Words by Hijab Shah
Photography by Paul Stringer
August 20 2026
Some cities feel like liminal spaces, neither fully here nor fully there, but composed of and defined by a multitude of identities. Both Birmingham and Istanbul are two such liminal cities, which is why it felt fitting that Istanbul was the site of Aston Villa’s Europa League championship win in May.
Birmingham and Istanbul are deeply, deeply nostalgic cities. The former was once a prosperous hub of innovation and industry, and the latter was the centre of an empire that stretched across three different continents. Both historic cities are now shadows of their former glory, falling increasingly victim to disrepair and mismanagement, but the physical reminders of that greatness — from the creatively converted warehouses of Digbeth to the grand monuments still standing in Sultanahmet — lend this sense that the glory may still be within reach. Each city’s history lends itself to becoming a cultural melting pot, and to this day, you can be absolutely any type of person and fit into Brummie or Istanbullu life very quickly. A woman in a headscarf can be sipping coffee at a trendy cafe across from her friend in shorts and a tank top, and the pair wouldn’t be out of place in Cihangir or the Jewellery Quarter.
The shared character between the two cities is how the thousands of Brummies who flocked to Istanbul last May very quickly and comfortably became part of the Istanbul scenery as they cheered on Aston Villa to win their first piece of silverware in three decades.
When I landed in Istanbul as part of the flock, the excitement was immediately palpable. I exchanged grins with fellow Villans when spotting them in claret and blue exiting the terminal, and heard frequent cries of “Up the Villa!” by way of greeting as I made my way towards the public transport into town. On the ferry from Kadıköy to Beşiktas, I caught a glimpse of the Beşiktas J.K.’s Tüpraş Stadium looming in the distance, the designated arena for where the big contest between Aston Villa and Freiburg was to be held the following evening. Ticketless and nervous but excited to experience a very special European away weekend with my fellow Brummies, I made my way to my accommodation near Taksim Square.
As I got closer to the Republic Monument towering over the square, I heard less Turkish and more Brummie being spoken around me. The kebab shops curving around one side of the square had long queues of hungry travelers with their backs to me, bearing John McGinn’s number 7, Morgan Rogers’ number 27, a couple of retro tops bearing Paul McGrath’s number 5, and even one ‘Stagbonlahor’ shirt — a stag-do play on Gabriel Agbonlahor’s name, with an irreverent 69 emblazoned underneath. I could have been on Witton Road on a matchday, for all the Brummie banter around me.
I wondered for a moment if locals would find this football fan invasion off-putting, but very quickly was disabused of that notion when I saw a group of young lads in striped Fenerbachçe shirts laughing with the Stagbonlahor group, perhaps discussing the antics of a certain Jhon Durán who had brief but bombastic stints at both teams. The scene was repeated across the square, with locals mingling warmly with their cousins from across the Atlantic, and I caught snatches of conversation about Tammy Abraham, the Aston Villa forward who had just arrived from Beşiktas; predictions about what the final score would be, mostly anticipating a heavy Freiburg loss; and an older Villan teaching some young Turkish kids the Ollie Watkins chant. As I walked along in my Villa top, I was hailed almost as equally by Istanbullu football fans as Brummie ones — the former seemed to have picked up “Up the Villa” since the Brummies had arrived, and were happily proclaiming their allegiance to their West Midlands cousins. I felt sorry for the odd red-shirted Freiburg fan that walked quietly amidst the groups of Villa fans milling about, but nothing untoward seemed afoot. The atmosphere was jovial: the spinning kebabs were rapidly thinning out, English Breakfast tea was temporarily abandoned in favour of its Turkish counterpart in little glass cups, and promises of “See you later at The Dubliner!” were being made as groups temporarily disbanded for sightseeing (or a meal, or shopping, or a nap). The portmanteau “Astonbul” became an apt shorthand for this shared liminal space that the football fans were occupying.
The various WhatsApp group chats that I’d added myself on to (in the hopes that someone might magically have a spare ticket to the match) all mentioned The Dubliner as the Villans’ unofficial gathering point. Out of curiosity, I made my way there as the sun began to set. Nothing could have prepared me for the joy and hilarity that ensued. I could only make out the red sign for The Dubliner in the distance, the neon “i” tilted jauntily off-kilter — the street was entirely packed with bodies, progressively drunker the closer they got to the Irish pub. Claret and blue flares and golden sparklers were popping off at random amongst the crowd, flogged by an enterprising young Turkish lad with a wispy moustache, grinning as he waved his wares temptingly at the football fans. A group of Istanbullu aunties cackled at a shirtless, panda-eqsue older Villan standing on a chair, swinging his black away kit in circles above his head, belting out “Small Heath get battered everywhere they go” at the top of his lungs. As one of the only sober Villans amongst the bunch and not willing to stick around in case things got hairy, I decided to make my way back to my accommodation. As I wound my way out of the street, fading strains of ‘Freed from Desire’ made their way through the smoke of the flares, and when I looked back, I caught Brummies and Istanbullus breaking into the chorus together, arms around each other, jumping incongruously to the beat.
The next morning, on my way to meet up with my friend Paul in Sultanahmet to explore the sights before the match, I serendipitously ducked into a cafe and ordered a pricey pourover with notes of jasmine and apricot. I sat at the window counter next to a tall lad reading a book, the dregs of his morning coffee growing cold next to him. As I sat, he did a double-take, and then said, “Oh wow, that’s a great shirt!” I was, of course, wearing the white Villa third kit accented with pink, blue, and purple. We launched into an enthusiastic conversation about football kits, and he revealed that he was a Freiburg fan, which then naturally led our conversation down the territory of banter. As I finally bid him goodbye, he said, “See you at the match!” to which I replied, “Sadly not, I don’t have a ticket!”
“Oh! Someone in my group actually has a spare ticket that they haven’t been able to sell! Would you be interested?”
I paused in my tracks and sat back down, gaping at what he’d just said. Hours before kick-off, an opportunity to be inside the stadium — but behind enemy lines! He laughed at my expression, probably sensing the wheels turning in my head and said, “Freiburg fans are nice, don’t worry! They won’t be angry if you’re sitting with them!” I battled internally, but the opportunity to be in the stadium was too historic, too massive. We struck a deal: I’d transfer over the face-value of €65 — an absolute steal compared to the Villa resale tickets online which started at £300 a pop — and I was practically floating on air by the time I reached Paul outside the Blue Mosque. Paul took photos of slightly lost Villans against the backdrop of the historic mosque, of friend groups beckoning onlooking locals to join their group photo, and of several father-and-son duos gearing up for the final — including a lovely gentleman named Albert Spiers who had experienced the euphoria of Villa’s 1982 European Cup win, and his son Russell who was just a baby back then. Albert and Russell showed us a photo from 1982, with Albert and his late wife Sue holding hands with a baby Russell, pink-cheeked in dungarees and just as tall as the European Cup they were posing next to.
Paul’s phone rang as we chatted with another father-son duo, and minutes later, Paul ended the call and joyously announced that he, too, would be attending the match! He had acquired a ticket thanks to a Villa fan he’d met on the airport bus, whose indecisive friend decided to forego the ticket that his mate had so painstakingly booked for him. We decided to celebrate with, of course, a kebab, and then made our way deliriously happy through the pouring rain — shades of Birmingham yet again! — first so that I could change out of my Villa top in preparation of sitting in the Freiburg end, then to the Villa fan zone in Gezi Park to soak in the atmosphere (and more rain), and then splitting off to make our way to opposite ends of the Beşitkas stadium.
The match was a surreal experience. I had a bird’s eye view of Villa’s first goal, a magnificent set-piece orchestrated by specialist coach Austin MacPhee: a short Lucas Digne pass to Morgan Rogers, who floated the ball outside the box in the path of an unmarked Youri Tielemans, whose beautifully-timed volley thundered into the back of the net. I have never worked harder to suppress a cheer. Shortly thereafter, Emi Buendía bent in a long-range screamer, and then the second half saw a sliding, swashbuckling Morgan Rogers score the third to seal Villa’s victory. I was quiet on the outside, but exploding with joy within. The dejected Freiburg fans around me mistook my emotion as akin to their own when John McGinn finally, finally lifted the trophy in a cloud of gold confetti.
Paul and I caught up after the match, belting out the words to “Champions League awaits for me” as we spotted each other across the way in Taksim Square. We found our way to one of the few places to eat that were still open late — you guessed it, a kebab shop. As we relived the match from our respective vantage points, we could have just as easily been having that conversation at Turk Nazz in Moseley Village, or Marmaris on King’s Heath High Street. The following day, I watched a livestream of the Villa parade in Birmingham on my phone at the airport, and the scenes there weren’t far removed from the scenes outside The Dubliner.
All good things must come to an end. World Cup fever took over soon after the Villa victory, and that night in Istanbul faded into a dream. As the summer progressed, the four individuals instrumental to Villa’s first goal — MacPhee, Digne, Rogers, and Tielemans — all left the club for other teams. Speculation abounds about other key figures in the trophy-winning Villa side, and the beginning of the 26/27 season seems to be poised for a younger, perhaps more tentative Villa side than the band that battled together into European glory. The sad news reached us about the passing of Albert, the gentleman who finally got to share the experience of a European win in Istanbul with his son Russell, before he suddenly departed to become a Holte Ender in the sky. The lovely, bittersweet memory of meeting Albert and Russell on matchday in Istanbul will always stay with me — two Brummies in their Villa kits, looking entirely at home in the warmth of the city, with the Blue Mosque looming in the background.
As the new season begins with new faces on the team, it will feel like a very different Aston Villa. In the same way that Birmingham and Istanbul’s glory days have faded into the past, so has the memory of that fateful night — as one commentator so eloquently put it — of Villa glory on the banks of the Bosphorus.
All good things must come to an end, but we’ll always have Astonbul.