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.
Dean and Jay outside the Konak Hotel
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 McDonalds, 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 McDonalds. 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…
Anyone translate the signs ?
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!
Some pictures from the Taksim gathering
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……
More random pictures of the trip
