Book serialisation: Far Foreign Land, Chapter 14

Hopping between continents and the sanity of Turkish police as matchday dawns to the sound of Ring of Fire. I wish I had written more about the two Leeds fans who were killed five years earlier

With a Liver bird upon my chest

IT GOES OVER THE bar. For a moment the place goes wild but the comedown is rapid. Serginho, looking shattered, crosses paths with Hamann and the uncrossed fingers squirm against each other again. It’s a great position to be in, but Stevie Nicol missed the first one in 1984. It’s not over yet.

Hamann, cool, slots it in. For the first time all night, we’re in the lead…

* * *

As usual, Al was up too early and looked too fresh. He woke us arriving at the hotel with his bag. He was only able to find a place to stay until Monday night and he surveyed his home for the next two nights with distaste. There was only a double bed for the three of us.

I noticed that Dave had slept in his underpants. Either he was so drunk he didn’t care about the ticket – unlikely – or he has hidden it in a place so secure he can relax.

We discussed the night’s activities. We left Al with Bill and the rest about 7.30 to clean up. We had a loose arrangement to meet near

Taksim Square later but it never happened. Our night deteriorated into a drunken reiteration of those things we are here for – love, belief, culture – while we gorged on red meat and a westernised belly dancer vibrated, ignored, in the background. Al went through the same process, but he was not sure where, and with whom.

Outside, the streets were filling up with Liverpool supporters. And things were turning ugly. ‘Christ,’ I said to Dave. ‘We have a seriously hideous-looking mob.’ It was all aleguts and shaven heads, enhanced by overtight T-shirts and shorts.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was down the Strand last week. I looked around and felt like Brad Pitt.’

I hoped it was rhyming slang. The Strand is the shopping centre in Bootle that achieved notoriety as the place where Jamie Bulger, the two-year- old, was abducted by two other children before being brutally murdered. It has certainly seen ugliness.

The few Milan supporters we saw were clearly worried. They were undoubtedly the safest football fans in the world. They just didn’t know it.

Our history meant that there would have to be serious provocation for anyone to get involved in trouble with opposing supporters. The Italians moved warily around the tourist sites but did not seem to venture into the bars – at least not the sort we drank in.

And the drinking holes were filling up fast as more and more Liverpool supporters flooded into the city. By noon they were already boisterous, some dancing like Pinocchio having a seizure to the ubiquitous riff from Ring of Fire.

There were two options: join a group we knew and risk humiliation and hangover – to be filmed on someone’s video doing an epileptic jig under the influence would be too much to bear – or take to the water. Down on the Galata Bridge, we mulled over the possibilities with a beer.

It was unanimous. We must go to Asia. We’d seen people we knew the previous day and asked them what they’d done. ‘Been to Asia,’ one said casually. ‘Bit like going to Birkenhead, only more civilised. Oh, and bigger, we’ve heard. But we didn’t get to see it all.’

It sounded good to us.

We chose the most rickety boat available, for no other reason than stupid bravado. ‘Let’s pick the one most likely to go down.’ Beside the vessel, the locals were having lunch. A stallholder was grilling fish with his back to the water, extracting the bones with a flourish from the cooked flesh and throwing them back into the Bosporus. The fillet, pushed into a bread roll, looked delicious. ‘

That’s what I’m having for dinner,’ I said. ‘With your bowels?’ the other two chorused. With three of us in one tiny room, this was becoming an issue.

From Vienna onwards, things had got worse. A diet of red meat, beer and a tendency to favour gutterside home cooking had caused a number of panicky moments, if no disasters. Street vendors are probably the wrong choice for someone already suffering raw jaxy syndrome but the smells, the tastes… they are tempting, especially after a gallon of Efes.

The other thing is that I was unused to beer. Well, crap beer at least.

The carbonated, coloured and alcoholic water served across Eastern Europe and Turkey was truly awful, but drinking is such an integral part of the experience that sacrifices had to be made. ‘I wish the final was somewhere where they had good beer,’ I said, sadly, grimacing at yet another glass of chemical fizz while looking across the Bosporus. ‘Somewhere like Brussels.’

‘You like to rephrase that?’

‘On reflection, I’m happy here.’

Afloat, we were impressed by the sights to a greater or lesser degree. Inonu Stadium, home to Besiktas, drew admiring coos both for its design and its location beside the water. The Dolmabahce Palace got less rave reviews.

By the time we reached land, Al and Dave were desperate to have a beer on Asian soil. I was just desperate. We had 20 minutes to achieve our objectives.

Even before the drinks were ordered, I made a rush for the toilet. Not good. They had finished their beer by the time I got back and had ordered a second. But time was not the only thing running out. Sure enough, the ship had sailed before I was comfortable enough to make the walk back to the quay.

The bridge spanning two continents was not far away so we hiked up its slip road aiming to stroll back to Europe. The idea of walking from one continent to another appealed to us. Unfortunately, a traffic policeman would not let us pass and sent us back. Luckily, there was a bus picking up at a stop so we piled on. Where it was going, we had no idea, except to Europe. That was part of the fun.

As it happened, it was hell. After about 15 minutes, we arrived outside the Ali Sami Yen Stadium, famous for its ‘Welcome to hell’ image earned when Manchester United received a ferocious reception there.

Well, any enemies of United are friends of ours, so we jumped off the bus and went into the ground, which was being demolished at one end, to pay homage to Galatasaray.

In Britain, a site manager, or one of the workmen, would shoo any interlopers away from a hard-hat area where bricks and debris are flying. Here, the labourers did not even have protective headgear and didn’t give three inquisitive Scousers a second look. The banners from the last game to take place here were still hanging and we thought about taking a souvenir, but it felt a little like graverobbing.

Well, enough of the historic sights. Now for Taksim Square and the countdown to the game.

* * *

Behaviour is all about perception. We arrived at the square about 8.30 and there was bedlam.

Now, there are two ways of interpreting the sight that played out in front of us. There is the 1980s view: mobs of drunks blocking the roads, drunkenly accosting innocent citizens, causing damage to property, putting themselves at risk and urinating and vomiting in public.

The opposite inference? A good-natured, exuberant group, enjoying a big party and inviting everyone in the vicinity to join them. Thankfully, the Turkish police chose the latter view of the situation, but less excitable crowds than this have drawn baton charges and tear gas in the past.

Thousands of Liverpool fans had colonised one corner of the square and swarmed over a row of low-rise kiosk-style shops. Hundreds were bouncing on the flat roofs, to the delight of the hordes below. Banners obscured the shop signs and beer was being splashed up and down like a perverse water fight. Everyone was singing ‘Rafa, Rafa Benitez…’ to the tune of La Bamba and any suggestion of a silence was greeted with Ring of Fire.

Some 30ft up a tree, a fan, obviously drunk, was hugging the bark tight. His friends – and plenty of enemies, by the look of it – were shaking the trunk, so that the tree was swaying across an arc of 60 degrees. It almost seemed that the plant would be ripped from its roots. When the crowd focused on what was happening, they chanted: ‘Shake the monkey, shake the monkey…’

It was time to find somewhere a little less rowdy and we took to the backstreets, pausing briefly to contemplate the area in front of the Burger King where the Leeds fans were stabbed. There was no hint of tension, but it was a sobering thought in a sober-free zone.

Surprisingly, the alleyways around the square were quiet, with only a few Liverpool supporters dotted around. It was a good place to eat and get set for an early night. I vowed to leave at midnight. Tomorrow, after all, was a big day. The others wanted to stay.

Unfortunately, just as midnight was about to strike, someone suggested that Michel Platini was a greater player than Zinedine Zidane. It was impossible to walk away and ignore an assertion like that, even if I had my heart set on sleep. To let ignorance reign, without rebuke, is moral cowardice of the highest order.

So we ordered more alcohol – well, we’d been meaning to try the raki all night – and began to debate the issue. Four hours later, I believed I’d made the point forcefully enough to win the argument. At least when I went to sleep I knew I’d done something worthwhile that day.

There was just one other ugly incident that occurred before the night ended. The taxi driver got lost in the old town and we drove in circles. Sitting in the front seat, I could not see what happened, but Dave gave out a loud snore, which could have been mistaken for a snort of ecstasy.

Turning around, I saw that Al was also asleep – with his face nuzzled in to Dave’s groin area. It was horrible. The only thing to do was to wake them up with a stream of abuse that cast doubt on their sexuality. I was satisfied to see that Al had dribbled in his sleep, or at least, I told them both, that was the spin they could put on it in the morning.

They were indignant, confused and unable to respond with any coherent strategy. This tale will resurface to humiliate them all the way to the next European Cup final, even if it takes another 20 years.

Everything had turned out perfectly and the driver received an extravagant tip for the bounty his ineptitude provided. The one blot on the horizon – where the sun had now risen – was that I still had not got a ticket. I went to sleep wondering who hates Ring of Fire more: me or the muezzins.

It was already match day – May 25. An auspicious date. It was 28 years to the day since we first won the European Cup.

Read Chapter 15: Smiles and joy and glee

Order Far Foreign Land here: Cost £10 UK, £15 Europe, £18 Rest Of World. All including postage

For those interested in the culture of Merseyside, try my non-football novel. Good Guys Lost, an epic of Liverpool life set from the 1960s to the 2010s