The World Cup 12 Commandments

Dear Wife, Partner, Girlfriend,

1. From 9 June to 9 July 2006, you should read the sports section of the newspaper so that you are aware of what is going on regarding the World Cup, and that way you will be able to join in the conversations. If you fail to do this, then you will be looked at in a bad way, or you will be totally ignored. DO NOT complain about not receiving any attention.

2. During the World Cup, the television is mine, at all times, without any exceptions. If you even take a glimpse of the remote control, you will lose it (your eye).

3. If you have to pass by in front of the TV during a game, I don't mind, as long as you do it crawling on the floor and without distracting me. If you decide to stand nude in front of the TV, make sure you put clothes on right after because if you catch a cold, I won't have time to take you to the doctor or look after you during the World Cup month.

4. During the games I will be blind, deaf and mute, unless I require a refill of my drink or something to eat. You are out of your mind if you expect me to listen to you, open the door, answer the telephone, or pick up the baby that just fell on the floor....It won't happen.

5. It would be a good idea for you to keep at least 2 six packs in the fridge at all times, as well as plenty of things to nibble on, and please do not make any funny faces to my friends when they come over to watch the games. In return, you will be allowed to use the TV between 12am and 6am, unless they replay a good game that I missed during the day.

6. Please, please, please!! If you see me upset because one of my teams is losing, DO NOT say "get over it, it's only a game", or "don't worry, they'll win next time". If you say these things, you will only make me angrier and I will love you less. Remember, you will never ever know more about football than me and your so called "words of encouragement" will only lead to a break up or divorce.

7. You are welcome to sit with me to watch one game and you can talk to me during halftime but only when the commercials are on, and only if the halftimes score is pleasing me. In addition, please note I am saying "one" game; hence do not use the World Cup as a nice cheesy excuse to "spend time together".

8. The replays of the goals are very important. I don't care if I have seen them or I haven't seen them, I want to see them again. Many times.

9. Tell your friends NOT to have any babies, or any other child related parties or gatherings that requires my attendance because: a) I will not go, b) I will not go, and c) I will not go.

10. But, if a friend of mine invites us to his house on a Sunday to watch a game, we will be there in a flash.

11. The daily World Cup highlights show on TV every night is just as important as the games themselves. Do not even think about saying "but you have already seen this...why don't you change the channel to something we can all watch?" because, the reply will be, "Refer to Rule #2 of this list".

12. And finally, please save your expressions such as "Thank God the World Cup is only every 4 years". I am immune to these words, because after this comes the Champions League, Italian League, Spanish League, Premier League, FA Cup, etc.

Thank you for your co-operation.

EURO LA LA

Well folks,

It's that time of the year again that sees grown men weeping, women dancing with joy and kids giving an indifferent shrug and returning to their playstation.

The end of the football season.

For nine months, we have followed our team through thick and thin, through good times and bad on the rollercoaster ride of emotions that is Supporting Your Team.

Upon reflection, My Beloved Liverpool had a great season - third in the league with their best league points total in several seasons, winners of the European Super Cup, runners up in the World Club championship (in a match they totally dominated), quarter finals of the Champions League, and last but not least FA Cup winners for the ninth time in what was an amazing cup final last weekend.

An entertaining cup final? Liverpool must be playing.

The feel good factor is back at Anfield - and long may it continue.

But before you switch off - this is not a football related blog - no, not at all but rather the void that is left behind once the season finishes, is the subject matter de jour.

Of course this year is somewhat different - we have the mouth-watering prospect of a World Cup on our doorstep to look forward to with the tournament in Germany kicking off three weeks from today.

I love the World Cup and strangely enough - so do most of the girls I know. They seem to get caught up in the event in a way that the regular football season can never achieve - perhaps it's the opportunity to watch all those Latino Gods running about the pitch with their olive skin and piercing eyes, or maybe it's the samba and the salsa of our South American cousins, the spectacular colours and boisterous dancing of the African support or even the square jawed, athletic Scandinavians that awaken the fairer sex's interest in The Beautiful Game.

Whatever it is, the female interest in football is a welcome, if only all too brief addition to the ritual of watching sport, for we all know that once the season comes around again, us good men-folk will be going back to our seats at the bar, having just been on the receiving end of a bit of verbal from the missus about “spending too much time down in that bloody pub with your bloody mates watching bloody football.”

So yes – I enjoy the world cup.

But that is three weeks away.

21 days.

504 hours.

30,240 minutes.

181…. Anyway, I think you get the picture.

So what in the meantime then?

Quite simply – there is only one thing that reawakens international rivalries, cements bonds with near neighbours and shows to the rest of the world just what a weird and eclectic bunch of people we Europeans really are.

If aliens were to visit from outer space for a bit of a nosey, we could show them highlights of the last 50 years of the Eurovision Song Contest and proudly say “We are Europe – this is who we are!”

If that didn’t have them scurrying away in their space ships back to planet Zagrovia, then nothing would.

Or is Zagrovia one of those new eastern European countries that compete in the contest these days?

Yes, tomorrow is Eurovision Song Contest time and I absolutely love it.

The whole show is a wonderful microcosm of this part of planet Earth - the farcical voting indicative of the internal squabbles within Europe’s confines, the terrible costumes, the God-awful songs with the inane lyrics and all this mayhem presided over by BBC’s commentator on the proceedings, the wonderfully sardonic Terry Wogan.

Surely Mr. Wogan’s rasion d’être, the show is tailor made for his dry wit and acerbic observations and as a viewer; we share in his chuckles of disbelief and gasps of horror at the car crash TV that unfolds before our very eyes.

Rather unsurprisingly, the country that has won this international pantomime more times than any other, is my homeland of Ireland. After all – a country that has remained neutral throughout every war (except its own), has given The Irish Pub to the world with its accompanying Guinness hangover and exported such musical greats as Stiff Little Fingers, Van Morrison, U2, Sinead O’Connor, Snow Patrol and the wonderful Therapy? must surely be in contention for the top prize, year in, year out.

And then you have a look at who we won it with.

Johnny “Mr. Eurovision” Logan, with his absolutely unforgivable mullet hairstyle and even more heinous gleaming white suit will be forever embedded in most people’s lasting memories of the contest. And this is a guy who, not only content with winning the event twice – went on to write a third winning song back in Ireland’s Eurovision halcyon days of the 80’s and 90’s.

My Eurovision claim to fame? Another Irish winner, the delightful Naimh Kavanagh, who won with “In Your Eyes” - once went on a drunken binge with me in Antwerp.

OK – slight exaggeration – what I meant to say was that I was drunk in the pub that she was performing in and I asked to have her babies, a hard-to-refuse offer that she, in fact, refused. And her heavily pregnant at the time.

*ahem*

So happy were we with all this adulation from our European cousins that we didn’t realise they were all taking the piss out of us –the winning country having the dubious (and bloody expensive) honour of organising the whole shenanigans the following year.

Indeed when Ireland won it 3 times in a row in the 90’s (a feat never achieved before or since), Ireland’s new found prosperity, ironically achieved thanks in no small fashion to financial help from the ‘European Old Boy’s Network’ that is the EEC, was in serious danger of being dented.

The Celtic Tiger was cowering in the corner at the thought of hosting another event and offered – with the advent of peace of course – the event to Northern Ireland.

The Republic of Ireland authorities were threatened with kneecappings and punishment beatings if they chanced their arm like that again.

So, the event was given to Cork who jumped at the chance to prove to the world that Cork was in fact the REAL capital of Ireland and they could put on a show that would be far better than anything that “shower of shite from Dublin” could do.

Sadly the economic implications had a lasting affect and a different selection policy was thereafter adopted by the Irish, unofficially known as the “let’s pick the WORST singers ever and make bloody well sure we never, ever win the damn thing again” policy.

You only have to look at some of the entries that have represented Ireland in the intervening years to see that this policy has been a huge success - choosing The Mullans was nothing short of inspired.

Then, there was also the rather weird event of an Israeli winner. For a start – Israel is not even in Europe but apparently as long as the European Broadcasting Union can transmit to you, you’re in. But as if this wasn’t weird enough – the winner was a transsexual. Could the contest get any weirder?

Of course it could.

A strange development then occurred – one that was to have serious repercussions on the Eurovision Song Contest as a whole – the borders of Europe changed and suddenly where there had just simply been Russia and Yugoslavia, we now had Latvia, Lithuania, Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia, and lots of other bloody countries that ended in “ia”.

These were the New Kids on the Block and they had fire in their bellies.

So proud that they were to be their own countries, with their own identity, they promptly entered into the Eurovision song contest with great gusto and enthusiasm, displaying a “blood is thicker than water” bond with all their neighbouring newly-created countries who they were pally with and a fierce “Nul Point” for their enemies.

Here they had a platform to forge friendships, pledge allegiances and alienate enemies.

Suddenly such hitherto relatively unknown European outhouses such as Estonia and Latvia were walking away with the biggest prize in European pop music. Allegedly.

Something had to be done about it and something has.

The Irish are taking it seriously again.

This year, in Athens the ancient birthplace of Europe, it is only fitting that the Irish are launching a full frontal attack to wrestle the title back to its rightful home.

For into the Coliseum steps the Gladiator – Mr. Brian Kennedy.

Make no bones about it – by nominating Brian we are making a huge statement of intent.
This guy is a brilliant singer and has graced the stage with the likes of Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, John Lee Hooker and Ray Charles.

We are not messing around this year.

To make the evening all the more enjoyable for me, he’s a fellow Belfast lad, giving me further ammunition (pun intended) to shout “He’s from Northern Ireland!” every time somebody from my homeland graces the TV.

I fear for the patrons of the pub that I shall be watching proceedings in tomorrow evening.

Brian also performed a memorable and powerful version of ‘You Raise Me Up’ at the funeral of football legend George Best in December 2005.

As an interesting footnote, it will be the 1000th song ever performed at the contest.

He will perform ‘Every Song is a Cry for Love’, a song written by himself and has been selected by the Irish public.

The people of Ireland have spoken.

You have been warned.

My Favourite Weed

Apart from being the best friend of Bill and Ben, The Flower Pot Men, according to the dictionary, a weed is an "unwanted plant". But surely this is entirely open for interpretation and the notion of "unwanted" must lie in the eye of the beholder?

Such ponderings entertained my under-used mind today when, as I drove to the local sandwich shop for my daily "broodje tonijn" (tuna sandwich), I spied the first poppies of spring swaying in the gentle breeze at the side of the road.

As weeds go, the poppy would have to be one of my favourite - not that I've actually given the matter much thought you understand - but if I was to draw up a list of my favourite weeds, the poppy would be right up there with my other favourite weed - Super Skunk. *ahem*

Flanders, the northern, Dutch-speaking region of Belgium where I currently reside, can be described with many terms – “breathtaking scenery”, “picturesque vistas” and “mountainous, rolling countryside” are all terms of phrase that would most definitely NOT be used; “flat”, “dull”, “densely populated”, “one big industrial zone” and “a slow-moving traffic jam” are all terms of phrase that would be a lot more appropriate.

Let's face it folks - and I'm sure the Belgian readers out there would have to agree - when it comes to scenery, this part of Belgium most definitely IS boring.

Take the Kempen - the supposedly scenic part of Flanders - which is described on Wikipedia as "a moor of swamp and sandy peat, encompassing the east of Antwerp province, and a part of Limburg province in Belgium, a former coal-producing region ….. now being rendered fertile by irrigation."

Doesn't exactly inspire you to pack your wife and kids into the Hi-ace van and head off there for a picnic, does it?

Still - I suppose there's no danger of busloads of Japanese tourists arriving on your doorstep uninvited.

Although don't be getting too complacent - you can never be too sure – those guys are mad about taking photographs of just about anything. Believe me, I've witnessed them going around Frankfurt's business quarter enthusiastically taking pictures of endless dull, grey buildings, so who would bet against them taking an interest in a swampy bog-land that once existed as a slag-heap and is now "being rendered fertile by irrigation"??

But I digress.

The point I want to make is that, in this sort of environment, you have to get your visual kicks out of the somewhat less spectacular. Take the aforementioned humble poppy for example; or to be more precise - The Corn Poppy (Papaver rhoeas).

At this time of year, the fields of Flanders - or at least the central reservations of motorways, the grass verges at the side of busy roads, or whatever little handkerchief-size plots of grass they are lucky enough to find to grow on - become awash with them, turning even the most non-descript piece of land into a hypnotic, swaying, sea of red, gently dancing to the rhythm of the summer breeze.

Or more likely being violently tossed around in the violent slip stream of a speeding juggernaut.

It’s also the national flower of Belgium - not that many of our Belgian cousins actually know that. But then again – just how many Belgians do you know that can actually sing their national anthem? In French, Dutch or German?

Of course to the ex-pats amongst us, the humble poppy means a lot more to us - serving as a symbolic reminder of those service men and women that lost their lives on battle fields fighting for our countries in violent conflict that most of us (fortunately) can only imagine as to what they were like.

In his poem “In Flanders Fields”, written almost 101 years ago to this very day, Doctor Sir John McCrae immortalised these unassuming bit-part players in the Flemish landscape, just as he immortalised his fallen comrades:

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing,
fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days
ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now
we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To
you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If
ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.”

For anyone that has seen the Ypres war graves and the surrounding flat fields of Flanders with the bunkers still visible after all these years (and if you haven’t yet but are in a position to, I urge you to do so); looking at the endless rows of immaculately tended to, dazzlingly white war graves, with the red sea of poppies swaying in the surrounding fields - their heads eternally bowed in seemingly respectful reverence, it is a truly humbling experience.

As I stood surveying the scene around me, it was one of the most moving moments of my life and a moment I shall remember forever. You don't need "breathless scenery" to have the same effect.

So I make no bones about it, I make no excuses, I love the humble poppy.

And then of course, opium is produced from the unripe seed pods.

Need I say more?

At the Great Mayfair in Ballyclare!

OK Folks,

Only two days to go, so it's time to get in the mood…..

Those of you who have the pleasure of knowing me – which I would guess is pretty much anyone that reads this website - may also know just what a special day the third Saturday in May is for me (and I'm sure for many other people as well).

Yes - you've guessed it folks - it's that time of year when my home town of Ballyclare (or “Billyclare” as we locals like to refer to it) goes a little bit crazy and lets its collective hair down… The Ballyclare Mayfair Festival.

Now, I wouldn’t assume that many of you out there will have even heard of this week-long event that brings my home-town to a standstill, so I will give you a brief run down on it, or rather – I will steal it from the website www*nireland*com*may*fair (replace the ‘*’ with ‘.’)

A hugely impressive website, I’m sure you’ll all agree. Apparently to watch it in all its intended technological glory your PC must have Macromedia Flash v ‘16.90’ to view. Apparently.

“On the 16th December 1756 George II granted to the Earl of Donegal the
right to hold 'two fairs yearly at the Town and Lands of Ballyclare', 'yielding
therefore yearly to us the sum of thirteen shillings and four pence for the said
fairs to be paid forever'

At first the fairs were markets for animals and goods but as they grew to four in a year it was the May and November fairs which became the most important as it was there that the farmers hired their labouring men and servant girls for the next six months. The May Fair was traditionally held on a Tuesday in late May but in the nineteenth
century such was the demand for horses that the Monday was given over to the
trade. One dealer alone brought a hundred horses each year while others came
into Ballyclare riding bareback and leading a string of horses. Representatives
of cavalry regiments from all over Europe came to buy as the reputation of the
fair spread.

Local farmers also needed horses to plough and transport their produce while the nearly city of Belfast sought carriage horses and sturdy animals to pull carts. Any of the bakeries alone would need a hundred animals. The great days of the horse fair ended with the First World War and growing mechanisation. However in recent years the Main Street again echoes with the sound of horse being exercised and dealers shouting. This is not just a colourful revival of part of the town's cultural heritage but a real market
where bidding is keen. It is now the centrepiece of the week of festivities
which is the May Fair Festival. Today's sales are for leisure purposes but in
many ways the sights and sounds are those of a past century.

It begins with the Mayor's Parade followed by sports, street events, concerts and
exhibitions. Local shops compete for the best dressed window. Children take part
in Fancy Dress Competitions and the Duck Race.

A May Fair Queen is chosen to represent the town over the next year. People come from far and wide to meet old friends and make new ones.”

Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?

Ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I have always looked forward to this time of year with - a time when all the year's troubles can be forgotten and a time when we all get to go a little bit crazy.

As a kid, the craziest thing I would probably wish for was a go on a “really scary ride” and it is amazing that as I grew older (and supposedly wiser), that my life had only subtly changed to wishing that I wouldn’t WAKEN UP NEXT to a “really scary ride”…

For the duration of the week-long festivities, all talk of shagging sheep, punishment beatings and fucking Fenians (not literally of course) is put on hold, while the people of Ballyclare have a bit of a laugh.

This year, marks a special landmark in the history of the town in that the Mayfair celebrates its 250th anniversary this year.

250 years.

And to be honest – not a lot has changed in those intervening years.

For 250 years, the farmers of the surrounding countryside have been coming to our wee town, bringing with them the strong smell of stale whiskey on their breath and the even stronger stench of horse shite.

For 250 years, people have been ripped off on the many “Try Your Luck” stalls, with the false promise of riches being announced to all and sundry by the vocal stall holders.

For 250 years, the good people of Ballyclare have stuffed their faces on half-cooked, bacteria-ridden food, or gorged on sickly sweet sweets – the famous “Yella Man” having originated from the Ballyclare Mayfair (fuck off Ballycastle and yer Aul’ Lammas Fair - WE invented it – you stole it and took it as yer own.)

For 250 years, Ballyclarians indulge in the traditional past time of “Let’s get pissed, talk shite and fall over”.

And then we all go on the many amusement rides in the town square and get thrown about until we vomit.

And you know what, folks?

I absolutely love it.

No lesser man than Callum Best (son of Georgie) will be in town on the last night, no doubt to sign off the week-long proceedings in the traditional fashion of a blue-bag carryout of lethal snakebites of Thunderbird mixed with Steiger Lager, 20 Berkley cigarettes and a grope of some aul' Ballyclare slapper underneath the bridge at the Sixmilewater river park.

Unfortunately this year I am not able to make it to the “Centre Of The Universe” to join in the festivities but all is not lost, because this somewhat raucous time is also shared with a slightly better known event – that of the most famous club game of them all – the English FA Cup Final.

After a Friday night of indulging in all these wonderful activities, I would wake up early with the tingle of excitement and prepare for the big game with the traditional FA Cup fry up before heading into town to start it all over again.

I’d listen to the big match previews on the radio and watch the build up on BBC before striding through the town with my Da to jump in a taxi to his local - a small farmers' pub 3 miles outside of town that my he rather inexplicably chose to call his 'local'.
Strangely - or perhaps upon reflection, extremely wisely - ignoring the fact that there were around 20 drinking establishments a lot more local than his one.

We’d watch the game with some mates – a bunch of like-minded guys - each one seriously good fun to hang around with and more than fond of an afternoon drink or two.

After the match, just a few short hours later - we’d all head home in a drunken, dribbling mess, invariably making the Saturday night a non-event. God love our partners but fair play to them for giving us some “boys will be boys’ time”.

You can imagine the difference if my beloved Liverpool were actually playing in the game.

Well, this year may not see me running about Billyclare like a dog with two dicks at the Ballyclare Mayfair, giving Callum a run for his money in the drinking and womanising stakes but it does see me with the opportunity to watch my team compete in this year’s FA Cup final versus West Ham United.

And. I. Can’t. Bloody. Wait.

I’m fairly sure that by seven o’clock this Saturday evening, I’ll once again be the drunken, gibbering fool that seems to so easily go hand in hand with Cup Final Day but hopefully I’ll be celebrating yet another addition to the Anfield trophy cabinet to keep the European Champions Cup company.

Give her one for me Callum. You’ll Never Walk Alone.

Istanbul - The Anniversary (Lest we forget)

Hello folks,

There was a competition in that highest quality of publications, The Liverpool Echo, to subject your "Memories of Istanbul".

The idea was that to commemorate the anniversary of that special evening, almost a year ago, you subjected your memories of that night and the winning selections would get published in a special edition.

Having been published in the Belfast Telegraph, I figured what the hell and started writing.

Once I was happy with it, I went to submit it and then realised that you had to have BEEN IN ISTANBUL to qualify and I also found out that my entry was about 6 times too long.

So all that work for nothing. Except, not quite - there's always this corner of cyberspace to dump the crap that spills out of my head an onto my keyboard (not a pretty sight I can tell you).

Anyway, my football (and non-football) supporting chums, in the absence of a much coveted publication in the Liverpool Echo, I give you "Istanbul - The Anniversary (Lest we forget)"

I watched THAT cup final on the terrace of an Irish pub in the "Grote Markt" in the centre of Antwerp, Belgium.

I was surrounded by friends, some Liverpool supporting, some not. There were neutrals of mixed nationalities and there was an impressive contingent of Milan supporters mingling about the old, historic square as well. It made for a colourful sight.

It was a beautiful summer's evening and because the weather was so nice, the pub had organised a big screen outside facing out onto the pub terrace. A few of the other bars and restaurants had decided to do the same.

The atmosphere - and the crowd - was gradually building up, as we gathered, waiting expectantly for the big kick off.

I had already indulged in a couple of coma-inducing strength Belgian beers to calm the nerves having already been on a post-work first date with a really hot Belgian Babe, who shall remain nameless. After the drinks, I convinced her to come and watch the match with me - the old romantic fool that I am. What a first date!

33 years old and 33 years a Liverpool supporter (thanks to my equally Liverpool passionate father) I originally hail from Northern Ireland. We got over to see as many games as we could until I moved over to Liverpool. I met a girl at a Liverpool match and moved over there nearly immediately. She owned a pub 20 minutes from Coliseum Anfield - I was in heaven!

My job has since taken me to Belgium where I am a member of the Belgian Liverpool Supporters Club and still get to see the mighty Reds a few times a season.

Like every Liverpool supporter, I have been sick to the back teeth and green with envy at the success our "nearest and dearest" up the East Lancs Road have been enjoying over the past 15 years. It's annoyed me to see all these ManYoo supporters out there who don't seem to realise that football started before the age of Sky television.

But I digress.

I felt sure that night that the tables were turning. The Rafa-lution was in full effect. It was our destiny. Stevie Gerrard was going to lift “Old Big Ears” that night and I was ready to join in the celebrations.

I tried to explain all of this to a rather non-plussed Belgian Babe and I think she managed to get caught up in the excitement of it all, looking pretty and sporting a spare Liverpool scarf I had brought her for the occasion. It didn't go with her designer clothes, and it was a hot summer's evening but bless her - she wore it anyway.

I was a twitching, nervous wreck, almost to the point of nauseous but I loved every minute of it.

I swelled with pride as I surveyed the hundreds of people all around that square, trying to catch a glimpse of the game.

This was MY team playing in THE biggest club match in the world.

And then - the moment arrived.

20:45, 25th May, 2005.

Our biggest match for 20 years had kicked off.

The first half, as we all know was an absolute disaster.

The Milan supporters all around me were rejoicing, the neutrals were shocked; the anti-Liverpool (read Manchester United) supporters were having a field day at my expense.

I put my head in my hands.

The Belgian Babe politely made her excuses and left, citing "meeting up with a friend" as some form of flimsy excuse, to exit stage left.

At least she kept her scarf on.

We arranged to meet up after the game. I figured I would be in need of some consolation and a sweet-smelling rounded shoulder of a beautiful female - all be it one who could desert us in our hour of need - to cry on was most definitely better than none.

I phoned home and spoke to my brother - another fully paid-up Liverpool fanatic.

"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. I've waited 20 years for this moment and we are getting hammered! It’s embarrassing!" I complained down the phone to him.

My brother's response in his thick Northern Irish parlance reverberated in my head:
"Catch yerself on! We've scored 3 goals in one half before - we'll do it again! Now get behind the team. We're all in this together!!"*

[* - Conversation might be slightly edited so as to be safe for public consumption!]

I returned to my seat contemplating just how many beers my brother had had and wondered how many more Belgian beers I would need to make me as delusional as he so obviously was.

And then it happened.

Towards the end of half-time, those Liverpool supporters lucky enough to have been there on that magical night, started singing that most special of football anthems - indeed the ONLY football anthem - "You'll Never Walk Alone"

On the screen, the camera panned around the sea of red in that big open stadium in Turkey and we saw – no – more importantly we HEARD every Liverpool supporter singing Our Anthem with all their might.

Maybe. Just Maybe.

The rest, as they say is history.

After our second goal went in – a cracker from Smicer of all people - I got a text from my brother that simply read "I TOLD YA!!!" I hadn't even begun to think up a reply, when we got the penalty and Alonso - at the second time of asking - put the ball in the old onion bag.

I was delirious. I was hysterical. I was kissing, and hugging and groping everyone (well - the attractive girls at least) in my nearest vicinity. We had done it!

The Italians around me had lost all their earlier air of machismo. Surely now at 3-3, the game was ours for the taking.

Of course I should have known better.

It had been an extraordinary cup run to get to that very moment – so of course there were to be a few final twists.

The agony of extra-time, Carragher defending like a rock - even when suffering from cramp and of course THAT incredible double save from Jerzy Dudek.

And then the horror of the penalty shoot-out.

I saw Jamie speak to Jerzy just before the shoot-out and I lip-read the word "Grobbelaar".

I knew exactly what he was saying. "He's gonna do a Grobbelaar!" I shouted out to nobody in particular.

He did and we won.

We were Champions of Europe for a fifth time. “Old Big Ears” was coming back to Anfield for keeps.

The Belgian Babe had returned and the celebrations went on late into the night and it was with the sweetest hangover I've ever had that I walked tall and proud into the office the next day.

After all, we were CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE!!

Thanks lads, for giving me one of the best nights of my life. Later, I tried my best to give the Belgian Babe the best night of her life as well but I'm not quite sure that I was up to the task. We split up shortly afterwards but my spirits would not be dampened for all in all it was the Best Night of My Life.

The moral of the story?

Girlfriends, no matter how pretty, come and go. Liverpool stays forever.

YNWA