Kop on was in short supply!

The first step on the road to recovery is to admit your addiction, so here goes. My name is Fergal and I'm a Liverpool Football Club supporter and have been for 32 years, most of which have been very painful. Despite the common misconception that is held by some in the differing codes of sport, being a follower of one or more sports does not make you a traitor to any specific belief. Yes, a GAA head can follow a soccer team, a horseracing fan can admire the skills of Formula 1, athletic athletes have been known to enjoy the odd game of snooker. So before anyone from GAA, horseracing or athletics fraternities decides to light on me because of my passion for LFC, take into a account that I am as passionate about many other sports as I am about the great flaw in my life that resides in L4, Merseyside. The reason for considering my love for Liverpool as a great flaw is simple. It leads me to being ridiculed from many of my 'friends' and often forces me to stand up for the club with an aggression and passion that some might claim is not a trait they like to see in me. Without delving too deeply into how, why and where it all started for me as a 'Pool fan, it is suffice to say that ever since an early age when RTE used to show live English League matches on a Saturday afternoon and in the glory days of Keegan, Rush, Dalglish, Souness, Grobbelaar etc, my colour has always been red. I have travelled to Anfield on many occasions with a wide variety of people (some who could be considered staunch GAA men) and have always thoroughly enjoyed the occasion. My ventures across the Irish Sea have taken many forms by air and sea, for one, two or three nights, staying with friends or resting wherever I lay my hat! Last week, and very much against all I stood for, I used a 'company' for my needs to attend the mighty Reds clash with Arsenal and while the whole occasion made for a brilliant weekend, the value for money was very poor and that avenue is unlikely to be travelled again. For those other diehards out there who wish to travel to England for a Premier League game and have yet to do so, let me give you the benefit of my virginal experience after the lure of some advertisements in the Sunday tabloid newspapers. It was a couple of months ago when a friend (he used to be Ian Rush in our school yard games, I was King Kenny) asked would I like to go to the Arsenal game. Without hesitation or consideration for either the cost or the time of year, I nearly took his hand off. A week later I parted with €400 (I'm still waiting for my €1 change, Marky) and started a sequence of sleepless nights because of excitement. Initially parting with such a huge sum to go to a football match didn't faze me, but as the reality of the situation set in I started to expect luxury travel, five-star hotels and premium tickets. Such expectations proved to be pie in the sky. The first annoyance came early in the trip, very early in fact. The bus to the ferryport in Dublin collected myself and five of my weary friends from Navan at the ungodly hour of 5.45am and it had been my Christmas party the night before! Yes, you read right. The mode of transport to Liverpool was a ferry, yes for €399! If it wasn't a torturous enough journey to have to go by boat, the fact that the boat went to Holyhead and not Liverpool only served to further test my patience. However, the happy-go-lucky crew took the arduous journey in our stride and settled into to sleep for the three and a half hour crossing on board Irish Ferries' superb Ulysses ship. Any idea of a few hours kip were ruled out with the sheer volume of people that had also decided to make the trip. So there we were, Liverpool and Man Utd fans (they were playing Aston Villa later that evening, ha ha) all huddled up together, it was a case of sleeping with one eye open! Just when the you think the epic journey is close to conclusion upon departure from the ship there is a three-hour bus journey from Holyhead to Liverpool, punctuated by a pointless and totally frustrating two-hour stop at a shopping complex in Cheshire Arms. Eventually, after a journey that made Frodo Baggins' mission to middle earth seem like a light afternoon stroll, we landed shortly after 4.30pm at our Premier Inn at Tue Brook, which our bus driver informed us was just around the corner from Anfield, at last a positive to take from the trip. There was no delay in getting to the local hostelry, the Jolly Miller, to watch poor old Man Utd lose out to Aston Villa, but the exertions of the day took its toll and while most of us bravely battled on until closing time the journey had taken our best and we retired at a reasonable hour. Breakfast the next morning was included in our adventure and following that hearty meal we took a trip to Anfield. After a quick enquiry at reception as to the location of the ground we were informed it was a couple of miles away. I'd love to be buying land off that bus driver if a couple of miles away is just around the corner! During the taxi trip to Anfield Road the driver pointed out some of the sights, including the house where a young man had been murdered by two men who severed his spine with a samurai sword. Nice! After bagging all we could at the stadium's club shop we headed back to the 'hotel' to deposit our goodies and then made our way to the legendary home of the Reds to prepare for the game. In the hours before kick-off the atmosphere was electric, we were interviewed by Sky Sports, ate burgers from the back of vans and bought dodgy scarves and hats from even dodgier vendors. The Liverpool fans (foolishly) believed Rafa's words that "the season starts today" and so it was with joy in our hearts we entered the stadium. That joy soon turned to disappointment with the seats that were supplied to us. Awful doesn't do them justice. What these big 'soccer specialist' agencies appear to do is snap up season tickets and issue them to their customers. I wasn't surprised that the season ticket holders whose tickets we got were only too glad to get rid of them. Stuck in the corner of the Centenary Stand at the Anfield Road end and in row two left us with a very poor view, but we didn't care when Dirk Kuyt poked Liverpool ahead after a dominant opening 41 minutes. Our day couldn't be spoiled, Liverpool were all over the so-called mighty Gunners. Then it all went pear-shaped. Glen Johnson stuck one in his own net and then the England full-back was turned inside out by a midget for the winner. To add insult to injury the Gooners reminded us of our European plight by singing "Thursday nights, channel five" repeatedly. It hurt, hurt bad. The result, and even more so the tame second-half performance, took away the potential for a great night in Liverpool, so it was back to the Premier Inn for a few swift halves before hitting the hay ahead of another early rise to begin the epic journey home again. The journey home included a 90-minute stop in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwyllllantysiliogogogoch, in north Wales which is the world's longest place name and that is the only interesting aspect of the town. Eventually, we made it back home at 7.0 on Monday evening from a journey that began at 5.0 on Saturday morning. The whole weekend was very enjoyable, but the value for money was very, very poor. I have gone to Liverpool games in the past and paid €115 for flight, one night accommodation and a match ticket, which is reasonable, so while our group had a thoroughly great time, I'd imagine we'll make our own way in future, hopefully the outcome will be better. YNWA.