‘I used to be in Turkey for Leeds’ darkest hour – the recollections of these occasions won’t ever fade’

Amid all the chaos and carnage, it was an act of heartless innocence which stood out.

A growing crowd of people had gathered outside Taksim Hospital in Istanbul, including locals, Turkish and British police, British Embassy officials, media and seriously injured football supporters. A dark tragedy was unfolding, and the street vendor took his chance.

It’s safe to assume the bloke didn’t have a clue two men had just been stabbed to death on the nearby streets of the capital. He just saw an opportunity to make some Turkish lira in the early hours of the morning, so fired up his kebab stall and started cooking.

The most tragic irony of all, is that just a couple of hours earlier, Leeds supporters had been brutally ambushed by a group of Turks wielding, among other things, kebab skewers.

And two of them, Christopher Loftus and Kevin Speight, were now lying in the hospital morgue, stabbed to death following running fights in the streets. I had travelled to the Turkish capital full of excitement and hope.

Here I was, an ambitious twenty-something football reporter with the Yorkshire Post, preparing to cover Leeds United’s UEFA Cup semi final, first leg against Galatasaray.

In Istanbul, a intoxicating and almost mystical city on the cusp of Asia, offering different cultures far removed from home. I was part of a group of journalists enjoying a pleasant evening of food and drink outside one of the countless eateries, when everything changed.

Phones started ringing around the table. Frantic conversations were taking place between us and our offices back in England. Something terrible had happened. Time seemed to stand still.

And just like that, we bundled ourselves into taxis and headed straight to the hospital. One of the first sights to greet me was that of Peter Ridsdale, the then Leeds chairman, turning up ashen faced.

He had been dining with Galatasaray directors when the reports of trouble reached him. He did whatever he could to help.

When the hospital refused to provide medical treatment to victims unless bills were paid up front, he paid them. When the hospital said they were short of blood supplies, he sent his chauffeur off to get some.

And then he emerged from the hospital to somehow address the media. He looked broken and shattered, before uttering words that have remained etched onto my memory ever since.

“I am just trying to come to terms with the fact that I have seen a dead body for the first time in 10 years,” he said.

“When you see a man having to identify the body of his brother with a massive stab wound in his chest, it just isn’t what you’d associate with football.”

I didn’t go to sleep that night. How could I? The story had transcended the actual game, the reason I was there in the first place. We were no longer football reporters.

Later that morning, I found myself in the plush surroundings of the team hotel on the banks of the Bosphorus. An impromptu press conference was taking place.

Ridsdale had asked UEFA to postpone the game, as a mark of respect to the two men who’d lost their lives. The request was rejected.

We were told to return to our hotels and not leave them. If we had to go outside, a security officer provided by Leeds would accompany us. It’s impossible to find the words to justify how horrendous the experience of reporting on the subsequent game was.

Bricks were thrown at our coach en-route to the ground. And we hadn’t even reached the Ali Sami Yen Stadium – the most infamous stadium in the world.

Local police had to form a guard of honour just to enable us to get into the ground. Galatasaray supporters, filled with a toxic adrenaline of vengeance and hate, made throat-slitting gestures as we dashed, head down, in search of sanctuary.

Rats infested the press box. The stadium was full two hours before kick off. A seething mass of noise. I couldn’t hear myself think. Welcome to Hell.

When travelling supporters turned their backs on the game when it kicked off, one seasoned journalist burst into tears. Leeds were in no fit state to play a game of football that night, and I was in no fit state to write about it.

Who cared who won? What mattered was somehow getting through to the end, then heading home. A coach drove us straight to the airport and onto the runway. Cars filled with raging Galatasaray supporters followed us until police intervened.

No passport or security checks. Straight onto the plane. Leaving Turkish soil felt euphoric.

But I was one of the lucky ones. And it was impossible not to think about the families back in Leeds, having to somehow prepare for the return of their loved ones in coffins.

With age comes forgetfulness. But those events of 25 years ago will never fade.