Here's what I wrote:
Out of intuition, I guess, I awoke on the morning of the 9th January 1985. It was around 5am and the house wasn't usually buzzing frantically with bodies and panicked conversations dealt with in hushed tones. Not at 5am.
Strangest of all, however, my auntie Janet was there. I walked into my folk's bedroom, like any ten year old would in such sleepy confusion, seeking the comfort of my mum and dad, and there, stripped, the matress was resting against the wall. Mum, having only known that she was pregnant for two months of the seven, and at 42 years old, had been rushed to hospital. She was haemorraging. Auntie Jan grabbed me and brother, Tony, from what we shouldn't have seen.
"Your mum is in hospital. She should be ok but, i'm sorry, she might lose the baby".
The potential brother or sister we'd known about for just two months was about as real as this.
Nan, who'd lived with us since Grandad died, spent the morning tying up the loose ends of the chaos by distracting us with games, and in between closed doors and secretive phone calls, kept our minds on less important matters. Her Dad was a local club entertainer that went by the name of Rob Roy and now it was time for her performance.
This life or death rope-a-dope went on all day. Then, at 8.10 that night came the final phone call.
"It's a boy."
Me and Tony danced and screamed, 3 lads to 1 girl in the sibling stakes. Gerrinthere!
We were exhuberant and auntie Janet rollocking us was a bitter cap on our joy. We didn't know that there would be tougher fights ahead.
For three months, our new bro, Steve, as our dad had let us name him, lived and breathed in a glass box, fighting off every infection that got him, defying every odd. Ignorant to this I kept looking at Katie Draycott's message - she was the girl i liked at school - on the get well card from our class and enjoyed the slight recognition. I got used to being babysat as mum and dad spent most of their time with their newborn. All of this became a normality until one day the headmaster called me into his office.
I couldn't be in trouble could I? I was a swot for God's sake.
Steve was coming home!
My feet didn't touch the floor and I flew the 20 minute distance from home within a good 5 minutes or so. And there he was.
A couple of weeks or so later we got the all clear and mum and dad could finally go on that well deserved caravan holiday to Barmouth that they'd planned months back.
For once, cos the kid meant the folks were tied down somewhat, we were allowed out of their sight to play in the dunes under tutelage of my 13 year old cousin. Days were lost fighting imaginary wars and the like. One day we spent searching for a one eared rabbit that we'd seen - it had been attacked, injured. He was our Fiver, the fated hero of Watership down. We had to save him. We didn't, couldn't find him and we never knew if old Fiver died that day. Ole bright eyes dried up in a dune. We prayed not.
At the camp, Dad even allowed us to undertake the adult responsibilites of caravanning such as getting the water or emptying the elson portaloo. How we revelled in such manly activities!
On the Wednesday, the 29th, the caravan became a zone that was stictly for men as we settled to watch Liverpool play in the European cup final, the women exiled to auntie Jan's frame tent to coo over the kid. Only the game that us men had spent the day living out in kick-abouts, with wicket goalposts, never happened. When the fighting started and news started to drip in of lives being lost we kids were remobbed to the dunes again to fight another war and dream up new enemies as we had done throughout the rest of the holiday.
I remember us losing. Being called in when it was 'alright' and catching the end of game highlights. Nothing more really. The next day we went to a market and dad treated me and Tony to a UEFA sticker album with hundreds of stickers in a big plastic bag for us to glue into the book. We competed to find the funniest looking picture and the like with my cousin. The Czechs and the Polish were the best! Greasy basin cuts, wonky eyes, and broken Thommo noses to the extreme. Then, after winning £1.80 and putting back £1.60 on one of those 10p drop gamblers we were back home.
Just over twenty years later I got a text from Steve.
"Been queuing in the fecking freezing cold for 3 hours"
You get the tickets? I replied. No time for sympathy.
"Yes"
Kop?
Yes.
Gettthehellinthere. May the 3rd be with us.
After the draw in the stadio del alpi, I was immediately on the phone to my mate Rob to reorganise our flight out to Spain, where we were due to go to Barcelona and then San Sebastian. Of course, we were due to fly out on the 3rd. The man came through and i kept my promise to pay the difference in flight costs for the both of us.
We all know, of course, what happened in the match that night. Anfield roared and whilst no heart is a big as liverpool, the pure passion and effort of the crowd and the team that night made me think that inside Anfield maybe there was a heart at least big as the city, or even that's where the veins, of the mersey, Queens drive, the m57 and the m62 led to. Anyway, it was certainly a heart bigger than the blue bits of the City, and never had I seen it throb, miss beats, and pump so furiously before.
The European cup final!
I'd already made tentative plans for my mate at work and my bro to sort the tickets etc out whilst I was away. Gave them my credit card details etc in case they needed funds. Now it was gonna fecking happen. But first, the Oakie.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
F**k off mourihno
Aaaagggggghhhhhhhh!
Then whenever our lads came on, silence, every word absorbed by every ear and brain, dripping down onto nerves already numbed in disbelief and then 'We're in the bloody final!' and cheers, slaps and beers to try and knock some sort of realisation into us.
We finally got a cab on the A59 (ooter alert!) and off to town we go! O'Neill's was packed and were charging to get in. Someone got a text from Molby so it was Pan American on the docks instead. Red Paul lent me his jacket to cover up my colours. Molby met us at the door and ushered us in.
Rafa is here!
And Xabi
And Nunez
And Paco
Sod off! I thought the unprintable, at this, the impossible. Could it be? How much had I really had to drink?
Having just witnessed our team's passage through to the grounds of immortality I was surprised my portly frame didn't just give up and join Shanks and Sir Bob there and then.
My round. Robbie and Macca were behind me at the bar. Sod off indeedy!
Stevieboy conned a pen and went over. On his way back he netted Xabi. His one goal taking precedent over courtesy to the two gorgeous women Xabi was with Ste bawled in with bravado.
Then it got simply surreal. We grabbed Paco and had our picture taken then minutes, hey it could have been an hour later, Snorky appeared from behind a curtain.
Amidst songs of 'Paco Ayesteran' to the tune of the 'Jose Mourinho' chant (or should that now be who's he Mourinho now we were in the final?
)..
"Hey lads, Rafa's in here". We rushed in and I thought glancingly of the LFC history video I got for Christmas in '86 and crazy horse talking about the liverudlian locusts on the buffet, of Thommo taking the trophy to the Falcon. Legendary stuff for those that were there. Here was my bit, my one chance at memories immortal.
It was only a minute or two, maybe less but enough to form a memory that will live with me until I die. Thank Bob Paisley there was a camera there or I wouldn't believe it. Rafa was all smiles, and we all just got more drunk on our dreams.
Out! One quick scarper later and we were surrounding Luis Garcia like Japanese hornets. The poor fella, a giant in our eyes, was dwarfed by us 'larger' fellas. Luis did one and off we went in search of something less mystical - a curry. None to be found though. Settling for a kebab Stevie and I went back to catch whatever sleep we could get.
Ste patted himself down. No keycard. Calls to flatmates but no go - they were all getting laid or summat up on Smithdown. We kipped in the hall. A crappy student hallway. The booze, thankfully, blocking any thoughts of what substances this rough carpet had soaked up in years past I drifted off.
I woke up to see Steve curled up and cradling his kebab, not knowing whether my aches and sore throat were from 3 hours of singing and complete emotional / physical exhaustion the night prior or from the cold, abrasive flooring.
At 8.30 we got in, thanks to 20 notes and plea bargaining with a 'butleresque' security guard. Had a kip and after a shower then I was off to meet my mate outside Lime St, then to LJL for my flight to Barcelona. Not before checking with Steve all of my credit card details and making sure that he had everything he needed to sort out Istanbul.
One problem though according to easyjet I flew out on the 3rd.
NOOOOOOOOO!
£104 later I was booked in. God bless the blonde named Leanne at the Easyjet helpdesk! I asked for her full name and office address so I could write a thank you letter. Boy, I owed her one. From high to low to high again thanks to you girl.
On board the plane I planned the letter and looked at who i'd send it to and where.
Handwritten on the paper she gave me: Sam Servisair, with a head office address in Switzerland. Do they have to put up with that much crap? This girl had just given me the best customer service, more help I'd ever had before, or even wished to and yet I couldn't thank her for it. Effin' tourists. Effin' English.
In Barcelona and San Sebastian arrangements were made, cancelled, rearranged, and alternatives sought. Beers. Text. Beers. Text. Beers. Text. Beers.Text.Beers. Hangover. Voicemail. Bad news. I only had 5 fan card credits.
My ticket for Graz was on my brother's fan card.
The twenty year improbable was now virtually impossible. My mate, who was organising it with the bro began making his own plans. Fine by me, although should I still pay for my brother to go? How couldn't I? Yet the impossibility of me going would make him sort it out. Earn his ticket, aside, of course, from those cold hours queuing for Chelsea.
A nine day holiday away from England, and it's bleeding England where I really needed, wanted, to be. Those days prior to the holiday were spent going through the motions with the only thought of giving my all for the Chelsea game, now I was in reverse, fast and hopeless, and wishing I'd sorted things out earlier. Could only drink and enjoy what's left now.
Wednesday, a voicemail.
'I put you through on my mate's fancard. He can't make it. Getting married. Put your passport and address details in. Hope the con works'
Thursday I flew back for the waiting game.
It worked. Lonsdale had my name on the flight. Great! At least I'm out there. What about the match ticket though? We'd have to wait. Would I get sussed at the last essential minute?
At the Villa game we saw Slapnuts and his mate had kopped out from going to the final.
'Come with us fella'
Details emailed, calls made, and then wor lass was not going away this year. He was added to the party.
Then the news, I was in too. Defo. After all of the hassle that myself, my mate and the bro had gone through going to watch the mighty reds in the european cup final it all of a sudden became an anti-climax. My life had been consumed, my 'holiday' before that, with thoughts and dreams of Istanbul. It was an anti climax simply beacuse I never expected it to happen. I'd built myself up for watching it on tv, I never really considered actually being there. It was an anti climax of sorts because i never really planned on having to plan to get there. Just watching it at home, in town or in Liverpool were the logistics being formed in my head. Getting a flight, a hotel and a ticket as we now had was just too bloody easy! What did i have to worry about now? Nothing more than turning up with the right currency, at the right time, and with a photocopy of my passport. At least I wouldn't have to worry about getting a seat in a pub, organising somewhere to kip over in liverpool or wherever, arranging how i get there from work etc.
I just had to turn up.
Slapnuts turned up around 8pm on the Monday and off we went for some beers. After a few I even began to understand the geordie accent and this mental challenge helped offset the 4-2 defeat at pool into a moral victory. The kebab house! and a chicken kebab for tea. Despite our inquiries as to what there was to do in the city all the Turkish owners could say about Istanbul was 'Taksim! Taksim!'.
Home! for a penalty shoot-out in the 2ft wide by 1ft high footy set I'd bought for no reason the week before at a bargain £2.99. Lost 3-1. A new challenge! Hit the beer cans by the post for 1 point and knock the rag off the crossbar for three. 7-1 down I went to bed.
6am the alarm went. By twenty past I was showered, fresh and dressed in red, then Slapnuts went upstairs to call Huey on the intergalactic claybowl-phone. Huey obviously wasn't in so he tried to call Kirk for a while before trying Huey again and then finally both at the same time.
Picked up my cd of LFC songs I'd burned the night before, checked, and double checked the front door, then unlocking the door and checking the gas was off. One more lock up and check and we were off.
Ste was out the night before at his mate's 20th and I hoped the kid was awake and ready by 7 as promised. He was. It was a strangely sombre journey up to Warrington with all of us lost in our own separate minds yet all focusing on the 90 minutes, well over day away, that would unify them for the first time since Chelsea. That time when avoidance of digs at manc colleagues, swaggering 'yes, i'm going' answers, and all of our efforts and emotions spent planning the journey would be galvanised. Not to mention the ghosts of Olympiacos, Juve and Chelsea awakening to stride like giants across the continent.
YNWA, Heart as big, La bamba, Ring of fire, rockin all over the world drifted by. Tomorrow they'd have greater attention. Save our lungs, our energies, for when they were really needed.
I pulled up to the office car park, where I'd leave my car whilst in Istanbul, and where we'd have one final opportunity to photocopy the passports for any who'd neglected to. Only Steve hadn't. I went up to copy his details whilst Slapnuts, green and shaken from the journey, threw up once more. This time where, two hours later, a Director would be settling his expensive loafers into the flotsem of Pete's (Slapnuts') guts. Not content with this he went to the ground floor ladies to rattle his belly juice once more.
Outside, my colleague, friend, and master organiser of the trip, Steve H (not from YNWA) was with the taxi that was to ferry us to LJL. Despite the driver being a bluenose we got there swiftly and with the minimum of smalltalk.
LJL was strangely subdued and cameramen were looking for any old group of fans to get shots of. One was lurking by the merchandise stand. Pete went up to buy a t-shirt although he mustn't have looked too good in the rushes as he never made it onto the telly. Obviously the editor had a rating that went below 6/10.
Checked in, and avoiding being coralled into an interview, we went for a pick me up in the pub, with Steve H stopping to chat to an Echo photographer he knew. The pub was dry at that time so we settled for a brew and watched sky building up to the game. We slowly started to realise where we were and what the point was of where we'd be in five or so hours. Having spent the previous 10 months negating potential hurt with disbelief, it had settled into our very character and it took a lot to realise that it was all now coming true. This was something of a theme last season.
Into the departure lounge and a beer at last (well it had been a good 8 hours although this makes us out to be relatively placid drinkers in comparison to many from this site). Pete declined for some reason. Two or three pints later we went up to the gate for boarding. Hell, there were that many folk there I initially thought we were boarding for three planes. We squeezed in, often rubbing our pockets for reassurance that our boarding cards passport and all were in tact. We didn't even have our tickets neither!!Everything needed reassuring. Were we really going?
A seldmon few pricked the general hubub with songs but they didn't carry much except from under the baited breath of the more nervous, less drunk folk.
The gate opened and we crushed our way through, finally, on the tarmac, seeing the plane 'Ring of fire' broke out from a few of us and five fingered salutes to the ITV camera later we were on board.
Once more, everything became subdued and then the impossibilities of a few weeks back came true. That ticket that I could'nt get was passed over by the steward. I wondered if onanism on a plane was an arrestable offense. I was happy, no, high, and at 30 odd thousand feet I will never get much higher again.
Two whiskeys later I was buzzing and back in that state of numb disfbelief. The stewardess informed us that we needed to strap up again. Istanbul here we come la!
YNWA started softly from the front-middle and built up as mumbled accompianment aroused itself into song, confidence was growing, we were getting nearer, then just as we hit 'tossed and blown' the plane lurched downwards thus giving a fearful depth as 'blo-own' hit it's probable unintentional peak. Even nature was coercing us into it all now!
On the ground. A smooth check-in. On questioning each other some had their photocopies taken. Some didn't. I must look dodgy. Then again slapnuts went through with both passport and photocopy in tact. Must be a randomn thing - either that or there's a free trafficking policy on ladyboys or at least ladyboyalikes and Jonathon Kingalikes have something of a reputation over there.
The bus queue! Apart from it wasn't. There were more seats than folk and on some and it seemed more buses waiting than people in the queues. What happened to enough fans to fill three planes? I must have been having five-strong vision in the departure lounge that morning, and I'd now sobered up enough and my vision was restoring, whilst my five strong hope remained.
Whilst we waited to move off, on the opposite side of the road the Turkish police fingered their guns. No use for them today. Funny how toy-like they look in actuality. The goodwill, anitipation, and growing buzz amongst us, perhaps, had reduced them to such a state.
What a sight!
No longer were we strangers as we passed through the toll booth and the scraggy clad kids held up signs. Liverpool 5 Milan 0. On we went and it was always 5-0. Over the other side of the city, my cynical mind judged, they're doing the same with a Milan victory. Don't blame them either.
Istanbul here we are...
