Liverpool FC - Euro Red Diary 8

by Joel Rookwood

UEFA Champions' League Monaco Away – 23 November 2004

With recent football excursions to Portugal, Bulgaria and Spain having involved making some dubious decisions regarding the use of hired cars, despite the apparent insanity of each respective trip, none in the end proved something some persuasion and a lenient view of the legality of certain contracts couldn't fix.

And on each expedition, obviously involving a ridiculous game far from the comfort of north Liverpool, my problematic transportation tactics never seriously threatened my attendance at the game in question. Monaco however, was to prove a quite different story. Poet Robbie Burns once claimed that ‘the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray'. And our method of getting to the South of France certainly didn't reflect anyone's idea of a ‘best' plan... far from it in fact.

The lunacy started en route to the airport, when I had the good sense to drive my own car into a field. For some reason unknown to everyone present, the ditch in question seemed a far better alternative to driving the ten miles that remained to Stansted ON THE ROAD. Four hours in the car therefore and we appeared to have blown it at the final hurdle. As we waited for help, armed with fading hopes, we had to watch on in agony as plane after plane soared up to the sky from the nearby airport – you could almost smell the on-board breakfasts. But ultimately we weren't to be disappointed. For somehow, with the aid of a local farmer, we managed to get out of the ditch and back onto the road, and despite the vast quantities of oil that was leaking from the engine, we made it, and in the nick of time, to board our St Etienne-bound flight.

We sat back and relaxed, cockily chatting up the American student who had unfortunately positioned herself in the middle of our group until the aircraft began its decent. Then after a smooth landing we strolled off the plane and into an airport that was no stranger to us, for we had past through it on our way to see Liverpool knocked out of last season's UEFA Cup in Marseille. Our swagger soon turned to a disbelieving motionless however, when our quest to pick up the hire car we had booked was rendered unsuccessful. Now in Portugal, the amiable staff at such establishments can be persuaded. In Bulgaria, corruption supports bribery. But France is neither amiable nor corrupt. Instead her people are arrogant, suspicious and disregarding of anything that holds a UK passport. And needless to say, the staff at the car hire company in question perfectly embodied these two charming national characteristics. Their refusal to accept any of our six credit cards left us in the unenviable position of being stuck with a 1300km round trip ahead of us in the next two days, without any transportation. It was the night before the game, and the sun had set on rural France, and it appeared, on my proud record of eighteen consecutive European trips.

And then I remembered something that I thought, could save our collective plight, something I had been overlooking in a brief half hour of panic. We are Scousers. The lippiest, inspired, visionary, eccentric, resilient, pacy, optimistic, obsessive and legendary people in the world (and yes, it is a coincidence that the first letters of those adjectives happen to spell the name of our great city). One way or another, we were getting to that game. It wasn't a possibility. It was a decision. And once I had convinced the other members of the group of this ‘fact', I had to convince myself, which, eventually, I did.

We started with a partially-blagged coach ride 50 miles north to Lyon, which considering as it was in the opposite direction of our final destination, didn't fill the party with hope. But it was a major city with major route ways, and therefore represented our only realistic hope of getting to Monaco before Christmas. The fact we had missed the last train south when our ridiculously lethargic coach driver had got us to Lyon did little to lift the boys' spirits however. But I was unperturbed, and had to remain so, for I was faced with having to find accommodation for four in the centre of France's ‘second city' for a combined price of around £25, before finding transport for the increasingly extensive coast-bound journey. No problem. On our last visit to the city, en route to Marseille, we got thirteen lads into two rooms in a four star hotel (unnoticed) for a fee that worked out at £15 each… this time should be a doddle, I thought. And so it proved to be. One surprisingly cheap and central room was located and nonchalantly booked, while the rest went in search for a source of food. Then it was just a case of getting the lads past the reception without being detected. So we waited until some guests arrived at the lodgings, and entered together, mixed in with their party. Then, whilst the lads tried to escape into the lift, with the single room key now in their possession, I had to distract the receptionist with an amusing anecdote. In French. Needless to say, the details of that conversation will not be disclosed here.

Miraculously, by six the next morning we had boarded the train to Marseille, where we had five minutes to swap platforms to catch the Nice train. Pas du problem. We got into the French port for midday, when we met up with friends and compared stories of our respective voyages, each member of our group careful to avoid the small matter of our return journey. An expensive train, a flight we didn't harbour much of hope of catching and a broken down car lay in store for us. But that was light years away. A whole eleven hours in fact. So we relaxed in the sun, got the flag out IN the sea and drank the offys dry before heading to the train station once again for the final leg of the journey to Monaco.

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Upon our long-awaited arrival in the Principality (whatever one of those is), we discovered that the authorities in their wisdom had instilled a day-long alcohol ban to celebrate our invasion (no doubt following Chelsea's visit, complete with their charming support, in the semi-final of the competition the previous season). What is more, the police were surprisingly effective and comprehensive in their efforts to ensure it was upheld. Foolishly, we had gone to Monaco five hours before kick off, with very little else to take the place of ritualised drinking, except get run over by one of the hundreds of flash cars.

But then I remembered the factor that was sure to save us. We are Scousers. And so, with consummate ease, a Mexican restaurant was relieved of the bottles of tequila that lay proudly in the window display, as we continued with the normal pre-match rituals. When that had run out, we went to plan B - an astute member of the group had noticed that the staff at one open-air bar had foolishly placed all the ale in bin bags behind their bar. And they were even nicely arranged in packs of eight. So we thought it was rude not to sample a pack or five. As we drunk the ale, disguised as it had to be in ‘supersize' cups from the adjacent McDonalds, I looked on proudly as the non-violent behaviour and endless laughter continued, fuelled inevitably by alcohol. The police who stood looking on nervously were bemused by our light-heartedness, clearly oblivious to the fact the ban that they had proudly instilled was being treating with the disregard it so deserved just yards from their noses, and with a subtlety that hindered detection.

With the moral victory in the bag, as the sun began to set behind the famous harbour, I looked up to where I had positioned my banners on the wall behind us, to see a new flag being unveiled. With beautiful simplicity it read ‘them scousers' - and I smiled to myself and thought about the antithetical plight which we were faced with last time the sun set on us. Like our team we had been down, but never out. To top it all off, the brother of Liverpool defender Jamie Carragher joined us for the festivities, and got a can or two for no other reason than the fact his brother is a legend. Transport and police tactics aside, the Monaco trip could now be considered a success.

With the game looming, given the difficult plight that lay in store for us immediately after it, I thought it wise to make a few quid that was on offer, picking up some tickets for a few local lads who were apparently not welcome by the club's officials. One of them was in the same tracksuit as me, and had a look on his face that was also all too familiar. It was the 'I really want to go to this game and I haven't got a ticket' face. And they were willing to pay generous rates. With our funds for train fares not even approaching what they needed to be, it was a typically fortunate option to have at our disposal. And somehow the sum we collated managed to get the whole group all the way home. We even had a record £1.52 left in the kitty when we pulled up at my house two days later. The worst laid plans…

The end.

What? Oh, right, the game, of course. Yeah, it was great. We got beat. 1-0 I think. But don't worry, that story ends well too, as our captain bagged a last minute goal at Anfield to send us through at the expense of our visitors Olympiakos. I had to listen to commentary on the radio down the ‘phone from Houston airport of all places… don't ask. And of all the teams we could have got in the draw for the last sixteen? It's only the side against whom I started my run of consecutive European games – yep, it's back to Leverkusen.

Joel Rookwood

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