LBB'S LOOK BACK ON LIVORNO - Great Trip, Great Performance, Great Result

Last updated : 17 November 2006 By Little Boy Blue
What is it with airlines and their time-tables?  No matter where you want to go or when you want to travel, one leg of the journey invariably involves inordinate activity in the dead of night or at the crack of dawn.  That's how it was for Livorno when, with Ryanair playing the rip-off card with flights from Prestwick, we were forced to fly out of Liverpool to get anything resembling a reasonable deal.

We were booked on the 6 a.m. flight to Pisa on Monday morning so my regular Sunday shandy session, which has been known to develop into a marathon, had to be cut short to accommodate a leisurely drive south.  Saying our farewells around tea-time, one punter was prompted to enquire where we were off to.

"Pisa," he was told.

"Good idea," he replied. "Make mine a spicy chicken wi' extra peppers."  Duh.

We broke the journey at Kendal, stopping off until closing time, then headed on to Liverpool with plenty of time to spare.  We were glad of it.  I'd dozed off for a while and awoke to the car drawing to a halt.

"Flat tyre." I was told.

So there I was on the outskirts of Liverpool in my best holiday clobber (a new T-shirt!) changing a wheel.  Ever conscious of the possibility of a scouse scally or two appearing on the horizon, I didn't hang about and I was mighty glad to see us back on our way to the airport around 2 a.m.

There were quite a few people milling around, ready to board early morning flights but, if there were any Bears amongst them, they were keeping quiet about it.  Then again, having lost to Caley Thistle on the Saturday, that is hardly surprising.

We arrived in Pisa mid-morning and, having booked a hotel in a 'central location,' we stepped off the airport bus and decided to find our digs on foot.  More than an hour later we were still looking.  My other half is a very capable lady but she would never hack it as an explorer.  To be perfectly frank, I wouldn't trust her to safely find her own way out of a phone box after dark.

So I took control, nipped into a local café, got directions and washed down the information with the first beer of the day, and a few minutes later we were unpacking.  Our hotel was a converted convent - 'there'll be nae feckin convertin' here' - a very nice wee place and, after briefly freshening up, we were out and about in downtown Pisa.

Whatever else it might be, it ain't a pulsating metropolis.  You can see all there is to see in a day and that is what we did on the Monday.  The Leaning Tower, the local fitba stadium, one or two different quarters about town and we paid special attention to the bars and cafes, intending to give fellow Bears the benefit of our knowledge when the rest of the troops arrived in Pisa.

Approaching the Leaning Tower from a certain angle prompted my good lady to say: "It looks pretty straight to me."  Jeez, maybe the fact that she was a wee bit unsteady in her feet due to her vino rosso intake gave her a contorted view.  I couldn't help laughing and I've retold the story over and over again to anyone who'll listen.  Not without good reason, they've called it the Leaning Tower Of Pisa for yonks but she arrives and promptly decides its straight.  Priceless!

The local football club have been out of the top flight for quite some time but we went along to the Garibaldi Arena and, as the gates were open, we wandered in.  There are two main fan groups in Pisa, the Wanderers and, wait for it, the Rangers and there is no lack of Rangers graffiti around the town.  We took a few pics at the ground, from the Rangers End of course, then continued on our mission of exploration.

I've always been something of a cautious bugger when on tour, ever wary of being ripped off, and I've always stood by the rule: If there ain't a price board on show, ask before you buy.  Unfortunately, my lady friend needed to powder her nose so I commandeered a table at a pavement café and ordered up two small beers.  Twenty minutes later I found myself being billed for 14.20 euros.

"Whit!" I gasped. "Is that the right price or the rip-off price?"

"No," the waitress said with the smuggest of smiles. "Tourist price!"

Needless to say, as the week progressed and the bulk of our support began to gather, we put the word around.  Give the Bar Miracole a body swerve.  It was good to pass by on the Wednesday night when, with many of the cafes bouncy-bouncying, the Bar Miracole was deserted.

On Monday night we found ourselves a very nice restaurant, sat out on the veranda enjoying the sunshine, some very nice veal cutlets and several litres of an equally agreeable red wine.  Who can we noise-up back home?  So we spent the next half-hour sending irritating texts, advising everyone of the ball we were having, prattling on about the lovely weather and warning against the need to pack any heavy clothing.  So if you saw some folks in shirt-sleeves or maybe even topless, enduring the wind and rain in Livorno on the Thursday, they probably paid too much attention to my weather forecast.

Having been happy with the quality of our hotel, I was in for a rude awakening and was instantly made aware of the big drawback in booking into a converted convent.  At seven o'clock on Tuesday morning and every morning thereafter, to maintain the traditional heritage of the building, it was ding-dong merrily on high as the bells rang out to call Joe Rat's flock to order.  Being in a somewhat fragile state, I was far from pleased and let rip with some choice advice for the bell-ringers from our room window.

"Behave yourself," my lady warned. "The UEFA observer might be staying here."

Tuesday was just like an action replay of the Monday, with us strolling around at our own pace, checking out a few places and drawing up our own wee Teddy Bears' Guide To Pisa.  We were a bit disappointed that any others who had come out early were keeping themselves to themselves but, when we were told of the Scottish Pub on the Via San Martin, we thought we might bump into a few kindred spirits.  Well, you know what thought did.

We found the place and I laughed when I saw it was called The Liars Bar.  I half-expected to find the words 'Proprietor G.Speirs' etched above the door.  But inside there was nothing but locals, with the one concession to Scotland being Tennents Super Lager on draught.  Now I have many painful recollections of this particular concoction from my recently misspent youth but sadly time has dulled the memory and I made the mistake of indulging in a pint or two.  She who must be obeyed was far from pleased.

Nor was she too happy when, having parked our arses in a pizzeria to check out Anderlecht v AC Milan, we got the news of the Mhanky Mhob's victory over Benfica.  I hadn't seen that one coming but, when I gave it some thought, it shouldn't have come as too big a surprise.  After all, this is the same Benfica who finished lightyears behind a Porto side which was knocked out of the Champions League by the worst Rangers team in history.  So we slept soundly on the knowledge that Benfica were no great shakes in the first place.  Then again, they might be a different proposition on their own patch.

A wee scouting mission into Livorno was on the agenda for Wednesday morning and again we hoped we might bump into a few fellow FFers.  But just like Pisa, there was no sign of a familiar face.  I'd been led to believe Livorno was a resort town so we followed the signposts to the sea, only to find ourselves at a container terminal.  If I was going to top up my tan, I would not be doing it in Livorno.  We had dropped in on one or two local bars but found them strangely apathetic towards our game.  The locals are strictly focussed on Serie A and regard the UEFA Cup as an unwelcome distraction.

It was all very deflating but several times during our time in the town we got the beep-beep of text messages to tell us Bears were beginning to muster in Pisa so we quickly headed back.  A very prominent polis presence at the railway station told the story but the mood about town was good.  Fine Christian music was ringing out from a number of bars and cafes and it was great to meet up with Odin and his crew as we gathered around a TV screen to watch Cheslea v Barcelona. 

Unfortunately, with a support the size of ours, there will inevitably be the odd numbskull who doesn't know how to conduct himself.  We had the misfortune of bumping into Greg, from somewhere down south judging by his accent which was all over the place.  He had come to Italy determined to badmouth every local in sight and seemed to be on a mission to smash up every table and chair in the pub.  His only response to being told to behave himself was to growl "Ah'm pure mental me" and even his own mates were growing sick of his antics.  I'm told one of them ended up sticking a dull yin on him but he was too far out of his head to get the message.

So if you're reading this, Greg, do us all a favour and stay away from Auxerre.  And to his mates: Do yourselves a favour and leave him at home.

By Thursday morning the heavens had opened and Italy was on the receiving end of some good old Greenock weather.  The rain seemed to keep everyone indoors, limiting our sing-songs to various bars and cafes instead of an alfresco parade through the streets.  We had intended to get the train to Livorno in mid-afternoon but, forever hoping that the rain might go off, we stayed put and, having met up with Morven and Calum MacClure and Tracy Knowee from the Oakville True Blues in Canada, ended up paying through the nose for a taxi from Pisa to Livorno.

The game was one of those special nights we'll look back on with great pride years from now.  After the rubbish we'd had to watch against Caley Thistle, the Gers rose to the task and there wasn't a failure in a blue jersey as we won much more comfortably than the 3-2 scoreline suggests.  I had the good fortune to have a seat in the small covered area of the ground and I enjoyed seeing the Bears behind the goal make light of the weather conditions by singing and dancing their way through the 90 minutes.

Mind you, I was more than a wee bit puzzled to see Ian Durrant, all suited and booted, take his seat in the stand just a row or two away from me while a tracksuited Laurence McIntyre took his place on the bench.  Well, I don't suppose we want any of our players to incur the wrath of UEFA by overdoing their goal celebrations.  But why wasn't he all stripped for action at Ibrox two weeks later when our game against Maccabi Haifa was interrupted by a numpty in a Joe Rat T-shirt and a Palestinian flag?  Maybe that's something polis and ex-polis have got in common.  They're never around when you need them.

At the end of the match, we were packed on to a fleet of buses to be ferried back to the station but we seemed to drive around for ages, prompting a few of us to wonder if they were taking us all the way back to Pisa.  I suppose it was all geared towards keeping us off the streets and all together and we were eventually dropped off at the train for the short ride back to Pisa.

We made ourselves comfortable in a wee pub just a minute or two away from the station and it quickly became Rangers territory for the night.  The wee waitress was forever saying "We must close" but the guy behind the bar just kept pouring the drinks.  His till certainly played a merry tune and we had a real fun night, with Rangers fans of a more senior vintage entertaining us with their tales from the bygone days of yore.  Somewhere around 6 a.m. we decided to call it a day and left the pub just as the wee waitress' hubby arrived to find out why she wasn't home.  He was not a happy bunny.

No sooner were we tucked up in bed than the 7 a.m. bells were ringing out.  I'm no bigot but I would have strangled the feckin bellringer if I could've laid my hands on him.  Somewhere along the line, I nodded off and finally resurfaced around lunchtime in search of a curer.  Thankfully, the crabbit one persuaded me to give it a miss, I settled for fruit juice and fizzy water and I reaped the benefit later in the day when we headed into town for our last night on the tiles.

We met up with Fraser and Yvonne who had joined us in Wednesday night's wee Sash-up and had a very enjoyable evening, with us guys quaffing on the beer while the ladies experimented with a few exotic cocktails.  All too soon, the time ticked away and we set off in search of another lock-in.  Having been rebuffed at a place where Fraser had befriended the owner, we headed back to the wee bar near the station and the same guy who had been on duty the previous night was behind the bar.

He smiled to acknowledge our presence but pointed to his watch.  "One drink," he said.  Then one drink became one hour and we were all set for another nightshift.  Another half-hour passed, then another, and he had a pleading look on his face when he said he had to close because he was due to reopen at 7 a.m.  But he had said the same thing just 24 hours earlier, although he pointed out to me that it was easier to stay open for 60 people than it was for just four.

Quick as a flash I dug out the batphone and started tapping out a few numbers. "If you want 60 people, I'll get them for you," I told him.  He clearly didn't fancy the idea, shrugged his shoulders, pulled down the shutters and we had got ourselves another lock-in.  Aye, this is the way to live.

At some point we called it quits, said our farewells to our favourite Italian barman (who had a Mexican Indian look about him) and headed for our respective hotels around 4 a.m.  With our taxi to the airport booked for eight o'clock, I wasn't too annoyed when the bells made sure we didn't oversleep.  Suddenly we were on our way home, the week had seemed to pass in a flash and all we had to look forward to was Love Street on the Sunday.

My other half still had some work to do once we got back to Liverpool.  She had to get a new spare wheel, while I checked out the early action from Wigan v Man.City.  Two early Wigan goals killed off my interest in that, we watched Chelsea v Portsmouth on some Arab channel in a pub in Carlisle, then we caught the start of Aston Villa v Fulham a little further up the road, with a certain peg-selling joker who used to ply his trade at Breezeblock Boulevard doing what he does best to cheat his way to a penalty kick.  That was enough for me.

An hour or two later we were back among familiar friendly faces and had only just begun to relive the week when I was interrupted.

'Ho, big fella, where's ma pizza? Remember, spicy chicken wi' extra peppers?'

LITTLE BOY BLUE