Liverpool FC - Euro Red Diary 7

by Joel Rookwood

UEFA Champions' League Deportivo Away – 3 November 2004

In keeping with the ethos of our European tours watching Liverpool, disaster had struck before we had even left the country. Having spent the week leading up to our departure for La Coruna in Russia, I was unable to answer the host of correspondence that plagued my flatmate in my absence, all of which were insisting on my paying a credit card bill. Now the money for once wasn’t the issue. For once our group of four bade the Liver Buildings farewell with enough currency to cope with even the most problematic of European trips. Our kitty would have served as a solution to any problem Spain could throw at us… we had ale money, blackmail money, even bail money, should it be needed. But importantly, it hadn’t gone towards settling the outstanding bill in question. Subsequently, despite my frantic pleas, the delightful banking corporation (whose name of course I can’t mention), refused to accept payment over the phone. And even if they would, it would take ‘three-to-four working days to clear’. You’ve got to love NatWest.

With none of the other group members owning a credit card, the situation looked bleak. For in my wisdom I had booked a flight to Santander, and thus required transport to La Coruna and back. It was only an 1100km round trip, a mere stroll in our terms. So I had booked a car when reserving the flight, and thought nothing more of the matter. But, as I have found to my horror in the past, the car hire company only hand the keys over when you present a credit card that has available funds. So four hours before our flight was due to take off, we found ourselves still without a card that would gain us the car we so badly needed. Fortunately however, I’ve got a relative who was good enough, or should that be stupid enough to lend me his card.

So when at the car hire desk in the remote Santander airport, I had to convince one of the lads to temporarily assume the identity of my brother. When asked for his passport, our new kid, under my instructions, just looked blankly at the assistant, and blurted out nonsensical Scouse jibberish until the confused clerk gave up and handed me the keys. We had done it the hard way again, but nevertheless, we were on our way to Deportivo. - Obviously this isn’t a place, but no self-respecting Scouser would every say to mates at the league game before ‘see you in La Coruna’. Needless to say in such circumstances, ‘Depor’ would and did suffice.

Before leaving Santander, with spirits high due to the freedom and flexibility that obtaining the use of the car had given us, we thought it rude not to take a swim in the Atlantic, and go for an impromptu kick about on the local park, which we did, in reverse order. Unfortunately we couldn’t locate any parks, so had to make do with Racing Santander’s ground. The groundsmen appeared a little perplexed by our presence on their field, but it was a good ten minutes before they mustered the courage to get us off and usher us out of the ground. By that stage we were willing walkers, for that ten minute spell was enough to see us sit in the dugout, inspect the changing rooms and have a penalty competition on what for some Cantabrians would represent holy turf. They were even good enough to have the nets up... Some one must have known we were coming.

Once back in the car, we headed into Asturias and to Ovideo, the first port of call en route to La Coruna. Once there all that was required was another visit to a football ground, with Real Ovideo the unsuspecting victims on this occasion. But this visit proved less problematic as there wasn’t a single employee in the vicinity. So we were able to wander aimlessly around the ground and lose the ball in the stands a few times following some more questionable penalty taking techniques, before setting off once again. This time, it was destination Depor at last.

With La Coruna deceptively quiet in our arrival, coming as it did late in the evening, after checking into our pension, we thought a quiet uneventful night was in store. We should have known better. Indeed alarm bells should have been ringing in my ears as soon as we stumbled across the entire Sky Sports News Team in the first bar we walked into. The sixteen idiots were chatting hurriedly to themselves in posh voices, all sporting ridiculous attire, such as chords and the like, full of self-importance. I must have disappeared for all of thirty seconds to relieve myself in the nearby tocador, and when I came back I saw the reaction to a typically thoughtless comment from someone in the media who thinks their actions, no matter how idiotic, are above reprisal. One of the lads was administering his own diplomatic justice, with one hand around the culprit’s neck, the other gripping an ashtray. Put the two together and what do you get…? Well you lose the kitty to the suddenly inflated bail budget. Thankfully however my intervention was enough to see peace reign, and we left, leaving the pompous nuggets to collect our bill.

The lunacy continued when we forgot to pay the bill at the next bar, and found ourselves being chased halfway around the port by some impressively agile North Africans. We were soon caught, and did well not to retaliate to the clip round the ear we received for that little misdemeanour, after which we decided to cut our losses and call it a night. At any rate, had we have thrown the little horror into the water we surely would have been talking jail time and we were all big enough to admit we got what we deserved. We couldn’t really have gone far anyway, for the bar in question was directly opposite our pension. What’s all that about excrement and doorsteps…?

Tired and ready for a well-earned kip, when we got back in the hotel one of the lads asked to see the match tickets. So I reached into my bag, and pulled out the envelope that they came in, which I had collected from the Liverpool ticket office the previous day. Inexplicably, when I went to empty the contents of the envelope, all that fell out was the useless stadium map the club always supply for away European ties. Now two members of the group hadn’t bothered getting their own tickets, so initially I was a little suspicious. But it soon became clear that the briefs weren’t in the hotel room.

So I text my flatmate and asked him to have a look around for the tickets, just in case I had left them at home. “Yeah, they’re in your drawer, what shall I do with them” came the reply moments later. 3:00 on the morning of the game and none of us had a ticket, £30 a head down the drain. And somehow none of us cared. But with £60 being £60, I decided to make a phone call to try and rectify the situation. As luck would have it, the first person I called who I knew was travelling out on the day of the game was on his way home from town after a night out. As he answered, he was in a taxi 400 yards from my flat. After a quick detour up Scotty Road, he was soon back home and packing for Depor. Five hours later, the very tickets were back in my grateful hands.

The following day we decided just to head for the stadium, set up camp in the nearest bar and stay there all day. So we put up a flag or three outside one unsuspecting alehouse on looking the ground, which was practically on the beach, and settled in for the morning… the afternoon and evening looked after themselves.

As we sat at the window of the bar, countless passers by were stopping out of curiosity to inspect the inhabitants of the bar. Attracted by the noise being generated inside it, or just passing through, several stopped to inspect one of my Liverpool banners that was tied up on the exterior wall. We watched in amusement as people proceeded to count the number of European trophies displayed proudly on the banner, their expression clearly inferring respect. Others however, evidently unaware of the inhabitants mocking them from within, appeared to have difficulty counting to seven. I should have gone outside and directed him to Goodison. Counting to one can’t be that difficult, even for a Spaniard.

In the ground the atmosphere was surprisingly electric, yet it was the away fans making all the noise, with the home support remaining fairly reserved. The Spaniards had inexplicably split the Liverpool fans into two sections, half being housed in the top left and the remaining fans in the bottom right. It was probably in protest that we shook the Esdadio De Riazor to its very foundations, as we did in the Nou Camp when Barca consigned us to the top tear of each of the four corners of the ground.

With the previous two Champions League results not going our way it was imperative that we came away with three points, and this notion soon became the focus of the evening. Thankfully Benitez and co, made sure we did just that. It took an own goal to win us the game, but the solitary deflection failed to tell the whole story of an encounter that Liverpool dominated. It’s not many times a Liverpool fan comes from an away ground saying that at the moment. This win, inspired by the rejuvenated, though still absolutely woeful Igor Biscan should set us on our way to the next stage, assuming our final two fixtures don’t present too many difficulties. Talking of which, next stop is Monaco in three weeks time, which for us will probably be via somewhere daft like Helsinki. If it wasn’t for the home games, we’d probably just stay out here.

Joel Rookwood

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