LIVERPOOL FC: Five years, five times

FIVE years ago this week, we were celebrating winning our fifth European Cup after an amazing night at the Ataturk.

 IT STARTED with a miss...

When the ball dropped to Eidur Gudjohnsen at the far post it was like someone had pressed the mute button. It was the loudest night on the Kop in my lifetime (I swear the actual stand was moving) yet in that split second you could hear a pin drop (or perhaps a fart or two squeak out of the thousands of twitching Red arses...).

Breath was held, hands went to faces – with Jerzy Dudek flailing on the floor it looked a cert the net would ripple as the Chelsea striker took aim...but it didn't.

In that moment, I knew it – we were going to a European Cup final. We, Liverpool, a team featuring  Djimi Traore, Igor Biscan and Milan Baros. A team that had finished 37 points behind title-winning Chelsea, in fifth place, behind Everton, and on the same points as Bolton with 14 league defeats to our name. We were going to Istanbul with number five in our sights.

Talk of getting to Turkey began in town, when we eventually got there. That was after what seemed like hours of embracing people I'd never met, and barking 'Get in' at everyone who crossed my path wearing Red.

No-one wanted to leave the Kop that night. And no wonder. Our last European Cup final had come 20 years earlier. This was the taste of the big time another generation had been waiting for – me included. I was eight in May 1985 and can just about remember watching Liverpool and Juventus go through the motions after the horror of what had happened before - a black day which I barely understood at such a tender age.

I watched that final, like many a Reds game, in the back room of my ma's on a crap Pye black and white portable telly. This time though, I'd be there - in the same country, the same city, the same ground as the Reds. And this time I'd win it with them.

It was the usual score on getting abroad – fans were shafted left, right and centre by travel operators, hotel owners and the rest.

After being fortunate enough to qualify for a ticket – a miracle in itself – it was decided to swerve the fleapit hotels that were charging Hilton prices. As much as I wanted to fly over and get on the ale, money was talking. 

Without the time, or the inclination to be fair, of some other Reds who trekked all over Europe by road, sea and air to reach Istanbul, we opted for the flight there and back option. It was a bit of a bank-breaker (or should I say credit card), but so what? This was a once in a lifetime chance, the opportunity to be part of history – to experience a European Cup win first-hand and not just have to watch videos, read books and listen to old fellas grin their way through their tales of 77, 78, 81 and 84. Now I'd have my own story to tell.

John Lennon Airport was a buzz of anticipation, even the taxi driver had seemed bang up for it and he wasn't going. And Lennon himself (well the statue) was kitted out in a fez (right) for the occasion.

But from the moment we touched down in Turkey (after a delayed flight), things didn't go quite to plan. Omens looked bad. While the early embarkers were living it up in Taksim Square, we were told on arrival that our coach, under police advice, would be heading for the harbour. Sound.

And so we arrived. Deffo a harbour. We wandered aimlessly about for a bit before turning up a side street. There were a few Reds here and there but there were more AC Milan fans in this end of Istanbul.

The sun was shining, the ale was calling but this wasn't where the party was at. We had hours to kill before we had to return to the coach and this was about as exciting as Widnes on a wet Wednesday.

Meanwhile, the texts continued to drop into my phone's inbox. "It's boss here, you know. Loads of Reds. Get down here."

I could picture the songs, the banter, the laughs. And here I was stuck on a Saga holiday.

Time to go. So we did - how far could it be? A couple of other Reds had the same idea and a taxi was shared. But it seemed that in this part of the world driving schools are run by The Stig. Swerving in and out of traffic sporting a 'I don't give a f*** grin' isn't the best combination for a taxi driver. I could picture the compo claim already - if I lived to put on the neck brace.

While snarled up in traffic on route to Taksim, a couple of local kids shouted to us. "Liverpool," said one. "3-3" said the other, holding up the right amount of fingers (using two hands, obviously - it was Istanbul, not Wigan).

At the time, we thought nothing of it. Looking back, well it's a bit weird, isn't it?

After what seemed like a lifetime, we reached Taksim. After the ride we'd had, I didn't know whether to open the door or jump out of the window Dukes of Hazzard style.

Taksim Square (above) was just a sea of red. Banners, flags, Reds on a roof, Reds in a tree, Reds up a lampost, songs, ale, sunshine...now we're talking.

We met up with a couple of mates who'd blagged their way to Turkey on the pretence of working - one for the Daily Post, the other for the Echo (colour piece my arse).

After filling us in with tales from the night before, we headed for the bar and bumped into another couple of journalists, one who greeted me with the matter of fact: "Thought you'd be here." It was like I'd bumped into him in the Asda rather than in a foreign country thousands of miles from home.

Istanbul, what we saw of it in our short time there, was a cracking city and if I've got one regret from that trip it's that I didn't get to see more of it. The people, too, were spot on. They seemed genuinely amazed, or perhaps bemused, by just how many Reds had made the trip. Loads of locals turned up with cameras and video cameras to film the loony Englismen with faces as red as their shirts filling up on Efe.

Even the waiter at the restaurant didn't seem to mind too much at a poor attempt by Nick Peet to get a free scran. He was totally on to the attempt to clean the plate and pretend he hadn't helped himself buffet-style to a big plate of spag bol...

The fella on the market stall didn't bat an eyelid either, when the same Mr Peet ordered six cigars as we searched for a taxi: "It's for when we win, mate."

News had filtered through that the ground was in fact a good way out of the city - 20 minutes to half an hour was the grossly inaccurate estimate that was bandied about.

Straightforward enough then, or so you'd think. We split into two groups and jumped into a yellow cab each. But we were barely around the corner when our cab turned to reveal Tony Barrett's (above, right, with Jon Jones) cab parked up with a worrying plume of steam heading skywards from the bonnet. Another cab rolled over the cobbles....containing John Aldridge, who clearly found the sight hilarious.

Not sure Tony did though, and he was even more unhappy when the plan to decorate the cab in red backfired when a local kid whipped his scarf en route to the ground!

Back in our cab, things took a turn for the strange when the driver - on a motorway - began craning his neck out of the window to shout to some suited up Turks in a Mercedes.

A full-on conversation took place at about 80 miles an hour. Next thing, we're pulling over. "Eye, eye, mate, f*** these off, carry on, we've got to get to the ground here."

"They'll take you," said the cab driver. "They want to go near the ground - they need people with tickets with them to get past the police."

Now in any other circumstances alarm bells would be going off. They could have been anyone, it could have been a scam, we might have been getting kidknapped...

"Tell them we'll go if they pay for the cab," said Nick.

And they did. Next minute we're all getting into a Merc with a pair of complete strangers.

Despite the suggestions coming through on the text, their intentions were not sexual and we eventually arrived at the ground, a modern - if odd-looking - bowl-type stadium in the middle of nowhere. It looked like Mars. Mind you, there's probably more ale on Mars.

There wasn't a can to be had by the time we arrived, so we had to make do with the tail-end of a fans' festival which at this point consisted of Pete Wylie knocking out Liverpool songs on stage.

That stage was soon full of Reds and the Turks got jittery with one organiser hilariously trying to warn about health and safety as fans bounced around him singing 'You'll Never Walk Alone'.

One fan grabbed the mic and shouted: "Jose Mourinho, I hope you're enjoying Emmerdale Farm, lad!".

In the ground it struck home just how many Reds had made the pilgramage, a good three-quarters of the Ataturk was Liverpool - some feat considering the location.

Before the match got going there was an opening ceremony. Pretty pointless, but when you're there you watch it, don't you? So as everyone stood on seats to get a look, I followed suit, only to feel a prod in the back. "Get down will you, I can't see."

"Neither can I, that's why I've stood up here like everyone else has."

"Just get down."

"You get up - then you'll be able to see."

"Get down."

And so it went on with the Victor Meldrew of Liverpool fans until his mate joined in as well.

"Get down."

"Oh f**k off, will yer." And on that note, I turned back to the pomp of ceremony only to feel an attempted shove from behind.

There's only so much a man can take, and at that point I was going to swing for the pair of them. My mate Jon had clearly spotted the red mist and pointed out that a Turkish jug wasn't the best place to try and watch a European Cup final. So I left it... still got back up on my seat though.

Handbags out the way, it was on to the game itself. At 3-0 down, all of a sudden we seemed a long way from home. The bravado, the adrenaline that had been surging through thousands of Reds all day, had gone.

We were outclassed in that first half. As we trudged into the bowels of the stand, no-one said a word, there were just a few shakes of the head, puffs of the cheeks and wipes of the brow. We were f***ed.

"We've just got to keep a clean sheet second half," someone eventually piped up. "Otherwise, this could be about 7-0. We could be on the end of the worst result in a European Cup final ever."

As some lads left for the hills, unable to take anymore, I thought of the Bluenoses, the Mancs, Andy Gray, all those Soccer AM beauts. They'll all be loving it.

And my dad. "All that money to watch a bunch of fellas kicking a ball? You must be mad..."

Now you know why I was watching the '85 final on the portable...

Everyone talks about the rendition of You'll Never Walk Alone just before the second half but I barely remember it to be honest. I have vague recollections of singing it, but it was more out of duty than hope. I didn't for a minute think we'd get back into it.

The rest, as they say, is history, you all know what happened next...

When Andriy Shevchenko missed we just went nuts, absolutely nuts - I've got some phone footage somewhere of me letting out this primal scream (see videos below) I remember falling over seats, rolling on people, bear-hugging strangers. I even fell on my old mate Victor Meldrew from earlier - we held each other in a special moment and then just laughed, there's no time for fighting when you've just won the European Cup!

As I struggled to take it in, I remember Carragher diving into the crowd, Riise running around aimlessly (no change there, then).

Then out came the cup. It was miles away from us yet it looked massive. It was massive. It is massive. And it's ours. For keeps.

After more bear-hugging, dancing and handshakes, me and Jon (below right) had to leave for our plane. Not that we knew where our coach was parked as we of course hadn't arrived at the Ataturk in it.

We wandered about for a bit amongst rows and rows of identical coaches before eventually spying a fella we recognised smoking outside the coach. "Alright lads," he said, nodding, with a dirty smirk on his face like he'd just done the deed. But it was that good...

On the coach, it was quiet. Nobody had anything left. Everyone was shattered. The players will tell you they put everything into the match. Well so did the fans.

"Who missed that last pen, lad?" piped up this fella.

"Shevchenko"

"Nah, I'm not having that."

It was funny because I'd said the same in the ground. As he was walking up, I'd tapped Jon and said: "There's no way he'll miss, he's quality."

But it was meant to be. At the airport it was chaos. People everywhere, no-one knew what was going on - but no-one cared. Even the bizarre token system to get a pint was ignored and laughed off. There was no spoiling this.

Arrving back at Liverpool, I had a spring in my step despite having no kip for God knows how long. I was there when we lifted No.5. I was there for the greatest comeback in football history. I was there when a lad who grew up a stone's throw from my mum's lifted Old Big Ears as captain of Liverpool Football Club.

That's put us on the map, that's made them sit up and take notice. I even got a text off a Bluenose - and a fairly bitter one at that.

"Were you there?" it asked. I couldn't type fast enough. "Fair enough lad, youse deserved it." I nearly fell off the train seat.

Train? Yep, train. I'd got my head down for a couple of hours and now I was on the train to town - totally done in, but walking on air with a permanent smile. It was time for the victory parade...

www.wellredmag.co.uk

Straight after the penalty shoot-out.



Boss cheesy by Tony Barrett...

Liverpool FC: Memories of Istanbul 2005

CHUM CIGAR: Jon Jones cuddles up to Tony Barrett after victory in Istanbul

Another one from the vaults, a piece about the Champions League final in Istanbul in 2005 for a Daily Post pull out remembering that famous night in May....

FROM the moment we touched down in Turkey the omens were bad.

The excitement of being told how brilliant the pre-match partying in Taksim Square was by mates who had already arrived was swept aside by the disappointment of realising our coach from the airport wasn’t going there.

Instead, apparently on police advice, we were dropped off near the harbour in Istanbul. Good start.

A quick scout around revealed nothing to do, so it was time to take the bull by the horns – forget the coach, forget the easy way, we were going to Taksim Square (below) under our own steam. 

After a taxi journey the Dukes of Hazzard would have been proud of – and a mad but prophetic rant by a local kid who screamed ‘3-3’ at us while we waited at the lights - we arrived. 

It didn’t disappoint. There were Reds quite literally everywhere, the beer was flowing the sun was out – this was more like it.

Fast forward a few hours and it was time to head for the ground.

With our coach by now long departed from the other side of the city there was only one thing for it – brave the taxis again.

With cigars in hand just in case we won, we were on our way - but not for long.

We’d split into two groups and, unfortunately for the others, their cab was in a even sorrier state than ours.  It soon came to a standstill, steam billowing from the bonnet with a certain John Aldridge seen laughing his head off in another cab that passed by.
But we soon had our own problems...

A Mercedes carrying two sharp-suited Turks seemed intent on running our cab off the road and our driver was soon jabbering away in Turkish to our new found friends while leaning out of the window and paying no attention to the road.

Next thing, he’d pulled over. The suits wanted ticket-holding Reds with them so they could get past the police and soak up the atmosphere near to the ground. Fine by us, so long as they paid for the cab!

Pay they did, and after a bizarre journey to the middle of nowhere a stadium emerged – whose idea was it to hold the final here?!

With one road in and one road out it was hardly ideal – even former Red Veggard Heggem was caught short by the epic journey and had to resort to relieving himself on the cliffside in front of hundreds of cheering fans.

So to the game, and I was unlucky enough to be positioned in front of a younger version of Victor Meldrew.

Despite thousands of fans standing on their seats to watch the opening ceremony, this cretin insisted I stayed off mine, even pushing me off to make his point.

It almost came to blows before a mate tactfully mentioned they probably didn’t have Sky Sports in a Turkish prison!

Three-nil down at half time, the consensus was a consolation goal and avoiding a total embarrassment was the best we could hope for.

Thankfully we were wrong. Very wrong. And come the final penalty save from Jerzy Dudek who did I find myself hugging as I tried to protect my cigar in a mass of ecstatic Reds. Yep - the young Victor Meldrew! I don't believe it!

They think it's all over...is it b*llocks!

They skidded on the turf, embraced, punched the air and turned to face their jubilant fans.

The Chelsea players had won...er...well, nothing actually. Not the match. Not the tie. Definitely not the Champions League.

And yet there they were. All smiles. Frank Lampard clenching his fist at the deflated Kop. And the section of Anfield Road housing the Chelsea fans going wild.

It was like they had won the European Cup. But then, they don't know what that feels like do they?

OK, so they had snatched an equaliser in the 95th minute through a bizarre own goal from the hapless John Arne Riise - Liverpool's weak link and a player who has looked out of his depth at Anfield for at least a couple of seasons.
OK, so they are now favourites because if they can keep Rafa Benitez's side out for 90 minutes at Stamford Bridge next week they are through.

But, in a similar fashion to Arsenal in the quarter finals, didn't they make just a little too much of their celebrations? And we know what happened to Arsenal.

Chelsea deserved their luck, according to Lampard - a view echoed by Baron Greenback (aka Avram Grant). The sickly smile said it all. He thinks they've done it. He's already planning how to spend his roubles and taking vodka orders from his mates. In his mind they're in Moscow.

And it's not just Chelski and their fans who have decided it's all over. The texts came in from gloating Evertonians within seconds of Riise's gaffe. The Facebook updates rubbed it in further.

But me? I'm with Steven Gerrard. Asked if he was worried that Liverpool have never won at Chelsea under Benitez, he replied: "We haven't played there with Fernando Torres, have we?" My point exactly. There's 90 minutes to go. It's half time. We were the better team tonight and we can be the better team at Stamford Bridge.

Big games need big performances from big players. Tonight, we played well. But Gerrard, and Torres, can do better. Much better.

Let the Bluenoses snipe. And let Lampard and Grant count their roubles. Liverpool have already won in the San Siro against Serie A leaders Inter Milan in the Champions League. And - as if you need reminding - they've been in much stickier spots than this - and got out of it. Think Olympiakos. Think Istanbul.

If anyone can win at Stamford Bridge and leave the doubters choking on their text message, it's Liverpool.

The Yanks

So, here we are, on the eve of Liverpool FC's third Champions League semi-final in four years. And what are we talking about? The devastating form of Fernando Torres? The fact Steven Gerrard is showing his most consistent form in some time? Or maybe, Rafa Benitez's tactical masterstroke in switching formations - a move that has paid off handsomely at just the right time?
No, none of the above. It's still the Yanks. George Gillett and Tom Hicks. The owners. Boardroom people. People in suits. Rick Parry. People, quite frankly, that I don't give a flying about.
Now don't get me wrong, I want them out of the club as much as the next Red. They have let the club down, they have lied and they have conducted themselves in a manner that is just not "The Liverpool Way".
But, for now, I actually want them to STAY. I want them to stay until the end of the season.
And the reason? I think they're helping us towards a sixth European Cup.
Not in the way I would of wanted, I might add. Not because they've stumped up the cash for a string of super signings. Not because they've created a buzz around the club by ensuring work started on the new stadium. Because they haven't.
No, they are helping because lazy football journalists - and news journalists for that matter - are content to write pages and pages of reports about this pair of muppets.
And I think that's helped to take the pressure off the people that really matter, the team. Liverpool are almost expected to fail because of what is happening off the pitch. And if they do, which obviously I am praying they don't, the 'experts' will shrug their shoulders and say 'I told you so.' In the meantime, we've brushed aside the so-called fight for fourth, sealed another showdown with Chelsea in the semis and witnessed the best striker in Europe notch goal after goal.
We're playing well. And consistently well. And it's almost like no-one has noticed.
So if Hicks wants to keep on making a mug of himself (see what I did there?) and Gillett and Parry want to stick their chests out for the cameras, let them. If it means a sixth European Cup sitting in the Anfield trophy cabinet it will almost be worth it!