The Great Pretenders

It began as it would end – with a pledge of plastic loyalty. At the airport, a guy in a red cape asked if I supported a football team. “Oh sure,” I deadpanned, sensing what was coming. “Cork City.”

His response was one of those superior leers particular to ‘fans’ of the faceless and monolithic McClubs of the English Premiership.
“Ah no...Who do you REALLY support? The ‘Pool, yeah?"
He took my silence as affirmation.
“Liverpool forever, mate. Liverpool FOREVER!!!”
Sigh – it was going to be a long trip.
By the time we pitched up in Istanbul I was growing sick of being mistaken for a Liverpool supporter. Dressed neutrally – dour greens, not a hint of red – I fancied myself a picture of impartiality. But still, everyone assumed.
“Come on the reds!” a guy bellowed at me on the plane, as we queued for the toilet. The accent was dense Dublin. A Shelbourne diehard? I didn’t bother to ask. The fraternal wink said it all. We were all scousers now.
My hotel was in Taksim City, Istanbul’s hipster epicentre and – for two nights only – honorary Mersey suburb. The football chants, which boomed out until dusk, were manic, good natured and inventive.
Mostly, they sang about other clubs – Jose Mourinho’s Chelsea was the favourite target, though vitriol was poured on Alex Ferguson and Manchester United too. Arsenal didn’t really intrude on their thoughts. Nor, for that matter, did Milan, their opponents in the final.
Sleep stole over me with scouse invective shuddering in my ears. Dimly, I wondered how anyone from Ireland could possibly feel a part of something so specifically and richly English.
Morning brought the hordes. Shirtless and – Christ, it was barely midday – ebulliently pissed, they crowded Ataturk Square, the dusty heart of Taksim. In the middle, three guys were draped in tricolours. One wore a Liverpool scarf and a Celtic shirt. Poor bastard probably thought he was being patriotic.
Later that evening, I found myself crushed against the merchandising stall of the Champions League Village (a sprawl of beer tents, belly-dancers and Playstations). Around me, pressed Japanese, Americans, Malaysians and – but of course – Irish. They all claimed to be Liverpool supporters, which I suppose is a bit like describing yourself as an authority on theatre because you caught the end of a play on BBC2 once.
An Oriental woman beside me blew €200 on scarfs, t-shirts and baseball hats. She giggled as she handed the crisp notes over. Did she think her profligacy a proof of fealty? I considered asking her if she’d ever been to Mount Pleasant or Toxteth. Would that have been cruel of me?
The game itself flashed past, almost as fast as a hurling match. My brightest memory is of the Milan end, a regimented phalanx of banners that had the severe anti-beauty of a fascist rally.
Extra time whipped by like a freight train. Curiously, the penalty shoot-out felt less surreal than the 120 minutes that preceded it. You could tell immediately who would score, who would miss. Having spurned a 3-0 lead, the Milan players approached the spot like animated corpses. They were buried already and they knew it.
When Dudek pulled off the winning save, Liverpool players ran towards the stands, waving and leaping. The Irish guys around me cheered and hugged one another yet, not very far down, something surely chimed hollow. This was Merseyside’s glory. Not ours. b