Sofia, So Good. Match Report Part 1

[mooro]

Sofia, So Good




The U.E.F.A. Cup third round draw saw the reds drawn against Levski Sofia, one of the teams that call the Bulgarian capital home. The tricky reds had played twice, and on both occasions successfully, the city’s other major team, C.S.K.A. Sofia, over twenty years ago in the (then) European Champions Cup. 1981 saw the reds run out 6-1 winners on aggregate, whist 1982’s match up saw Liverpool victorious 3-0 over the two games. The portents were positive then for Liverpool progression, aided not least by a comfortable, if uninspiring , 2-0 win in the Anfield first leg against the Eastern European minnow.

I was travelling to Bulgaria from Heathrow, via Vienna with long time red and Bucharest veteran Kenny Knight (a.k.a. Knight Rider - the imagination of some people , eh?). We met in leafy Windsor on the Monday night prior to our early Tuesday a.m. departure. The plan was, in deference to our early start, for a few quiet beers then to rest. At least this was the plan before we entered the “Royal Oak” pub, the some holstery where “comedy terrorist” Aaron Barschak hatched his evil designs to crash Prince William’s twenty first birthday party. A swift beer in the “Royal” and we decided to decamp for “just one more” to my local. Now, when planning a quiet night out for sobriety’s sake there are a couple of rules of thumb. One is not to choose as a drinking companion such a stalwart of sozzle as Kenny. The other is not, in any circumstances, to place your credit card behind the bar and open a tab. Unfortunately I ignored both dictums and by closing time both Kenny and I were well the worse for wear. Our intoxication was made complete by Kenny’s discovery of two bottles of wine back at chez Mooro (not good-we were to ride at dawn), and the Shiraz made a great back drop to the Beatle’s Sgt. Pepper’s album, till Kenny, after an hour or so remembered “that I don’t even like the effin Beatles.” There was just enough time before bed to search Google images for Bulgarian Women, and this probably explains my nightmares that night as they weren’t too many who looked like they would stop the traffic, not without a lollipop stick in any case!

At 6:50am next morning I awoke to a horrible headache. Rather unfairly I blamed this upon the vagaries of the bottle until I went to wake Kenny. Or rather realised it was Kenny who had waken me. I live under the flight path for Heathrow, and am well used to sleeping through the decent of an early morning 747. However Rolls Royce’s best have nothing on the auditory output of Kenny, asleep, in drink, and snoring. I eventually managed to wake him from his slumber and just about on time we stumbled into the waiting taxi for the short trip to Heathrow. In typically unorganised male fashion we managed to get dropped at the wrong terminal, but this was soon corrected by a hop, skip and jump courtesy of the Heathrow Express. Check in was painless and with an hour to go to our flight, we did the only thing left open to those nursing a hangover and with time to kill-find the nearest bar. Several other Koppites were in attendance already and the sight of all those red shirts raised anticipation levels for an ale fuelled fiesta even further.

A couple of hours, and a thousand miles or so later, we touched down in the Austrian capital Vienna. There was just time for a swift beer, before we were called to the departure lounge. Whilst waiting to board I noticed a group of official looking gentleman, huddled well away from the now thronging mass of reds en-route. Closer inspection revealed them to be wearing matching blazers, adorned with the Swedish F.A. emblem. “Look there’s the ref” I exclaimed to Kenny. “That’s not the effin ref” retorted he who snores. The stand off was solved when an eaves dropping fellow traveller approached said gentlemen and asked who they were. “Oh”, said Kenny feigning surprise, “that IS the ref”. I resisted the temptation to say “I told you so” and instead remonstrated with Mr. Frojdfeldt not to be intimidated by the Bulgarian crowd. He assured us all he wouldn’t be, and with the happy thought that Liverpool’s European fate was in the hands of a referee who now knew he would be travelling back from the game with a plane load of Koppites, we made the connection to Sofia.

The trip from Sofia International Airport to our hotel, “The Sheraton”, was courtesy of a complimentary mini bus, driven by a friendly, fat Bulgarian, rather reminiscent of Super Mario after a pizza too many. Boris (his real name-honest) spoke excellent English and talked us through the sights as we meandered our way to the city centre. Sofia appeared an archetypal Eastern European city: communist style tower blocks, piles for the proles perhaps, on the outskirts giving way to grand and imposing architecture, home to the great and good of Bulgarian political life. The roads were in poor condition, and the drivers even worse, their intent seemingly to scare each other witless as much as to make it to their destinations, life and limb intact. It was with some relief that we reached the Sheraton and after thanking and forgetting to tip our driver we checked into the hotel, showered up and planned our night ahead.

It seems unthinkable now that mobile phones were ever such a social faux pas, for their worth in organising a night out, not least in a far foreign land, is immeasurable. Like all devices though, they are only as good as the people using them (at least that’s what my ex used to say) and my contact in the group of lads (mostly from The Stanley) we were meeting was only able to advise us to meet them “in a pub with a pink sign and Smirnoff written above it, somewhere in Sofia centre”, a direction the old Bulgarian secret police would have undoubtedly been proud of. Kenny didn’t think much of our chances of a successful rendezvous, but I reassured him on the basis of my homing pigeon like abilities and before we knew it we had spotted our meeting point. As the evening progressed each new arrival was met with much back slapping and a hug. Beer was cheap, though not as cheap as we had been led to believe, and so we indulged in that activity we reds do best: making merry. It was only after a couple of hours that one of our number noticed that the music was rather “eighties”. Then “Village People” appeared on the plasma screen. It was then that the penny (or was it a pound, Mr. Carragher ? ) dropped into place: the pink sign, the eighties music, “The Village People”, the fact that the gorgeous bar staff were happy to flirt with us, yes all was becoming clear now. No wonder the other men in the bar had smiled knowingly as we welcomed each new arrival with those hand shakes and hugs. Now, personally, I have nothing against gays per se, I just don’t feel comfortable appearing gay to others and the decision to move to another bar was one I whole heartedly endorsed. We said our goodbyes to the girls behind the bar and trudged out into the increasingly chilly Sofian night, in search of sustenance now as much as beer.

People moan about multi-global corporations but has there ever been a sight more welcome than those golden arches when peckish and on the march in a strange city? McDonalds may process this and tear down that, but don’t let anybody tell you that a Big Mac and fries doesn’t fit the bill when hungry and far from home, especially when that bill is as small as fifty pence, and for a super-sized meal with milkshake at that! In twenty minutes twenty or so of us had eaten and thanked Ronald for his culinary expertise before once again searching for a suitable spot in which to assuage our collective thirsts. Which was when another man named Boris (!) made his appearance. His similarities to our erstwhile minibus driver were not just nominal however: he too was fat, moustached and of Mario-esque appearance. He even wore a plumbers hat! Boris with the hat beckoned us into his underground drinking parlour. Securely seated at the bar, the drink flowed freely. Our bar man was obviously trying to amuse himself with a game of “make up the price for the drunk Englishmen”. One minute a round of five beers, a whisky and a short would be about seven pounds. The next minute a single beer would set you back two pound fifty. Still the ambience was good, and in this dingy dungeon many a ditty of Liverpool heroes past resounded around the chamber. Adding to the feel good factor were the red and white garlands hanging from the wall, a Bulgarian tradition, based upon their national holiday, upon which match day itself would fall. The garlands even had a romantic basis of their own. Foke-lore remembers a lover who when penning a missive to her intended, pricked her finger on a pin, thus bleeding over her passionate dispatch. A quaint story, but I still preferred to think that the garlands had been hung in honour of the visiting team.

Now suitably inebriated a collective decision to move was again upon us, and we set forth for Flannegan’s, Sofia’s own Irish bar. Whilst privately musing to myself that Irish landlords do indeed get everywhere, we once again braved the not so mean streets. Now we had already encountered a few street beggars, so it was no surprise when two prostitutes appeared and began touting for business. Kenny, beginning to feel the effects of those quadruple whiskys from earlier, decided to admonish the girls to leave (that is his own version of events in any case) and leave they did. They were not departing empty handed however for soon Kenny realised that his wallet was missing and that those ladies of the night had taken it! I pondered on the irony of being shafted by a brace of hookers, but kept these thoughts to myself as Kenny was obviously, and understandably quite upset. A few frantic phone calls to his credit card issuer in England, and promises we would sort him out for cash perked him up a little, and upon reaching Flannegan’s we were back in drinking mood! We were not the only ones.


Now imagine if you will that you are the acting British Vice-Consul to Sofia. Given that Bulgaria is not exactly on the tourist map, then you have your self a pretty cushy little posting. However Liverpool are in town, so you know that the following day will be your busiest of the year, by some stretch. Now also imagine that you support Norwich City and they are live in Flannegan’s bar. You have two choices-stay at home sober and be fresh faced for work in the morning, or brave the arriving reds fans to watch your team play. A tough choice, no? Reassuringly for the British establishment worldwide, our man in Sofia showed true dedication to duty (or dereliction of depending on your view point) and decided upon the latter. Unfortunately for him he got talking to us, and decided to join us for a drink. Now they say a picture paints a thousand words and I wish you could see the photographic evidence captured by my mobile phone. The series starts with Miles , for that was his name, attired smartly with shirt and tie. Soon the tie is lost and a baseball cap appears. Next the baseball cap is worn back to front, gangster stylee. Then the shirt is off, and betraying his Norfolk background substituted with a retro Liverpool shirt. I actually felt quite sorry for him as he left for home, each step as precarious as the last. I doubt his boss was too impressed the next morning either. Still, for Queen and country, and all that. Miles, I salute you.

Flannegan’s itself is a cavernous establishment and many banners adorned the walls. It was all very “red”. Several different supporter’s groups were dotted around the bar, and some good natured (mostly) banter ensued between them. I’m still not sure why that Norwegian chap who wears those snazzy L.F.C. pyjamas decided to flash us his Liverbird tattoo though, splendid though it was on his Viking calf. I would have responded by showing him my tattoo, listing all of Liverpool’s honours, but alas indecent exposure is a crime even in Eastern European parts. At about 2am Kenny and I decided upon home, and it was with a dizzy head I fell into sleep, excited about the match day to come.

[aws]

Good read.So where's Part 2?

[fivetimes]

surprised you remember that much of it, i certainly cant remember as much detail of my trip as that!

[Terry]

Even more surprised you went back to the hotel at 2am!

Sofia = unbelievable, seeing is believing some of the things i witnessed over there

[fivetimes]

Originally Posted by Terry Even more surprised you went back to the hotel at 2am! Sofia = unbelievable, seeing is believing some of the things i witnessed over there

good place, locals not too happy with us.

ended up in a few places, irish harp, some tiny local place (cant remember the name that helps dunnit!), and a club called the caramba which wasnt bad a t all.

open till 6am which we took advantage of as well.

we were in the serdika hotel, not bad for a 3star place in bulgaria!
and the bell boy could get you birds to your room as well (i have heard )

[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……