Champions League 2007 - 2008 - Euro Red Diary 29

by Joel Rookwood

Olympic Marseille v Liverpool UEFA Champions League Group Stage 11th December 2007

In a season that is supposed to be all about bringing the title back to its Merseyside home, Liverpool have recently been in danger of overlooking the trophy that has been kindest to them of late, the Champions League. Benitez's side looked dead and buried after three matches in the competition, but completed a remarkable comeback in Marseille to qualify for the Super Sixteen round of the Champions League on match day six. At the mid-way point of the group phase, last season's finalists looked dead and buried, clocking up just a single point. After three more matches however, the five time winners had impressively secured a tally ten times that number.

Although Liverpool's final European result of 2007 represented a hugely significant lift for the club, the poor start to the competition ensured that we finished second to group winners Porto. As a consequence we have been drawn against Italy's unbeaten champions Inter Milan in the next round. Meanwhile, Porto will face Schalke. Oh dear, the pessimism that has characterised my articles this season seems to have been justified. How I wished to have been proven wrong. Ah well, we'll just have to knock Inter out now. Anyway, we'll leave that for March. Right now, I know you're dying to hear about our trip to Southern France, so I won't waste any more of your time.

Well, we flew to the wrong country, which didn't help. Apparently, Barcelona (Girona) Airport is in Spain. Who'd have thought it eh? So, we had a bit of drive on our hands when we landed late on the night before the game. But as me al mate Davey Stead said as we began the four-hour drive up the Mediterranean coast, ‘who's arsed, we've got a hotel to go to and a nice car for once.' A great point well made I thought. The days of hitching rides, bunking trains, sleeping in 24-hour banks and sun bed shops seem to be behind us.

We arrived in Marseille to find that the early hours of the morning in this likeable 'French' port contain very little in the way of life, save for a few suspect characters and a small army of rats the size of cats. After about a week we located our hotel after negotiating the ridiculous one-way system. The task not aided by the instructions on the hotel's website, which were as likely to keep you confused and lost as they were to ensure you would stumble across the hotel. When we eventually found the hotel, it was time to get our heads down.

The following morning we went out to meet various groups of mates, all of whom seemed to have opted for a more sensible itinerary than ours. Feeling all nostalgic, we found old haunts from our previous visit and dreamily reminisced of the good old days in the UEFA Cup, when every round was against a random team from some obscure town near Vladikavkaz, with a few teams who had fallen from greatness thrown in for good measure. On our only previous visit to Marseille, the latter description could have been bestowed on both clubs. Now however, Liverpool have risen from the doldrums, whilst Marseille are still pretty crap. Still, we've both won the European Cup which is more that can be said for any team from either of our respective nation's capital cities. And whenever we play Arsenal or Chelsea, or they play Paris Saint Germain, you know we both make that point.

But we hadn't come here to reminisce, or to complain about the predictable locations you find yourself in when your teams plays regularly in the Champions League. Neither had we come to make friends with those from another semi-separatist city. We had come to knock Marseille out of the Champions League and go through to the next round in their place. And didn't the locals know it.

The game was a couple of weeks ago now so I can't remember all the details. But we scored, a few I think, and they didn't score any. That meant we won the game, which was nice. And so we all clambered around our end celebrating, blissfully unaware that we were soon to be drawn against Inter Milan. We did also marvel at the noise and the passion of the home end, still one of the noisiest on the continent, whether defeated or victorious.

With the victory in the bag early on, thoughts soon turned to the next round, as we excitedly discussed the prospect of going to Italy or Spain. From the five teams we could have drawn, all of them were based in one country or the other. I think the general consensus seemed to rule in favour of a trip to Seville. We were keen to avoid Inter, as they look fairly unstoppable these days. So sure enough, we drew the champions of Italy. Like I said, no problem.

On the way home we went via Montpellier, only to find it was the worst ground in what seemed to be one the worst towns in Europe. We couldn't even be bothered bunking in, and we didn't have a ball anyway. Instead, we simply made for the Spanish border. Once we had arrived at the airport I noticed a group of Lazio fans about our age who were obviously on their way back from Real Madrid. At first they were oblivious to us and our footballing affiliation, as we slyly watched them flick through photos and video footage from the Bernabéu on the world's largest digital camera. They soon twigged however.

There were other Liverpool fans in the vicinity, who had been stupid enough to make the same journey as we had done. They were more obviously Liverpool fans as well if you know what I mean.

The Swig. You know the ones, shirts and colours and the like. Possibly from Preston or Prestatyn. It didn't take long for the Romans to notice them, and some of the Lazio lads immediately sent snarling glances in their direction, which suggested the Italians weren't the friendliest bunch. It's funny, those kind of exchanges can go either way. After a quick look around they soon noticed we were Liverpool fans as well, but they weren't quite as quick to snarl at us.

And yet whilst they weren't out to kill us, it was obvious they didn't want to talk football. So to kill time instead, I got my camera out to flick through pictures of our European trip. A Marseille scarf accidentally fell out of my bag as I reached for the camera, landing with a nice big shiny embroidered European Cup facing the group of Italians.

They looked on jealously. I could have put it back in my bag, but instead I just pretended not to notice and left it lying there. If they wanted to acted like cranks, it was all we could do to leave them with the message that they hail from just another European capital city who will never produce a European champion.

So that's about it. A bit of a short one I know, but fear not, I will be back next month with tales from the African Cup of Nations or the African Nations Cup or whatever it's called.

I'm off to Ghana for the first week of the competition, so brace yourself for some more tales of the unexpected. In the meantime, for all you Scousers out there.... All together now, "Italy, Italy, we're the greatest team in Europe and we're going to Italy."

Making friends in France.