Читать книгу Here We Go Gathering Cups In May - Nicky Allt - Страница 12

Anyone who ever travelled on a footy special in the 1970s will understand the meaning of the word ‘rough’ – and boy am I talking rough. They carried 400–500 people in conditions that nowadays wouldn’t be fit for a robber’s dog to travel in. The carriages were ramshackle – some with compartments, some with tables, all with the kind of seats that had your arse begging and pleading for a cushion. Most of the time they were laid up, festering in the sidings at Edge Hill station, skulking in the shadows, hiding from the scrap-man before being dragged out screaming every Saturday to transport footy fans around the country with all the grace and comfort you’d expect from being pulled over cobblestones for hundreds of miles in a rickshaw.

The one I boarded was the table type: four seats facing each other with a table in the middle, similar to today’s trains. But let’s get this right: similar only in design. I wandered through it in case our kid and the lads were on board. The buzz inside the carriages drowned out the eardrum-bursting racket of the moving train. It looked and sounded like the wine lodge on a Saturday night: people standing up, loads of laughter and loud talking. It was supposed to be a dry train, but everyone seemed to have a drink in their hand. We hadn’t passed Edge Hill when some fella in his mid-50s handed me a can of McKeown’s Export. ‘Wet your whistle, son,’ he said. I stayed with him and his mate while I drank the can. They were both Shankly fanatics who’d seen action at Anzio during the War. One had been shot and injured. ‘Last time I was in Italy, the Germans battered us. It’ll be the other way round on Wednesday,’ he said.

They were great to listen to. Anyone their age on a footy train nowadays could only reminisce about battles at away games. But those old Shankly boys were the real deal. The likes of them made the trip possible. They were the reason why the train guards weren’t wearing jackboots or the trains themselves weren’t gonna be shelled or blitzed in Europe – although, saying that, I think by the time we got to Rome it looked like they had been.

In every carriage, plastic bags were stacked up on tables alongside jumpers, cardies, scarves and rolled up flags. More gear was stuffed underneath. It took ages to weave my way through. I was surprised how many women were on board, mainly older ones dressed in red fancy-dress costumes and hats, singing their heads off in that whining old pensioner’s voice – the type that’d shatter a glass from fifty yards. The whole train was rammed. The only empty spaces were in the no-man’s-land between carriages where the bogs and train doors were situated, and where the racket of the train was deafening. Those places were always freezing and were often referred to as ‘mingebag alley’ because of the minges you’d see there having a sly smoke to save them flashing their ciggies around. But this trip began like a Red Cross mission. By the time I got to the end of the train, I’d been given a can of ale, a bag of crisps and a packet of beechnut chewies. The exuberance was so full on that even tight-fisted bastards were acting like Mother Teresa.

Our kid and the lads weren’t on board, so I made me way back down the train, scanning round for a seat. The five-hour stint to Folkestone was only the first leg of a 3000-mile round-trip, so I badly needed to park me arse. It was starting to get a bit nippy, which was nothing new on a special, with the heaters always being fucked. They were a waste of space. To be honest, the only time I was ever roasting on a footy special was when some bastard set fire to the next carriage on the way home from Leicester in ’75. But bringing a coat to Rome was unthinkable. Of the 26,000 who went, I was one of the 25,999 who didn’t have one. I took me chances with a black V-neck jumper over a white T-shirt, a pair of Levi’s (Lionel Blairs) and a pair of Clarks boots.

By about half ten things had settled down. The singing had fizzled and the wine-lodge buzz had faded to backdrop, replaced by the racket of the moving train. Halfway through a carriage I heard ‘All right bollocks!’, then saw a couple more Kirkby heads. There was an empty seat by them. Wardy was wearing one of those floppy Liverpool hats and was grinning, with a can of ale in his hand. It was a sight I’d get well used to over the next few days and how I’ll always remember him. Jimmy had the same hat as me and thousands of other Reds – the thin-nylon peaked type with red and white quarters. My abiding memory of him is of a fella permanently blitzed. His raw, croaky voice sounded like he’d been inhaling smoke from a bus exhaust. He passed me a can: ‘Ee-arr, swallee that,’ he said.

I ‘swalleed’ it with three cheese sarnies. My food supply was half-gone, but I knew I had Vinnie’s as backup. A fella on an overloaded table opposite started moaning about the lack of baggage space. Wardy reassured him: ‘At least it won’t be like this in Europe. I believe the trains over there are brilliant.’ As far as statements backfiring go, that has to be on a par with Neville Chamberlain’s 1938 ‘Peace in our time’ speech, when he waved that white paper and said that Hitler was a great fella. To be fair to Wardy, at that time nobody knew what the rail networks on the other side of the Channel had in store for us – thank fuck.

By midnight the carriages were quiet. We were catching a ferry in the early hours, so we all needed some kip. The cold woke me a few times. I remember curling up on the seat and wishing I’d brought a flag to wrap around me. When Wardy woke me at Folkstone Harbour station, I was completely zombied. ‘Come ’ed, it’s D-Day,’ he said, grinning, with a can in his hand. Jimmy was sprawled across the table, using his plastic bag as a pillow. One side of his head was matted with sweat.

I was surprised how big the ferry was. I’d only ever sailed over the Mersey on the Royal Iris. As we boarded, everyone had their beige cardboard passports ready, but no one asked to see them or even bothered checking our tickets. The boat was chocka. A lad called Ammo told me that our kid and the others had got the earlier ferry: ‘Your Mick said if I see yer, to tell yer they’ll meet yer by the Colosseum somewhere.’

Below deck the bar area seemed as big as Anfield. It was a mixed scene. Loads were sitting or lying around shattered. Some slept while others drank noisily. Jimmy moseyed over with two full, dripping pints: ‘The bar’s shut. Everyone’s filling their boots.’

I stood on a chair and saw about six Reds behind the bar passing pints over into a forest of waving arms. Any other time and I’d have been right over there, but lack of kip, ale, cheese sarnies and ciggies had set fire to me gullet, so I popped a Rennie and got me head down.

It was about half eight when Wardy woke me up at Ostend … grinning, with a can in his hand. Jimmy was sprawled over a chair as if he’d been shivved. There was a huge queue to get washed, so we decided we’d wait till we boarded the Belgian train, thinking it’d be a modern, state-of-the-art job. At Ostend no one checked our passports or tickets again. I couldn’t help thinking how easy it would’ve been for Vinnie or anyone else bunking. We waited on a chilly platform at Ostend station for half an hour, then this minty old train rolled up. The buzz simmered down. The looks of concern said it all. ‘This bastard better not be ours,’ Jimmy said. It was what we were all thinking. A steward confirmed the worst. Wardy put it in a nutshell: ‘It looks like the fuckin’ thing they used in The Railway Children.’

The interior was similar to an English footy special: sliding-door compartments that held eight, with roped luggage racks above the seats and a sliding window. Further down … the carriages changed to just seats with no tables. A steward told us it was because the carriages were half-Belgian and half-French. We sat in the French half (just seats). The entire train smelt musty and felt crusty, but because we were still in adventure mode we just got on with it. All that mattered was that we were well on our way.

The first couple of hours were weird. People in the Belgian half of the train kept coming into our half saying ‘It’s fuckin’ freezing down there’. The crazy scenario was that the heaters only worked in the French half. Then, as morning warmed up and the sun got going, we kept going down the Belgian end saying ‘It’s fuckin’ roasting up there’. A steward eventually turned the heating off, though it was still stifling. The air conditioning was just a simple case of opening the windows.

The tannoy system was on a par with the train. Before any announcement you’d hear a few seconds of crackling, like an old wartime radio broadcast. A few mimicked Lord Haw-Haw: ‘Germany Calling’. Most messages were in broken English, the clearest being a warning not to drink the water on board because of contamination. That isn’t something you wanna hear when your throat feels like you’ve been gargling sand. I had nothing at all to drink, and Wardy and Jimmy only had ale. The situation led to an announcement that the buffet car was giving away free cans of soft drinks. When I got there, they’d all been snaffled. My salvation came when a few lads walked through our carriage carrying bags filled with drinks. They’d had a can whip-around on the train and were handing them to people who were thirsty, which I thought was a great Scouse touch.

It was boiling hot that afternoon. The open windows played havoc with any card games. It was as if there was a poltergeist in the carriage – cards flying all over the place. Plenty of yawning was going on. The initial hit of travelling on foreign soil had well worn off. The countryside seemed endless, flat and boring. Jimmy put his own geographical slant on it: ‘It looks like them fuckin’ cornfields at the back of Kirkby.’ I must admit I still laugh at that.

I wolfed me last three butties, then gave Vinnie’s sarnies to Wardy. His face was an absolute picture when he took them out the bag. The tomatoes on them had blown. They were like dripping porridge in his fingers. It was the only time I saw his grin disappear. His kite resembled someone holding his breath underwater as he lashed the lot out the window.

I don’t think anyone noticed that we’d crossed over into Germany.

It looked exactly the same, apart from the occasional six-foot-five, blond tit-head you’d see on a platform. Slowing and passing through stations were the best parts of the day. All the red and white colours would come out the windows, and the singing would start. You could tell that the Belgians and Krauts had never witnessed anything like it. Most of them stood gaping at the train with constipated expressions. In one station we all started throwing English coins and sweets to people on the platform. They were holding their hands out and pushing each other out the way to get at the booty. Any neutral observer would’ve seen it as a gesture of good will from one culture being warmly embraced by another. Jimmy’s piss-holed eyes saw it differently from the train window. ‘Yer fuckin’ tramps,’ he shouted.

As we got further into Germany, the countryside got more lush and picturesque, while the scene on the train became uglier. The Lord Haw-Haw voice announced that the buffet car was out of stock and that the handbasins and toilet flushes had run out of water. Now I’m no prude … but there was no way I was going anywhere near shithouse pans that were chock-a-block with King Eddies. They were gruesome. Don’t ask me what the poor women on board did, but most lads ended up having a burst in the hand-basins. When we got to Strasbourg, scores bailed off the train unofficially and stampeded to the bogs. Others swarmed the cafeteria, where there were more problems. Staff wouldn’t accept Italian lire or sterling. Back on the train they announced that there’d be a fresh water supply at Basle. It was a blag. When we got there, Swiss rail staff refused to fill the water tanks.

By the time we reached Zurich station early on Tuesday evening, the state of play wasn’t good. Swiss bizzies lined the platform and wouldn’t let us off, because one of the starving trains ahead had cleaned out the cafe, and for some reason the Swiss rail authorities still wouldn’t refill the water tanks. There were some thirsty, hungry, irritated Scousers on board. People were desperate. Everyone’s sarnies had been eaten or had fallen apart, and any dregs of juice that were left over were warm. The water shortage was so bad that a few lads from Wallasey near us used a big bottle of warm Kia-Ora orange to get washed with. Stewards partly restocked the buffet car, and we took off again, but you couldn’t get within two carriages of it. After half an hour it was all gone again. I had to make do with a drink of warm, flat bitter off Wardy, who passed me it … grinning, with a can in his hand.

The stewards got serious earache about the water and sanitary situation. The bogs were starting to smell like Widnes. We’d have been well within our rights to start a mutiny. Then, as if by magic, the moody atmosphere mellowed when the Swiss Alps came into view. It was mid-evening, and the sunshine bounced off the snow peaks, lighting up the mountains in a stunning amber-white. Everyone was hanging out the windows, blown away. To put it blunt, it was fuckin’ awesome. Jimmy’s ale-blurred vision even saw the beauty. ‘Imagine sliding down one of them on a piece of cardboard,’ he said.

At one of the highest points, we stopped at a scenic little station; the views were spectacular. Then, from the Belgian end of the train, someone yodelled out the window in a high-pitched voice: ‘Yodel-a-e-dee.’ The echo it made was amazing. Next thing a deeper yodel came from the French end: ‘Yodel-a-e-dee.’ Everyone got onto it. After a few minutes the sound of hundreds of yodelling Scousers echoed round the Alps. It was hilarious to listen to. Just before we left, Wardy handed me a few coins and said, ‘Do us a favour. Go and get us an Echo.’

The water tanks were finally refilled at a place called Chiasso, which is on the border with Italy. It was a big relief in more ways than one, especially for the women. There was a bird in our carriage called Jackie. She was a bit heavy on the make-up but was as fit as a butcher’s dog – white blouse, skimpy red shorts and little white socks. Every time she walked past, at least twenty heads would lean over and follow her arse down the aisle. I had fantasies about her dragging me into one of the bogs … then I pictured the bogs, and the fantasy was fucked.

We didn’t see anything of Milan or Parma – it was dark when we passed through them. I went for a walk to stretch me legs. The train was shitted up good style. There were no rubbish bins, just English plastic carrier bags all over the place, over-spilling with shite. A couple of carriages looked like a grenade had gone off in them. Cans and empty bottles rolled round floors full of playing cards, crisp bags, ripped magazines and Monday’s newspapers. In one of the bogs there was a small, smashed up chocolate vending machine, which must’ve been dragged on at Strasbourg. Its moneybox wasn’t touched, just the chocolate gone. I bummed a couple of squashed ciggies off a lad in the Belgian half. Every compartment I passed had bodies crashed out in the criss-cross-roped luggage racks. They looked more like torture racks. I had to make do with another sit-upright kip. I took the knock somewhere around Bologna with me legs entwined with Jimmy’s, using the cold window as a pillow.

On the Wednesday morning I opened me eyes about 60 km north of Rome. The dawn hadn’t long broken, and already the sun was on about gas mark four. The fields were baked dry, and everything was calm. You just knew we were in for a scorcher. Jimmy was half-awake, staring out the window, and Wardy was still asleep … grinning, with a can in his hand. It was early, and I was buzzing. It was a mixture of match excitement and relief that I was finally getting off the train. It felt strange. This was the run in – just a rag-arse kid from Kirkby ready to enter the Eternal City. It was a place that working-class lads weren’t expected to get to – a city I’d have probably never seen in me life if it wasn’t for Liverpool Football Club.

On the outskirts of the city the poverty was in your face – run-down blocks of flats with washing hanging from verandas and graffiti everywhere. It definitely wasn’t what I’d seen in the Mario Lanza film. Jimmy broke the silence. ‘It’s a fuckin’ dump,’ he shouted, which got a big laugh. We crawled along for the last mile, then finally, after thirty-seven hours of backache, arse-ache, heartburn, thirst, hunger and sweat, we pulled into Rome’s main Termini station.