[mooro]

Part 2

It was midday before either of us stirred. Kenny, now sober realised the full impact of his lost wallet: it had contained loads more beside just cash and cards, and it was the loss of the sentimental items that was most distressing. We decided to find an internet café to get the international call numbers for his bank, to freeze his accounts as the passwords for his internet banking were in the hands of the harlots. Sofia is one of those strange cities where everything useful (i.e. the pubs) seems to be down a dodgy alleyway or underground. It was down one of these passages that our electronic Havana was found. If you have ever bemoaned the speed of the internet in the U.K., then spare a thought for those in Bulgaria. It was painfully slow, and it needed real patience to view even one page. Whilst Kenny researched, I did the usual surf of the L.F.C. sites, checking on the news. It was with relief I learned that the game was planned to go ahead, as rumour of its abandonment had swept the bars the night before. Now getting to Wolves and finding the game called off is bad enough, but I would have been more than a little piqued if this game had been postponed. The weather had been great so far: crisp fresh blue skies and not a solitary snow flake threatening the tie. Read that Gerard wouldn’t mind the game being postponed for twenty four hours. I know his first concern is for the team, rightly so, but I thought it odd he didn’t even mention the inconvenience this would cause the travelling Kop. Or perhaps he did, and the journo’s chose not to report it.

After Kenny had tied his banking up, we had lunch. This was to show why all Bulgarian women change from svelte lovelies into gargantuan greasers: the portions of food were ridiculous. Kenny had ordered both an English breakfast and an omelette, and I went for pizza. When the food arrived it was embarrassing, there was at least enough for five, and our eyes got the better of our stomachs as we both left plenty. The waitresses there deserve special mention, not just for being gracious, but also for being gorgeous. Mine was wearing a miniskirt so short it could have been a belt. Little was left to the imagination when she bent to serve other tables. Suitably impressed both with the food, the service and the view we left a big tip.

The previous nights activities were beginning to catch up with Kenny who decided to pop back to the hotel for a cap nap. So off I went solo to explore a little more. Sofia has some great architecture, and there are some impressive statues left over from communist days. The cathedral there is particularly impressive, domed several times and finished in gold, in orthodox Russian fashion. The central city area has a balanced feel to it, with several parks breaking up the imposing government facades.

After tiring of sight seeing I headed back to get Kenny, unaware that I was about to enter one of the surrealist hours of my life. It all started with Boris “The Hat”, who tapped me on the shoulder in the central square to say “hi” and to enquire as to my well being. Our greeting ended with aplomb as I turned and collided with a passer by. Now I have never been the stalking type but Mr. Frojdfeldt wasn’t to know that. The chances of me bumping into the match referee again must have been slim indeed, but I had somehow managed it. I apologised to him for this coincidental assault and stopped for a brief chat. He asked me where I had been and what was worth seeing, so I suggested a few places to him. In return he assured me that the game was definitely playable, and that the pitch was in good condition. Armed with this information I met a refreshed Kenny in the hotel room, when the telephone rang. Kenny answered and asked who it was. The call was for me apparently, and the caller, Steve Hunter of Liverpoolfc.,tv commentary fame asked for me in person. Steve wanted to know whether I still wanted to share a cab to the ground at 6pm. Now I had been quite drunk in Sofia, but I am sure I would have remembered meeting a commentator and arranging transport to the ground. Only I didn’t. I made polite small talk, explained that I planned to visit a few bars pre game and invited my caller to the revelry. He declined and wished me a good night. So that was it, my “official” Liverpool F.C. contact over. Kenny suggested that perhaps Steve had thought I was the John Moores, which made me laugh. We may have the same name but not, alas, the same financial clout. On leaving the hotel we met a couple of reds of R.A.W.K. fame, had a quick natter and made our way to the pre match celebrations, leaving them to a spot of late afternoon shopping. Women and football, eh Tetti ?

Whilst on our way several Bulgarians, of both C.S.K.A. and Levski extraction, stopped to talk to us. They were the usual requests to swap scarves, thwarted only by the fact that neither Kenny or I were wearing them. I had just mentioned to Kenny that the Sofians seemed very warm when one gentleman, face contorted in what I think was hate, but could have been constipation, warned us that “you Enlgees h will die”. Nice. The group reconvened at the “Buddha Bar” and marvelled at the fake Thai architecture. There was a dancing platform, and somebody exclaimed how appropriate it would have been for Peter Evo to have taken a turn, this being the Buddha bar and all! The mood was one of barely concealed anticipation and was broken only by a telephone call instructing us to move to another tavern where a party was in full swing. This we duly did. Now if there is one thing I am certain of it is of L.F.C.’s ascendancy when it comes to banners and the outside of our new abode showed this imperiously. The building actually had a large awning from which the flags were hung, and this gave a grotto like impression., whetting the appetite for the celebrations to come. There were hundreds of reds there and several Levski fans, and the atmosphere was completely welcoming. Being a self confessed loafer I especially liked drinking here, not least because the beer came with waitress service. I’ll resist a pun about wanting to service the waitresses for decency sake, but you get the picture.

Now stereotypes are bad, everybody knows that, but sometimes they have basis in truth. Suddenly two “trophies” of the evening appeared. One a leopard skin wall throw “borrowed” from the Buddha bar, another, and even more bizarrely, a rusty old trombone. I know that everywhere people lock up their hub caps from scousers, but at least this trophy hunting was done in the spirit of humour. In any case, we can sing “We’ve got your leopard skins” if we ever get drawn against Sofia again. Upon leaving for the now well established Flannegan’s, at least twenty strong in number, I had to giggle at the lad wearing the leopard skin as a toga, blowing the only note he could on the trombone (about lower c flat I think) , whilst shouting “ice berg , right ahead”. The locals seemed mighty bemused, if a little anxious, and I suppose it is easy to underestimate how intimidating you must look, all in drink, in unison and marching together. Some Sofians obviously took offence though as just as we approached one of the pretty and snow strewn parks, a mob of Levski supporters appeared from the shadows, K.G.B style, and challenged us to a duel. Now being of entirely non-violent disposition I was happy to walk away from the crowd, and even happier to see most of us do the same. Viewing our rather meek departure the Levski numbskulls gave us a laughing farewell. Fair do’s. I’d rather be laughed at than lamped, and that kind of thing seems so nineteen eighties after-all.

Reaching Flannegan’s had already put us in bodily danger, but now our ears were to be assaulted too, and mine a purple heart veteran of Kenny’s auricular attacks! Opposite Flannegan’s lies the Bulgarian presidential palace, and the president himself was in the square to take the salute. The salute in question being provided by some very powerful artillery. Now I’ve always been a fan of bass, but as the shells burst forth I could feel every sinew in my body vibrating. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking and my eyes had been distracted by the “titty” bar in the corner. Anyway they were very big and very impressive, and I just itched to get my hands upon them. Alas the call to Flanagan’s grew louder so my penchant for guns would have to wait. And yes, I did say guns.


Half an hour before kick off we reassembled for the five minute walk to the stadium. A few succumbed to the increasingly icy pavements, much to the mirth of the majority. The atmosphere grew a little tense as we passed the dark expanse of an unlit park, but this time there was no welcoming committee to worry about and safely we made the outer perimeter of the national arena. Some friendly, and thankfully well informed, match stewards from Liverpool were to offer sage advice. Apparently the police were turning away anybody who appeared drunk at the entrances. “Stay quiet” we were told, “and just smile”. Fore warned is fore armed and most of us passed adroitly through the barricade. One was stopped though, despite (or perhaps because of) his best Hollywood grin. Unperturbed he waited for passage, which was provided by a sudden charge of the riot police, which saw those guarding the gates usher anybody close into the ground, as if to protect them from their own colleagues! I’m still not sure whether this says good or bad things about the Bulgarian police force or about the relationships between departments of it. Still we were all safely “ground side” now, which was more then could be said for some. One man, in his forties, had been roughed up quite badly by the riot squad, and his wounds appeared emotional as much as physical : “but I’ve got children at home,” he muttered to himself, repeatedly.

The stadium was packed, and didn’t feel as cold as it probably looked on the television, though beer may have had a decent anaesthetising effect. The travelling reds were given one corner section of the open bowl plan, with Levski the remainder. Well nearly the remainder, for rather peculiarly adjacent to us was a segregated area for C.S.K.A. supporters, here ostensibly to support us. Supporters complete with Liverpool scarves, hats and flags, none the less. For a short moment I thought it great how widespread the following of the mighty reds extends, until the obvious dawned and with it the realisation that C.S.K.A. were only there to barrack their Levski rivals. This whole set up, as some wag called, would be analogous to us turning up at a Manchester derby, being given official tickets to the game, dressing in sky blue and then spending the entire game berating Kualar Lumpa’s finest. Or something like that. In any case the presence of the C.K.S.A. mob gave the whole proceedings a rather surreal edge, non more so than after the game when we were all kept behind for twenty minutes. Things turned from strange to downright bizarre when it transpired that the majority of stewards in the ground (there to keep the peace remember) revealed themselves as C.S.K.A. fans, then gathered in front of their terrace, before dancing and singing along with those who had at least paid to be part of the spectacle. Thankfully most of the Levski faithful had departed into what was left of the night , so the stewards “coming out” went mercifully unchallenged.

The match itself was thankfully comfortable, and over as a contest very quickly. Gerrard finished from an impossible angle to settle any nerves and then Owen chipped in with one of those curling shots of which he is so fond. An impressive fight back by Sofia culminated in arguably the best goal of the game, a sweet strike from the edge of the area that left Kirkland with no chance. Hamman glanced in a corner to really kill the tie and the second half saw just one more score with Hyppia stooping to head home. 4-2 to the reds on the night then and a comfortable progression to the next round. Gerard seemed to really enjoy it. He made a point of coming over to the fans at least a couple of times after the game. Thanks should also go to Didi, who made a point of calling the players over to applaud us. Didi seemed to really appreciate us being there, which is more than can be said for Henchoz, who ran straight down the tunnel at the final whistle. Perhaps he was injured, though I have heard on more than one occasion that he treats us who pay his wages with disdain, and if his hurried departure was a reflection of this attitude then too bad. Maybe he was rushing for the toilet: he always looks like he is fighting to push one out at the best of times.


The trip back into town came courtesy of an official club coach, for which I was grateful. There was a certain atmosphere in the air, and the parkland between the stadium and town looked pretty foreboding. A swift few in Flanegans, then to a late night tequilla bar saw many drink far too much, not least one lad who couldn’t work out why he couldn’t find his brother for a lift home. It took several explanations before he would accept that Bangkok, Thailand, where his brother was enjoying a holiday, was a fair trip away and that his brother would be unlikely to pick him up that night. We pointed him in the direction of his hotel, before heading back to ours, and I sincerely hope he made it. I doubt it though. Now why is it that room service always seems a great idea at 4 a.m.? The burgers when they did arrive were huge, and I think Kenny and I managed about a quarter each before we fell into nod. An expensive snack at about a tenner each, and to be honest, they tasted awful.

Check out time arrived far too soon (about two hours before either of us got up ), but on rising we both felt remarkably good. A quick shower and pack and we made our way to pay up and settle the bill. Now I’d already bumped into the match referee twice before, but this was getting ridiculous. Mr. Frojdfeldt was also checking out: he had been staying in the same hotel. Rather embarrassingly he recognised me, I introduced him properly to Kenny, and we both congratulated him on his handling of the game. He had quite a chat with us about Liverpool F.C., and mentioned that compared to what he had seen on satellite t.v. , Liverpool the previous night had been the best he had seen all season, which was hard to argue with really. We did our best to butter him up and I therefore look forward to him handling another of our games soon! A perfect trip was nearly coming to an end and in glorious sunshine we took a taxi back to the airport well in time for departure. Our adventure was nearly over, but there were still a couple of twists to come.

The feel good factor was in danger of disappearing when we discovered our flight back to London, via Vienna had been cancelled. The offer from Austrian Airlines of a 20p refreshment voucher to see us over the eight hour delay hardly improved our disappointment. And “no”, said the airline representative sharply, “there are no seats on any other departing aircraft-you’ll have to wait”. “Really”, thought I, “I’ll see about that!”. A few sweet words to the girls at the British Airways desk, and Kenny and I were now travelling direct back to London, with no stopover and leaving an hour earlier than our original cancelled flight. And to top it off, our passage would be a luxurious one (easy!) courtesy of our first class upgrade. Happy days indeed. As the shuttle bus transported us from the terminal to our aerial steed I noted a familiar face just to the side of me. “Blimey”, I nudged Kenny, “there’s Ray Houghton”. “That’s not Ray Houghton” swore Kenny. Taking a leaf out of the book of our fellow traveller on our outbound journey I decided to end this dispute with direct action. “Hello Ray” I spoke as I offered my hand. “Hello lad” the diminutive Irish legend responded, “enjoy the game?”. “Oh” said Kenny “that IS Ray Houghton”.

I had to laugh at Kenny’s self confessed celebrity myopia, especially when he wouldn’t believe the fat noisy bloke next to Ray was none other than “screaming” Jonathon Pearce, though I resisted the temptation to approach the commentator as he isn’t really a celebrity is he?

An easy flight home and upon landing the rumour had it that we had drawn Barcelona in the next round-a misinformation borne of the presence of several Celtic fans on the same flight. Jonathon Pearce was quick to put me in my place when I told Kenny of our upcoming opponents, and I was happy to stand corrected. Anyway the loud mouthed smart arse (Jonathon Pearce that is-not me honest!) got the dates of the home and away legs the wrong way round, so don’t worry-he doesn’t know everything. A few quick goodbyes to Kenny and then one last flurry of my new found stalking skills as I bumped into Ray again in the queue for a newspaper, and my Sofian sojourn was over.

Sofia was so far and turned out so good, the inhabitants were nearly all friendly and a good time was had by all. A trip isn’t made by the place though but by the people so I’d like to thank all those long time reds who regaled me into the early hours with tales of Liverpool deeds past. It was great meeting and listening to you talk, and cheers for making a wolly like me so welcome. A special thanks though to Kenny for being a great travel companion, and for providing me with several laugh out load moments. Just a little tip for the future though Ken: if it looks like a person, sounds like a person and is in the right place for that person then it probably is them. Really.

Allez les Rouges. We go marching on……