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.
Part 2 to follow!
mooro
!!!!!!!
) са ми симпатични и дано да успеят за издържат на темпото и напрежението. Ще се радвам ако се класират в тройката. 
