Читать книгу Here We Go Gathering Cups In May - Nicky Allt - Страница 9

It was mid-March when a mate of mine, Big Dave Coogan, got me a start as a pump attendant in a garage on the East Lancs Road. It was an absolute shithole. The kiosk where we worked from was like a corporate box at Goodison – just ten foot x four foot with caged windows and no heaters. The outside bog was seriously bum-damaged, and the petrol pumps were like rusty daleks. But it was better than traipsing through mud and shite on freezing-cold building sites. All me mates went the match. None of us had season tickets; it was all queues and pay at the turnstiles back then. Going to work was a tortuous head-wrecking daily ritual, but it was the only way to finance my ale, clobber and, more importantly, my footy … you know the score.

Liverpool had reached the last eight of the FA Cup, but everyone’s thoughts were focused on another quarter-final … the big one. French champions St Etienne were coming to town in the European Cup. The Reds were also looking good in the league, so people were starting to whisper about a unique Treble – the first in British history. One of the shift workers at the garage was a Bluenose. There was always banter. One day he said to me and Big Dave, ‘If you get to Rome, youse’ll blend in nice, cos Italy’s full of shithouses.’

Dave came back with, ‘The last time you crossed the Channel with Everton, the ship had fuckin’ cannons on it.’

The St Etienne match was cash on the gate as usual. We got there about five o’clock and couldn’t believe the crowds. The back of our queue for flagpole corner was up by the Annie Road. Mounted bizzies edged us along Kemlyn Road inches at a time. Their horses kept dumping all over the place, just missing fellas’ shoes. Loads of shouts were going off. ‘Stick a nosebag on its fuckin’ arse’ was one I remember, though by the time we reached the flagpole it was us who were shitting ourselves, listening to turnstile bells going off by the minute (full to capacity).

About seven o’clock I was wedged half in and out of a turnstile when the school-bell sound went off. There was loads of pushing, shouting and swearing. I held me arm out to a bizzie inside and let out a harrowing Oscar-winning scream: ‘Ahhh, me legs.’ He panicked and pulled me through, then the door slammed behind me. (I still say a prayer of thanks to this day.) Every button on me Wrangler shirt had popped, and I’d lost a shoe, but I was in. An arl fella gave me a woollen scarf to tie round me foot. After a while I didn’t notice me shoe was missing. To be honest, knowing what I know now I’d have stood barefoot on broken glass in there because like everyone else I was about to sail, float, then drown in the greatest atmosphere on the greatest ever night at Anfield.

When Fairclough slotted the third, I bounced from near the back of the Kop to the Kemlyn Road corner flag. My clobber was stuck to me; I was soaked to the skin and drunk on adrenalin. There were 55,000 inside Anfield that night, mainly raucous, working-class Scousers, and apart from the frog firm in the corner of the Annie Road every single person in the ground was bouncing up and down singing ‘We shall not be moved’. I’ve never seen anything like it before or since. I levitated out of the Kop after that game with me foot-scarf trailing behind me. There was still a semi-final to play, but deep down everyone who experienced the phenomenon that night knew that nothing could stop us from getting to Rome. As some fella said on the bus going home, ‘I can smell the fuckin’ pasta.’

I was still floating three days later when bang … a two-till-ten shift on FA Cup quarter-final day shot me out the sky. It was a bad comedown. My Kop that day was a minty kiosk with a burst chair and an oily floor, the only atmosphere being the noisy traffic on the East Lancs. My lifeline was a poxy little battery radio in the kiosk. I’m not kidding: finding Radio City on it was like trying to crack a fuckin’ safe. I listened to the Boro game with it held to me ear. Somewhere between the hissing and crackling I heard us win 2–0. That meant two semis. The Treble really was looking on.

The entire month of April was a permanent rush, and I don’t mean drug-induced. In fact there were no heavy drugs around at that time, just pot, and even that was seen as a sweaty hippy thing to do … ‘love and peace’ and all that shite. At home in the league we beat Leeds, Man City, Arsenal and Ipswich and drew away at Stoke to virtually seal the First Division title. In the FA Cup we beat the Bluenoses after two semis at Maine Road, and in the European Cup we steamrollered FC Zurich twice to nail our place at the Olympic Stadium in Rome. You hardly had time to get the ale out your system before the next colossal game. I must’ve gone through about twenty packs of Rennies that month. Treble talk was rampant. What started off as a hopeful Kop whisper had steadily built into a Red roar that engulfed the entire city. Every street corner, every shop, bus stop, alehouse, radio chitchat, the patter was all about the ultimate three-in-the-bed.

Town’s Travel was blitzed after the second Zurich game. By noon next day 2000 fans had booked package flights to Rome costing between ninety-three and a hundred and thirty-three quid (including match ticket). It was out of my price league. I told me ma and da I was going, but I didn’t have a clue how I was gonna get there.

Gordon Lee, the Everton manager, was at the Zurich home match. Radio City spoke of the ‘ecstasy and agony at Anfield’. The ecstasy was obviously ours, while the agony was for Lee, whose wallet was dipped outside the main entrance. ‘A considerable amount’ was mentioned. It was tough luck on old Skeletor. He reckoned that the person who did it would have no luck in the future: ‘He will end up paying for behaviour like this,’ he said. But I don’t know about that, because I wouldn’t mind betting that the Scouse Fagin who zapped him was in Town’s Travel next day booking a flight to Rome.

The two semis against Everton were in everyone’s price range: one pound fifty for a ground ticket and one pound fifty on the special. I’ll never forget the first game for a couple of reasons – not the exquisite chip from Terry Mac or the iffy Clive Thomas decision; I’m talking about a Mario Lanza song from the film Seven Hills of Rome and an incident that epitomises Scousers at the time.

For someone like me who was into stuff like Floyd and Deaf School, the thought of listening to some operatic tit singing ‘Arrivederci, Roma’ was ridiculous. But boy was that about to change. I’d heard rumblings of the song at Anfield when we beat Zurich, though the words were vague. Then, three days later at Maine Road, the song echoed with clarity across the Kippax like a Vatican choir. To this day the song never fails to take me back to that spring:

We’re on our way to Roma

On the 25th of May

All the Kopites will be singing

Vatican bells they will be ringing

Liverpool FC we’ll be singing

When we win the European Cup.

Something else happened that day. We were on one of the seventeen specials into Manchester Victoria; Reds and Blues together. There was usually murder outside that station – remember these were the days when trouble was a big part of footy culture – but we weren’t arsed that day, with fifty-odd thousand Scousers heading in. United were playing Leeds at Sheffield in the other semi, so quite a few Mancs were mooching around. We heard chants of ‘United’, then they charged at the people in front, forcing them back. It was literally only a minute till the Red and Blue masses spilled out the station and chased them down the street. As far as trouble goes it was an absolutely nothing incident, but it was the catalyst to what happened next and the thing that’s stayed with me. As we set off in a police escort, the entire special (about 500 people) tied their scarves together and held them aloft. The confused expression on bizzies’ faces sticks in the mind. Shoppers looked just as stumped. Buses and traffic slowed … all staring at the ranks of entwined red and blue and white marching down Deansgate in the pissing-down rain, singing:

Merseyside, la la la

Merseyside, la la la.

It was a natural and genuine show of Scouse solidarity – a moment of pride that means more to me now than it did then because it captures the Liverpool that I grew up in; a time before ‘banter’ was replaced by the word ‘bitter’.

Sunday afternoon, 1st May: I can see meself now … kicking an oily ball at the diesel pump in a deserted garage, waiting to change shifts with Lol (the Bluenose). My head was up me arse around that time. British Rail had announced that they were putting on trains to Rome with match ticket included and were taking name and address reservations with payment at a later date. Like most I took a chance and booked not knowing how I’d get the wedge together. I was seriously skint, and back then skint meant skint. If you wanted to travel, you had to get off your arse and do a bit of independent, creative head-working, usually without tank or ticket.

We were due to face the Mancs at Wembley, but all I could think about was Rome. Getting around Britain wasn’t an issue. If you couldn’t afford a train or coach, you’d just thumb it. Loads of footy journeys began with me left thumb at the East Lancs/Kirkby junction, including a trip to Stoke that spring with me mate Gary (Smigger) hiding in the boot of a coach that we opened and dived into at Kirkby traffic lights, taking turns to hold the boot closed. But Rome was different. Europe at that time for me was uncharted territory. I’d never set foot outside the country. Like most Scousers, the only holidays I knew were in caravan parks in North Wales, the highlight of the week being a day out to the Everton stronghold of Rhyl.

Every time the ball hit the diesel pump, it made a hollow clanging sound. Lol walked across the forecourt to take over shifts. First thing out of his mouth was, ‘Are y’ goin’ to Rome?’

I hoofed the ball at the diesel pump … clang! ‘Yeah, if I get the money,’ I said.

Then he goes, ‘It’s fifty-nine quid on the train, isn’t it?’

I stopped, put one foot on the ball, then booted it again … clang!

I was chocka. Fifty-nine quid doesn’t sound much now, but for me then it was nearly a month’s wedge. April’s wage cheque was owed out, courtesy of five massive league games and the European and FA Cup semis. The endless sequence of big matches had forced me into dipping the odd fiver out the till. I asked the area manager if I could have May’s pay cheque in advance, but he wasn’t having it. I was tempted to do a ‘Tom, Tom, the piper’s son’ with the till (stick it under me arm and run like fuck), but everything would’ve went pear-shaped – bizzies and all that lark … you know the score.

I dipped enough out the till to get the special to QPR (six pound fifty) and Coventry (four quid). We drew both games, paving the way to win the title at home on the Saturday to West Ham. The league was boxed off. One down, two to go. I celebrated big time that weekend but also had a serious sweat on. Rome was just eleven days away, and all’s I had saved was seventeen quid. Time was running out.

On Wednesday 18th May I was on the verge of phoning the Samaritans. The reserved train and match tickets for Rome were going on sale at Lime Street next day at an increased price of seventy quid per ticket. The extra eleven quid came about because the French were having a national strike. It meant a detour through Belgium, Germany and Switzerland and an extra twelve hours on the journey, but to be honest everyone was so paranoid about getting to Rome that no one was arsed about the extra mileage. They could’ve taken us through Spain, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and came in through fuckin’ Sicily for all we cared … just as long as we got there.

By that afternoon the temptation to rob the till was at fever pitch – it looked like the only option. Every time I opened it, I almost grew horns, a pointy tail and started laughing like Vincent Price. The irritation and frustration of handling bank notes when you’re desperate for wedge is mental torture. A few more hours and I’m convinced that I would’ve swooped and took off like an Olympic sprinter. But then something happened.

Through frustration I’d been volleying the ball at the diesel pump. The front panel fell off a few times and the pump made a weird gurgling noise … like a washing machine. I thought nothing of it until a transit van rolled up. The driver asked for a fiver’s worth, and we stood there watching the digits spin round. It got to about three quid, then for some unknown, fateful, beautiful, life-defining reason, the digits jammed. I stopped and stared at the seized numerals. Believe me I may as well have been looking at a 7777 jackpot on a fruit machine. I pressed the pump trigger again and nearly burst into tears of joy. The diesel was gushing out but not registering.

Over the next two hours I made nearly two weeks’ wages but was still short of me Rome money. I was racking me brains trying to think of anyone with a diesel van or wagon … then it hit me: Kirkby Cabs! The phone call was terrible. For some reason me voice went dead shady and deep … like a Red Indian chief: ‘All right. Half-price diesel … East Lancs Garage … now.’

Minutes later a black hackney turned up, and I filled it for a fiver. The driver couldn’t believe it and radioed the office. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what was about to happen. It started off slow – two or three cabs, then a few more, till there were about fifteen in the queue. I was just guessing how much to charge – mostly between five and seven quid. As one cab left, another three would turn up. I started panicking, filling tanks while looking over me shoulder at the queue, which was backing up onto the East Lancs. Most had containers with them. Diesel was splashing all over the bastard place, blowing back out the tanks and containers all over me. After half an hour it went mental. A convoy of black cabs stretched from the diesel pump out the garage, along the Lancs, past the lights and down Moorgate road into Kirkby. It looked like the annual taxi charity day out to Southport. I was like a headless chicken, running from cab to cab filling tanks and containers quicker than Edward fuckin’ Scissorhands. I was shitting meself in case the bizzies got onto it or the area manager turned up; no blag in the world could’ve got me out of that one.

An hour later I slid into the kiosk chair. My right hand was stinging and the rest of me was minging – the smell was pure diesel. If I’d lit a ciggy, I think they’d have heard the explosion in Rome. I locked the garage up early and got a cab to take me home. My pockets were bulging with cash. I emptied it onto me bed, then lashed me fuming jeans out the window.

Straightening and counting those scrunched up, diesel-stinking notes is one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever done. The final count was three hundred and twenty-eight quid. I walked into the kitchen in just me boxer shorts and threw fifty green one-pound notes up in the air. ‘You can have that, Ma,’ I said. She looked at me like I was soft. It was a great feeling, getting me Rome trip sorted and boxing me ma off. It made me realise what a load of bollocks that old saying is: ‘Money’s not everything’. I know it can’t buy health, but take it from me, it’s just a blag spread round by rich bastards … you know the score.

Next day Lime Street was chocka with Roman Reds. I was used to travelling away so knew what a footy-special train ticket looked like. But I honestly thought British Rail would make an effort for the big journey abroad. They didn’t; just the usual little cheapo pink card, only this time enriched with the magic words ‘Rome and back’. We got our photos done in the booth at the station, then got our six-month passports at the post office … job done; I was Rome bound.

It was like little Italy in the alehouse that night. Four of us were making the trip. One was on the taxis, one on the dole, our kid was hitting the sick and I was taking a week’s leave without pay – an easy decision after you’ve just sexually assaulted a diesel pump. Someone suggested we all get a Liverpool FC tattoo done for the occasion. I was well up for it and arranged to meet them next day at Sailor Jack’s hut under the bridge in Tuebrook. There was so much Italian talk going on that the FA Cup final was almost forgotten about. When one of the lads mentioned it, the conversation instantly shifted from European-holiday mode to a more domestic, moody feel – the type that was the norm then, especially when playing the Mancs, like how many Scousers were going, potential trouble, stuff like that. Twelve of us were heading down in a transit van on the Friday night; just two with tickets, and I wasn’t one of them.

I was buzzing when I finished me shift that Friday. It was sunny; I had tank; I was getting a Liverpool tattoo done; I was going to Wembley that night; and at home under me mattress I had a train and match ticket for Rome: life couldn’t get sweeter. Only one of the lads turned up at Sailor Jack’s for a tattoo. It cost us twelve quid each to get branded with the old Liverpool badge. It looked superb – full of colour. But it didn’t half hurt.