (always wanted that to happen!) and led by our driver to the type of van the A-Team would use if it were remade for today, complete with blacked out windows, leather seats and a fridge stuffed with cold cans of Efes. For some this might be no big deal, but for us it was all too much and kick-started the party that was to last for the next 48 hours or so. De de de de de der der der! Wack just sat there looking pleased with himself.
About an hour later, we arrived at a small harbour area down by the river. Out the van, “Thanks mate, nice one”, and there’s Wack’s supplier, all smiles, arms wide open, “Welcome to Istanbul”. Top fella, instantly likeable and who cares if he’s just doing all this to get some more business! Introductions over, he lead us over to our digs for the next two days...and a nice looking vessel she is too. About 70 foot long, dark green hull, wooden deck and ‘bridge’ and with two tall sail-less masts. The excitement levels went up another notch...this was getting so good it was becoming surreal. It was the first time in my life I’ve thought, “I’m going to wake up soon” and actually believed it.
The Sloop John B
We piled onboard and discovered there was a crew of three. Just as well really as none of us had ever ‘driven’ a boat. There was the cook (a bloody cook!), the cook’s wife, a thief and the wife’s lover. Sorry, couldn’t resist. There was the cook and his missus, whose main jobs seemed to be keeping our glasses full of Efes at all times; and also the Captain, a weathered looking fella with a pony tail and a constant grin.
For the rest of the day, we cruised up and down the Bosphorus, taking pictures of the various sites along the way and getting steadily more unsteady on our feet as the Efes kept flowing. At one point, Wack asked the captain if we could hoist the new flag he’d made for the final and five minutes later there’s a great big ten foot wide red banner flying from the top of the mast – LIVERPOOL FC, THE LEGEND RETURNS – complete with two Liverbirds, a European Cup and four stars. Nice work Wack. This was the life. If you could bottle one moment and get it out to relive over and over again, this would probably be mine. Yes, the match was incredible, but my heart couldn’t take it again. No, this was the moment. We were absolutely buzzin!
We passed under the massive bridges linking Europe and Asia, saw Beşiktaş’s ground nestled into a valley by the river and passed close by a massive building where there seemed to be some sort of cup final-related press thing going on with possibly the two teams in attendance and loads of cameras and lights. (There was a great moment when we got back home and watched the match build up that somebody had recorded for us, and there’s this bit where they’re filming an interview with someone at an event down by the river the day before the match, and this big green boat goes past in the background with a huge red Liverpool flag flying from the top of the mast!)
Cap'n Pugwash and his crew
In the evening we pulled into a harbour in the southern part of the city and went ashore for something to eat. The restaurant owner and waiters were great and let us hang flags up and didn’t seem to mind that we were stumbling a bit as a result of the free-flowing Efes. The way we were having trouble with our land legs you’d think we’d been at sea for months. As we did our best to show them gratitude and friendship, so it came back to us ten-fold. We felt proud to be fans of Liverpool Football Club, European Cup finalists, and they seemed genuinely pleased to be our hosts. This seemed to be most people’s experience of Istanbul and made the trip all the more special for everyone. Thankfully, none of the scare stories beforehand were found to be true.
There wasn’t much nightlife around the harbour area, so after a couple of bars we got back on the boat and ended up drinking way too much Raki and singing Liverpool songs until the not so wee small hours of the morning.
And so 25th May 2005 dawned bright and sunny (too bright and sunny if truth be told). Staggering out of our beds and up onto deck, we were greeted by the ever-smiling captain and the ‘crew’ who had kindly laid on a huge breakfast for us. The problem was, like all Englishmen, our stomachs had been trained over a period of several decades to expect, post-session, the healing properties of a couple of fried eggs, a sausage or two and some rashers of bacon; plus any combination (or preferably all) of the following: mushrooms, fried bread, half a grilled tomato, baked beans and black pudding (plus the all important mug of tea to wash it all down and big pile of toast to put an airtight lid on the whole shebang).
Sadly, the plates of olives, stuffed vine leaves, hummous and cold meatballs (plus a large bowl of unidentifiable brown sludge) that was now in front of us, delicious as it might well have been under different circumstances, presented us with a serious challenge. Namely, how to a) satisfy the hunger of our howling, acidic bellies, whilst b) showing our gratitude to our hosts for their generosity, without c) chundering spectacularly over the side of the boat.
In the end, some delicious round frisbies of unlevened Turkish bread came to the rescue, as did a rallying call from the tour leader, Wack, that went something like, “Come on boys, this is it, the moment we’ve been waiting for, the day the legend of Liverpool FC returns!” (I think he was just trying to justify his slightly cryptic choice of words on the new flag there! but anyway...) And with that, a tray of ice cold Efes appeared and we were off and running.
Before we set sail (or at least started the engines), we were joined by Wack’s supplier and his mate, both keen to join in the day’s festivities with us. We were told the rough plan was to sail north up the Bosphorus, back the way we had come the previous day, then get something to eat at this restaurant they knew right on the river. “Okay, sound” was the general response, although we put in a request for an afternoon visit to Taksim Square where various text messages were telling us ‘the mother of all parties’ was taking place. Other text messages politely inquired as to why we were still ‘dicking around on the river’ with several variations on the theme of ‘come on captain pugwash/birdseye/ahab, get your arse down taksim pronto’.
To be honest, the call of Taksim Square was strong...but not strong enough. Here we were sailing up the Bosphorus, enjoying seeing the huge mosques and minarets and general Turkishness of the city skyline, admiring the gigantic Fenerbahce flags hanging from balconies and waving and singing at the other boats, some with huge footballs balanced on top of them as a reminder of what lay ahead and most of them absolutely packed with Reds enjoying the sunshine and the cooling breeze. This wasn’t something that happened every day, so we kicked off our shoes, lay back on deck and set about trying to demolish the never-ending supply of cold Efes.
By the time we reached the restaurant, we were in full swing. The word ‘hangover’ had been deleted from the dictionary, a process that had been fast-tracked along by the sudden appearance out of the magic Efes fridge of some nice bottles of vino collapso. It was definitely time for some food, but first we had to get ashore, no mean logistical feat when you added a fast-flowing Bosphorus to a lack of any sort of dock or harbour, divided this by the square root of no ladders up the river wall and multiplied the whole lot by seven pissed idiots.
Disaster waiting to happen
This complicated equation was solved by anchoring the boat 50 feet off shore and using a rubber dinghy with a powerful outboard motor to ferry us across to the...er...ladderless sheer concrete river wall. The scene that followed was pure slapstick and was witnessed by the entire restaurant who looked on disapprovingly from the terrace above us as we were dragged up the wall. Once inside we were shown to a table on the terrace overlooking our boat, flag flying proudly in the breeze. “Can you believe that’s our boat?” I asked nobody in particular. “It’s not really our boat is it softlad” Dave corrected me, then added, “Can you believe that’s tonight’s ref sat on the table next to us?” I couldn’t, but it was, maybe. Only one way to find out.
Minutes later the match referee, Manuel, and one of his linesmen had been dragged over to our table for photos, predictions of the match result and enquiries as to how much it would take to throw the game in Liverpool’s favour. (Quick caveat on the remote chance that a UEFA official is reading this – the questions to the ref regarding the throwing of the game were obviously asked in jest...and anyway, we were told that the Ł3.57 on offer was not even enough for an indirect free kick).
UEFA Corruption Scandal - Exclusive Pics
We finally let him get on with the more important business of enjoying his pre-match meal and did likewise ourselves. The excitement levels were spiking at this point. The booze, and just being there in Istanbul, with your mates, and the boat, and the ref, but above all else, the knowledge that we were very soon going to be on our way to a European Cup Final made for a fairly raucous table. I was feeling almost dizzy with excitement, anticipation and pre-match nerves and had to take a few moments out every few minutes to calm myself down. I wanted to take the whole thing in and for it to last forever.
During the meal, Wack received a text from one of the lads in Taksim Square asking if anyone needed a spare. Retreating to a quieter corner of the restaurant, he phoned the lad to find out what the deal was. Apparently they’d met this Turkish fella with two tickets; seemed genuine enough and the tickets looked spot on. He wanted 200 euros each for them, a bit steep but you couldn’t blame the man really. A quick chat with us using hand gestures to get our agreement on his cunning plan, and the deal was done. Some hard bargaining had got the pair for 300 euros (an image of the lads offering the full 400 and the fella going, “Aren’t you gonna haggle?” jumped into my mind) and 300 seemed a very small price to pay between the five of us to give the two Turkish lads a nice surprise and to say thanks for organising such a brilliant trip.
They took the news in typically restrained Turkish fashion, leaping up and down and punching the air and immediately got the driver of the A-team van to come and pick us up and take us straight to Taksim Square. By the time we got there, it must’ve been about 4pm and was still packed out with Reds. The atmosphere was one of excitement and fun, songs and laughter everywhere. Seeing many of the familiar banners from previous trips seemed to have a calming effect on us and we wandered around soaking it all up, supping some more Efes and joining in singing the back catalogue of scouse hymns, anthems and tributes to players past and present.
Happy happy happy happy Turks
At some point we secured the two tickets but the lads we got them off didn’t hang around as they wanted to get up to the ground nice and early. After a while we crossed the road and went into a big hotel with a bar overlooking the square. We settled into some comfy seats, ordered more beers from the waiter and started the pre-match discussions in earnest.
At around 6pm I got the first of a series of worrying text messages along the lines of, “Sky are sayin it’s takin 3-4 hours to get from the city centre to the ground...hope you’re on your way lads”. I showed the text to the others but the general response was, “Relax, we’ve got the A-team van, he knows a back route apparently, seven more large beers please garcon”. But a seed of doubt had been sowed in my mind and I wandered over to the window to view the scene in the square. The crowds were definitely a lot thinner than two hours earlier and I noticed some mad scrambles to get on buses or into taxis. The scene was generally still calm, plenty still enjoying the build up in the bar, but as the minutes went by I kept returning to the window to check the square and noticing fewer and fewer fans and a definite quickening of the step of those still leaving the square.
At 6.45 we still had three hours before kick off; loads of time under normal circumstances. But I repeated that I thought we should get going. A similar response as before from the lads made me feel like I should just relax, but I couldn’t help it. I knew from past experience how many games we’d missed the start of by having that extra beer (or four) too many in the bar, including the last European final in Dortmund. Previously it had always been just a laugh, part of the day and par for the course. But this was the ‘big one’ and the thought of missing a single second of it was in danger of putting me in full on panic mode.
Finally we were ready to go and thankfully my worries drained away as quickly as the first can of Efes drained down my throat in the back of the van. We were flying along the motorway on our way to see Liverpool play AC Milan for the biggest prize in the game. Life didn’t get much better than this. What the hell had I been worried about.
Thirty minutes later we were in the maddest, funniest traffic jam we’d ever had the pleasure to be stuck in. Nobody cared, not even me. The sliding side door of the van was flung open and we joined in the party that was going on in the buses and the taxis and on the tarmac itself as we all crawled slowly along, singing our hearts out. We didn’t have our usual Euro away regular Mark with us to start up the songs from the past. He’s forever “walking down Lime Street swinging his chain” and “doing the Liverpool boot walk” the aul get. So having exhausted every Liverpool song we knew several times over, we resorted to new songs, made up songs...ok, utterly shite songs if we’re being completely truthful about this!
There’s was one about Galatasaray, to the tune of “where’s your mama gone” in honour of a car load of Gala fans next to us. Another one started in Sami Hyppia’s honour, “Big Sami’s got his boots on, hyp, hyp, hyp-pi-ay, big Sami’s got his boots on and he’s comin out to play”. Terrible, but we didn’t care. Then came perhaps the worst, but one we sang for the rest of the journey, “Win the European cup for me, we’ve come all the way to Turkey, win the cup by beating AC, it’s the cup that drives us crazy, win the European cup for me, NAA, NAA, NA...repeat ad infinitum.”
An hour later, most people seemed to be giving up on their vehicles and marching off across the wasteland towards the stadium that was looming in the distance. But our driver had different ideas. Off a sliproad he went, then down a bumpy single track road, then down another and before we knew it we were in some sort of shanty town with kids legging alongside the van shouting at us. This was mad and funny and humbling all at the same time. Then we were in the middle of nowhere again and all out the van for a piss wondering where the hell the stadium had gone. Then finally, back in the van, round a corner and back onto tarmac...and there it was!
Incredibly the driver had found his way to the stadium car park...and with a full hour to spare before kick off. We piled out, heaping praise on our hero of the hour and marched off into the huge sea of redmen that had gathered at the Liverpool end of the stadium.
The hour before kick off is fairly hazy in the memory now. What I do know is that we all had tickets in different parts of the ground and probably because of this we ended up getting separated at the entrance gates. I’ll always regret that we didn’t realise that once inside, we could have all just walked round the concourse and met up with each other. It’s common knowledge, you never bother with your allocated seat on European aways. We’d been to enough of them to know this. So why did we suddenly feel the need to find our correct seats in Istanbul?
Whatever the reason, it very quickly became a minor detail that didn’t matter in the slightest. In fact, for Liverpool fans everywhere, events on the pitch rapidly made everything else that had previously existed in the entire world shrink to virtually nothing in comparison.
I remember it in snippets of time. The goals, the saves, the songs. I remember the fella next to me haemorrhaging blood from his nose after we went 3-0 down. I remember hugging the girl behind me so tightly when Vladi got the second I thought we must’ve known each other for a 1,000 years. And I remember the tears of pure joy, an emotional release like I’d never experienced before streaming down my face and thinking “get a fuckin grip”, then seeing that everyone else around me was in the same state and we no longer cared. I remember opening my mouth to sing but no sound coming out, just a strangled croak and I remember jumping up and down and swirling my scarf round and round and round above my head, laughing and crying as the cup was lifted up.......and I’ll remember all of this until the day I die.
[you can see the rest of Red_Mist's pics here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/46948998@N08/sets/72157623992736765/]