A Very Dear Tin of Ham

I came home on Thursday to find a very sad-looking pile of groceries on the counter in the kitchen. There was a loaf of bread, some spaghetti, a frozen enchilada dinner and two tins of chopped ham. The Marks & Spencer receipt next to the food showed that the total for all of it was less than €5, and it had been paid for with a gift certificate. I marvelled at the quantity of (admittedly not entirely appealing) food one could buy for so little money and then sat down to eat my own food.

One of my flatmates came into the kitchen just then and went over to the pile on the counter. He picked up one of the tins of chopped ham and attempted to open it. The pin that he tried to use to peel back the lid came off in his hand, and he had a small meltdown. "The pin came off my pudding" he exclaimed. He clicked his tongue in exasperation, then continued his tirade: "For f***'s sake! That was dear enough! It's from Marks & Spencer!" I had to try really hard at this point not to laugh. For one thing, all of his food had cost less than €5. The enchilada meal would have been most expensive by far, so the tinned ham couldn't have cost more than 70 or 80 cents. Plus, he hadn't even used his own money. He gets the M&S gift certificates from his work when he has to go in on Saturdays. This is in addition to being paid time-and-a-half or double time.

After the pin mechanism failed, he decided to try to open the container with a tin opener. Unfortunately for him (and the rest of us), he lost the tin opener. He also apparently forgot that he lost the tin opener and launched into a desperate, rummaging search of the kitchen drawers. He finally gave up and asked, "Do you think I can open this with a knife?" He managed to stab a small opening in the top of the tin without drawing blood, then commented on the disgusting smell that wafted from it. It's chopped ham, so I'm not exactly sure what he'd expected. In any event, all of this became too overwhelming for him and he aggressively chucked the tin into the bin. As a backup, he decided to eat the frozen enchilada. "How do you cook this, then? Oven? You can't microwave it, can you? Oh, for f***'s sake! 20-25 minutes!"

The story grew even funnier a few days later. My expat friends came over to my flat on Sunday for a take-away curry. I'd told them about the tin episode earlier, and they'd both found it hilarious. After we finished eating, one of them went to put her leftovers in the fridge until she went home. She found the second tin of ham inside and took it out to inspect it. We discovered then that the pin is supposed to come off. There's a slot on the side of the tin where you put the pin and then turn it to peel back the lid. This is very, very obvious if you spend any time looking at the packaging. I could see it from across the table.

We were all in hysterics about how my flatmate had gotten so angry over nothing. Then, right on cue, he came home. One of my friends had to leave the room after meeting him because she couldn't keep from laughing. I kept snickering periodically, hopefully at appropriate times to make it sound like I was laughing in response to whatever he and my other friend were saying. Luckily she was able to keep herself pulled together.

I continued to laugh every time I thought about this yesterday, which was the perfect antidote to walking to work in the dreary, rainy and windy Irish winter weather. It turns out that tin has become dear in a way my flatmate never would have imagined.

The Long and Winding Road to Anfield, Part 3: The Cab

The match itself flew by so quickly that I'm left with precious few impressions of it. One moment that does stand out in my mind is when the stands stood to sing the team's anthem, "You'll Never Walk Alone," before the match began. That was amazing in a way I can't describe, but from there the event is a blur. There was much standing in anticipation as Liverpool advanced on the goal, followed by a collective groan of despair when they failed to score. Chants, curse words and shouts of encouragement resounded from all corners of the stands.
"Come on, Crouchie!"
"Go on, lads!"
"That was shite, Stevie! Do something with the ball!"

The first half ended with a nil-nil score, and the second half continued in much the same fashion. As the 80th minute approached, I started debating whether or not I should leave. I was resigned to abandoning the stands before the match was entirely over, but I wasn't sure how soon I would need to go in order to beat the crowd and find a cab. The thought of leaving that early after working so hard to find my ticket struck me as unbearable, so I chose to linger a little longer.

I was quite pleased with that decision when Torres scored the first goal of the match in the 81st minute. All of Anfield exploded. Those who hadn't done already jumped to their feet to celebrate. The noise of cheering, clapping and shouting was unbelievable and continued for ages. The exuberant crowd had just begun to settle down and take their seats when Crouch was fouled. Stevie G stood before the Fulham goal planning his penalty shot, and a tense hush fell over the stadium. After a few excruciatingly prolonged seconds, the crowed roared again as the ball sailed safely into the net past the Fulham keeper.

Once that celebration ended, it seemed to be the perfect time for me to make my exit. Now that the excitement of the match was over, the full anxiety and urgency of reaching the airport on time hit me. I thundered down the stairs to street level and literally ran from Anfield Road back around to the KOP end. I trotted after a few other people on the main road who were equally eager to clear the grounds before the deluge of Reds fans choked the streets. I scanned my surroundings for a cab constantly. This was difficult because the streetlamps caused all the passing cars to reflect a yellow light that looked frustratingly like the one on the top of available taxis. Unfortunately no actual cabs were anywhere in sight, and I was soon joined on the street by the emptying stadium.

I really had no idea where I was going, so turned and went against the crowd back toward the grounds. I found a policeman on the street, told him I couldn't find a cab and asked if there were any buses that went to the airport. He directed me toward the city centre (where the mob was headed), saying I'd be able to find one there. I wasn't too concerned yet because I still had more than two hours before my flight was due to leave. Plus I was making better time on foot than the cars alongside me. By now it had started to rain. I walked with the ever-thinning crowd for ages without seeing anything that resembled the city centre. Doubting myself, I asked some men walking near me if I was going the right way. They pointed out a stop where I'd be able to catch a bus to the city centre.

I walked to the stop they'd indicated, keeping a sharp lookout for cabs as I went. None passed except for those that were already carrying passengers. My initial impulse upon reaching the bus shelter was to stand under it and out of the rain. The uncertainty that I was actually waiting in the right place soon drove me outside again, and I went to check the route information posted on a nearby pole. As I was poring over it, I saw a cab draw up to the kerb just a few feet from me. I trained an attentive stare on it, and rushed over when I saw its passenger stepping out. No sooner had he cleared the open door than I poked my head in, asking the driver if he could take me to the airport.

I'm certain he thought I was a bit daft. I told him I wanted to make sure I had enough money for the fare first, adding, "I only have £40" (bear in mind a cab from London city centre to the airport costs £50). "Ach, you'll be fine, luv," he snorted. Gleefully, I slammed the door and settled back for the ride. The post-match coverage he'd tuned in on the radio confirmed that I hadn't missed anything after the 86th minute. Liverpool had won 2-0. The driver tried to avoid some of the traffic by taking a few back streets. This made me feel a bit unsettled because I was locked in a car with somebody I didn't know in an unfamiliar city. How do I know we're actually going to the airport? It didn't help that the roads we travelled were paved with mountainous speed bumps. We lurched over them, sending my stomach lurching as well.

I felt better once we'd returned to the main roads. The signs that appeared reassured me that we were, in fact, en route to the airport. I arrived at John Lennon with a mere £20 fare and more than an hour before the check-in desk closed. I killed my excess time and British mobile credit by calling friends and family and enthusing about my day. I really miss having a mobile plan that allows me to call the US for 5p a minute, so I took full advantage of having it back temporarily.

Somehow I misread the boarding gate screen and nearly missed my flight anyhow. But my luck continued to hold out. I made last call and stepped onto a plane full of people dressed in Liverpool kit. Aside from some stupendously drunk English girls begging the flight attendants for alcohol, the flight was short and uneventful. Back at the Dublin airport, I watched with envy as all the people with EU passports flashed them at the customs officers, barely breaking stride as they passed. I was left waiting in the queue for the "All other passports" desk. It wasn't long at that time of the night, and I soon found myself before the officer.

"Are you living here?" he asked when I slid my passport through the opening in the plexiglass. I flipped to the page that bore my work authorisation stamp and told him I also had my (huge 8.5" x 11" laminated) visa if he needed that. He didn't wish to see it, and instead asked, "Where are you coming from?"
"Liverpool," I responded, unconsciously drawing out the ending so it sounded a bit like "Liverpewl."
"Shopping?" he asked.
"No," I answered rather indignantly. "I was at the match."
"What do you know about the match," he snickered. What an ignorant arse. I was tempted to tell him off, but thought better of it. Though I'm still not entirely fond of this country, I'd rather not be ejected from it before my visa expires.

I consider my journey to Anfield quite successful. The extent to which I enjoyed the match experience more than outweighed the initial strife of finding a ticket. True to the team's anthem, I discovered that you'll never walk alone if you have hope in your heart...and an LFC steward who fancies you.

The Long and Winding Road to Anfield, Part 2: Sorted

When the long-anticipated match day finally arrived, I felt some trepidation about going to Liverpool. I knew I was likely to find myself so close but yet so far, at Anfield but without a ticket. Anticipating this possible disappointment made me reluctant to go all the way to Liverpool only to experience it. But I'd already booked my train and flight, so I had no choice but to try my luck.

I arrived at Anfield by noon and went straight to the ticket office to see if there had been any returns. I found a man wearing a bright orange reflective jacket near the sales windows and queried him about a ticket. He chuckled and shook his head. "I'd suggest you snuggle up with a pint and watch it on the telly. Sorry luv." With the legitimate option gone, I went back outside the grounds to see if any ticket touts were offering reasonable prices. They weren't; one asked for £100 and one wanted £80. After turning them both down, I realised that I didn't have any cash with which to pay them even if I'd wanted to.

I set off to find an ATM, which proved rather difficult. I didn't think to check at the newsagent shops right over the road and instead went looking for a hole-in-the-wall or bank. I plodded down a steep hill, lugging everything I'd packed for my four-day trip in my messenger bag. After searching for 20 or 25 minutes, I finally found a gas station that offered a cash machine. I was tempted to boycott it on the grounds of the fee it charged, but my options were slim. I took out some money and lugged myself and my bag back up the hill. This is not going well at all, I thought.

Things appeared to have grown even worse by the time I returned to the grounds. The few people selling extra tickets had been replaced by people wanting to buy tickets. Not knowing what else to do, I went to the official shop in an attempt to kill some of the four hours that remained before kick-off (and to buy some Liverpool kit, of course). When I was finished there, I went to check the tout situation on the Anfield Road side of the stadium. Nobody. Probably out of sheer desperation, I decided to make a last-ditch effort at the ticket office. Maybe someone had returned a ticket while I'd been away. Maybe it would make a difference if I specifically asked about single tickets.

I was waiting in the queue at one of the ticket windows when an LFC steward singled me out and approached me. "Are you looking for a ticket?" he asked. When I confirmed that I was, he also told me that the match was sold out. "Even singles?" I asked, most likely with a tinge of despair in my voice. "Yes," he said, "but if you wait here by this railing, sometimes people come up to us trying to get rid of a single because someone couldn't make it. All they want is face value, and at least then you know it's a real ticket. Just stand right there, and if anyone comes up to me I'll send them over to you."

That sounded like the only viable option still available to me, so I stood where he'd asked. I wasn't quite far enough inside the fence, though, so he came back and told me to move. "I just don't want a tout to see you," he explained. We chatted for a bit, and he asked me if I'd had anything to eat. When I said I hadn't, he told me, "There's a cafe just across the street. Go get yourself something to eat and a cup of tea. If anyone comes to me with a ticket, I'll bring them over to you."

I was duly hungry and happy enough to do as he suggested. I devoured a cheap-as-chips English breakfast, even eating about half of the black (AKA blood) pudding. Just as I was heading toward the door, my steward came in and motioned for me to follow him. He told me that a guy had come up to him with a single ticket, and he'd told him about me. Supposedly he'd gone to the toilet, so we went back to the grounds to meet him when he returned.

My steward and I chatted outside the box office, waiting for my contact to show up. After a while we had to move over to the door of the shop so my steward could fulfill his duties minding the queue. By this time, the shop was absolutely mad. When I'd gone there, it had been busy but not unduly packed. Now the line extended from the door of the shop to the gates of the grounds and beyond. My steward (who introduced himself then as Tony) was tasked with counting the number of people who entered the shop and stopping the queue when it reached capacity. While we were standing there, Tony asked me about the boyfriend I don't have. Oh, I thought, so that's why you're trying so hard to find me a ticket. If I were a bloke, there's no way you'd be doing this for me. I definitely should have sussed that one out sooner, but I'm dumb about things like that most of the time.

Tony kept an eye out for the man with my ticket while we chatted, but he never arrived. When it became evident he wasn't coming back, Tony found someone to cover the queue for him and took me back to the box office. He introduced me to the head steward, who he said would almost certainly be able to sort something out for me before kick-off. I stood waiting in my original spot by the fence for that eventuality. The wind had picked up considerably, so I was happy to be carrying an excess of clothing. I pulled on a jumper and my new red and white LFC scarf. I still had two hours to go before the match began, so I was confident that Tony or the head steward would work something out.

Tony came back over on other business and asked me whether I'd found a ticket. "Not yet," I answered. "If you get sorted," he said, "come find us. We'll be right over there." As he left to go back to the queue, I saw him pointing me out to a third steward. I stood there looking as cold and miserable as possible, trying to engender some sympathy (I didn't have to try too hard; it was bloody cold and miserable). The latest steward to whom Tony had pointed me out came over after a bit. "I'm looking for a ticket for you. You must be cold," he observed. "You should go stand over there by the door so you're out of the wind." The head steward saw me starting to move in that direction and called, "Oh, don't leave yet, luv!" The third steward and I explained where I was going. I took shelter near the designated door, thrilled because I now knew for certain that they'd sort me out eventually.

I happened to be standing right next to a refreshment stand, so I bought some hot chocolate to help me ward off the cold (the doorway wasn't that much warmer). I scalded my tongue and the back of my throat on the initial sip, so I took the lid off to make it cool faster. I was standing there debating whether or not it was too soon to take a second sip when the head steward found me. "Come with me," he said. "I've got you sorted." I eagerly followed him, spilling my hot chocolate all over my hands on the way. This seemed to amuse the third steward quite a bit, but I can't say I blame him.

I went through a doorway and stood in a stairwell behind the ticket office with the head steward. He asked me if I had £34 (the face value of the ticket). I did, but I had to make him find me a napkin before I could hand it to him. Once that small dilemma was rectified, he went into the box office and emerged with my shiny ticket. I couldn't believe my luck and thanked him profusely.

I still had about an hour before kick-off, so I went to tell Tony I'd been sorted. He said he was now trying to sort my cab. Earlier we'd discussed the logistics of making it to the airport in time. It was going to be tricky; the match wouldn't end until about 7.00 and I was due to fly out of John Lennon at 9.30 that night. A cab seemed to be the only option, and Tony had warned me that the fare might be quite dear. I now told him not to worry; they'd already done enough by finding a ticket for me. "Well, do you want to pay £30 or £40?" he countered. He said to come find him in the main stand after the match and he'd try to sort me. I explained that I'd most likely have to leave early, so I wouldn't be able to take him up on his offer.

After we'd chatted for a while longer, Tony again found someone to cover his post for him and walked me to my seat in the Anfield Road stand. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes," he told one of his fellow stewards. "I'm just going to show her where her seat is." "See you in a couple of minutes," the second steward replied with a warning, you'd-better-be-back-soon edge to his voice. Tony picked up on this and laughed. "Ahhh, I'll see you later tonight," he said, waving him off dismissively. Then he returned to business and mumbled, "Nah, I'll see you in a few minutes." He brought me up to my seat, said goodbye and then left me to enjoy the match.

The brilliant help I received that day definitely helped to make up for the slightly lacklustre assistance I'd experienced previously. I had arrived in Liverpool wishing that I already had a ticket, but that wouldn't have been nearly as fun as being adopted by Tony and the rest of the LFC stewards. And having to pursue a ticket made finally finding one all the more rewarding. I was completely thrilled with my Anfield experience already, and the match hadn't even begun.

The Long and Winding Road to Anfield: Part 1

I probably expended more effort in finding a ticket to this past weekend's Liverpool v Fulham match than was rational. But I've been a Liverpool supporter for about six months now, and there's no guarantee that I'll ever be in such close proximity to England again. I couldn't go back home without making a journey to Anfield. Earlier this fall, I chose a match to attend and started looking into how to acquire a ticket. According to the team's website, I'd need a Fan Card first. I posted off the necessary application and proof of address in September, allowing more than the required four weeks of processing time before the tickets I wanted went on sale.

Then the UK postal strike happened.

My plans were now in shambles. I thought the tickets were going on sale on 19 October. When I hadn't received my Fan Card by the 15th, I checked my British bank account to see if the fee had been processed. It had, so I knew my card was on its way, likely held up by the strike. I emailed LFC Customer Services to ask if they could give me the information I'd need off my card so I could order tickets without having the physical piece of plastic. I never received a response, so I tried to call customer services a few days later. That also proved fruitless, as I waited on hold for 15 minutes and succeeded only in burning all my mobile phone credit.

I eventually realised that the tickets going on sale on the 19th were only available to Priority Ticket Scheme members. I wouldn't be able to order tickets until 25 October. That bought me nearly an extra week before my Fan Card needed to arrive, so I held out hope for that. I eagerly and slightly desperately checked the post each night, sifting through the envelopes compulsively. I sorted through the pile with particular urgency the night before the tickets went on sale and felt a wave of disappointment when I realised my card hadn't arrived in time.

I checked the website again to see if I had any other recourse. It appeared that you didn't need to have a Fan Card if you purchased a ticket over the phone, so I decided to try that. The only barrier was the €0.50 per minute I'd be charged to ring England from my mobile, plus whatever fee the box office charged per minute. I asked if it would be OK for me to call from the land line at work over my lunch hour instead. The person who granted permission speculated that I'd have an easy time getting tickets since the Reds were playing so badly at the time.

I rang up and encountered a message stating that on a certain specified date, the box office had changed their number to XXXXXXXXXXX and I should ring XXXXXXXXXXX rather than XXXXXXXXXXX. Unless, of course, I was calling from overseas. Then I should continue to dial XXXXXXXXXXX (the number I'd just rung) until further notice. So essentially the message was not applicable to me at all. Next I was prompted to push 2 for Liverpool v Fulham, then 1 to confirm that I would accept a single ticket or restricted view. The hold music had just begun when a cold, clipped automated voice informed me, "We're sorry (she totally wasn't), all our operators are busy. Please try again later." Click. I stared at the receiver, which was now emitting only a dial tone. I couldn't even wait on hold? I had to keep calling back over and over and being charged to listen to the message that didn't apply to me? Yes. I did.

I kept phoning back with no success until the end of my lunch hour. Then I finally made it through...to a hold system. I stayed on the line until a different automated voice informed me that I was number 68 in the queue. It was my turn to hang up, distressed and disgusted. I decided to call back the moment the box office opened the following day, hopefully gaining a better position in the queue.

I rang up promptly at 8.30 the next morning while I was walking to work. After suffering through the long-winded number-change message, I listened for the Liverpool v Fulham option. It wasn't there. I hung up, suspecting and fearing that the tickets were gone. I pulled up the website as soon as I reached my desk to check. When I clicked through to the proper page, I saw bright red letters glaring out from under the Liverpool v Fulham heading: SOLD OUT.

But I was not giving up so easily. The boyfriend of one of my friends here earned himself tickets to the Liverpool v Arsenal match by calling to complain when his Fan Card didn't work. I decided to see if the same strategy would work for me. I explained the situation to the woman who answered, and she had absolutely no sympathy. She said that it wasn't their fault; there had been a postal strike. Besides, having a Fan Card wouldn't have given me any advantage. I think the key in such situations is to become so irrationally angry that the rep is willing to do anything to make you hang up, but I just couldn't muster it.

From there, I emailed one of my former coworkers whose grandfather has season tickets. Or used to. I learned then that he'd sold them off years ago. I also had a friend in London "put on his corporate pants," as Jackie described it, and see what he could find for me. He came up with a corporate ticket for £170, which I obviously had to turn down. Searches on Gumtree, ebay and Craigslist turned up nothing, and a connection at my work also failed to come through. To add insult to injury, I came home to find my Fan Card waiting for me five days after the match sold out.

I was out of ideas by then, but I'd already booked a flight out of Liverpool rather than London. All that was left for me to do was go to Anfield with hope in my heart that I could sort something out on match day.