Dear David Meacock
We are pleased to inform you that as a result of the lottery process, your application with the customer reference number: 504550 for the UEFA Champions League Final 2011 has been successful.
*Expletives*
So began my Wembley 2011 sojourn - a bloke from Perth with no particular allegiance to any European team, who follows a bunch of once-mighty strugglers dressed in purple and stands in the shade of a glorified tin shed during summer - now going to arguably the greatest footballing event outside the World Cup. At the time I had no idea who my girlfriend and I would be watching on that Saturday night; but I was pumped for the event nonetheless.
By the time last weekend rolled around, we knew we'd be watching FC Barcelona and Manchester United do battle. London was already full of Spaniards and not-really-Spaniards, and trainloads of red and white were arriving from the north (and the south, and the flat down the road…) into London Bridge to hop the Jubilee Line out to Wembley Park. The trip out was fairly uneventful - upon arriving I realised why. It looked like half the stadium was already there ahead of us, spilling down the steps of the underground station and onto the tarmac of Olympic Way. Walking through the Tokyo-like crowds, I stopped to buy a programme from a tent labelled "Matchday Programmes". The kind chap behind the counter explained; "no programmes." They did have hats, though. I passed.
Another two programme-less "Matchday Programmes" tents later, and I settled for a commemorative scarf instead. Everywhere you walked there were flags, capes, flag-capes, and beer-swilling men who claimed to be from Salford. Happily, everyone was in a great mood. Neither thought their team would lose, and there was plenty of good natured banter. There were also plenty of ticketless fans - a common sight was a piece of card reading NEED TICKETS held by a Catalan whom you hoped hadn't travelled all the way for nothing - or all the way for extortion. There were rumours circulating of tickets being on-sold for up to eight thousand pounds; though I wasn't in enough of a "60 Minutes" mood to go and investigate the claims.
When you walk up to the base of "New Wembley", you can't help but be awed by its sheer size - the walls, the iconic arch, the banners and signs proclaiming the day's game. Once you're inside, the view is just as spectacular. All around you the red seating, the people who have been sitting there since 4:30 that afternoon when gates opened, the Barcelona fans who already are doing a strange kind of congo line, and that Mexican guy with the sombrero and wrestling gear who screams for Javier Hernandez despite sitting with the Barca fans. Then you stop for a chat with the bloke behind you, unaware that he's going to spend the next two hours perforating your eardrums by screaming "PUTO!" every time Nani, Rooney, or Giggs touch the ball.
A quick drink and a chicken-and-chips later (I'm sorry - in Berlin I was drinking steins and eating pretzels and currywurst in my seat… lift your game, FA) and the pre-match entertainment starts. A chance for England to show the best parts of itself to Europe and the world. What do we get? A bunch of people dressed in suits and bowler hats dancing with umbrellas to the sound of a thunderstorm, and Tinchy Stryder. Yeah… opinions best left unsaid on that one. That said, at least one person in front of me liked the multi-coloured umbrellas:
The match is nearly ready to begin. The lineups are displayed. I think that United will miss Fletcher. The Korean guy in front of me wearing a Rooney shirt (why not Park?) disagrees. Well, he doesn't say anything in any case. The Barca fans are lifting a massive banner around the place. They're making a heap of noise - there's not much coming from the United end just yet, a third of them appear to still be in the bar. One of the final acts of pre-game entertainment is the lifting of coloured card at either end of the stadium, to form a supremely impressive sight:
On the Manchester side, a display invoking the Spirit of '68:
And on the Barca side, a simple We Love Football:
And then, before you know it, the match is underway. I'm watching Leo Messi, Xavi, Iniesta and co. against Rooney, Giggs, and a bloke who wears his nickname on his shirt. It's engrossing. It's incredible. It's… surprisingly one sided at first, with United having the better of the play. But then, just like a couple of years ago, they fade - and Barca are in the ascendency. Messi is unstoppable. He is truly a joy to watch, and you can just see the anguished looks on the faces of the nearest United players who have to try and stop him. Park looks like he knows how to do things… Valencia doesn't and just tackles him from behind. Then Pedro's opening goal catches the Barca fans mid-song and they don't know what to do. There's a lot of screaming. Someone runs onto the pitch and is escorted off. There's jubilation behind me and a bit of spittle is landing on the back of my neck.
Then Rooney scores. The United fans have a chance to bellow, and they take it with gusto. The match ends 1-1 at half time and you can sense those in red shirts thinking, "Yeah… we've got a good chance here". Those in red shirts besides the players, that is - because when they emerge in the second half Manchester United have simply switched off. Either that, or there is nothing they can do in the face of a Messi-Villa onslaught. United fans quieten. Some yell encouragement, some abuse the ref. But nobody can stop Messi. How he was left the space for his 54th minute goal I'm not sure, and how he managed to get so much power into the shot with such a small backlift is also beyond me. But he does, and the Spanish supporters are in ecstasy. When Villa seals with with a superb shot with 20 minutes to go, there are already people in my row leaving (why?).
When the final whistle goes, it's like the devil himself has thrown a party. The noise is astounding, even before the fireworks and booming announcements, and a quick congratulations to "PUTO!" man behind me and we leave the supporters and players to enjoy their triumph - it doesn't seem right for a neutral to claim that moment as their own, and besides we've got a train to catch.
Said train was full of Manchester United fans, and it was interesting to see their reactions. There were those inconsolable through grief; those tactful and respectful enough to admit they were beaten by one of the best teams they'll ever see, and there were those who insistent - in some cases through physical confrontation - that they had lost because it was 11v12 - the ref had engineered the whole thing. There were also those who hopped on the train in a group of twelve or so - not one single full set of teeth between them - clutching pints of generic brand lager and wielding cucumbers. Why, I'll never know.
One thing I do know though, is that despite the disgusting price (150 quid per ticket plus a 30 pound booking fee) I was lucky enough to witness one of the best Champions League finals I can remember, arguably the best team of my generation, and certainly the best player in the world right now. Messi, Barca - take a bow. You deserve the plaudits, if not the endless dribbling of Craig Foster.
It was funny to read yesterday then the "stories" of Barcelona being possibly brought to Perth for a friendly in future. Whilst I strongly suspect that will remain fantasy, at least I can comfort myself in the knowledge that they've seen the purple in the flesh; as I became the first person (or surely the member of an elite group of people) to wear a Perth Glory FC kit to a UEFA Champions League final.
Tony Sage was right - the Glory shirt did see Champions League football after all!
