Читать книгу Here We Go Gathering Cups In May - Nicky Allt - Страница 6

Walking the atmospheric boulevards of old Marseilles, eventually reaching dockside, I found the bar where I’d sat and spoken to a wizened old Frenchman all those years ago. Presuming he’d be part of the incoming tide by now, I never bothered to ask the owners of his whereabouts. Patrick Le Duveneh, Marseilles fisherman, had told me among many pearls of wisdom that he’d have his ashes scattered at sea the next time I visited his Southern French port. Yeah, that’s what he called it: his; like he was the yacht-owning, wrinkly Popeye version of the southern King of France.

Almost thirty years since I last breathed the intoxicating whiff of Gauloise smoke, sea air and Gallic streets, I let the scenery, sounds and a sprinkling of Mediterranean salt water wash over me. Noisy ocean waves crashed into boats and rocks with a densely defiant thud that proclaimed, ‘I am the sea’. Like Patrick, I too loved everything about the ocean. Along with old briny, I also loved these rough and ready portside settings – bit like Naples, bit like Hamburg, bit like Liverpool. The rougher the setting, find the right people and, warmer the welcome.

Thinking how I’d gotten here last time, penniless after another European trek, myself, Fast Eddie and Joey O’ had started out at William Hill’s betting office outside Liverpool’s Lime Street Station. With no real intention other than to pass time and see what Fast Eddie could do with his just-cashed giro cheque, we talked about the buzz of hitting the road. Arriving back from places like Amsterdam, Geneva and Cologne, story-laden, hungry for more, with a travel bug nipping away at toes and backsides that made sitting or standing still for five minutes seem like a life sentence, we badly wanted off.

Small, blue, betting-office pens between teeth, nervously biting at the over-chewed tops, we talked of where we’d like to take off to, there and then, if a big pools win came in (pipe dreaming, as we didn’t do the pools), or, if wrinkly Lester Piggott romped home on a decently priced filly to put a nice, fat, bundle in your back bin. You know, as a dreamer does, as a kid does, as you do. Fast Eddie, pinpointing Monaco as his beloved destination, grinned to himself, tearing another betting slip from the metal container on the wall. Asked why he’d chosen a rich mans dining table as the place he’d cash his chips, he replied, ‘If all those tax-dodging fruitcakes were spending money there, and the place was riddled with gambling casinos, I’d be aboard glistening yachts, rolling dice under the stars every night with pop stars and princesses.’

A long-winded answer by our own in-house gambling fiend, his mid-afternoon dream got sliced when Joey O’, countered, ‘Who are you kidding, Betting-Office Balls? On yachts! You only have to bunk the Royal Iris ferry across the Mersey to Birkenhead and you’re spewing your ring soon as the engines kick in!’

He was right about Eddie’s seafaring legs, but it was only a harmless dream. Defending the lad’s answer, I responded, ‘Well, where would you choose then, Joey the rock-hard pirate?

‘I’d get right off to the Caribbean. Money goes a long way there. It’s sunny, there’s loads of cricket and, there’s a thousand black beauties to wine and dine and take to those boss reggae clubs!’

Loving cricket in school, since getting tuned into Bob Marley’s ‘Exodus’ by a calypso Scouser, he listened to nothing but reggae music. I understood his choice, till Fast Eddie butted in: ‘Ha! Cricket’s a load of shit! Sitting there, bored off your skull with a big bag of money to spend!’

‘Yeah, he’s got a point there with the cricket,’ I offered.

‘Nah, you’ve got no culture, youse two. Crickets a game for lords. I’d be a lord in the Caribbean. Yeah, Lord Joseph of Trinidad, or Barbados or Jamaica, that’d do for me.’

‘Kingston is in Jamaica … isn’t it?’ I quizzed.

‘Yeah … why?’ asked Joey.

‘Cos Kingston is one seriously rough gaff and you’d be mugged, battered and robbed within a week.’

Clocking me for a moment, he asked ‘Alright smartarse where would you go then?’

Without a thought I snapped back, ‘Marseilles!’

‘Marseilles?’ Joey O’ goes, ‘that’s even rougher than Kingston!’

Wanting to be different, not choosing the obvious glitter-paved tinseltown, I’d been reading a book about the mystical French port, something with French Connection similarities and uttered the first thing that came to mind.

‘And your reasons?’ enquired Joey O’.

‘Well, it sounds like a mad dockland place full of gangsters and molls, and you could shoot into Monaco for a blast like Eddie said, but live with real people and not all those phoney rich pricks when you needed to get your head together.’ He looked at me for the briefest, turning to Eddie for opinion. Eddie had grown disinterested, already studying the riders for the next giddy-up ride. ‘Marseilles, yeah, that’s where I’d go right now – no passport, no bags, nothing!’

‘Right now, yeah, you’d go right now?’ Eddie had rejoined the chinwag, speaking through teeth still clenched around a small, blue plastic pen, his eyes glued intently to the TV screen above. ‘Well, if this wins, let’s go, right now, yeah? The Monaco Grand Prix is on this week and I’ve always fancied a bet on those nutcase car drivers. Anyway, it’s Lester Piggott in the next and, guess what, the skinny little fucker’s not even favourite!’

Killing to hit the road, I didn’t think he had the bottle. Off the cuff was usually me, but noting the seriousness in his voice I sat up. I hated horse racing, but if it could take me to Marseilles and the Monaco Grand Prix, then maybe it wasn’t such a nags ’n’ moneybags sport after all. Wanting the same commitment, Eddie asked for whatever change sat in our pockets. Holding back a pound for bus fares home, in case Lester had an off day, we raised almost twenty-nine pounds and watched as Eddie wrote out the race time, the name of horse and the amount that, in my mind, we were about to squander. Under starter’s orders I asked Joey O’ if the horse had a chance. Replying that with Lester you always had a chance, I took his words discerningly.

Soon as the race gun sounded, Piggott hit the front and, that’s where he stayed right to the finishing line. At 7–1 our own race to the Station was up and out of the blocks, as the lady behind the counter paid the readies. Bouncing outside, Eddie asked if we wanted a quick scoff. Answering for the two of us, I said, ‘No, fuck all that, let’s hit the road!’

With nothing except a tightly wound bundle of notes (two hundred pound) and three well-chewed biros, we jumped the first London train to Victoria, had a free nosebag in west London, where we left the restaurant faster than Lester’s horse, hopped aboard the night train to Dover, then Calais, bunking the boat from the white cliffs to the welcoming northern French port, and caught the overnight express to Marseilles, changing once in Paris. Reaching our destination, we were bedraggled yet, as happy as Eddie in Monaco, Joey O’ in the Caribbean, and me, in … well, Marseilles.

First impressions: it looked rough as Ken Dodd’s teeth on a no-toothbrush diet of Blackpool rock – even when it was dark. Booking into the shabbiest B&B, we jumped a taxi, telling the puzzled driver to take us to the nightlife. The first boozer we drank at we met Patrick Le Duveneh. Finding he spoke good English, we regaled him with our betting-office tale of Lester Piggott and the Grand Prix, and how and why we’d reached his Marseilles. Warning us it was a crazy place full of crazy characters, he added we were crazy so deserved to be there.

Next day Patrick sailed his small boat around the rugged hills and beaches of coastal southern France. Knowing a berthing friend, once our boat was tied-up among the many poseurs’ yachts docked at Monaco marina, we clambered the steep urban hills of the small city full of Machiavellian moneymen in search of a decent speck to view the show. Patrick told Eddie his permanently being sick over the side simply wasn’t worth the hassle: racing cars were cars that went by fast.

Thinking we’d fight for space on a hill full of anorak car mechanics to watch snazzy motors whizz past, we ended up on an apartment balcony of one of Patrick’s female acquaintances, Gypsy Francine. Here the cars did boringly fly by, and me and Joey O’ got drunk trying to look up Francine’s lacey skirt as she purposely stretched out her bronzed sprinter’s legs. The gold chain that lay upon her lovely brown melons looked like she was keeping it warm for the Lord Mayor of Monaco, till later she left it in the bathroom and we sussed it was a home-made set of curtain rings with an imitation gold medal holding a picture of Elvis in the middle.

We could’ve slept with the alley cats and well-fed Monaco rats and still thought we’d beamed down to the land of exotica. The fact we had some francs, a decent flock for the night, and were in the company of two real locals made it feel like we were Romany wanderers visiting the seaside on one leg of a lifetime journey. Though we were three young Liverpudlians, I knew moving about in an alien environment with what were to me, totally foreign people using strange mannerisms and language, made me happy as a well-fed Aborigine in the Australian bush. Coming from a city by the sea made any place with an ocean backdrop seem all the more alluring. Feeling like Hunter S. Thompson in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, set free and on the road to somewhere yet nowhere, confronting strange moments and characters on an hourly basis, meant not only mind-broadening education was taking place, but also an addiction to hitting the road was being fostered that I still turkey for to this day.

Returning to Marseilles next morning, Patrick showed us his treasured city. Listening intently, he told of Marseilles legend and fable, mainly originating from the boulevards and dock fronts. So many in fact that, I almost got collared and cuffed while bunking the train that ran the full length of France back to Calais, next day. My head, still chokka-block-full of travelling stories, almost stopped me travelling some more, as I failed to concentrate on the bunk-in-hand. Staring dreamily out the window, comparing my home town, Liverpool, to Patrick’s Marseilles, the French guard, opening the carriage door, asked for my billet (ticket) as I pretended to be sick by running past him to the stench-riddled toilet clutching my guts. Tailing me, he waited outside for fifteen minutes, till the train stopped at some lone-scarecrow Gallic town. Hearing him step from the rattler, shouting instructions to platform workers, I seized the chance to break out of my bog cell, legging it to the engine part of the train. For five or six hours, with the train rattling through central France, we played rail-track cat and mouse. Eventually chugging into Calais, I sped from the station with Inspector Clouseau bang on my case. Losing him in passenger traffic, I also lost my mates, not seeing them till ensconced back in Liverpool the following evening.

It didn’t matter. If anything, it was easier bunking long distance alone. And, listening to the engine mechanisms of the boat and train without the constant idle banter that young lads are prone to, allowed me time to devise a plan for my next jaunt and destination. Coming from Liverpool, it had to be football linked. Born and reared in a dockside city full of Footy Fanatics, it became my one-way ticket, my passport, my justification to hit the road. Having an Alan Whicker-sized hankering for voyage, they were football expeditions that always turned the ignition at Stony-Broke Street. Being a fanatic who required road trips as much as football, I defied the Jaffa Cake crumbs that lined my pockets to stop me from venturing out to see the world – especially when there was a scarlet-red jersey in town.

Truth be known, I must’ve bunked my way around the world, then tried the other route just in case I missed a stadium or two. Nothing to do with bragging or bravado, but the old Scouse cockiness definitely came in handy when boarding a plane to Germany with no passport or tickets at hand. Thinking of Bill Shankly and how he said he loved the Liverpool swagger made me think, like the Queen of Motown, that, ain’t no mountain high enough that you can’t climb, no country too far to reach and, in my own individual way, no stadium un-bunkable. Even when I had brass in pocket those pathetic allocations handed out by nepotistic, suit-wearing officialdom meant a ticket was always gold dust anyway. I had to take the pain of Cup final rejection away somehow. Having a jibbing-in skill honed over the most successful football seasons any team or its supporters has ever seen, meant that that skill, habit, or whatever you want to call it, was always going to come in handy for a fervent footy kid like me. No, not born of bravado, born of a need of drug-addict proportion to see how the other half lived, twinned with just as strong an addiction to be in attendance if a tiny white Liverbird was taking stage. In other words: a creature of my environment, born of necessity. If Shankly had said that, ‘Tommy Smith hadn’t been born, he’d been quarried’, then his words, the Mersey, the music, the city streets and the enormous wealth of Liverpool characters I’d grown up with had helped quarry me. And, I wouldn’t change a single thing about any of it.

Though the other writers here may never have shared my perpetual bunking habit, I know they all love to travel – how else could you follow Liverpool FC? – and are every bit as proud of their city as I am. Who knows? Maybe because the city was built by migrants from all over the planet, remains the reason why so many Scousers get ants in their pants and feel a need to see the world. Anyway, ask Dave Kirby, ask Jegsy Dodd, ask Peter Hooton or Kevin Sampson, or the younger John Maguire and Tony Barrett what they would change about their privileged Red upbringing. I’m sure they’d answer in unison: ‘Nothing!’

Breathing in the aura of the boulevards and scented harbour la rues of old Marseilles once more, I thought of Patrick and Francine, I thought of the glory of Rome ’77, and gay Paree ’81, of heady nights in Munich and Dusseldorf, of drunken nights in Blankenburg and Antwerp, of opportunist nights in Zurich and Prague, of wonderous nights in Barcelona, Bilbao and Lisbon, of truly brilliant … forget it! I followed and follow the Liverbird; you know the dance. I’d have to write the 3000-page A–Z of a true football loon so, that’s a whole lot of dancing. See, I’m on my way to Athens and to sit down and decipher some of those streets that have been pickled by sing-songs, Stella and glory, I’d only end up mixing streets in Vienna, Madrid and Moscow with lanes in Budapest, Basle and Belgrade. To untangle thousands of miles of rail track, paved walkways and salty sea would take years of solitude and contemplation and I’m still too busy travelling.

It was a few years ago, in Marseilles, while looking for Patrick’s café bar near the sea front that I first thought of how I’d love to read about our European Cup escapades and all the things that get thrown into the mix to make it a trip of legend – a trip of dreams. I thought I’d like to stick to two or three clear-cut years: some abiding memories and football folklore. Then I thought I’d be hogging the limelight and how it might become repetitive hearing me fare-dodging and turnstile and players-entrance-swerving my way to seven European Cup Finals. Then I thought of how refreshing it would be for other Reds, including me, to hear other supporters’ gory-glory stories. So, clocking the class scribblers on offer, that’s why we’re here.

The book title came about when I remembered one of my favourite old Liverpool banners and searched in vain for its maker and owner. After giving up on finding him, or her, a lad came up to me at Manchester City’s new stadium and introduced himself as John McDonald, telling me he was the owner of the banner and about its illustrious history. John hailed from the Waterloo area of Liverpool and was a face I instantly recognized as a long-gone Red fanatic like myself. He went on to tell me that his brilliantly talented mother, Margaret, had ingeniously come up with the slogan, then the needle and thread, before the banner started its journey to the Cup finals of our dreams. Back in ’77, John and his mates, John Melia and Peter Davies, all wanted something a little distinctive to carry to the final (Scousers eh, always wanting to be different!). John mentioned this to his mum, and the rest, as they say, is history. For Mrs Mac (1924–97) her legacy lives on through the title of this book and through John’s daughter and her granddaughter, Hannah, who now travels everywhere with the Reds as she has since being a Mersey munchkin. Written by the fans for the fans, the banner was carried from the loft by those same supporters, washed and ironed, and will soon be making a bid for a space in Liverpool Football Club’s museum. Noted for their literary wit, Liverpudlians will no doubt acknowledge Margaret and her saying as a truly poetic one of our own.

Well … with the goose pimples in evidence I’m rattling now, so, with the rattler being a favoured mode of transport, it seems good a place as any to step aboard for Rome ’77: a steaming, sweating, overcrowded football train from hell – get me – from hell, not to hell. As the passengers like Dave Kirby will testify, this train took you on a Swiss Alp’d, water-dry, ghost ride to the thirst-quenching glory that was Rome. But, how were they to know it had been brought back from Hell’s scrapyard to make one last grimy pilgrimage to the holy Roman city. Who knows … maybe a few on-board demons might be exorcised for good; maybe a few wheels might remain intact for the full 3000-mile journey; and maybe, just maybe, if it gets there in one piece, Emlyn Hughes, Liverpool’s captain, might take that big-eared silver beauty down to the supporters to sip from, because from what Dave’s told me, it was the only cup in Rome big enough to quench the thirst of each individual who stepped aboard at Lime Street’s platform 9. If that train now sits in some Rusty Rattler graveyard, it would no doubt tell a tale or two. Listen, I’m parched just talking about it. Win, lose or draw, I’m off to Athens for a bit of who’s who with the Ouzo. See you if it gets there!

Nicky Allt, May 2007