Worrying about the hotel ended up being ridiculous. The directions from the web site said "Walk up Highfield Street to the junction with a church on it and turn right," which I thought were probably the worst directions I'd ever seen in my life. But, after a short train ride to Rock Ferry Station, I step out into the sunlight (the gloom having mostly faded away by now) and the first thing I see is a 19th-century steeple about 6 blocks down the road. So it'd be that one, then. I thought to myself—actually I said it out loud because I was near delirious from excitement and lack of sleep. So, a nice walk up Highfield Street, past Ruskin Avenue, then Browning, Kipling...I think there were others, but I know the last was Tennyson.

If only I could capture the feeling of walking down that street, the angle of the morning sun, the colour of the bricks of the houses and the fresh, salty smell of the Merseyside air. Things were just different enough, I guess, for me to feel more like a visitor from another planet than someplace an 8-hour jet flight away. I'm walking down Highfield Street, muttering to myself over and over, I'm here...I'm here!

Anyone looking out of their windows on Highfield Street that day would've seen a sight to them utterly absurd: some guy walking down the street with a pack on his back, taking pictures of the street signs, the houses, the neighbour's cat (actually, said cat moved before I had a chance to take his picture)...all the fixtures of what to them must have seemed The Most Ordinary Neighbourhood in the World. But to me it was a New Land; to me it was magic.

So I rang the buzzer at the Yew Tree Hotel, and I almost spit up laughing when a head poked out of the doorway. The "hotelier" at the Yew Tree looked like one of these guys, minus the LFC top and scarf.

So what's your name then? he asks.

Andy Coan.

Right. Well, let's get your keys sorted.

That was it. No forms to fill out, no credit card number or ID. Just let's get your keys sorted. Brill.

Now, I've stayed in nicer hotels than The Yew Tree. Well, a fair number of starving refugees from war-torn lands have as well. But for the next four days or so, it was home. Which I duly celebrated by taking a nap.

I ended up spending the afternoon and evening of the first day wandering around the area, getting thoroughly lost in the process:

Well, The Cathedral was as grand as he said, and then some. No photograph I could ever take of it could do it justice. But ol' Ken knows. And somehow I get the impression that he'll eventually get around to telling everyone about it!

I spent probably half an hour in the Liverpool Cathedral, and close to another hour in the old cemetery that lies at the base of the hill it's on. How old it seemed! Then walked up Hope Street to the Catholic cathedral, the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King. But if Christ the King in Atlanta looks like it was built in France in 1840, the Metropolitan looks like it landed from Outer Space. Or rather, what Outer Space Cathedrals looked like in the 70's. Inside though, it was gorgeous. I mean really sublime. For the first time since arriving in Liverpool, I really felt at home, and I spent an hour or so taking everything in. Plus, the Catholics let you take pictures. Nice one!

Friday night was brilliant. Met Paul (Socs) and Laureen at the Birkenhead Central Station, thence to a pub. Pint of lager, and we traded stories for a bit. Ended up laughing so much my face hurt from smiling. I think it all started with the picture of a Camel on my pack o' cigarettes: Well, I haven't seen one of those in a long time... Socs says. They were really brilliant.

Back out on the street, we had to have a laugh at ourselves, jaunting across the North of England—or the Atlantic Ocean—to meet up with our internet pals. I'm just amazed we found each other, Socs says. I mean I'd seen your pictures on your web site, but I'm thinking 'he doesn't even know what I look like—I told him I look like Exidor!'

Then it's on to The George and Dragon, in search of the magic nectar from Artois. Nice place that, and the Stella was fine as well. Then we figured we'd call Alan (wembley), and head back over the Mersey to meet up with him and Claire "for an hour or so."

So, about three hours and four more pints later, we're all starving and duck into a Chinese buffet for a bite to eat. Well, that is after the final drink, which I actually tried to turn down, only to find myself standing there with a fresh, lovely pint of Stella having mysteriously appeared in my hand.

Welcome to England, Wembs says with a wink, and Socs grinning like a schoolboy next to him.

By the time the Chinese joint kicked us out—well, didn't actually kick us out; they were just all sitting around filing their fingernails, like, and staring first at us, then at the clock, then at the door, then back at us, &c.—and I'd taken a taxi back to Rock Ferry, I was completely knackered. Told the driver he could stop at the train station, as I was only a few blocks down. He says Better take yer on to be safe, wi' all the scallies about, like. I must have laughed a bit, because I got a bemused glance in the rearview mirror in return.

Next morning I donned my new Luis Garcia 10 top and my trusty scarf, and met up with Paul and Laureen at the train station, and set off for Lime Street. After we'd stood around for 10 minutes or so, a guy comes up and says Are you...meeting someone here?

Yes we are, I say. I meant it to sound welcoming, but it ended up as if we were speaking in code or something. Very James Bond.

Like, meeting a big group?

You got it...I'm Andy—Ulysses!

Alright, I'm Gibber!

So there was Tim (Gibberblot), where's everybody else? Socs goes to call Alan, and finds out he's in the bar at the Gladstone with Dfella and Tommo. Stella for breakfast then! Brill!

Had a couple pints, introductions all around, and snapped some pictures with the gang. Around about now's the time when it starts to sink in: I'm going to the match...I'm going to Anfield!

I mean here I am, in a hotel bar at 10 in the morning in the City of Liverpool, Stella in hand and a Liverbird upon my chest. Here's Alan & Claire, Socs and Laureen, Gibber, Dfella, and the famous Tommo. It's like wembs's "EST Retro Story" come to life! So we're thanking Tommo and Wembley for dreaming up the whole affair, and when Tommo finds out that my flight over was the first time I'd ever been on a plane, he's like:

Fuck! I mean I've travelled the world, like, but that's...that's fuckin' dedication! You're me new fuckin' hero!

Thinking about it now, it's still barely sunk in. I remember back when X11LFC, TSLiverfan and Raeser posted the account of their adventure on Merseyside, the first time any of us had met in real life, I knew that what we had was something special. I've been a member of lots of forums and message boards, and "met" new people online since the days of Prodigy. Waaaayy back in tha day! But this was different. This is for real. This is You'll Never Walk Alone.

So. Wallking into Anfield was spectacular. Really magic! We're sat in rows 3 and 4 of the Anfield Road end, not 15 feet from the pitch. You just stop for a second, you take a deep breath and think of all the greats who walked this turf. Shanks and Sir Bob. Billy Liddell and Crazy Horse. Phil Thompson, Tommy Smith, Hansen, St. John, Clemence, Rush, King Kenny, Keegan and Souness. And on and on.

And here we are, our banner hung with pride: Alan and Claire, Paul and Laureen, Angie and Chris, Lou and Scott, Rae and Shelagh, Conor, me and Tim and Strubin with ther fathers. And of course, Tommo.

Thanks everybody for comin' to my party! he says.

Indeed!

And here we all, all of us, raising our scarves high and singing You'll Never Walk Alone as one. I'm still getting goosebumps just thinking of it. Then a huge roar as the team runs out onto the pitch. Absolute magic, I tell you.

It was unreal, being so close to the pitch. In the first half, Boro's 'keeper's not 20 feet in front of us, and Conor's heckling him every time he takes a goal kick:

Heeeyyy JONES! And Tommo with

Let one in, ya wanker!

Actually made him shank one into touch, they did.

Had a few chances in the first 45, with one off Riise's left foot that curled just outside the post and would've killed Dfella and me had it not dipped at the last second to hit the advertising hoardings right in front of us.

All around the Fields of Anfield Road,
where once we watched King Kenny play...

But not much else. Couldn't see all of Boro's goal—neither could Dudek, apparently—but heard the scouser sitting next to me say Pellegrino! Poor old fella.

We looked a lot better in the second half, and my main man Luis was on for Nuñez—and looked lively despite getting all hell kicked out of him at every opportunity.

We love you Liverpool, we do!
We love you Liverpool, we do!
O, Liverpool we love you!

Stevie's come out like he means business in the second half, and his goal was fucking class. The roar from the Kop his shot dipped in the upper corner was like nothing I'd ever heard. Then ringing around the ground was

Steve Gerrard, Gerrard,
He'll hit the ball forty yards,
He's big and he's fuckin' 'ard,
Steve Gerrard, Gerrard!

Even let the 'Boro suppourters have a nice round of You're Not Singing Anymore, which was brilliant.

Several more chances, too, but nothing of it. Guess it just wasn't meant to be. Seeing Cissé come on was really something special; if he had scored we would've all died right then, I'm certain. Turns out he was saving 'em for Bakersboy at the Villa match...

After the match, it's back to the Sandon for a few more. It was really something, being packed in shoulder-to-shoulder with so many Reds fans. You'll Never Walk Alone, indeed.

Most everybody heads off back to their hotels to freshen up, and the plan is to meet in Queen's Square outside the club shop later on for dinner. So Gib and I are standing on the street to hail a cab, and here comes Tommo, fully pissed, swaggering down the street with pint in hand.So the cab's waiting, and Tim says ah, ya can't bring that in here, can ya? Tommo sticks the pint in my hand

Well help me out then!

I gulp half of it down, he kills the rest, and off we go. Next you know we're in the Square, and Tommo points at the Goose at Queen's: I think I see a pub....three lagers then?

I look at Tim, Tim looks at me, Deffo!

So another pint before the rest of the crew shows up—Rae and Shelagh, Angie and Chris, and Lou and Scott. Tommo figures it's time to take his jacket off (I can get seven cans in this jacket and get patted down, and nobody's the wiser) and run through the fountain. Then before things get completely out of hand, we're off to the Cavern Quarter for a nice Italian meal.

Everyone was absolutely brilliant, and by halfway through dinner I swear my face hurt from laughing and smiling! My only regret was that the day—and night—seemed to pass by so quickly. Before we knew it, we're all heading back on the street, tommo leading the way singing Istanbul, me ma, Istanbul! Hug & kisses all 'round, and I'm in a cab headded back for the Wirral.

There are places I remember, all my life....

Or perhaps not: turns out the time I'd write I was 34,000 over some unkown snowy landmass, cruising West towards Chicago. Was far too busy, or rather rushed, to do any writing whilst in Dublin, it turns out.

Dublin City was right fookin' deadly, it was. I don't suppose I missed too much that I would've rather seen—though that Irish Writers Museum would have been cool, and I never got to St. James' Gate. In fact, it cracks me the fuck up that I never even had a pint o' the black stuff the whole time I was in Dublin. But there, as in the 'Pool, the lager was lovely.

To be fair, I did spend a fair amount of time moping 'round the city and wishing Anna were there. Jaysus but I missed her! I stepped off the bus on O'Connell Street, with really no clue at all as to where I was going, absolutely knackered, with my bag getting heavier with every step. Stopped and had a cod 'n chips and a cuppa tea, which raised my spirits somewhat, and saw the funniest sign I've ever seen on my way down to the Liffey. I'm still kicking myself as I write this that I didn't take a picture.

On an ash-tray sitting outside a building, in two-inch high lettering:

So I wandered around a bit, falling upon St. Stephen's (that is my) Green, before spotting a sign that pointed me towards Temple Bar and my hotel. But not before encountering my first Irish bum. Now, the street kids in Toronto notwithstanding, I do believe believe auld Ireland has the coolest bums in the world.

Ay friend, you don't happen to have some spare change then, do ya?

Ah, I just got off the plane, I don't have any cash on me. Which was a lie, as I had, I believe, Sterling, Dollars and Euros in my pocket at the time. But I've never seen a bum in four countries that would press the matter once offered The Cigarette Tatic (patent pending):

You smoke? How bout a cigarette?

Ah, that's lovely. You don't mind at all do ya?

Offer him a ciggie, plus "one for later," and he says

Ah, so what part of Australia you from, then? —A fine tactic of his own, I must admit.

Ah no, I'm American.

Ah that's lovely. What part?

Down South, I say. Atlanta.

Ah that's lovely then. Deadly. Straight-faced as can be, though I suspect he couldn't point to Atlanta on a map.

So compared to my experiences at the Yew Tree, the hotel was fucking terrific. I got checked in and upstairs to my room, and I swear it wasn't two minutes before the phone rang:

Hello??

So, Uly. Dfella. How are ya?

I just started laughing: Wow, you work fast then.

What's that y'say?

I literally must've checked in not two minutes ago.

O Jaysus! he says. Ah, you haven' even set your bags down yet have ya?

Anyroad, we made plans to meet up the next evening for the Chelski match, and it wasn't another two minutes and the phone rang again—it was Anna! I couldn't possibly imagine who it could've been this time, so I must've sounded puzzled when I answered again:

Hello???

Hey! I found you!

Well, I'll be damned. Hey darling!

Hearing her voice again, and just thinking of how much trouble she must've gone through to call me, was just too much. I literally spend the rest of my time in Dublin just thinking of how sweet it was for her to call. She can say it was "for selfish reasons" all she wants, but it was grand, it was deadly brilliant, and it put a smile on my face for days.

I feel I oculd've spent a lot more time in Dublin City, sure. I did make it down to the Martello Tower at Sandycove, and really it was magic. There's really not much there, I guess, but there was something about just being there that was really special.

Would that it were nicer weather—I lingered only briefly on the parapet in the pouring rain (come up, Kinch. Come up you fearful Jesuit!) and really only stayed 15 or 20 minutes altogether, but it was brilliant and I'm just made up that I got to see it.

Walking back to the Sandycove DART station in the pouring rain, I passed an old Irishman along the Siúlán na Mara, walking laong in his old tweed cap—you know the kind—both our eyes squinted against the driving rain. We didn't say a word as we passed, but the look on his face said it all, really. We both just shook our heads slightly, then burst out laughing. In a strange sort of way, it was the warmest encounter I've had with a stranger anywhere in the world, though not a word was spoken.

Finally got back to The Principal, out of my drenched clothes and into a hot shower, talked to Anna again for a bit, and called Conor to get directions to his place, put on me Luis Garica top, and head out to catch the One-Two-Tree to Marino to meet up.

Dfella closed up shop at the newsstand when I arrived, and we went upstairs with chips and dip and cans o' beer ready for the match. Dfella and his wife are fucking sound, just damn good people, and we had the time of our lives. And she made sure to point out the photo of Rafa propped in front of their wedding picture on the mantlepiece—got a good laugh out of that, to be sure!

Anfield was live and absolutely stellar. And Luis's goal was fucking class on all accounts, I don't care what anybody says. After ninety minutes (and several cans o' Carlsberg) we were buzzing and jumping and dancing around the living room like madmen. Had some coffee and chatted for an hour or so, then I got to entertain Lizzy with everything she wanted to know about America:

Ooo! Do ya have like the jocks an' cheerleaders and all like in the movies, yeah? She was hilarious, and Conor's like

Jaysus! C'mon Lizzie ya can't talk to people that way—it's almost racist, like! I was absolutely rolling!

It was deadly stuff; Dfella gave me his old Republic jersey "to wear with pride when ya get home," and maybe it was the five cans o' Carlsberg, bu I got a ittle choked up in the cab on the way back to Temple Bar.

I swear to God this is true: when I got in the cab, the cabbie flips the radio on, and the sweet strains of "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" come over the airwaves. He looked up in the rearview mirror, we made eye contact, and we both start singing along as we rolled through the empty North Dublin streets. It was absolutely the perfect end to a perfect night, and something I'll always remember.

Or at least I'll remember it until the return trip next year!

I have climbed the highest mountain,
I have run through the fields,
Only to be with you

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for....