Liverpool FC - Euro Red Diary 16

by Joel Rookwood

Liverpool v Anderlecht

When I find the lad who said that driving to Anderlecht was a good idea, he's in for a good hiding. A Euro away trip from Brussels to Liverpool might appear a meagre trek, in comparison to an expedition to the likes of Moscow or Istanbul, but only the insane would contemplate driving all that way when flights to surrounding cities leave daily from John Lennon Airport. After thirty-odd European trips, surely you're supposed to get the hand of this continental travel.

Anyway, regardless of such complaints, an initial decision to travel by land and sea had been taken by the majority. And so we set off the evening before the game in search of the Belgian footballing capital, and less importantly, the capital of the country itself.

So a long overnight drive south to Dover was followed by a sea passage over the Channel, with a final couple of hours back in the Jeep taking us through to our chosen destination.

Our first port of call was the unremarkable city of Gent, the name of which I had to rely upon a football scarf brought home from the insignificant Flemish city in order to recall. A poor man's Amsterdam if ever I've seen one.

We wasted little time in the sleepy city, and after some quick refreshment, be it in the form of full immersion in H2O, or something more fermented, we headed to Brussels. The last time we had been to the city on a European away day had been en route to Basle for an absurdly eventful albeit an ultimately unsuccessful venture under a previous Liverpool regime. We could only hope that this particular excursion would prove more fruitful both on and off the pitch.

Brussels' main square was again host to the majority of supporters, with the bulk of the travelling Kop enjoying a few fine ales in the historic surroundings of Belgium's finest city during the afternoon of the big game. ‘Big' my arse. I'm kidding no one am I? It was a nothing game, one in which we just had to turn up, score and get off with the three points. Still, you can't have a historic win in the European Cup final every week – they only come about once a year with Liverpool.

With the afternoon fast disappearing, we left Grand Place and headed for the ground, a search that in itself proved ridiculously complex and time consuming. We had no trouble locating the stadium in question on our only previous visit, relying then as we did on the ever-efficient European public transport network. This time however there was to be no tram ride, no game of football on the famous turf with a match ball 'obtained' from a certain Champions League fixture.

We arrived at the ground far more inconspicuously a few hours before kick off, and parked up right outside the stadium, and prepared ourselves for the most aggressive police force in European football.

As we had seen from documentary footage of Euro 2000, the Belgian authorities are not the friendliest when it came to English football supporters. This occasion was certainly no exception. We spent the hours leading up to the game in a bar by the ground, heading up to the stadium some thirty minutes prior to kick off. And that was when all the fun and games started.

Now with Brussels being only around the corner in European terms, assuming you have a brain and take a plane that is, every man and his dog thought they would make the trip, assuming if they couldn't get hold of a ticket, that the old ‘double click' routine would gain them entry to the ground.

The local police however were wise to such a theory, and were particularly harsh in their treatment of offenders. As you entered the away end, the host of guilty supporters crammed into a small pen in the corner served as testament of the strict line adopted by the stadium security officials.

If we weren't the cheekiest fan base in Europe, it would have proven quite the deterrent. The occasional complaints at the harsh treatment inflicted on the recognisable figures were met with an even less sympathetic response. Those of us who had gained entry through legitimate means, or those wilely enough to escape the scores of traps set up by the militaristic police force shuddered at the thought of joining the unlucky Liverpudlians as we walked past them and made for our seats.

Well, I suppose it's about time I mentioned the match itself. We were very average, but they were a lot worse, and all we needed to win the game was a solitary strike from Cisse. The former Auxerre forward is surely the worst player to wear the Liverpool number 9 shirt in living memory, but he is nevertheless playing for the European Champions.

Even the hapless Frenchman can't fail to take some of the chances carved out and put on a plate for him by an energetic, commanding and creative midfield. Cisse however would take only one, but on this occasion it was enough to see the Kings of the continent return home with the victory we came for. Rafa's men had won this largely unspectacular tie, and returned home barely committing the experience to memory. In truth, the same could be said for the majority of the away support.

Joel Rookwood

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