The treble season was memorable for so many reasons, but the personal highlight for me was making my first excursion into Europe with the reds. Barca was my first European away, and even though the game itself was about as entertaining as an episode of 'Pop Idol', just to be there in the fabulous Camp Nou was a magnificent experience. Then of course there was the final in Dortmund, which was unquestionably the most memorable game (night?) of my life (although the recent win over Roma runs it pretty close). So with those special nights still fresh in my mind, I was determined to take in at least one European away this season.
The draw for the first round didn’t throw up anything particularly appealing. I was tempted by Dortmund, but felt that going back there after what had happened last year may prove to be a bit of a letdown. Kiev sounded like way too much trouble, and although I thought about Boavista, in the end I felt that as my finances would probably only stretch to one trip into Europe this season, I would wait until the second group phase. Of course, we had to qualify first, but after last year I had enough confidence in our boys that we'd still be in the competition after group stage one.
The draw couldn't have been any worse though really, and not just for footballing reasons. After all the trouble we had in Rome last year, there was no way I was going there. I wasn't risking being stabbed in the arse by some penknife wielding, scooter riding Roman shithouse, so as tempting as it was to visit what is after all, an extremely beautiful city, I decided to pass. Galatasaray's reputation preceded them too, so that only left Barca, but I did that last year so it seemed like a bit of a waste. I could always have given them all a miss and took a chance on us getting to the quarter finals, but given that we were in the most difficult group we could have possibly got, there was no guarantee that we'd make it that far. And if we did, there was the possibility that we'd end up facing Arsenal or the Mancs. So all things considered, Barca was the best (only?) option.
There'd be five of us going: Myself, my old man, my cousin Alan, Smithy and Graham Suppiah. There was no way we could afford to pay Lonsdale's prices (at least me Alan and Smithy couldn't anyway), so we'd be making our own travel arrangements.
Flying to Barca on Easyjet was going to prove to be an expensive business, and I didn't particularly want to spend the whole week there anyway. However, a return flight from Liverpool to Madrid would only cost £75 each. Result! That way we could fly out on monday, stay in Madrid until wednesday morning, get the train to Barca and stay the night there, before travelling back to Madrid on Thursday and flying home on Friday afternoon. As luck would have it, Real were playing at the Bernabeu the night before we faced Barca, so we'd even get to see an extra game while we were over there. Graham sorted out the accommodation and when the cost of our match tickets were thrown in, the whole trip was only going to cost us £205. That's a hell of a lot cheaper than the day trip option (which is around £300 if memory serves me correctly), not to mention the one night stay. Last year I'd gone on the day trip for both Barca and Dortmund, but I'll never do it again that's for sure. Both flights out were delayed, reducing the amount of time to see the actual city (and missing out on having a pint with Mad Erik Meijer in the Alter Markt!), and having to fly straight back after the game is an absolute nightmare. Throw in the fact that you're being completely ripped off and I'd already decided that wasn't going to be for me this year. Plus, doing it this way also meant that we could see Real Madrid play on the Tuesday night. Bonus.
I'm not going to spend pages and pages boring you with every little detail of the trip, I've attempted to keep it as brief as possible and try to just include the relevant - or funny - bits. Hopefully I've achieved this, but if it comes across as being self indulgent then I apologise.
Mon 11 Mar: Flew out from Liverpool Airport at 11.35. Alan has only flown once before, when he accompanied me to Belfast for a pre-season game a couple of years ago, and as that flight was only about 15 minutes it doesn't really count does it? Unfortunately for him, he was sat next to my Dad on the plane, who upon take off decided to start telling stories about the plane that crashed into the Mersey a couple of years ago! When it comes to saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, my old man is the undisputed King.
Despite Easyjet planes looking like they're held together with cardboard and double sided cellotape, the flight is pretty smooth and approximately two hours later we land in Madrid. Everything had been going too smoothly, so it was inevitable something would go wrong, and it does. We arrive at baggage claim only to discover that one of Alan's bags has gone missing. It was only a small bag, so we assumed someone had just picked it up and fucked off with it. There wasn't that much in the bag, just a pair of shoes and, unfortunately, all of his money! More importantly though, I had two Mr Kipling French Fancies in there which I'd been planning to have as a bedtime snack! Thieving bastards, I wish I could have caught them doing it. It'd have been worth them doing it just so I could catch them doing it. (sorry, slipped into Pulp Fiction mode for a minute there!)
Speaking of thieving bastards though, that brings me nicely to the Spanish cabbies at the airport. As there were five of us we have to get two taxi's from the airport to our hotel, and we are charged 30 Euro's for each cab. We should have known by the fact that they switched the meter off that we were being fleeced, but we just wanted to get to the hotel so we let it go. All in all, not the best of starts to the trip then. Still, at least the hotel was nice. Not bad for £20 a night. We dropped off our stuff and then went exploring.
First port of call was a smart little sports souvenir shop, where me and Smithy managed to pick up the Alaves badges which we couldn't get at the UEFA Cup Final. We then found an Irish bar for a few drinks. This bar would be the scene of one of Smithy's greatest triumphs later in the week, but more of that later!
Tue 12 Mar: First order of the day was to book our train tickets to take us to Barca tomorrow morning. Works out at about £30 each return, which isn't too bad. The downside is it's a seven hour journey, and we will be leaving at 7 a.m. That means we'll be up at about 5.30 a.m. No problem for my old man, Graham and Alan, who are all used to early starts, but Smithy's a student, and I work from home, and to us anything before 10.30 is classed as the middle of the night, so 5.30 won’t be easy.
With the train tickets sorted, it was time for the fun to begin. To get from our hotel to the Bernabeu we'd have to get two trains. As we'd had to make a further stop to book our Barca train, we'd therefore have to get three connecting trains. Back home, that would probably mean a journey of at least an hour and a half. Not here though. The metro is fantastic, and we were never waiting more than two minutes for a train in all the time we were over there. Those of you who regularly use the London underground will be used to this, but we don't have anything like that in Liverpool and I reckon I've wasted at least two years of my life just waiting around for Merseyrail trains (many of which never even bothered to turn up).
20 minutes after setting off, we were at the Bernabeu. It's an impressive sight even from the outside, and is situated in a really nice area of Madrid too. We do the stadium tour, at a cost of 3.50 euros, which is about £2.50 I think. The trophy room is amazing. As well as all those European Cups and La Liga titles, there's some really bizarre (not to mention huge) looking trophies and memorabilia. There's lots of cups and shields which were presented to Real by their opponents, including a nice little memento from the reds. There's also a cheap arse looking vase from the mancs. Fucking tightarses, no wonder they're so well off! There's a video presentation of all of Real’s European successes, and it's hard not to be impressed. They do seem to be quite fond of kissing their own arses though, and humility doesn't appear to count for anything in Madrid. Mind you, if we'd won eight European Cups I'd expect us to bask in the glory a little as well. After seeing the trophy room, we go and sit in the stand and take in the impressive surroundings of the Santiago Bernabeu. It's not as impressive as Camp Nou, but it's still pretty awe inspiring. We weren't the only ones doing the tour, there were several Sparta Prague fans there (they were playing Real that night), as well as some Ipswich fans (well it's the only chance they'll ever get to come here) and plenty of other reds too. We then go and get some souvenirs from the club shop, before stopping at the ticket office to pick up our tickets for that nights game. The tickets were dirt cheap. We could have got them for as little as £5, but decided to pay a bit extra to make sure we got decent seats. We went for the 20 euro seats, and weren't disappointed.
As Real were already through to the quarter finals, it was highly unlikely that we'd be treated to the skills of Raul, Figo, Zidane, Roberto Carlos etc.. particularly as Real were facing Barca in the Nou Camp the following Saturday. The team didn't include any of their 'stars', but it was packed with high class international players, and Steve McManaman got a game as well! I know there's a lot of reds who still bear a grudge against Macca, but I honestly don't have a problem with him and never have had. So it's without any malice that I can say now that over the course of the two games we witnessed whilst in Spain, Macca was without doubt the worst player on view. He absolutely stank the place out against Sparta before being replaced by Savio after about an hour. It was embarrassing to watch. Strangely though, he didn't get any stick from the Real fans whatsoever. Instead, all of their vitriol was saved for poor little Pedro Munitis, a highly talented and skilful Spanish international winger/striker. The Real fans obviously don't like this guy, and from as early as the second minute they were on his case. I thought Murphy had it bad at Anfield, but this was fucking ridiculous. He gave the ball away once, and the abuse started raining down from the forty thousand or so in attendance. The next time he got the ball they were all whistling him, and this went on for most of the game. Whenever he did something right there was a minority who'd do their best to encourage him, but the others would just sarcasticly laugh at the poor guy and wait for their next chance to slaughter him! I made a point of clapping everything he did, although I resisted the temptation to stand up and yell "Gerroff 'is back will yers!"
The game had a testimonial feel to it, as Real just went through the motions in the first half. The only players to catch the eye were striker Guti, and left winger Solari. Solari was pure quality, but he's been linked with a summer move to the mancs, so hopefully there's nothing in that. The second half was much better. It's not being unfair to say that as soon as Macca was replaced the game picked up. Savio made a real difference and Real scored three goals in about 15 minutes. The fans suddenly awoke from their slumber and managed a chant or two, but to say I was disappointed with the atmosphere would be an understatement. Still, we've had some pretty lifeless games at Anfield this season so it's a bit rich me having a go at the Real fans.
Comic relief was provided at half time by a small group of Sparta fans really getting into the "Hey Baby" song (that's the John Arne Riise song to all you untrendy types out there!). Waving their arms around and dancing the night away, they really were quite a sight. Fair play to them.
The most bizarre part of the evening was the fact that sitting directly in front of us were two scouse couples, who had not only been on the same flight as us, but were also staying in the same hotel! There's 80,000 seats in the Bernabeu, and they ended up sat right in front of us. Weird. There were loads of reds at this game, and there were definitely more reds than Sparta fans that's for sure, although we can't dance as well as the Czechs it has to be said!
Wed 13 Mar: To my surprise, I manage to get up at 5.30 without too many problems. We make our seven hour train journey to Barca, and check into our hotel, which compared to the one in Madrid is a bit of a hovel. A quick shower later and we're off to the Ramblas to join in the festivities with all the other travelling reds. It didn't take long for us to realise that a hell of a lot of scumbags had also made the trip, and it's at times like this I feel ashamed to be a scouser. The way some of them were acting was a disgrace, and God knows what the Catalans made of it. They were the minority though, and for the most part it was just people having a laugh and a sing song.
We got to the ground early as we wanted to go to the club shop to pick up some more souvenirs. Graham bought a miniature replica of the Nou Camp, which was confiscated from him as he tried to get in the ground, and wasn't there when he went to pick it up after the game. Graham was in the other end of the stadium to us, and we didn't even get searched as we went in, although one of the stewards pulled me up for wearing a Real Madrid badge on my jacket! He was just having a laugh at first, but he didn't seem too impressed when my dad pulled up Alan's Liverpool top to reveal a Real Madrid home shirt underneath! See what I mean about my dad saying and doing the wrong thing at the wrong time? Anyway, we got in without any real problems, but as I said, poor old Graham was stopped and searched and had his souvenir confiscated. I guess he must look more like a hooligan than the rest of us!
It took us what seemed like about half an hour to make the ascent to our seats, but when we got there the view was breathtaking to say the least. The picture on the back cover was taken from my seat in the stadium, so you can see the view we had. Last year, me and my dad were sat in the lower tier and paid £60 for the privilege as opposed to the £30 we paid this time. Given the choice I'd sit as high up as possible, and not just because of the price difference. The view really was something to behold, as you can see from the photo below.
The only criticism is that yet again Barca split us all up into separate groups instead of putting us all together. We know why they did it, as it wouldn't take much to outsing their feeble bunch of fans. The only Barca fans who even attempt to make any noise are the small groups behind each goal. The rest are too busy waving white hankies and whistling at their own team. As for the game, it was a hell of a lot better than last year, and I thought we played very well, especially as we were without Owen (and Anelka) and Heskey had to limp off. Stevie G was excellent, as was Henchoz, but Sami was the star man for me.
Sadly, the Spanish police were somewhat heavy handed. We were instructed to just sit anywhere, and that the seat numbers on our tickets didn't matter. As they didn't speak English, this caused some confusion, and although we were ok, some reds ended up on the receiving end of a few baton shots when they failed to understand what they were being told to do. I guess they were practising for the riots that were expected in Barcelona later that week.
The "Allez Allez" song went on for about 20 minutes after the game as we were kept in our seats whilst the Catalans were dispersed. The singing as we made our way down the endless rows of steps was reminiscent of St James' Park earlier this season, except this time it was the name of GH being sung and not John Arne Riise. There was also a highly amusing rendition of Happy Birthday Real Madrid (they'd celebrated their centenary a week earlier) which would have been even better had it been sung by more than just one guy! After meeting up with Graham outside, we made our way back to the Metro station and back to the hotel. With being up so early and having to endure that endless train journey, none of us were up for going out on the ale, so it was just a case of finding somewhere to get some food and then back to bed.
We'd spotted a Burger King on the Ramblas earlier that day, so we set off in search of that in the pissing down rain. Thankfully the rain had held off during the game, although it may have been raining at pitch level. With us being above the clouds we wouldn't have been affected! Anyway, as we made our way towards the Ramblas, I noticed that there were a few women just standing around on the street corners. Normally you'd automatically think "ho", but for some reason I didn't. Maybe because they were dressed quite conservatively, and not in the stereotypical short skirt and fish net attire that you'd expect. Maybe it was because some of them were 60 if they were a day, and you just don't think of ho's as being that old. Well I don't anyway! I just presumed they were normal women trying to keep out of the rain. At least that's what I assumed until this rather large black lady in a blonde wig reached out and made a grab for Alan's bollocks! He insists she was just trying to pull his hand out of his pocket, but we're not buying it. Unfortunately for the ho, Alan wasn't 'buying it' either and we moved on.
As we moved further down the street, we saw more ho's and passed several sex shows. Outside one of them was this shady looking Spanish pimp, who also decided to single out Alan for special attention, inviting him in and promising him "yellow pussy, brown pussy, green pussy (don't ask me, I don't know what it is either! Infected maybe?) any type of pussy you want!" Again, we declined and carried on our search for Burger King. We found it, and it was closed. Typical. Back to the hotel, where we found a TV station that was showing the Champions League highlights. Unfortunately for us, they had the mancs game with Bayern on, although on the plus side sleeping was a hell of a lot easier after watching that shit.
Thu 14 Mar: Back to the Nou Camp for more souvenirs, and at this point I was thinking I may need to buy another suitcase just to fit all the memorabilia in. Then it was back to Madrid, and another seven hour train journey. It was the nicest day of the week, and we were stuck on a train all day. The trains are way more comfortable than they are over here, but even so I found it impossible to get any sleep. After checking back into the hotel it was back out to the Irish bar we'd been going to each night. As it was our last night we planned to make it a long one. A few pints of lager, and a couple of pints of Vodka & Red Bull later, and it's fair to say that I was hammered. Alan was just as bad, Graham was probably worse, but unlike last year my dad seemed to be relatively sober. Smithy had stopped drinking earlier as he'd managed to pull the Brazilian waitress who'd been serving us, and he was obviously concerned about hampering his performance! He'd talked her into coming back to the hotel with him, which meant that me and Graham would have to bunk in with Alan and my old man. Didn't bother me, but Graham was none too thrilled with the idea, as Smithy would later find out to his cost. Anyway, the waitress didn't finish until around 4.a.m. so me and Alan told Smithy we'd wait with him.
Graham and my dad had long since gone back to the hotel, with Graham under strict instructions to leave our room vacant for Smithy and his Brazilian beauty. We wait outside for about half an hour, and eventually she comes out. Me and Alan don't want to get in the way so, being slightly under the influence, we decide to go for a wander around Madrid to see the sights, as you do! At this point I'll let Smithy pick up the story.....
Being the horn dog that I am, I was determined to score while in Spain, it would be one for the scrapbook so to speak. After the long train journey back to Madrid with no sleep, combined with a few vicious pints of Vodka and Red Bull, my bottle had well and truly returned. The aforementioned 'Brazilian Beauty' welcomed us as we arrived as she had recognised us from earlier in the week, and although she was stunning I was more concerned with her gorgeous Swedish colleague who served our meal. That was until I saw Zinedine Zidane's double putting his hands all over her. “If ZZ is on the case what chance does an English Muppet like me have” I thought, so I moved on to plan B, more specifically the lovely Rozana - who I once again turned my attentions to. Through some vintage chatting up, I had managed to convince her that my hotel room was a good place to spend the remainder of the night. So to pick up the story where Dave left off……..
I left Dave and Alan wandering around town, and arrived back at our Hotel with Rozana on my arm. I asked the receptionist for the key to room 449 assuming Graham had done the decent thing and vacated it for our sole use. Now given Graham's totally inebriated state and the fact that he was none to happy with the prospect of being turfed out of his room it was no surprise that the key for room 449 was gone. Well perhaps Eddie (who fair do's knew the score) had gone in with Graham and vacated his room for me, I thought, so I confidently asked for room 446 and was given the key.
As I was pretty eager to get my love on at this stage I didn't take too good a look at the contents of the room upon arrival. Just as I was about to boldly go, I heard the phone ring and naturally assumed it was Dave and Alan asking me for a key. "Alright Dave" I said, but the voice I heard in reply wasn't exactly what I was expecting; "WHO ARE YOU? VOT ARE YOU DOING IN OUR ROOM? ZIS IS NOT YOUR ROOM" replied the irate German on the other end of the phone. "STAY ZER! I'M GOING TO GET ZE MANAGER!" I looked around the room and to my horror realised that there was no way on earth that the contents of this room belonged to Eddie or Alan - who were rooming together.... "shit, get dressed quick!", I yelled at poor Rozana who was scared out of her wits, and barely spoke enough English to get the jist of what I was saying.
As we just about finished getting dressed, this fierce looking fella - who looked like he had been thrown out of the third Reich for being too sadistic - came charging into the room, pushing me around like he was a member of the Rome riot squad and asking me what the fuck was going on. While trying to hold on to my own temper I tried to explain that it was an honest and innocent mistake, but he was having none of it as he rummaged through his bags, thinking I'd been in his room either to steal his valuables or simply use it to get laid. Strangely no matter how many times I apologised he kept using the same line over and over again "I AM NOT SATISFIED" (a line which provided us much amusement for the remainder of the trip). I could have sworn he was going to smack me until the hotel manager and the second, more rational German came around the corner, and thankfully we were able to resolve the situation between us. The other German even shook my hand and wished me well for the remainder of the trip. I left with my tail between my legs (only just though, I thought he was gonna cut it off!) and my libido seriously affected. Turns out that the reason I recognised 446 was because we stayed there Monday and Tuesday…..easy mistake to make, I was only one number out!
As for Rozana she began to yell at me and kick me and stuff, I tried to apologise and calm her down a little. Some more of the patented Smith charm and she was fine. I left her for a little while to go with the manager to get the key for room FOUR HUNDERED AND FORTY FIVE. When we arrived at the lift it had strangely stopped just below us and was emanating fits of laughter from two pissed up Liverpudlians! Over to you gaffer……
After wandering around the streets of Madrid for about half an hour, we eventually got bored and headed back to the hotel. We're in the lift going up to our room when the bastard thing gets stuck. The doors open and we are greeted by a brick wall! Under normal circumstances I may have gotten as bit claustrophobic, but in our drunken state both me and Alan found it quite funny. As we pondered our next move, we were interrupted by some inane Spanish rambling "eth eth eth eth liftio, stuckio" or words to that effect! Help at last! There was a tiny gap at eye level, and when we looked through it we could just see this little pair of feet. "Ey mate, we're stuck in the lift" I called out. "Dave, is that you?" I looked through the gap again and saw a further pair of feet, the unmistakable canoe-like size 13's of the Boy Smith. "Yeah, it’s me" I reply.
"You’ll never guess what's just happened to me" he says, and then starts going on about angry Germans, an irate Brazilian bird, a confused hotel manager and God knows what else. Me and Alan are looking at each other in bewilderment whilst he is waffling on about his troubles, until eventually I have to interrupt him: : "Chris, I appreciate your situation and all that, BUT WE'RE STUCK IN A FUCKING LIFT!!!!" At this point me and Alan are laughing so much we can barerly breath, until eventually we get the lift moving again and make our way back to our room to wake Graham up. I'm banging on the door for a good five minutes, whilst Smithy is off trying to pacify his angry Latino chick, and Alan has just gone walkabout! Eventually a confused looking Graham answers the door, and I tell him what's happened and how he has to come with me to the other room so Smithy can have our room.
I then go off looking for Alan, and find him wandering around the corridors still laughing his nuts off. Apparently he'd bumped into the Germans and they'd had a go at him too: "Vie are you laughing? Vot is so funny? It is not funny, stop laughing" I guess it's easy to see where the stereotype of Germans not having a sense of humour comes from! Needless to say this just made him almost piss himself there and then in the corridor. After much persuading, Graham finally gives up his bed and comes with us to the other room. He takes Alan's bed, and me and Al share the spare bed. After laughing solidly for about an hour, eventually we go to sleep. Considering I had Alan's sweaty feet in my face for most of the night, I slept surprisingly well, and felt great the next morning.
Fri 15 Mar: All week it had been me who was the last one out of bed, and I had been finding it a real struggle to get up so early, yet after only about three hours sleep I was fine and up at 8 o'clock. Smithy is also up and about after sending Miss Rio De Janeiro on her merry way, and he takes a bit of a ribbing for his previous nights antics. The wittiest put down had to be Alan's "you should have known it was the Germans room by the towels laid out on the beds!"
Then it's time to check out, and there's a pleasant surprise as Alan's missing bag shows up at reception. It wasn't stolen after all, it was just a cock up by the airport. He's happy, but my joy is short lived as I discover my Mr Kipling French Fancies are squashed to hell. God knows where the bag had been, but at least it was there now. Our flight wasn't until the afternoon, so we had just enough time to go back to the Bernabeu for yet more souvenirs. This time I plumped for a Real centenary home shirt with Guti #14 on the back. The only one who didn't get any souvenirs at all was my old man, who repeatedly stated that he doesn't understand why anyone would want to wear the colours of any team other than Liverpool. As ridiculous as I find this way of thinking, it was nonetheless very difficult to explain to him why it is acceptable to wear other teams colours (as long as it isn't another English club of course). "It just is" was the best I could come up with. No wonder I never made the school debate team!
The taxi to the airport from the hotel costs 16 euro's, conclusive proof that we'd been stung the first time. The flight home is fairly uneventful, other than Smithy falling asleep and Alan and myself placing ice cubes on his crotch in the hope that when they melt he'll wake up and think he's pissed himself. Sadly, he wakes up before they melt and is none too thrilled with us. I blame Alan, he blames me, but Smithy doesn't seem to care who's responsible, swearing revenge against us both! The next away trip should prove to be interesting then!
