“The Two Steve’s head to Europe for the first time”
FC Sion 1 Liverpool 2, 17th October 1996
FC Sion v Liverpool, 2nd Round, 1st Leg of the 1996/97 European Cup Winners Cup, 15th to 18th October 1996.
FC SION 1 (Bonvin 11)
LIVERPOOL 2 (Fowler 24, Barnes 60)
So there we were, “Steve The Taxi Driver” and I or “The 2 Steve’s”, excitedly waiting and pacing up and down at 1am on a Wednesday morning as we awaited the coach to arrive at the appointed pick up spot at Dover for our “rite of passage” moment: not the good natured abuse we’d shortly receive from a coach full of Liverpool born Scousers (although that was guaranteed as soon as we boarded the coach) but our first trip into Europe to watch the Mighty Reds of Liverpool. Being a Liverpool fan of my vintage, European trips were held in the greatest of magical majesty. Rome twice, London and Paris were ingrained on every Red’s footballing memory and if you were there on any of these occasions when “Old Big Ears” was lofted high into the night sky by Emlyn Hughes (twice), Phil Thompson or a one handed Graeme Souness on a gladiatorial night in Rome, then you may as well have hoisted the European Cup yourself.
These were the big European nights but there were many, many others, both at home and via the easily duped railway systems of Europe. So this 1st leg of a 2nd Round Cup Winners Cup tie in a tiny Swiss town was our rite of passage moment. It was Steve’s idea and after no doubt borrowing a sizeable amount of the £129 from my dear old Mum, I was in. I recall vividly talking of nothing else prior to our trip into a European wonderland and I also remember travelling with just two plastic money bags full of 20p’s that I raided from the change in my whiskey bottle that held all my excess money. I was going on my first European trip to watch Liverpool with a handful of coins, on the bones of my arse as we English used to say, and with Steve, my travelling companion of many a Liverpool game.
As the coach slowed in front of us it was clear it was ours and we stumbled our way to our allotted seats amid not abuse but certainly wary stares from the 50/60 Reds on the coach. We were obviously “Southern Reds” and that didn’t go in our favour and so we quickly grabbed our seats and no doubt quietly stared at our shoes for a couple of long hours as we travelled into Northern France. These Reds had already travelled 6 hours from Liverpool and here we were, a couple of smiling Southern interlopers boarding their coach.
I would’ve probably given these two soft lads a wary stare or barbed comment too if I were in their shoes.
Then again, 36 hours later we were the “Kings of the Coach” and cheered to the rafters like returning heroes from the Great War, but that’s getting ahead of ourselves.
The journey through to Switzerland was uneventful or certainly my memory tells me so. The literary lyrical liar in me wants to tell tales of becoming the merry prankster on the coach, winning over my fellow Reds and catching them in my atmospheric net.
But I probably just stared at my shoes.
I was indeed excited though and couldn’t wait to arrive and check into a foreign hotel. In Switzerland! See the sights. Watch my beloved Reds in a European match, in Europe. This my friends may not have been Spartak Vladikavkaz when in 1995 a literal handful of Reds made it through the vaunted “Iron Curtain” of Eastern Europe. Nor was it Dinamo Tbilisi or indeed Dinamo Bucharest in 1984 when, again in the dark and foreboding surrounds of Eastern Europe, the camera panned around the ground after Ian Rush’s beautiful winning goal on a veritable swamp of a pitch, and you could make out the occasional body in the crowd going wild with delight. Wild with Scouse delight. Thousands of miles away from home and behind that invisible Cold War curtain were handfuls of Liverpool fans jigging with delight, and all before the advent of easy, catered for, pre-planned organised trips.
Just like the one I was lucky enough to be on, and after staring at my shoes for what seemed like an eternity we arrived. Checked in and with the late afternoon and evening to ourselves (the match was the following night), we did the obligatory hanging of my Liverpool flag in the bedroom and then for some unfathomable reason climbed out onto the roof of the hotel. No doubt to get a better glimpse of the snow covered mountains that surrounded us.
Now, I could tell you of the evening we spent in the obligatory “Irish Bar” and of this moody looking older Red who seemed to be holding court in some Sicilian, Godfather type way. This guy just seemed to be the literal centre of this place and albeit a flying visitor, everything seemed to gravitate around him. But I might have just made that passage up, a kind of a sleight of hand, a decoy and an end around just to deviate away from extolling the dull virtues of getting drunk in an Irish Bar in Switzerland and having no recollection of such events whatsoever.
But I do remember Don Corleone.
Strange how the mind works sometimes, isn’t it?
Anyway, I’ll tell you about my mate Chris instead.
So we’re in this tiny Swiss town of Sion, a town that I remember (and have constantly remembered for 20+ years now) as a quaint, idyllic and beautiful little town that was incredibly friendly, open and, despite looking on in somewhat utter bemusement at the 1,000–1,500 Liverpool fans meandering through their tiny hamlet, and probably wondering why, brilliantly welcoming and perfect hosts. Sion has since achieved a slight notoriety in the world of the Olympic Games as they have bid for, and had their bid summarily rejected, for four Winter Olympics since 1972 and according to their recent bid cost this relatively small town in Switzerland £5M to bid and lose in their attempt for the 2026 Games. So we’re in Sion, it’s warm and welcoming. I’m with “Steve The Taxi Driver” and I’m about to wax lyrical about a friend back in Portsmouth named “Chris”?
Indeed I am, but there’s a reason for this minor segue, two actually, and it really hits at the heart of all of my writings.
Humanity and human friendships.
Chris and I had been friends for many years by the time of my journey to Switzerland as a rather naïve and long haired 24 year old. We met and bonded tightly at Senior School (Ages 12–16 in the UK) over our mutual loves of football, the Ska band “Madness”, repeat viewings of the UK TV Series “Auf Wiedersehen Pet” and of course the raging hormones surging through our bodies for the enticing beauty of the opposite sex. Chris’ Mum and Dad welcomed me into the family as one of their own and were utter gems and my abiding memory of many a walk home from school and walking ahead of the next Bus into town, and indeed home, was Chris cycling up to me, dismounting and we’d shoot the shit with each other as buses passed merrily on by for a couple of miles until we reached his house and I’d catch the next double decker home. But we don’t have time to indulge in this type of schmaltzy nostalgia, we have an appointment with a Swiss Pole Dancer and a rather lovely, if awkward, massage.
So let’s move this story along shall we?
You see Chris was a diamond, an absolute gentleman and a cliched “Salt of the Earth” human being, and one with whom I’m honoured to have called him my friend and real close friend, for so many years. I litter my stories with tangents as you have may have noticed, and that’s not always consciously. Which is a terrifying thought if you think about it. But I also litter my stories and tilt them in favour of the many other friends and friendships gained, and the human beings I’ve made these memories with over the years, so Chris joins a gaggle of characters I’ve named throughout my blogs, from Marc to Matt, Adam to Steveo, Leri to Gareth, and the latter two are two of the funniest humans to have ventured out of the nearby principality of Wales in many a Tom Jones song. And fortunately into my life in the process.
I could weave a tale from those awkward steps on a smelly coach to re-joining it a day and a half later a hero, and maybe I will, and maybe I already have. I could narrate a short ditty of seeing a Liverpool legend and a coming Liverpool God both scoring and giving me, yes me, the perfect first trip into Europe watching the Mighty Reds of Liverpool. I could do that, and I hope perhaps I will, but all of this is periphery scene setting for yet more human friendships bleeding across the decades of life, and my memories of Sion, Chris, Steve, and the other aforementioned friends that give me a great reason to continue smiling.
Chris was (and no doubt still is) deeply rooted in the Blue Footballing Faith (BFF) of our hometown, Portsmouth. He had a sneaky love of Liverpool just as I did for his team in return, and I still follow their fortunes from a disinterested distance. We hung out a lot, bunked off school and smoked cigarettes both more than we should, and talked football. Incessantly. I “called” for him one sunny afternoon (remember “calling” for someone as a kid and just randomly knocking on a mate’s door for a game of football or cricket?). I’m writing this in 2021 and that sounds like something from a 1950’s family drama novel. “I’m just going to call on Chris!” And call I did and was ushered into the garden by a very excited Chris who immediately pointed me in the direction of his Mum’s washing line, whereby resided a Russia Flag. A genuine, bona fide, all the way from behind the Iron Curtain, Russian National flag. And Chris had lovingly painted “LIVERPOOL” through the middle.
And it was a present for me.
Chris had been gifted the flag by another friend whose Father was from Russia and returned from the Motherland with the prized booty of a genuine National flag. Chris was made up with the gift as I distinctly remember him telling me the short tale I’ve regurgitated above. Quite some gift in the late 1980’s, I can tell you. And then Chris, unbeknownst to me, gifted it on to me. With both his unique painting and his canny foresight to know that over 2 decades later an aspiring writer would use his ingenuity, kindness and friendship to try and crowbar this tale into an otherwise unconnected tale, I have a genuine Russian National Flag of the era, gifted to me by a diamond friend, and needless to say I still have that, albeit rather worn and tatty, National flag of Russia to this day.
Accuracy Editor: It’s not a Russian flag of today’s vintage but the Author refuses to back name the country and indeed Federation. Plus he makes a strong argument that Russia/CCCP/USSR/Russian Federation have changed their name more times than the current terrorist organisations that blight our world as well as seemingly changing their name as regularly as their underwear.
Anyway, talking of underwear.
The above picture was taken on the afternoon of the match as after breakfast and a stroll around the beautiful town centre of Sion we took up a rather gentlemanly position outside a local Taverna and had a rather uneventful and quiet couple of hours just drinking and enjoying the sights and excited expectations for the match later. As the above picture also attests to so perfectly is the difference in our demeanours as we may well both share a Christian name but whereas I’m shy and enjoy a peaceful life, Steve at that time was rather more forthcoming, open, with a zest for life, and a lothario’s eye for a lady. Just as luck would have it, such a beautiful Swiss lady strolled past and at first declining Steve’s offer of a drink circled back slowly as we stated our innocent intentions and we had a delightful time if a little grating as there was a distinct language barrier between us. By which I mean, we didn’t speak a word of French (and my German is borderline childish) and she just looked at us with utter befuddlement and a shrug of the shoulders. It was all rather akin to a stage comedy of a couple of mildly drunk Tommies left over in Switzerland after the Great War.
However, Mr Lothario was managing to break said language barrier and minutes later he said “We’re off. Come on!” or words to that affect, and words that completely shocked me, as well as our coach comrades who saw us waltz along the High Street, and way into the distance arm in arm with this lovely Swiss lady in between us! The next hour or so of my life wasn’t, or isn’t, in retrospect, particularly exciting. Nor is there any nefarious drug deals involved or large volumes of shots and alcohol consumed before an approximate three and a half minutes of drunken debauchery. You won’t find any of that here. But in between being cheered as we walked away from the coach AND being roared back onto it (late) and before we travelled to the match itself, contained a lothario who desperately wanted to have a pun laden swiss roll and a long haired lover from Liverpool who just smoked too many cigarettes out of this lovely lady’s window, and a window onto a quite beautiful world indeed. Of rolling hills, mountains, snow capped ones too, and some far in the distance square dots that our host assured us were indeed houses, and taverns and a lap dancing club.
You see, our Swiss companion was a lap dancer who despite the language barrier between us insisted on topping up our drinks before returning in her “lap dancing outfit”. Obviously we had no real idea this was happening but moments later, happen it did, and no doubt both of our jaws hit the wooden floors of her flat. She danced, alas without a pole, but she took great pains to point out roughly on the hill where her dancing pole resided and then insisted (probably at Mr Lothario’s urging) a massage.
Now dear reader, I will not bear false witness and say gallantly that I did not partake in the massage because I did and it was simply that, a massage. A minute. Two tops. I was all rather awkward (as well as wondering if this was all just a Salvador Dali twisted dream of mine) and whilst Steve, shall we say, wanted rather more than a massage, I smoked a cigarette or two out of this lovely lady’s window on the world, and no chuckled at the utter absurdity of this random situation.
We said our goodbyes, mine more in relief, Mr Lothario’s exasperated and without relief, and we ambled our way back towards the coach and arriving a few minutes late and indeed incredibly lucky that the coach waited for us at all, rather than being scorned at for being late, we were cheered like Roman Gladiators returning from a bloody battle. As the coach jerked its way toward the Stadium we were bombarded with questions as well as being absolutely “roasted” as the kids tend to say today. “Look, all we got was a back massage. And she was a pole dancer. And erm, well, she danced for us too”.
It’s not exactly a watertight defence I’ll grant you, but those words were as true then as they are today. For roughly an hour, maybe a little more, we shared the bizarre company of a beautiful soul, a stranger to boot, and a stranger who simply shared a drink with a couple of English fools and before those fools knew it, they were back on a coach full of drunken football fans and their only defence, their one and only defence, was to lift their shirts and ask their inquisitors to smell their back(s). “See” we would probably have said in unison “Can you smell the Nivea cream? That’s what she used”. Again, not a defence that was going to win you Championships, nor a particularly exciting story, but a true one and regardless, we could have said anything on that particular night as frankly no-one really cared.
Print the legend!
Now let’s get to the reason why I travelled on a cold coach for a combined 40+ hours to a tiny town in Switzerland shall we?
Upon alighting from the coach we were hit with the constant chant of “Hop Sion” (Come on Sion!) and the vociferous locals waving these really small white flags emblazoned with the same “Hop Sion” slogan. I just felt really strange and strangely honoured to simply be outside a foreign and European football ground, and about to enter and watch my boyhood team play in European competition for the first time. I would in future be lucky enough to visit the Westfalenstadion in Dortmund, the Stadio Olimpico in Rome and realise a long held dream of attending the Camp Nou in Barcelona, but all such luxurious fripperies were for the future. We took our spot in the Stade de Tourbillon and in a game I only vaguely remember for Robbie Fowler’s goal (goalmouth scramble) and a beauty from John Barnes which was at the opposite end of the stadium from us and quite a fierce shot if memory serves.
Those goals secured Liverpool a valuable, if expected, 2–1 away win.
The Reds would take this 2–1 lead into the 2nd leg in 14 days time and back in Liverpool, but before such matters we ambled back on a cold coach for umpteen hours before finally reaching Dover and our departure, and our departure from our new found friends, and those who had a further six hours to go on Ice Station Zebra before they could finally depart for good. I’m almost certain I drove us from Portsmouth to Dover and so would then have found the car for the return journey, and a journey that took us nearly as long, but in the opposite direction from our Liverpudlian friends. We would be back at that exact same picking up spot in Dover just six short months later and the even shorter journey this time, to Paris, and for the Semi-Final with the French Capital’s team, Paris St Germain, and another small footballing dream of mine would be realised as I attended the famed Parc des Princes.
But all of this and more was for the future. As we ambled our way back in “Freddie” my tiny white Fiat and trusty steed for nearly all of our footballing journey’s, we no doubt chuckled about the pole dancing escapade, the fact I ran out of money and Steve kindly fronted me for a few Swiss hours in a strangely beautiful and tiny town who welcomed us all with such open hearted warmth as well as a surreal lap dance for a couple of giggling fools. Also for the future were immediate trips to London for a 1–1 draw with Charlton Athletic in the League Cup, a 2–1 win at Anfield 4 days later over Derby County and 3 more games in 11 November days as my travelling pal and I went to Elland Road, Leeds, for a 2–0 win, Anfield for the Merseyside Derby and a 1–1 draw with Everton and a 4–2 win in the League Cup against old adversaries Arsenal.
Steve and I went to a lot of games in this particular season and slightly above average for the large amount of games we attended as a matter of course. Trips to London followed in the New Year (Tottenham, Chelsea and Wimbledon) as well as a handful of games at Anfield and for Steve in particular, a painful non-attendance of a game as he was dreadfully swindled out of a large sum of money to go to Norway in March to see the Reds in the Quarter-Finals of the same competition, the European Cup Winners Cup, against SK Brann Bergen. I couldn’t afford such a luxury again, but Steve rounded up the required money and saw it disappear in the flash of a conman’s eye. How he gathered together the money just one month later I have no idea, but he did, and we were about to journey back to Dover for the short hop across the English Channel and to Paris, for the Semi-Final, and for me selfishly to realise a dream and attend the famous Parc des Princes stadium.
“The Two Steve’s head to Europe for the first time” also moonlights across pages 11 through 23 and the very first chapter of my first self-published book on the Mighty Reds of Liverpool entitled “Chasing the Impossible and a Sword of Damocles”. I have subsequently penned a second book “A final word from The Boss”, both of which are linked below together with my Youtube channel reading of this particular chapter dressed in a retro Dukla Prague away shirt and commence the video singing a song by “Half Man Half Biscuit” (if you know, you know) before ending the video by dedicating it to my old travelling friend “Steve The Taxi Driver”.
"7 European Trips with the Mighty Reds of Liverpool" - original article
"Chasing the Impossible and a Sword of Damocles" - available via Amazon
"A final word from The Boss" - available via Amazon
Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.