Liverpool FC - Euro Red Diary 1

by Joel Rookwood

UEFA Cup First Round - Olimpija Ljubljana

Olimpija Ljubljana - surely that can't actually be the name of a football club? Well, that was the reaction of most Liverpudlians to the draw for the first round of the UEFA Cup, which saw Liverpool pitted against the Slovenian cup winners. Whilst my travels around Europe have strangely enough once actually led me to the former Hungarian city, it has to be said it's not the continent's most famous hotbed of football. In fact the majority of the group weren't even entirely sure from which country the southern minnows actually hailed as we left Liverpool on the eve of the game, with not even Liverpool's prestigious European record having involved a trip to Slovenia.

As we arrived at the airport, following a long drive south from Liverpool, the small pocket of Scousers gathered were outnumbered by large numbers of Perugia fans en route to Dundee for their first outing in the same competition. The Italians might have had weightier numbers in terms of fans, but we had flags. And so in a bid to stamp our name upon the airport, in light of the Italian contingent, we defiantly laid out my collection of banners on the floors of the slumbering, though far from deserted airport. Whilst victory was ours, with the Perugia faithful clearly impressed by the flags, albeit slightly bemused by the sentiment that they expressed, it was a course of action that was to prove somewhat problematic, when a random German chose to get his head down for an hour on one of my banners. Following the unceremonious removal of the cheeky individual however, we exchanged nods with the Italians and made our way to the check-in desk, our destination ironically being Italy.

In an attempt to minimise the cost and (as almost inevitably occurs) maximise the complexity of the trip, we chose Venice as the destination of our flight into central Europe, where we were to pick up our hire car and drive the 150 miles into the Slovenian capital. The script couldn't have been better written, as the five of us piled into the Fiat, the most Italian of vehicles - flags and all, and after circumnavigating Venice, headed towards Trieste on the Italian border.

We were met at border control by an army of Slovenian police who appeared desperate for any excuse to deport or at least detain us. But after discovering we were not convicted hooligans, were not in possession of drugs and each had a ticket, they reluctantly had to let us pass. It was the first trip I had been on where we had all actually left the country with tickets, so we can count ourselves more than a bit fortunate. We later discovered that some were not so lucky, having been deported on the spot for not carrying a ticket with them. The Slovenians clearly meant business. We could only hope that the type of behaviour they were obviously expecting from the Liverpudlians was not reflective of the welcome the Olimpija fans usually bestow upon visitors.

The stadium was by far the worst I had seen in Europe, small, decrepit and ridiculously easy to gain access to. There are Conference sides in England with more impressive facilities, and that's no exaggeration. And as we inspected the work of the various graffiti artists on the walls of the arena, we soon grasped the kind of reception we were about to be met with. 'Ljubljana Green Dragon Hooligans', 'Capital Riot Crew' and more amusingly 'Everton' were displayed in foot high letters, together with offerings from CSKA Moscow and Hadjuk Split Ultras among others. With the clearly noticeable message of support for our closest rivals (Everton) it was evident the Slovenians had done their homework, and weren't out to make friends.

We managed to get in the stadium early to have a look around, entering through an open gate as opposed to mounting a wall. Our group seemed almost disappointed with the ease in which we were able to enter the arena. Having failed to pick up a football en route, we were thus denied a game on the pitch, as is our usual custom, so we opted instead for getting a photo with a flag in the dugout. Unsurprisingly it wasn't long before we were invited to leave, a request with which we obliged, before making our way into town by foot, leaving the car by the ground.

The Liverpudlians already in town had made an open square around the appropriately named 'Dragon Bridge' their own, and so we added my array of banners to the multitude of flags already displayed adjacent to the bar. We swapped stories with other fans about the various routes taken into Ljubljana, and the events of the night before. From the tales regarding what had transpired the previous evening, the night ahead threatened to turn a shade nasty, and when a small group of Olimpija fans came and sat in the middle of us and began to sing disdainfully, this did nothing to persuade us otherwise. After chatting with the odd journalist and photographer, and a horse (yes, horse) burger or two though, with the sun beginning to disappear behind the hills, we headed for the ground for the second time.

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Now Liverpool fans are not exactly strangers to the kind of chaotic explosive encounters European competition can bring - from Rome's historic Olympic stadium, to Galatasaray's demonic hideout, and the colossus Nou Camp in Barcelona. But then there are trips to Slovenia. Having seen the ground in the daylight, we knew just how desperate it was. However in the same way a nightclub can seem lonely and melancholic by day and yet decadent and thrilling by night, we could only hope that as the sun set and the ascending masses felt the pull of a European game, the decrepit Central Stadium would be transformed into a bubbling cauldron atmosphere. Alas it soon became apparent that our hopes were in vain. Before entering the ground, we returned to the car, which was five yards from our turnstiles to be pleasantly surprised to find it was still there. If any Slovenians are considering to park on Anfield road for the return leg… well, you've been warned.

Sure enough the game as a spectacle wasn't exactly what the Chileans would dub 'el superclassico', and from our perspective it turned particularly sour when the hosts had the cheek to take the lead twenty minutes into the second half. Penned in by some uncompromising police, we watched the dour encounter unfold from the side of the pitch behind the benches where we had roamed free earlier that afternoon. However in truth, with the game far from inspiring, it was the home fans to our right who most drew our attention. The mass of green was led by a shaven-headed fan who stood on the fence and started the odd song or fifty, commanding his troops to fall into line and follow his lead. Then came the flares, in glaring green of course, which were followed oddly enough by an unashamed show of disdain by the Olimpija faithful, who proceeded to join arms and collectively turn their backs on the game, singing and jumping hysterically. Obviously we had no idea what they were chanting, apart from when they blurted out 'England, England, who the f!%k is England'. I wonder if they knew they were from the most random capital in the continent?

The bizarre antics in the crowd continued when a group of fans from Olimpija rivals Dinamo Zagreb turned up to give the home fans some abuse. When they attempted to put a blue flag up though, some Liverpool fans took it upon themselves to 'politely' restrain them. All I wanted to know was why they were in Slovenia instead of watching their own team in Croatia as they simultaneously overcame MTK three goals to one. Anyway with the game failing to engage any real interest, the excitement in the three-quarters full 8000 capacity crowd further dissipated, and so one of the Liverpool regulars decided to strip down and hang from the fences sporting nothing but a thong, much to the bemusement and amusement of the police and spectators alike. The man came close to death more than once as he clung to the fence, but seemed unconcerned. For those five minutes, which is a long time to be hanging naked from a fence, he at least has the dubious honour of commanding more attention than the match that we had travelled 1400 km to see.

Owen grabbed an equalising goal with thirteen minutes remaining to spare Houllier's blushes, but the goal was only really noteworthy for the fact that it propelled the Welshman into the record books as Liverpool's top scorer in Europe on twenty-one goals, one ahead of Ian Rush, ironically the striker's current forward coach. I think however, that it speaks volumes when I've come away from a European game and only reported information on the two goals scored, and even they have been scantily depicted. But it was a low-key encounter, not worthy of any more detailed commentary. Though having said that, I refuse to complain, for at least we weren't defeated. Owen and Smicer were impressive; Diao and Murphy were not, with the performances of just about everyone else proving fairly indifferent. And although few positives could be taken from the game, I'm not too concerned about the result or the performance. We didn't need to set the world alight, or notch a brace of goals. After all, victories were scraped over Romanian and Czech opponents en route to winning the trophy in 2001 so an unconvincing start this time out is of little concern. The Slovenians should be brushed aside in the home leg, leaving us with a second round trip to Roma or Barcelona knowing my luck.

After the game we headed back into town, and to the bar where we had spent most of that afternoon. Somehow we had picked up a local girl on the walk back, and unable to resist the Scouse charm, she decided to accompany us for the evening, having promised us a night on her floor in return. For typically we had no accommodation arranged for the night ahead, which seems like a good idea when you're arranging the trip on a Monday morning in Liverpool, but appears a less than ideal solution when there's five of you freezing your arses off in some random foreign city faced with a night in the car in the shadows of Europe's most decrepit ground. But the slightly naive girl was surprisingly only too happy to spend an evening with a bunch of Liverpudlians and even bought the ale in at the bar. She soon learned that that was not necessary however as an unmanned bar provided us with all the ale we could drink, at an unbeatable rate.

The evening threatened to pass off fairly quietly, until a suspect group of Slovenians came past, obviously having followed the singing, deciding to stick around for a bit. We were unperturbed, at least until one of them took off his belt, revealing a huge metal buckle that he looked set to swing around his head at a moments notice. From that moment on, the stress-free trip suddenly turned into pandemonium. The local lads started singing and generally pushing their weight around, and there inevitably followed a confrontation. A glass was thrown, and then what started as a minor scuffle soon developed into a mini riot, with glass raining and the police unashamedly resorting to heavy-handed tactics on just about everyone in sight. At the time we were unfortunately stuck in the middle of the action outside the bar, a pub that had been locked shut, with no Liverpudlians allowed in or out, preventing the group from getting any bigger or smaller. Slovenians seemed to lie in all directions, as did the police, who at first threatened to take a hold of the situation. After a moment of calm though, a further scuffle ensued and it was time to start dodging the bottles again, which were raining down in all directions, as the collection of cut heads that were visible during momentary flashes of calm served to testify.

Now those Liverpudlians present who were accustomed to such events, evidently seemed keen not to let the proceedings of the previous half hour go unnoticed, and began setting up a counterattack. The only problem is, of the sixty or so Liverpool fans caught up in the trouble, very few actually wanted the hostility to continue. A lot of Liverpool's firm were not on the trip. One thing was agreed by the majority though was that the locked bar we were outside should be abandoned, so we began to walk up the road. Yet as we left the bar it became worryingly obvious that the group was decreasing in size, as large numbers dispersed. By now the Slovenians seemed to have regrouped, and our particular assembly were faced with the decision of whether to leave the area, and in all likelihood get picked off by groups of OL hoolies having heard the news of the fight, and keen for a result over 'the English', or stay with the larger group and take the risk of getting caught up in trouble. Ironically the latter option was the one we felt would prove the least dangerous, so we opted to stick around. It wasn't pretty, but it was never going to be. We usually avoid such antics, but if you go to every away game in Europe, your luck has to run out somewhere.

As we walked down the main shopping street we were met by a group of the Green Dragons, who at the sight of some irate Liverpool fans, at first seemed to disappear. However, they came back moments later and proceeded to pounce on the most advanced Liverpool fan, inflicting a number of blows before and after he had fallen to the ground having lost consciousness. The problem was, we were badly organised. A few lads at the front had been picked off because as a group we were split. It was a long street, and some had run on ahead, with others walking, half expecting an attack from behind. There was no solidity and no one took the lead, with people just doing what came naturally, so it was unsurprising that Olimpija took advantage. The police, having obviously let them through then appeared from behind them during a moment of relative calm. The perpetrators were not controlled by the powers that be, inaction which did little to appease the mood of the Liverpudlians. There were no arrests, and so those who required it were taken to hospital, with the rest opting to disappear off to their respective accommodation.

The Slovenian girl who had promised us a room in her place had understandably fled in the panic, which left us with something of a dilemma on our hands, for once again we had nowhere to stay. We certainly could not risk sticking around in the hope of us finding accommodation. Stories were filtering through of other groups of Green Dragons on their way down to where we were, and had we have stayed another minute, we would undoubtedly have got picked off. Luckily I knew a few of lads we were with and as they were departing the scene, they agreed to let us stay in their hotel. But unsure about the safety of the car, we were in two minds as to whether to get a taxi straight there or pick the vehicle up en route. But with order far from restored we decided it was best to jump in a cab and head for the ground where the car was parked, which was not to prove a wise move. For little did we know that two riot vans had followed us, assuming we were trying to find Olimpija hooligans to continue the battle. With the police of such an opinion, the fact that we had gone straight to the ground I'm sure made our task of convincing them that we were attempting to get out of the area considerably more difficult. We couldn't tell them the car was ours, as I was probably over the limit, and I doubt the car, with Italian plates should have been parked there anyway. But they finally agreed to let us leave and stay in the taxi to the hotel. The car would have to be picked up in the morning.

The next day we got out of Ljubljana as quickly as we could, and attempted to make for the Italian border. But it wasn't until we stopped at a tollbooth that we realised that we were actually heading for Austria and not Italy. In retrospect it was a good job we saw the signs for Graz and decided to ask the fun loving tollbooth operator for directions. Eventually we got on the right road and headed back towards the coastal town of Trieste, where we then travelled inland towards Udine, for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Yet despite the random nature of the visit, that afternoon the five of us simply fell in love with Udine. After the chaotic events of the previous night, this little Italian town provided the tranquillity we sorely needed. Upon arrival we followed signs for the ground of Udinese, the city's Serie A team, where the relaxed ground staff seemed to have no problem with us walking around the stadium with our flags and taking photos in the stands. But for us that wasn't enough. We simply had to get onto the pitch. So we decided to continue the tour of the impressive arena, in a bid to gain access to the hallowed turf. We managed to get into what appeared to be some kind of pre-match entertainment venue, which greeted visitors simply with the emblem 'Italia 90' on the door, a crest none of us had seen since the days of kicking the World Cup '90 mini footballs that were doing the rounds at the time.

Odd members of staff who saw us wandering around the facilities seemed a little suspicious, though were not concerned enough to stop us in our tracks. And so we proceeded to the press box, and from there, onto the pitch. As we were unravelling the banner by the dugout a player came out decked in Udinese gear from head to toe, and we decided to invite him to join us in the picture, a request that he graciously accepted. But after getting on the pitch of another European club, we knew the immediate purchasing of a scarf was in order, so we made our way into town in search of the club shop, where we all 'bought' a scarf, before reluctantly leaving the town.

For this European trip we were flying in and out of Venice and yet to that point we had not stepped foot anywhere near those famous canals and quaint streets. So despite the lengthy traffic jams en route to the airport and the lack of time left before our flight, we decided that we had to make the trip. So after throwing the car in a multi-storey car park on the outskirts of the city, we began the most stressful 'running' tour of the beautiful city by the sea. Venice has long been considered the most romantic city in all of Europe, not only rich in the language of love, but in history and the arts as well, which has seen tourists in their millions flock to this city of sunshine and love for hundreds of years. But romantic or not, the lads were a bit shocked when they discovered that no buses come to your rescue to pick you up and offer to dump you in various parts of the city. No taxis either.

Couples sauntered down by the Grand Canal, perusing and examining the sights, that is, during the brief moments where they would take their eyes off one another. I think the sight of five Scousers sprinting down the narrow streets and jumping over bridges may have altered the ambience of the place for such folk, for a few minutes at least. But we knew calm would soon be restored after we had vacated the area so we felt no guilt for swerving in and out of the tourists and love-struck couples. We were in desperate search of St Mark's square, for I knew that even this group of culturally starved convicts would be impressed by the awe inspiring piazza. Which they were - just. But no sooner had we arrived, got the flag out once again and got a couple of shots outside St Mark's cathedral, we had to depart the scene and begin an even more hectic journey on foot back to the fiat, in the hope of getting the car back to the rental company and making our flight in time, a hope that was diminishing with every set of cruelly designed traffic lights we passed though.

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We pulled up at the airport after a traumatic trip back, where only a handful of Scousers were gathered waiting to check in. But of the group of five Liverpudlians waiting with us in the queue, only two were actually permitted entry with us into departures. Apparently the group had attempted to bring an excessive amount of ciggies back to England. Well when I say excessive, I mean that the protagonist had paid for his accomplices to come over for the match, in return for help in getting the £2000 he'd spent on cigarettes back to England, which was set to make him well over £10,000 richer. But the luggage wasn't allowed on the plane, and neither were three of the group. Yet in truth for every failed scam of these sorts on European trips, the perpetrators tend to get away with five more, assuming they're well organised. Though everyone's luck runs out somewhere. Thankfully ours had not, for when we got back to England, my car was still at the airport and I was able to drive the lads home, dump the flags, pack a bag, and head straight for Manchester airport for the trip of a lifetime coaching football to orphaned Russians in Moscow. Life in the fast lane eh…

The return trip didn't fall for another three weeks, thanks to England's involvement in the European championship qualifiers, but it was to prove worth the wait. For on a night where Liverpool never really got out of third gear, we cruised to a three-nil victory. Led by new skipper Steven Gerrard, who officially took over the captaincy from Sami Hyypia, the home side managed to overcome the intimidating effect of the roaring Slovenian masses.

Sixty-nine fans. How can any team bring such a ridiculously low number of spectators to a capacity crowd at fortress Anfield? Only Wimbledon have I seen give such a woeful account of themselves away from home. And so with six hundred and twenty-seven fans packed into Anfield for every one Ljubljana supporter, Houllier's side, spurred on by a buoyant Kop which has missed its European football, proceeded to toy with the Slovenians from the outset. For unlike the first leg, every man in a red shirt was impressive, with goals proving only a matter of time. The inspired Borut Mavric in the Olimpija goal denied first the tricky Diouf and then the tireless Heskey before, but could not deny Le Tallec on his full Anfield debut who opened the scoring on twenty-nine minutes. Then Heskey, fresh from his Istanbul bust up and looking as menacing as ever, made amends for firing wide by slotting home moments later to effectively kill the tie before half time.

Two minutes after the interval it was more of the same, with Kewell finishing from a fine Heskey cross. But although Liverpool threatened to add to their lead, the Scouse faithful were to be frustrated somewhat for the remainder of the half. Pongolle, on for his countryman and scorer of the opening goal went close, but was denied, as was Diouf who missed from the penalty spot. With Henchoz reintroduced to the side half way though the second half, Biscan progressed into midfield where the man who is fast becoming a legend at Anfield was roared on whenever in possession, almost notching a goal for his efforts. But in the end three goals were all Houllier's men produced, as the Kop sung the name of the manager in recognition of a job well done. I'm just looking forward to seeing where UEFA will send the Kopites next on our latest European tour. In my book, the more obscure, the better.

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