May 2007 - It All Starts Here

[Sweder]

Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks

Throughout history Istanbul has changed hands more times than a New Wember-lee Cup Final ticket.
This mighty city, spanning over 70 kilometres, where East meets West on the shores of the Bospheros, is a crazy old town. It's so full of life I'm amazed it doesn’t just burst. Traveling across one quarter of the European side took the best part of two hours. Lucky for me then that my driver and recently appointed local agent, Mert, is an authority on all things Istanbul.

I made the mistake of pondering whether the people of Turkey really want to be part of the European Union. I was treated to an articulate avalanche of reasons why this is not and never should be the case. Turkey, it seems, has joined China, India and Brazil in the race to become the next generation of economic giants. Cordial relations with the EU are certainly desirable, but hypocritical sniping about Turkish human rights records are not endearing the populace to the trough-dwellers in Brussels.

One man who down the years has done more for Turkey than any invading army is Mustafa Kemal Ataturk (1881-1938) the founder of the Turkish Republic and its first President. Aptly named, this former soldier, having served the Ottoman axis as a division commander at Gallipoli, was most put out by the Allied occupation of his homeland. So much so that he trundled off into the hinterlands and amassed an army to rout the invaders and take charge of his country. Having done so he went on to reform great swathes of Turkish life. The Father of Modern Turkey (Mert's words) introduced western dress codes for men and women, separated the church from the state and embraced the previously suspicious interlopers of science and technology. He was determined to haul Turkey into the 20th Century and, before his death in 1938, Ataturk planted the seeds and cultivated the shoots of the modern, vibrant global trader we see today. He is revered here; statues abound, huge portraits hang in public areas. There's no doubting the genuine affection shown by a grateful nation.

My preconceptions of the Turks stem from reports of football-related stabbings, late-night indulgence in post-pub fast food and catching snippets of belly-dancers and opium dens on the tellybox. How wrong can you be? These people are welcoming, warm-hearted and generous to a fault.

Last night I scurried into the night to find a bar showing the Rowdies reserves take on the slightly-less-rich multimillionaires of Chelski’s second string. Alor! It also just happened to be the Turkish Cup Final, live and exclusive on the other channel. Besiktas were sticking it to some other lot who looked less likely to score than Manchester City. The bar staff clustered around the flat screens, striking a pose as if for a war memorial, all hands on each others’ shoulders, swarthy mustachioed faces peering into to the near distance. I’d met up with a fellow Rowdie supporter in the hotel bar – ironically in the shadow of a giant signed & framed 2005 Big Cup Liverpool shirt, left by the Mickey Mousers after their astonishing triumph in this city. He was already ensconsed in front of a telly, beer in hand.

It's OK, he said at the puzzled look on my face.
They said they'd turn over when our game starts.’
What? I say, what??? Turn over?
This is their Cup Final; Besiktas are a local outfit, one of three top flight teams from this city. Don't be bloody daft, of course they won't . . .
Flicker. Flick flick flick . . .
Cue Joe Cole, catching flies, leaping over Wes Browns homicidal lunge. I do not believe this. I waved the barman over.
Look mate . . . thanks and all that but . . .’
Oh, it's OK, there's a break in the other match. We'll jump between the two.’

To be honest I felt very emotional just then. I mean, switch this around for a moment. The FA Cup Final on telly in a West London boozer, the Roublettes are playing the hated Rowdies for the last bauble of the season and a bunch of Turks roll in looking to watch a meaningless match between two second-string Turkish sides.
'No problem gov, let me get the remote for you' is the least likely response they're going to get.
'Oi, Atilla, sling yer fakin’'Ook' is considerably closer to the mark.

Basiktas won (I was dead chuffed for the delighted bar staff) and in some ways so did the Rowdies, their tiring youth, abetted by an aged Norwegian and the late arrival of a tiggerish Rooney clinging on for a point. Whilst devoid of true quality the game raced along at an alarming pace. Lord knows what the locals here made of it, their own match crawling as if stuck in one of the endless traffic jams that blight the causeways of Istanbul. The sight of The Special One with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp added to my satisfaction as I floated off for a blissful night's kip.

This is a fabulous place, make no mistake.
I'm back here for eight days in June.
Can't wait.