I can’t completely blame Luis García – the rest of the team also played a part, while the capitulation of AC Milan after leading 3–0 at half time, the penalty saves from Jerzy Dudek, the goals from Steven Gerrard, Vladimir Šmicer and Xabi Alonso also contributed. The talismanic performances of Jamie Carragher and Dietmar Hamann also had a role, as did the fact that someone had decided that the American Transplant Congress should be in Seattle on the same date.
It was 2005 and Liverpool had defied the odds by getting through to the Champions League final. I was sitting in the Kop with my mates, Duff, Quinny and Foz, when Luis García poked the ball towards the goal. We all breathed in to try and help it across the line. If it did or didn’t make it is now irrelevant because the referee blew, and we exploded in ecstasy.
We had been to all the home games, and the lads had been to many of the away legs, so there was no question we would qualify for tickets and would all be going to Istanbul for the final. Then I saw the date, 25 May: the date of the American Transplant Congress in Seattle. My heart sank.
This was the biggest transplant meeting every year, and it was taken as a matter of course that, as the head of the UK transplant team, I would be attending. After a brief conversation with my boss, it was apparent non-attendance was not an option. They were flexible with me over everything and turned a bit of a blind eye to the comedy, but not attending the biggest meeting of the year to go to a football match would not wash.
I informed my mates, who all suggested I tell them to stick the job up their arse. But ultimately they knew that wasn’t going to happen. We were all entering our late thirties and all to a greater or lesser extent were learning to toe the line. That is what happens in life when you reach an age of responsibility.
My ticket went to one of the other lads, Sam, and I instead went to the congress. Only to find that some of the meetings which would have kept me there on the 25th had been brought forward, so that I was now able to leave on 24 May.
Had the congress been anywhere else in America, there was a chance that I could have made it to Istanbul. But the travel agent looked at all the options, including flying the opposite way around the world, and the best he could do was to get me home for the kick-off, although even that would involve 19 hours of travelling and a tight connection in London. I took the flight, thinking it would be better to be at home to watch the match rather than in some Irish pub in Seattle at four in the morning.
I made the connection and walked into my house to find it full of children: Quinny had gone to Istanbul, so had sent his wife and kids to my house. The game kicked off with me perched on the edge of the couch whilst our wives chatted and little girls did cartwheels in front of the telly. My only other option was to watch it alone in the pub, but since I was still living in Manchester I didn’t really think that was a good idea.
By half time, the depression was only made worse by the fact that Liverpool was losing 3–0. You’d think this would’ve softened the blow of me not being able to watch the game in Istanbul, but instead it made me more depressed, because I had killed myself to get home and watch it on TV, and Liverpool was getting battered. Had I made the effort and been at the ground, I could have shared my disappointment with my mates, I could have joined in the chorus of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, I could have been part of it. Instead, I was sharing plates of sandwiches and cakes with the kids.
The second half I hardly watched as each goal Liverpool clawed back made me walk into the garden to keep my head. After the extra time and the penalty win, I was both ecstatic and deflated. The best game of football ever and Liverpool had won; the best game of football ever and I had not gone because I had toed the line.
That night, I walked the streets till 4 a.m as the jet-lag kicked in, and I spent the time speaking to my mates on their mobiles as they waited at the airport in Istanbul.
I am, however, now glad I didn’t attend what was arguably the greatest football match ever because, had I done so, I may not have ever reached the conclusion that I did.
In that moment, I knew that I had to leave the day job to try comedy full time. I couldn’t conform any more, and I couldn’t keep blaming my situation on circumstance. Yes, I was married with a mortgage; yes, I had a responsibility to the boys and Melanie; yes, I had a good job. But I knew if I didn’t try it, then in years to come I would be in my fifties and bitter because the boys would have left and I would be thinking I could have had a shot at show business but didn’t try because of them.
There is no greater coward than one who hides behind his own children. I concluded it was better they see me try to make a go of it but fail, than have me place responsibility on their shoulders in later life. I also knew I had to give it a go for me. As my dad had said when I wanted to do the A-levels all those years ago: ‘You have to try it. If you don’t, you will spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened.’
I did try it, and a lot happened.