Topic: 15/04/1989 - In Memory of the 96

[Steve C]

Just add your thoughts and memories here.

Thanks.

Justice For The 96.



John Aldridge: "Whenever I think of Hillsborough I am drawn to the story of young Lee Nicol from Bootle. Lee was fourteen but looked about ten. He reminded me of my son, Paul. Lee was in the middle of the crush at Leppings Lane but was still alive when he was pulled out. I went to see him in hospital. He looked a lovely kid. As he lay there in a coma, I whispered words into his ears. I asked the doctor about his chances of recovery. 'He's clinically dead, John,' he said. I hadn't realised how badly he was injured. That news ripped into me. My heart went out to Lee's family, decent people who didn't deserve to be victims of such a tragedy."

----------

Kenny: " One morning, before everyone was in, I went out on to the pitch and tied my children’s teddy bears around a goalpost at the Kop end. The goals, the pitch and the whole Kop were covered in flowers, scarves and tributes. I remember describing it as the ‘saddest and most beautiful sight’ I had ever seen. It really was like that. It was sad because of the reason whey the tributes were there, but it was magnificent to see them.



On the Friday night, after everybody had gone, I walked through the Kop with Kelly, Paul and Marina’s dad, Pat. Paul looked at all the tributes, the flowers, the scarves and said: ‘Why did it have to happen to us?’ Kelly, Paul and I stood at the back of the Kop with tears falling down our faces. Walking through the Kop was so emotional. A lot of tributes had been left by people in the place where their loved one had stood. People who had lost the person they stood next to to watch games would leave something special in remembrance. Seeing two oranges left beside one of the barriers really moved me. It was difficult not to weep on coming across little tributes like that. They were so insignificant and yet so full of meaning. Perhaps the two people took it in turn to bring oranges to matches, something to share at half-time. That really got to me. I wondered whether the person who laid the oranges ever returned to the Kop. I came across somebody’s boots, left there by his mourning family. Everywhere I walked there were endless messages, each of which embodied someone else’s grief. It was so difficult to pass through.

"The shameful allegations intensified the anger amidst the trauma. We spent the week consoling the bereaved and attending funerals. On the Saturday we held a service at Anfield. At six minutes past three there was a minute’s silence across the country. Then everyone at Anfield sang ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’ We tied scarves between Anfield and Goodison. We just wanted to show the unity existing on Merseyside. The following day, there was a final service on the pitch. It was really quiet, just the wind rustling the scarves tied to the crossbar. When somebody shouted out ‘We all loved you,’ we all broke down."

----------

Alan Hansen " have heard people say that they should now ‘let it go’ and ‘get on with their lives’, a view that stems partly from the massive changes that have taken place in English football as a result of Hillsborough. But for the tragedy, and the Taylor Report in January 1990, which enforced the transformation of British football grounds into all-seat stadiums, it is possible that the long history of stadium neglect, and spectators treated as turnstile fodder, would have continued. The new-style British club stadiums, which are among the most impressive in the world for safety standards and facilities, have made it easier for clubs to be better run, and therefore improve the quality of their football. However, though a great deal of water has passed under the bridge since Hillsborough, my attitude to those who feel that the HFSG should now forget its grievances is, ‘It’s easy for you to talk – you didn’t loose anyone.’

"Had I lost someone, I would never have let it go."

---------

John Barnes: "The tributes were not just at Anfield. I walked into Stanley Park and saw all the Everton scarves tied together. They stretched from Goodison Park to Anfield, a symbol of the unity between the two clubs. All football fans were united in their grief. Even those from Manchester United sent gestures of sympathy. Every fan had reason to mourn."

----------

Anon:
"Running in the wind
Crushed
Playing happy families
Let in unaware
Having children, getting by
Tears from my eye, I cry, I cry
The virgin in me
Halted in its tracks
The person in me
Buried in Sheffield
Fascinated by spirits
And all I want is some justice
Respect is everything
But sometimes never enough
People aren't too honest
But be a good boy and make me proud
We'll live through you
Make you what I never was
So free in the wind
Running in the sea
Being free like you not me
Noises, screams, photos, cries
This is life, is it fate
You live, you learn, you die
You'll learn, all lessons from past
You laugh, you learn
You cry, you learn
Respect is all, tell me what you know
You pray, you learn
You live, you learn
Please don't block your tears
We are the sweet crusaders."

----------

Red Ped:
"H is for Hillsborough,Heysel and Hell
His for half time, happy as well
H is for Heaving,
His breatH and His Heart
H is the finisH but isn't in start
H ends crusH and H ends enougH
H starts the Heaven in skies up above
H is for Heavy, in ligHt and in weigHt
THere's no H in early and no H in late
There's no H in open and no H in gate
There's a big H in pusH but missing from mate
No H in escape no H in set free
There's no H in living or in let it be
Two H's in HillsborougH, more tHan enougH
No H in Justice, not good enougH."

----------

Scouse Ste:
"96 souls have passed away,
On a morbid April day,
Asphyxiated, crushed to death,
At Hillsborough, they drew their final breath.

What went on that fateful day?
All those bodies turning grey,
Old and young, there for the FA Cup,
It isn’t right; it’s fucked up.

The papers over the next few weeks,
Headlines too sick to speak,
Said we were pissed, that we’d robbed our own,
No pity for the 96, who never came home.

This was shite, I was there.
Leppings Lane, the worst nightmare.
Crushed and squashed, my skin turned blue,
I was lucky, I escaped, my mates too.

I have a memory of this young lad,
Up against the fence, without his Dad,
I picked him up, and over the fence,
Emergency services, acting without sense.

Those fucking police, it was all their fault,
Duckenfield, in hell you’ll rot.
You liar, you cheat, you filthy rat,
If I saw you know, Id kill you.
YOU COWARDLY TWAT.

And as for the S*n, SPIT, SPIT, SPIT.
McKensie I HATE YOU, you fucking shit,
You lied you c*nt, no apology,
When you die, Ill dance with glee.

That’s the end, thanks for reading.
I don’t know where this all is leading,
I guess my final message is,
JUSTICE and RIP the 96."

----------

Anon:
"I focus on a white cloud in the sky.
It fades to darkness and a peaceful quiet descends
A warm comforting wave folds over my body

I'm floating, spinning, am I flying ?
Where am I going? why cant I see?
I think something's happening but I'm not scared
Was I watching the reds? No, it must be a dream

But Brucie was looking right at me! I could swear it. He was pointing and shouting
Why was he doing that and not playing?, I'll ask me dad later
Where is me dad? wasn't he standing next to me?
I wonder where he's gone to?


I look around and there's me Granddad
This isn't right I MUST be asleep I came with me dad I remember I did!
"Alright son don't worry now your Nan and me are here for ya"

I sense, but don't panic, I don't feel anything but warmth inside,

I know. I know I understand now its clear
I look around and see mum and dad in the front room holding each other and crying,

I understand

I'm with my granddad now, "Come on son lets go"
I understand at last, but I don't know why."

----------

In Rememberance:

John Alfred Anderson (62)
Colin Mark Ashcroft (19)
James Gary Aspinall (18)
Kester Roger Marcus Ball (16)
Gerard Bernard Patrick Baron (67)
Simon Bell (17)
Barry Sidney Bennett (26)
David John Benson (22)
David William Birtle (22)
Tony Bland (22)
Paul David Brady (21)
Andrew Mark Brookes (26)
Carl Brown (18)
David Steven Brown (25)
Henry Thomas Burke (47)
Peter Andrew Burkett (24)
Paul William Carlile (19)
Raymond Thomas Chapman (50)
Gary Christopher Church (19)
Joseph Clark (29)
Paul Clark (18)
Gary Collins (22)
Stephen Paul Copoc (20)
Tracey Elizabeth Cox (23)
James Philip Delaney (19)
Christopher Barry Devonside (18)
Christopher Edwards (29)
Vincent Michael Fitzsimmons (34)
Thomas Steven Fox (21)
Jon-Paul Gilhooley (10)
Barry Glover (27)
Ian Thomas Glover (20)
Derrick George Godwin (24)
Roy Harry Hamilton (34)
Philip Hammond (14)
Eric Hankin (33)
Gary Harrison (27)
Stephen Francis Harrison (31)
Peter Andrew Harrison (15)
David Hawley (39)
James Robert Hennessy (29)
Paul Anthony Hewitson (26)
Carl Darren Hewitt (17)
Nicholas Michael Hewitt (16)
Sarah Louise Hicks (19)
Victoria Jane Hicks (15)
Gordon Rodney Horn (20)
Arthur Horrocks (41)
Thomas Howard (39)
Thomas Anthony Howard (14)
Eric George Hughes (42)
Alan Johnston (29)
Christine Anne Jones (27)
Gary Philip Jones (18)
Richard Jones (25)
Nicholas Peter Joynes (27)
Anthony Peter Kelly (29)
Michael David Kelly (38)
Carl David Lewis (18)
David William Mather (19)
Brian Christopher Mathews (38)
Francis Joseph McAllister (27)
John McBrien (18)
Marion Hazel McCabe (21)
Joseph Daniel McCarthy (21)
Peter McDonnell (21)
Alan McGlone (28)
Keith McGrath (17)
Paul Brian Murray (14)
Lee Nicol (14)
Stephen Francis O'Neill (17)
Jonathon Owens (18)
William Roy Pemberton (23)
Carl William Rimmer (21)
David George Rimmer (38)
Graham John Roberts (24)
Steven Joseph Robinson (17)
Henry Charles Rogers (17)
Colin Andrew Hugh William Sefton (23)
Inger Shah (38)
Paula Ann Smith (26)
Adam Edward Spearritt (14)
Philip John Steele (15)
David Leonard Thomas (23)
Patrik John Thompson (35)
Peter Reuben Thompson (30)
Stuart Paul William Thompson (17)
Peter Francis Tootle (21)
Christopher James Traynor (26)
Martin Kevin Traynor (16)
Kevin Tyrrell (15)
Colin Wafer (19)
Ian David Whelan (19)
Martin Kenneth Wild (29)
Kevin Daniel Williams (15)
Graham John Wright (17)

[Bob Kurac]

(Today and EVERY day make me take time to think, and to do something in the cause of justice ...)

[nokando]

Justice & Peace are the goals.

Will they ever be realised?

They want it brushed under the carpet.

Have they succeeded?

Today I feel pessimistic that anything will ever be done to put this issue to rest. The wounds will never heal. Justice will never be done. The 96 will never rest in Peace.

Is it time for some kind of peaceful protest? How about next year on 15 April we form a human ring holding hands around Hillsborough, for 4 hours or so, to show our strength of feeling?

Mike -A-.
Peace & JUstice for the 96.
YNWA.

[TheKid.]

Nothing i can add to that at all except JUSTICE.

Ps why was it mentioned in NO paper today including the Daily Post??

[tony]

r.i.p.   in my thoughts every day

[Curly Tom]

Easy to Forget

It's easy to forget in this joyous time,
what happened back then in '89.
I myself was only 3,
not old enough to remember the carnage and misery.
You'll think, why does he care?
He wasn't even there,
No friends or relatives lost,
you haven't felt the cost.
I don't see it that way,
I care about what happened on that fateful day.
I care about something I didn't even see,
Because I know,
10 years before,
It could have been me.
Now I’m part of the greatest family,
The club that is Liverpool FC
In 89 96 loyal reds,
Went to see a semi-final of the cup,
Not knowing that they’re never see their beds,
That is why we must never give up,
We all go to the game,
Otherwise it wouldn’t be the same,
We see the eternal flame burn,
But do we ever think, we might never return?
In a world of plastic seats and Sky TV,
It’s easy to forget,
That those 96 were just like you and me.
That is why as the years roll on,
No matter how much we’ve won,
We must never forget those 96 names,
Who can no longer go to games.

The Fight

The fight for Justice msut never die,
We owe it to the mother who will always cry,
What's wrong with reading the Sun?
After all it's only a bit of fun.
Try telling that to the dad,
who sees you, a red, reading that paper.
You wonder why he gets mad.
It's because that @#%$ you just read,
branded him a yob who robbed the dead.
Think of the lad who had to watch his friend die,
the lad who has never learnt to cry,
You're reading the paper that said he killed his own,
no wonder he feels alone.
Others were to blame on that fateful day,
but they just hide it away.
Families still don't why their son had to die.
The fight for justice,
Now ask yourself, why?

[RP4Ireland]

Today and every day - YNWA

[Adam]

I was 6 at the time of Hillsborough. I remember my Dad waking me up to show me the car which he had been covering in red and white ribbons for most of the morning. Of course, this was very impressive to me at the age of 6. I can remember desperately wanting to go the game. I think I still had a belief in me that my Dad was going to surprise me just before he left with an extra ticket like he had done before. Knowing now how hard it is to get tickets for semi finals, I don't think I should have been so opsomistic at the time. So i watched the game with my brother and mum on the TV. From the game I remember the match stopping, then an image which has stuck with me for 13 years, which was that of a man with a bloody face. I remember my mum starting to cry, though at the time being only 6 I wasnt totally aware of just what was happening. The neighbours suddenly were in the house hugging my Mum. Although my Dad did return home that evening, many would have been waiting for loved ones to return home. For many, as the hours passed by, many still hadnt returned. You can't imagine what they must have been going through. there were no mobile phones then aswell so contact couldnt be made. I still think what if my dad hadnt returned home. He would have left me, my mum and my brother who was 8 at the time. the thought of this makes me cry sometimes, but for many it is a reality. A few years later and I would have possibly been at the match, what if ?

YNWA.

[cyn]

Justice.

[NewHampshire_Exile]

YNWA.
96 souls can rest easier knowing that we will never forget them.

Justice.


A little corner of the USA will be Silent today.

[Life]

Never forgotten.  Walk on.

[Shazz]

   A silent thought, a tear unseen
 
   Wishing your absence was only a dream


  RIP

[Barrettski]

Never forgotten.
My silent thoughts.

Justice

[C.B Alonso]

To the 96 fans,

My thoughts are with you.

[LpoolLou]

Shanks, Keep Care of our 96 Friends. Hold them in your arms and whisper gently to each and every one........
"shhhh, Its alright now,Your`re Safe now,You´re so,so
Loved".
             You`ll ALWAYS stay in our hearts,
             R.I.P.
             Justice WILL be done....

[Pheeny]

DON'T BUY THE SUN!

"The Sun's dead sound, it's got birds with big knockers."
Take them in work and decorate your lockers.
The sport in it's boss, especially the racin'.
And the 'oroscopes tell us the day we're all facin'".

"Don't you remember, you ignorant swine?
All the lies they told in eighty-nine.
Let me remind you just what they said.
We pissed on the bizzies and robbed our own dead."

"But the telly page's sound, they've got bingo and lotto.
And on one of the pages there's a nice little motto.
Anyway Evo I just didn't know.
It doesn't matter now it was so long ago."

"It does fuckin' matter! It matters a lot.
People had children they've no longer got.
People had fathers they'll no longer see.
They said that I killed them, they said it was me!"

"Shut up will you Evo. You're always bangin' on.
Hillsborough and justice, all that carry on.
Anyway Evo get out of me face.
It's only a newspaper in any case."

"It's not a newspaper. A newspaper has news.
Not made up stories with which to abuse.
What they said was "The Truth" were all scurrilous lies.
We got no apology. What a surprise!"

"All right then Evo what should I buy?"
Tell me one, give me the reason why.
Which one do you think stands out from the rest?
The Mirror, The Echo, which one's the best?"

"Don't buy the Sun. It's fit only to burn.
Don't buy the Sun. There's nothing you'll learn.
I'll say it once more and then I'll be done.
Buy what you want but DON'T BUY THE SUN."
Evo

[Pheeny]

I BELIEVE IT. DON'T YOU?

We all turned up late, without tickets and bladdered,
even a ten-year-old boy, well that's what I gathered.

We forced open a gate and started to push
Towards the front of the pen, caused the terrible crush.

Two girls at the front, screamin' and cryin'.
"Open the fence! There's people here dyin'!"

"Get back in there, you bloody Scouse yobs!"
South Yorkshire Police just doing their jobs.

Then they all realised something was wrong.
Scousers stopped singin' their favourite song.

That poor Scouser Tommy who took the King's shilling.
That poor Scouser Tommy who was ready and willing.

That poor Scouser Tommy who fought in the war.
Gave his life for his country. I wonder what for?

Brave bobbies put up with so much that day.
Even got peed on, that's what they say.

It was us! It was our fault! We killed our mates!
A manslaughter charge surely awaits.

But hey, don't worry! We won't go to jail!
We'll do a deal with the Judge; British justice won't fail.

How do I know all this is true?
It said in the Sun. I believe it - don't you?

Peter Etherington.

[Pheeny]

NINETY-SIX DEAD: NO-ONE TO BLAME

"THEY ROBBED THEIR OWN DEAD. WHAT A TERRIBLE SIGHT."
"THE TRUTH," SAID THE SUN, SO IT MUST BE RIGHT.
"DRUNKEN SCOUSE YOBS FORCED OPEN A GATE!"
SCREAMED THE BILE FROM THE SCUMRAG WE ALL HATE.
"YOBS PEED ON BOBBIES TRYING TO SAVE THEIR MATES LIVES."
HOW MUCH MORE WILL THEY TWIST THEIR KNIVES?
NO SCOUSER ON EARTH SHOULD EVER BE SEEN
WITH THAT PIECE OF DIRT, THAT RAG SO OBSCENE.
NINETY-SIX LIVES, NINETY-SIX GONE.
YET THE PEOPLE TO BLAME STILL CARRY ON.
EVERTON, LEEDS, SPURS AND UNITED
EVERY CLUB'S FANS WANT TO SEE THE WRONGS RIGHTED.
"IT COULD HAVE BEEN US," EVERYONE SAID
"WHOSE FANS WERE LEFT CRUSHED, INJURED AND DEAD."
WE ONLY WANT JUSTICE, WE DON'T WANT REVENGE.
WE ONLY SEEK ANSWERS, NOT TO AVENGE.
ADMIT YOU WERE WRONG (IT'S NOT TOO LATE)
IN GIVING THE ORDER TO OPEN THE GATE.
NINETY-SIX DEAD, "NO-ONE TO BLAME"
SAID A JUDGE UP IN LEEDS: BRITISH JUSTICE IN SHAME.
"THE TRUTH" WAS ALL LIES AND DISGRACED OUR GOOD NAME.
NINETY-SIX DEAD. NO-ONE TO BLAME.
NO POLICEMEN CONVICTED, THAT'S ALL THAT MATTERED.
NINETY-SIX FAMILIES LEFT BROKEN AND SHATTERED.
NINETY-SIX LIVES LOST WATCHING A GAME.
NINETY-SIX DEAD. NO-ONE TO BLAME.

Evo

[Pheeny]

WE'LL NEVER HEAR THOSE WORDS

Thirteen years later. Thirteen years on.
We've all cried for justice but we've had none.
We've had platitudes, condolences and "Never mind dear"
But we've never heard the words we so long to hear.

"We were wrong. It was our fault. We shouldn't have opened the gate."
We'll never hear those words no matter how long we wait.
"We didn't have enough ambulances, stewards or men."
We're not hearing it now and we didn't hear it then.

"Okay, we were wrong. You should have had the big end."
They'll never take the blame for our 96 friends.
"We didn't want a mix of Forest and Scouse."
They're all throwing stones from their big glass house.


"People WERE alive at six minutes past three."
They'll never admit it but they'll always be free.
"Well I can retire now. I've got a nice fat pension."
Said the horrible pig whose name I can't mention.

"We should have delayed the kick off, even if it was for an hour."
We'll never hear those words from their Ivory Tower.
"We know it wasn't your fault. We shouldn't have called you drunks."
We'll never hear those words from the reprehensible skunks.

What they're really saying is, "Yes, it was your fault, you trouble-causing Scousers.
Drunken and thieving you moaning mickey mousers."
They don't give a toss about us and our kind.
I wish they could have the demons in my mind.

all the above are taken from RAOTL

[Bren1892]

For the 96 who died and their families who've suffered -
Remembered today - and every day.  You'll never be forgotten.

You'll Never Walk Alone

[Pheeny]

And some more

NINETY-SIX SOULS: A SURVIVOR'S STORY

Six minutes past three on that tragic day.
The pain and the trauma won't go away.
Crushed as I was in that terrible pen.
Dead bodies around me; one as young as ten.

I was big and strong, so I scrapped and fought
To save my own life; well that's what I thought.
Because inside I'm dead and it cuts like a knife
That ninety-six died and I have a life.

I did what I had to; I had three kids you see.
I couldn't die; it couldn't be me.
If I had died that day I never would have seen
My Ma's last seven years: My dear old queen.

Ninety-six souls haunt my dreams.
The nightmares won't stop; that's what it seems
I wake up sweating and shivering and shouting out loud
"There's ninety-six dead in that bloody crowd!"

I feel anger, I feel hatred, I feel guilt, I feel shame.
Ninety-six souls tell me I'm not to blame.
So why do I wake up screaming and crying
Seeing the faces of young people dying?

Ninety-six souls come to meet me each night
Taking me back to that terrible sight
"They're to blame: Duckenfield and Murray
We'll get justice one day. We're in no hurry."

I could have died that day: I know that's a fact.
With the ninety-six souls I've made a pact
"When my days are up and my judgement awaits
I'll meet you all in heaven at the Bill Shankly Gates."

MY DREAMS

I dream about me Ma
And driving a big car.

I dream about being nude
And mountains of food.

I dream about space
And winning a race.

I dream about going to Leeds
And sexual deeds.

I dream about running for hours
And eating sunflowers.

I dream about flying
And giant chips frying.

I dream about snakes
And swimming in lakes.

I dream about being in women's beds
And scoring for the Reds.

I dream about birds
And getting beat up by nerds.

But the dream I have most
Is of seeing my own ghost.

Screaming in a ground
But there's never a sound.

An empty voice crying for aid
No notice they bade.

I died in a crowd so dense
Being crushed against a fence.

I died with 96 mates
'Cos police opened the gates.

I dream I'm dead
Laid in a coffin in red.

But then I awake
And realise my mistake.

My bed's soaking wet
I'm dripping with sweat

But I'm cold and I shiver
I've cried a river.

If there's a God, please send
Something to make these nightmares end.

Many tears I cry
But at least I didn't die.

I was lucky
96 weren't.


again  posted by Evo

[Pheeny]

THAT LAD

April fifteenth, nineteen-eighty-nine.
Semi-final day, the weather was fine.
Set off for Hillsborough in our mini-bus.
Laughing and singing, all twelve of us.

Bevy in the alehouse. Reds having the crack.
We didn't know then some wouldn't come back.
Walked down the hill on the way to the ground.
This was dead weird, not many bizzies around.

There's normally hundreds. Usually loads.
They must all be busy blocking off the roads.
Forest fans in one way, Liverpool another.
Can't have them meeting. "Don't want the bother."

One bizzy on horseback shouting over the din.
"Stop bloody pushing. You'll all get in."
"Come on lads, they've opened a gate."
"Hurry up, we don't wanna be late."

Straight up the tunnel and into the dark.
Couldn't even see the players out there on the park.
Something's not right. This is all going wrong.
My ribs are getting crushed in this massive throng.

I fell on the terrace, looked up at the sky.
God, I was scared. I don't wanna die!
Punch, kick, scrap, fight.
Got to do anything to get back upright.

I was like a wild animal. What's happening here!
Survival instinct. Stark bloody fear!
"Get outa my way lad. I can't get my breath!"
I didn't realise he was so near to death.

"Open the fence! Please! Let us out!"
That lad went under. It was his last ever shout.
Help me! Pull me up! Grab hold of my hand!
Get me out of this hellhole and into the stand!

I was safe. I survived. I was free from that hell.
How many dead. I just couldn't tell.
Looked down at the pitch, there was that lad.
A man weeping over him. That man was his Dad.

He was trying to revive him with the kiss of life.
But that lad was gone. How would his Dad tell his wife?
Many years on. Still no justice done.
That man's still grieving for his dear son.

Was it me? Was it my fault? Was I to blame?
I still ask that lad at the Eternal Flame.

[cyn]

These poems and articles were first posted on RAOTL last April.  Someone suggested printing a booklet of them and selling them to raise funds for the HJC. I am not sure if that has been done. I shall repost some of them anyway, even though I have not asked permission from Johnny Mac or the writers (hope they will excuse me for this).

"This is my night of Pain!!" by The RED Rebel

Just thought I'd try and put everything down into words , words that sum up the pain that this night means to me !

A few of you know me out there , and I come on here occasionally to have a laugh etc , one thing I've never done on here is to tell everyone that My brother died at Hillsborough , Its not something I ever wanted to do and thought I would ever do as well !

I can get through the 15th April , the memorial takes up time , going to the Cememetery takes up time , My Family take up my time But when the nightime comes , everything comes back to haunt me !I'm on my own !
On the 15th April 1989 , I was a twenty year old lad , didn't have a care in the world , it was me,myself & I only ! That day changed me forever , The way I thought , the way I lived was gone !

That night after arriving back from Sheffield that day at around 8pm After hours of waiting in the house , phoning emergency numbers ,phoning hospitals etc ! I decided I had to do something , so along with a very dear friend of mine (Peter) I headed into town , heard there was transport to Sheffield free that night leaving from Hatton Garden , Getting down there we couldn't see a thing , so I headed to Radio City in Stanley Street to see if they could do anything for me .
Well I ended up in a Taxi , the journey was done in virtually complete silence not knowing what to expect when we got there and what do do anyway!
The Taxi seemed to take an age to get there , once in Sheffield we headed for the Hospitals , The Northern General & Hallamshire are the ones I went to if I remember rightly .

In there I asked in desperation if anyone had seen my younger brother , getting frantic at this time , my memory now fades into a kind of dream state , looking back now !

I was told to go back down to Hillsborough Stadium, It was about 4am on the 16th , to see the police there.
Well alls I remember now , is that I ended up in a side room to what I know now to be the gymnasium.
Confronting me on a wall was dozens and dozens of pictures of OUR dead fans ! With me being now in a total state of shock , I was shouting "he's not there, He's Not there" when Peter pointed at a picture and said "He's there" , In disbelief I studied the picture hard I still couldn't believe it , There was my little brother who'd been with me all my life , On a picture , On a wall ,all battered and bruised . Forgive me anyone , this is killing me writing this !

They(the police) took the picture away , I can't tell you how long they were gone , but within a moment in time I was taken into the gymnasium were below my feet , on the floor lay a green body bag , the bag was unzipped and there lay my brother , I touched his face , I even checked his clothes to make sure it was him ! It was just me trying to deny it , I didn't want it to be him , He looked so sad , I held him for a second before he was taken away from me !

Well then I had to sit down , be interviewed , Now I was in No fit state to be interviewed at this time , being asked if he'd had a drink and all that shite was already in the mindset of the Police ! The scapegoat was there ! And that scapegoat was me & my dead brother !
After the interview , if I could ever be as low as this again , I'd kill myself first !

I had to phone home from the gymnasium , the number had to be dialled for me ,because basically I couldn't see the dial !

The Phone rang , a couple of times before My elder brother answered , "I'm sorry" I said " He's dead" I can't recollect now what my brother said because all I can remember is the sound of My Mum screaming in the background ( That will live with me forever !)
My Dad then got on , and told me to make sure I got back home safely .

I left Hillsborough on this morning 12 years ago , a broken young man , and I'm still broken today !
The Taxi ride home , there is nothing i remember about it , I remember arriving home though and I gave the Taxi driver £20 quid for his help ( a couple of days later he returned it !) , thanked Peter for his help , and went into my house , My Mum and Dad were still up , It was nearing 7am by this time ! We all just sat there in disbelief , empty & alone with our own feelings .
The Nightmare had only just begun !
So once again I ask for forgiveness for upsetting anyone , But this is my most terrible night, I can't sleep , and I had to share it with some !

I will go down to the Dockers club to support the match as I am a proud memeber of the H.J.C. and if anyone see's me in the Albert before the Derby , Don't comment on the bags under my eye's because You'll know the reason why !

YOU'LL NEVER WALK ALONE -- JUSTICE !

[Steve C]

In loving memory.

R.I.P.

[cyn]

Posted by New Hampshire Exile:

New Hampshire Exile posted this:
Hillsborough - Long. "Do I have the right?"

I wrote this over the last couple of days after seeing stories on the forum. I wasn't as closely involved - nothing like it but though I would throw it in the melting pot. If you think I'm out of order then don't worry - put what you like. I can't get to Anfield much anyway these day so you wont run into me. I haven't properly edited it and I will looked at in a few days and think - why did I do that. Anyway before I change my mind here it is and sorry for taking up your time.


I've been a Liverpool fan since I was a lad, got my first shirt in 71 !! Started going in the 80's. Although me ma came from Liverpool the family had moved all over the shop and had their own business. It wasn't much looking back - just a restuarant that opened all hours. Kept a roof over our head so we couldn't complain too much. Problem was there was never time for anything. Especially not football. Saturday was the busiest day! The relatives were all Everton - I wouldn't go to Goodison with them and they wouldn't take me to Anfield. We were living down South by then so visits back were rare. Most of my support in the 70's and the begining of the 80's was via TV, newspapers and the radio - Live broadcasts from all over the country and Europe. great stuff. One of the regulars in the restuarant was a director of Cambridge united - he offered to take me there but I politely declined. It was reds or nothing.

Then in the 1980 I started to go to matches. As the parents were working Saturdays they didn't have too much time to keep an eye on a 13 yo teenager. So a few times a year I would hitch to the station and and get a train into london. You could buy tickets at the gate then so I always got in. By the mid eighties I was going to all the London games then I got Lucky!! In 1984 (october 5th) I passed my driving test. As I was in work by then I got a loan and sorted myself out with a car. Liverpool here I come. The kop - it took my love affair with the reds onto a higher plane. I started to go an a regular basis (whenever I could afford it!). Plus still tried to get to the London matches.

I wasn't a season ticket holder nor was I going as reguarly as I liked. It was costing me way too much as it was. I remember going to Plough lane in the late 80's. It was the 87/88 season. Plough Lane was the pits. Awful open terrace with a huge pylon in the away end. If you tried to climb it to get a better view then the police got you down (even if you kept trying). It was packed - worse than I remembered the Kop being. I think the crowd record for Plough Lane was set that day - about 18,500. Madness, but it didn't matter because it was always like that. Then came the 88/89 season. Went to a few matches. A few of my mates dropped off the scene - kids etc meant they didn't have as much time as before.

One of my best mates is a Norwich fan - we had a deal. I would go to Norwich and stand in the home end with a LFC shirt on and he would come on the Kop with a norwich shirt on! He took a fair bit of stick when the Norwich fans started with the "thanks a lot for Europe" chants but he was realistic enough to know the facts about the ban and apologised to those around us. Whenever I went on the kop I got in early. I made sure I always went to the same place. Just to the Left of the goal and with a view just above the crossbar. Best view of the match (IMHO). April 13th 1989. The wife of my Norwich mate was rushed into hospital - she was pregnant and there were some problems. I had been trying to get a ticket for the match but I couldn't get hold of a standing ticket. I wanted to be behind the goal as I always was. I was also a bit skint as I had moved into my own place and the bills were a bit high!! By the 14th I'd given up. I couldn't afford to go to the match and have to pay over the odds for a ticket so I phoned my mate and said I'd meet him at the hospital about 7pm the following night to see his wife (who was a bit better but being kept in). He asked me if I wanted to meet him during the day first.

I told him I didn't. I'd see him on the 15th at the Hospital and then we would go out in the evening for a few jars. I wanted to stay at home and follow the semis on the box.

I packed my bag for my night out and settled down in front of the tv about 2.30. Made myself a bit of lunch and started to get that pre game feeling. What happened next was strange. The matches started but before the game was stopped I switched the telly off. I couldn't watch it. Something wasn't right and I didn't want to hang around. I had to get out now. I jumped in the car and drove.I did the drive to the hospital in about 1/2 the time it normally took and it wasn't until I was about 10 minutes out that I switched the radio on. That when they started to reported that people had died. 5, 10 I don't remember how many they started with. I phoned my mate from a payphone at the hospital to say I was there already. He asked me had I heard and when I said yes he said he'd come straight up and meet me. I spent the next 30 minutes listening to the radio. I don't remember much of what was said - I was just sitting in my car chainsmoking and feeling worse and worse.

My mate Pete turned up and found me. He just jumped in the passenger seat and lit a ciggie and listened to the radio with me for a bit. The only thing he asked was if I had enough cigs. He didn't need to say anything else. We saw his wife - she was ok - then went back to his place. Spent the evening watching the TV and getting as much news as wecould. All I could think was I should have been there. And if I was what would have happened. Would it have been my family looking for me in hospitals, would I have survived, helped someone out, climbed over someone to get out. all the questions that I couldn't answer.

The following morning I got all the papers and went through them. Looking at the pictures, the fans that stood where I should have been. If I had gone would one of them been elsewhere? Would it have made any difference? I started thinking of the families who had to collect the ones that didn't return. How could I be grieving - I had no right. I wasn't injured, wasn't dead, didn't know anyone that was. My feelings were nothing compared to theirs. Yet It still felt as if part of me had been cut out.

We all know what happened in the days that followed. The lies that were printed - and at the most sensitive time. People were burying their loved ones and being stabbed in the back at the same time by the gutter press. I nearly got fired at work because some youngster at work came out with a hillborough joke in front of me and I gave him a slap. I couldn't help it - I felt so helpless and so far away from where it was happening and I was angry that someone could not take it seriously. I felt I should have been in Liverpool yet I also knew that it wouldn't help anyone.
I went to the England game at Wembley that followed Hillsborough. It was the first competative game for some of the Liverpool players. The minutes silence was the first I had been at where it was actually observed. It was eerie and I didn't give a flying fuck if anyone saw me crying. I followed that match with a return to Plough Lane which (I believe) was the first away match afterwards. Another scary event - the fences were still up and the crowd was only a bit lower than the previous season. Yet not crowded. The lack of pushing was noticable. Before the game a bunch of Wimbledon fans jumped out of the crowd and ran towards us. I thought it was all going to kick off but when they got close they all produced flowers and threw them into to the crowd. I can't remember the game - it just didn't matter. For me it was just about being there and being part of the Liverpool crowd again. A short time after that I got my season ticket on the Kop. I was earning a bit more by then so I could go to most games.

A big part of the pre match routine became going to the memorial first and just spending a few minutes there. I hadn't known any of the people but I knew it could have been me up there. I could have stood next to those people at previous matches and never said a word to them - and now I never would. I felt sorry for the families yet I would never understand what they were going though. A kind of middle ground between those most affected and those who had nothing to do with Liverpool Football Club.

When the Kop became all seater I gave up my ticket - I couldn't bear the thought of going to Anfield and sitting down. Shortly afterwards I had a family of my own to look after and then in 2000 (god those years soon fly by) I moved to the USA. I came back for a trip in April 2001 and got a ticket to the Leeds game. So close to the 15th - it was spooky. Same routine - memorial first. The minutes silence and the dignity is unchanged after all these years. These people are not forgotten nor will they ever be. My son is getting older now. He's 4 and soon I will take him to Anfield for a game. He will know all about Hillsborough and his first stop will be the memorial with me. The memories are to be passed to the next generation and they will not be forgotton - even if they do finally get justice they will not be forgotton.
I always felt on the edge of all of the grief - Liverpool fan though and though but I didn't lose anyone that I personally knew nor was I a Liverpudlian. I cried at the time and I cry now - especially reading some of the stories that are on the forum. My son will be brought up to know about the 96 as well. Do I have the right to grief for the 96 and more importantly will my son be allowed to in years to come?
YNWA
Mike


Posted by finney:

I remember that day

Iwas over here about a year when that terrible day happened. My long time mate Brampton Scall was living over there then him my mate dave duffy and another old red winky were at the game.Watching it over here knowing they were there as we were all ways every match i rang his mother god bless her now.She was in bits tell me BRAMPTON had'nt been heard of. My heart stopped i thought the worst was my old mates still alive',living over here it was lost then a call from home saying they were OK iknow i died that few hours, my god go with those poor people who found there loved ones lost first time i have ever spoken on hillsboro .Mytwo boys went back to Liverpool two years ago went to the flame they asked what's that they went to the car and brought two toronto blue jays hats out of the car only thihg they had and put there names on them and left them there .Tears in my eyes said your good lads god bless all of you in heaven

[cyn]

I'm going to post them here:

Following the HJC press release Tom E posted this yesterday:

"I think now is the right time. All of the work that has been done on h'boro needs to be published. and with this new action comming to light now would be as good a time as any to sort it out. It will not cost much to compile it all, and run off a small publication. I am sure that Andy Knott from RAOTL will be able to give us tips on the printing. Also, and this is just an idea, why not record some of the poems? i have the technology to do so. To start with, we need it all in one place - in one format too. Let me know what you think, and i'll set up a hotmail account, that we can mail it all to, then we all have access to it.

Worth a try? "

Hillsborough Song by Bassman

Its taken me 11 years just to write this song
Every time I'd come to it, the feelings were too strong
And every time I think of it I just cant get my head around
The fact that all those lives were lost in a Sheffield football ground
6.30 in the morning I jumped up out of bed
In less than 9 hours I would see the boys in red
I'd never been to a semi before, I never will again
Cant take my mind away from what happened then
I arrived in Sheffield at 1pm, my father, friend and me
We met some Nottingham Forrest fans who predicted they'd get three
A laugh, shake hands, a knowing smile, all the usual craic
No way they'd get 3 past us with Jocky at the back
2.30 standing outside the ground, debating to go in
The crowd was massive even then we decided to wait a bit
I cant remember clearly just what happened then
I know we got inside the ground but didnt get to the pen
Games off I heard someone call I thought this cant be right
A few questions later and we heard there'd been a fight
Go home, the match will be replayed we dont know when or where
I heard there was a couple dead, for the match I couldnt care
Liverpool later on that day we just found out the news
60 dead and counting, please dont let it be true
At home the TV lied to me, over 80 dead?
No this isnt right I thought, someone would have said
All these years later and it stands at 96
2 lads were from my school, a place where we would mix
They'd never skive off school again, or get sent home
But we think about you everyday and
You'll never walk alone...

Justice Poem by Mikey

Remember 96 died they were on our side we MUST never forget until JUSTICE is set, Liverpudlians never forget the courts we have met because of their conscience so inept Mr McKenzie, Mr Duckenfield, Mr British Justajoke your time will be found your lies are just smoke screens you can't go to ground.
YOU are GUILTY..............
OF.....
Death.......... (96)...... Slander......... (over 5000+) don't forget we 'PISSED OVER OUR BROTHERS / COPPERS AN ALL)................(ROBBED THE DEAD)...... and 'DRANK THROUGH IT ALL'
We should be bitter, we want and we WILL get justice, Sickness of the people that titter and jape doing in a 'friendly' way 'the gate crush escape '. ONCE this happens in a naïve type of haze, 2 fingers in the eyes hurts more than a graze.
As Timbo would note I wrote such a quote before which was lost in a cyberspace host.............., basically all that I want is to know what JUSTICE is about and for the guilty to choke on their cancerous snouts. McKenzie, who does he work for? How does he live.....? Let's see his life a life of a spiv ?.
I'd like to see him looking at his fate, 11,000 pushing his head through a gate ........... the difference is... I wouldn't be taking photos to titillate......, I'd be blowing in air to help my dead mate.
If I am out of order mail me......................., I look forward to not hearing from you.
Sorry but it has to be said.
Michael.
Allez les rouge.

Justice Verse To Liverbird by Rich

A verse I just made up to A Liverbird...... What do you think, honestly?
It's obviously open for change.
On April 15th '89
It should have been a joyous time
96 friends we all will miss
All the kopites want JUSTICE
I thought such a topic deserves such a mention in what I consider our best song.

The Sun by PSM

The SUN

I believe the Blacks are bad
The Left is loony
God is Mad
The government's the best we've had
So I read The SUN.
I believe Britain is great
And other countries imitate
I am friendly with The State,
Daily, I read The Sun
I am not too keen on foreign ones
But I don't mind some foreign bombs
Jungle bunnies and play tom-toms,
But, I read The SUN
Man, I don't like those Russian spies
But we don't have none
I love lies,
I really do love Princess Di
I bet she reads The Sun
Black people rob
Women should cook
And every poet is a crook
I am told  -so I don't need to look
It's easy in The SUN
Every hippie carries nits
And every Englishman loves tits
I love page three and other bits,
I stare into The SUN
I like playing bingo games
And witch-hunting to shame a name
But why aren't newspapers all the same?
So why not read The SUN.
Don't give me the truth, just give me gossip
And skeletons from people's closets
I wanna be normal
And millions buy it,
I am blinded by The SUN

Chris, 16

The SUN # 2 by PSM

14th January: With all the talk of Bascome/The Sun, I’ve decided to write a poem (Inspired by Peter Evo):
The SUN # 2

I hate The Sun, the no-mark pricks
And what's this about Brucie' and his goalkeeping fix?
It's the same old Sun, up to their normal tricks
I hate The Sun, remember the ninety-six?
Hypocrites.
NINETY-SIX died, show some respect
And who could forget all those horrible lies you kept?
You're a no-mark paper that's proven upon the Page 3 set
But still millions buy it, where's all your sense?
It can't be the quality, it's only ten pence.
We all now know, what happened back then
NINETY-SIX people, crushed in a pen
So why all the lies, where's all your proof?
You don't kid us lot, for we know the truth
I can't believe these things you said. Why?
NINETY-SIX souls, we all shall miss
And who are we, to claim Justice?
From a national rag, who is best noted for tits
You are humans, as they were
So why show no f##king care?
I cannot understand, our national pride
Imagine it had happened elsewhere, not just a bit on the side
April 15th 1989, NINETY SIX people died
The whole nation was sad, in unity we cried
Eleven years late, it was washed aside.
It was a tragedy, a horrific death - they were all innocent
So why be so horrible, I trust you had consent?
Still eleven years on, you are still called "The Scum"
But as long as the knobhead editor is still having his fun
You told us lies, you told everyone. But why?
JUSTICE FOR THE 96

£330,0000..Justice My Arse by Red Ped

£330,000.
JUSTICE, MY ARSE

Last Thursday an ex South Yorkshire policeman, Mathew Long, was awarded £330,000 for the suffering he has been caused by late onset Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I don't know the full details of the role this man played on the day which caused him this upset but it raises a few questions. Where exactly was he on duty during that day? Was he in the canteen supping tea when the gates were opened, or was he on the fence between the pens and the pitch pushing people back in?

We know he couldn't have been carrying the victims on hoardings because that was done by the people who had climbed out of the pens.

Was he in the line of policemen who stretched across the pitch to 'stop trouble between fans'? Or was he one of the policemen who had to restrain a drunken (allegedly) Brian Clough in the tunnel? Maybe he was in the police cctv box watching the pens filling up and doing nothing about it. He may have been guarding a gate outside the Leppings Lane end.

It may have been him who told lies to the S*n about drunken fans picking the pockets of the dead and pissing on their bodies.

I really don't know where he was, what he was doing or what it was that has caused him to suffer so much that he should be awarded £330,000. I don't even know what the £330,000 was for. Is it loss of wages ? Is it for future counselling that will help him overcome his suffering? I don't think it was offered to compensate for the physical pain and suffering he has endured because he wasn't in the pens and anyway the paper said it was for 'late onset post traumatic stress disorder'. I think that means his head has been cabbaged since the 15th April, 1989 (nearly 12 years or approximately 4337 days, a long time with a headache) but he didn't realise until the last couple of years and when he did realise the suffering he has been caused it was enough for him to take early retirement with an enhanced pension on the grounds of being too sick to continue in the job. So given that he has already secured an early retirement and an enhanced pension what is the £330,000 for ?

I have no doubt that there are South Yorkshire policemen who have suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as a result of their being on duty at Hillsborough on 15th April 1989 and I have no doubt that there are SYP officers who have suffered late onset PTSD. Indeed I am absolutely sure that this is so because I was in Pen 3, have suffered from PTSD as a result, and know first hand of Pen 3 & 4 survivors who have continuously suffered from PTSD since 15th April,1989 and survivors who have suffered late onset PTSD. Every single of one of them has had to fight and struggle for their suffering to be recognised by those who are paying compensation but not accepting liability, even to the point where they (SYP Insurance reps) denied a survivor, whose step brother was killed, could feel as much in his death as a 'natural' brother would. Which shows the lengths they would go to to deny a survivor his suffering, yet one of their own turns up eight or nine years later crying about his suffering and they throw the book (cheque book), the till and all the loose change they can find at him.

On the day, 1st March, 01, this ex policeman received his £330,000 compensation for late onset PTSD, a man who survived Pen 4 ( whose testimony, incidentally, contradicted the official version of events) lay in the High Dependency Unit at Fazakerley Hospital struggling to get oxygen into lungs which were suffering from Fibrosis, a condition he had diagnosed on New Years Day. At 5.45a.m. that man died, he was 44. He had spent 60 days struggling for air to keep him alive in the same way that he had struggled for air in Pen 4 on 15th April, 1989. He left behind a wife, three children and at least (I don't know them all) five grandchildren.
This man had received compensation of less than £3,000 a couple of years after the disaster. Money he took to get him and his family over the particular Christmas it was offered. It was obvious to him and those who knew him that he has continued to suffer Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, (needs to know the way out of any building as soon as he gets in them, aware of his mortality every day, can't make body contact in queues etc etc). A psychologist has recently written a report on his behalf which says as much and his legal action against the solicitors who mishandled his suffering was about to see the light of day in court at the time he died. But his lungs never held out and the tragedy of it is that, despite his heightened sense of mortality, he was not insured,(too costly, deal with that when it comes,) leaving his family with a huge debt just to have him cremated. Of course, his friends and extended family will have a whip round to help out and I'm sure we'll manage to cover the funeral bills at least.
Or as the man himself would say "Something will turn up if it's only your toes".

I don't wish to see this ex policeman, or anyone for that matter, denied his rightful compensation for injury or distress he has suffered, whether he was at work or not, but what really makes me angry, bitter and frustrated about Hillsborough is the continuous and continuing denials of the effects that being in Pens 3 & 4 had, and is having, on those who were in Pens 3 & 4 and those who were genuine in their rescue efforts. Hillsborough doesn't make sense to me and never will. But it does make sense that people who have, or do, suffered PTSD (late onset included) as a result of being in Pens 3 & 4 or taking part in the rescue be awarded their rightful compensation.
What really bothers me about this particular £330,000 compensation is the same bother I have with everything else related to Hillsborough, it makes me angry, bitter and frustrated and I know why but am helpless to do anything other than hope it will get better but it doesn't.
Those responsible, not just SYP officers, should have been charged with criminal offences by the DPP straight away. The whole shebang was twisted and distorted from the minute our witch PM was on the pitch. On the Monday, the South yorkshire Stitch Up Committee was sorted by Norman 'Bastard' Bettison and any chance of getting a case into a 'real' criminal court went out the window with the video tapes from the control room. The longest inquest in history, where the only mention of some killed victims was in the roll of honour before the minutes silence, a massive public inquiry, in two halves, which apportioned a lot of the blame onto the police for lack of control ( and what did that result in? absolutely nothing except stewards now taking responsibility for safety in stadiums).

8 years later, a Labour government offers the Stuart Smith stitch up which reveals absolutely nothing we didn't know already, (except the conniving ways the establishment have of getting their own out of the shite and leaving the victims to suffer the consequences,) and says there are no grounds for any criminal or other legal action.

And amongst all the kick off that went on, one MP reveals he didn't wish to order a new inquest because he wasn't sure that was what the bereaved families wanted (sic) and one T Hick reveals a conversation in a radio station corridor between a legal rep and a politico which effectively shut the door on that one.
Then we had the Billy Smart Performing Monkeys parade in Leeds, where the two most senior police officers on duty on the day of the disaster were on 'trial' for manslaughter (and other incidentals) yet the only people threatened with being imprisoned were a bereaved father and a Pen 3 survivor, both threatened with contempt of court proceedings for speaking publicly about the disaster. The survivor was threatened with jail for using the words 'Killing Fields'., the same words which had accompanied a picture of a victim being treated on the front page of a national daily newspaper on the Wednesday after the disaster.

The showtime parade in Leeds was useful for one thing, besides showing British Justice to be a nonsense, it had an effect on my understanding of Hillsborough. For years I wondered if the criminal charge that was needed should be murder or manslaughter. It was both, murder because those who pushed people back into Pens 3 & 4 knew full well what the consequences of their action was and manslaughter because standing round doing nothing was enough for these police officers and stewards to kill and injure people. If I could really lay a criminal charge against those responsible, not just SYP, then it would be stateslaughter, or conspiracy to stateslaughter, and the dock would be as big as a directors box. But of course, that's a nonsense just like the nonsense that passes off as justice in this country.

None of this helps my mate who died fighting the bastards who nearly killed him and caused him mental pain and anguish for nearly twelve years, or the suffering copper, but it helps to show what the continuing effects of surviving Pens 3 & 4 are, and I hope it will help some people understand what it means to suffer PTSD (including late onset).
If you would like to help the survivors family meet their funeral costs, please contact the Hillsborough Justice Campaign.
As he would say "Justice,My Arse".
Incidentally, his funeral is at Anfield Crematorium on Friday 9th March, 2001 at 3.30p.m.

"Justice for What" by PSM

JUSTICE FOR WHAT?

Chris: People want Justice
Mate: Justice for what?
Mate: Come on la, what was the crime?
Chris: Ninety six killed, your friends and mine
Mate: I don't understand. When was it in time?
Chris: April 15th 1989
Mate: 1989! Buts that's nearly twelve years away!
Chris: Correct, and the criminals are still free, we've got to make them pay
Mate: Pay for what? What did they do?
Chris: Let too many people into the pen, believe me its true!
Mate: So hang on, who's the real criminal here?
Chris: South Yorkshire Police, they put reality into our greatest fear
Mate: I'm not getting this. If they were to blame then why's nowt been done?
Chris: I don';t know mate, in reality is should. Could you kill 96 people in April's sun?!
Mate: I cannot believe I'm hearing this, it's not adding up
Chris: I know, and that's why were united for Justice. It has to be done.
Chris: We owe it to them
Mate: I'm getting this now. Ninety six people crushed in a pen?
Chris: Yeah that's right, we all know what happened back then
Mate: And South Yorkshire Police are getting away with it? Surely there's some guilty men?
Chris: Yes, I reiterate, we are all united in Justice for them.
Mate: So how can I support Justice for the 96?
Chris: Get down to Oakfield Road, they're all nice people, a brilliant mix
Mate: Nice one Chris, I'll do that. Thanks for your time
Chris: No bother, we all want Justice for this terrible crime.
Chris Murphy, 16
7/3/2001

"cop gets 330,000. Kop gets fuck all" by number 7

Along with every right minded LFC supporter and scouser in the land I was disgusted to hear of the £330 grand payout received by that copper.At first i just couldn't believe it, then I had to laugh at the outrageousness and total lack of reality within the halls of (so called) justice. I don't want to come across as some sort of bitter twisted cry baby but what the f##k is going on? And where the f##k does this delayed PTS come into it? Delayed till when? until he knew he could grab himself a load of cash. Well I have tried to remain dignified for a long time but this is the end of that. £2000 to a bloke who lost his son ( I know the money means nothing but come on!) I would like to know where this joker was at 3:06 on that black day.Also is it just me or does the fact that you sign up with the police not give you some indication that you may be involved in or witness some awful shit during your career.
I have kept my thoughts to myself for a long time and I'm sorry if this message is a bit much but I am so angry. My mum starting crying as soon as she heard. 12 years on and we still have all this shit chucked in our faces.
I have never thanked the people who saved my life that day. those who got my unconcious body onto the pitch, who told a copper he was wrong to give up on me for dead and carried me on the hoardings to an ambulance. Well I am thanking all of you now. with all my heart and for the family I still have and the new little ones who I now know, without you none of it would be possible. Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou. Love to all Kopites and Allez Les Rouges!
Enjoy your cash P.C f##kwad, Look up Karma in the dictionary.

"The Truth - Hillsborough poem" by DirtyHenry

The Truth
You want the truth?
No, didn't think you would.
The truth is not the stuff to shift a rag crammed with, and written by tits.
The truth is standing on doorsteps, afraid to knock because his mother is there.
The truth is carrying a coffin with him in it.
The truth is a crate of cheap lager still in the boot of the car that somehow stuttered
over the Pennines.
The truth is seeing your dad cry and your mother sob - knowing they feel guilty for
being happy that you came back.
The truth is getting his record collection - the one you always envied, but being too
scared to listen, knowing the emotions that lie in those pieces of plastic.
The truth is his bedroom, his girlfriend, and the questions. What was he really like?
Knowing she'll never know.
The truth is lies.
Lies to his mum - The last time I saw him he was fine. When he was sweating and
screaming.
Lies to yourself.
I had to move.
It wasn't my fault he fell.
Not my fault his face was blue as I stood, hands by my side, feet on the ground and
watched.
The truth is here.
The truth is in me, in you, we know
the truth.
The truth for them is different.
Their truth is 10p special offers.
Always cheap.
Not as cheap as life though.
The Truth and Gotcha.
Hundreds dead, would be smart-arses slap their own sweaty backs as they smirk at
their cleverness.
Their truth is hunting down child abusers.
But look: "Here'sJayne, and she's only 17"
Down boy.
Their truth is that they are not, and never will be
anything.
Our truth is that we are, and always will be
something.
Something very special.
That is The Truth.

Hillsborough post by SantiagoRed

I will not have access to the internet after today until Easter is over so I aplogise for bringing up this subject now and perhaps making people feel somber.
I live and work 8000 miles from Liverpool but the great city will always remain my home. There are not many people here in Santiago who can have shared the experience of going to a footy match and coming back without all their fans. Therefore I am talking to you lot because you understand, some of you were there, some of you waited at home, others couldn´t get a ticket and perhaps this saved your lives- whatever, you all appreciate what I am saying. I went with my dad but we don´t find it easy to talk about it. I know you will read and take a moment to understand.

I was 15- a kid of 15 shouldn´t see dead people with his eyes in such quantity. I wasn´t even in the Leppings Lane- I had an incredible view though. I knew what was happening from close quarters but could do nothing. I had space to move but people 50 yards away were dieing. When the advertising boards were started to be used as stretchers, I said to my dad, "Dad, that fella´s coat is over his head- he´s not..he´s not...is he??"

My old man, looked where I was pointing and said, "no...no son...of course he isn´t no...." Of course my dad knew but was protecting me. Then I knew what was happening. We were told to leave the ground. Never has a silence been so deafening. My mum wanted a day out as well so we had arranged that she should go shopping while we went to the match. We had arranged to pick her up at 5.30. We struggled to get into the city and even though we left the ground before what would have been full time, we were late. She had heard a rumour that one of the stands with seats with Liverpool supporters (us) had collapsed. She was waiting for us, convinced we would never turn up. When the car was about 200 yards away from the spot we had arranged to meet, I got out of the car to look for my mum. This was and still is the most emotional moment of my life. My mum was convinced we were dead. I wouldn´t let her go as I hugged her. She was with the wife of a Forest fan- they had been hugging each other and we reasurred the woman that her husband would be ok. I cried and cried.

So what was it like for people who lost loved ones? Why did my dad and I end up with tickets in the stand- just because our season tickets ended in a certain number? This left me with a terrible guilt- too much for a kid of 15.It should have been me. It seems like yesterday. Kenny will always be my hero for the way he conducted himself at the time as much for his football skills. Thanks Kenny.

I still get upset. I don´t like to tell people outside Liverpool that I was there as I feel as though I am almost using it to show off- "hey, I was at Hillsborough and survived"- it seems like some sick movie so I keep it to myself and my family but you all understand and I fell better for getting this off my chest. I made the mistake of telling a girlfriend once- she couldn´t understand, had been convinced by that shitbag excuse for a newspaper- she was quickly consigned to the dustbin. So what should we do now. The fight for justice focuses the mind but even if the unthinkable happens and justice is done then what- we can´t ever forget, it will always be with us.

Thanks for listening. I am away on Sunday- will not speak to anyone about it but it will be on my mind all day. Never will our anthem be more relevant. If someone thinks of me on Sunday, I promise to think of you too as well as the 96, their families and anyone traumatised by football disasters
YNWA
JFT96
Santi

"Tribute to a 10 year old" by Kopite(Colin Watt)

Sharp April morning when we made our way,
Jumped on our coach off to Hillsborough that day.
Liverpool in the semi-final, joy in my heart,
The double was beckoning, this was only the start.
Forest the opposition, Cloughie's young team,
The mighty Reds of 89, King Kenny's dream.
Brucie in goal the Kopites did sing,
Macca in midfield, Barnes on the wing.
Hansen our captain, Nicol at fullback,
Beardsley and Aldridge our men in attack.
Roadworks, accidents and queues mean't we arrived late,
Not long had passed, I was crushed against the gate.
There are people suffering, people in pain,
Where are the Police I wondered again and again.
The gates then opened after an eternity it did seem,
The central pen beckoned "look lads, the team".
I avoided the centre, I went to the right,
People were sitting down, an incredible sight.
The teams made the entrance, their kits clean and new,
Come on you Mighty Reds you can win through.
Five minutes had elapsed when the Reds did attack,
Beardsley hit a great shot, the bar it did crack.
The fans surged forward, the fans felt the brunt,
Penned in like farm animals the people at the front.
The fence gave way, the crush relieved,
Crowd trouble some people initially believed.
People on their pitch, their colours were Red,
I then saw the corpses, there were people dead!
Someone said 5, and then it was ten,
I don't believe this is happening to all these young men.
I want to wake up, this is unfair and unreal,
Never mind lad, they are Scousers, big bloody deal.
The worst was over I wanted to say,
But I reckoned without the following day.
I went for a walk to clear my head,
Inside there was nothing, inside I was dead.
Tears and sadness were my symptoms,
Today they released the names of the victims.
My mum heard a name, my auntie in Huyton she did call,
A name on a list, a detail some would term small.
On my return my mum opened the door and sat me down,
Her face tinged with sadness, it was a deep frown.
I have said terrible news she said to begin,
On that list was your cousin.
Another dagger to my heart, another mighty blow,
A young lad I never met, I didn't even know.
I write this poem with heavy heart and tear in my eye,
A hear the name Hillsborough and I just want to cry.
Every word in this poem I mean sincerely, I mean truly,
A tribute to all the victims, and to my cousin, Jon-Paul Gilhooley.
God bless Jon-Paul and the other victims, you'll never walk alone.
Justice for the 96.

Colin.

"96 Stars In Heaven" by Kopite

Last night I saw am amazing sight,
96 extra stars burning ever so bright.
Heaven the final destination for us all,
We are just waiting the Almighty's call.
Our Lord must be creating an amazing team,
Shanks and Bob managing his great dream.
Yashin in goal, Moore at the back,
Baxter in the midfield, Dean in attack.
He is creating one mighty mix,
Roared on from the stands by our beloved ninety six.
Justice For Hillsborough.

Colin.

" NEVER IS A LONG LONG TIME " by Alan Edge

Had a chat with Phil and Hilda Hammond after the service today. Marvellous marvellous people who have never lost their spirit and dignity despite all the indignities and de-humanisation they've had to endure since '89. They - and ALL those other poor souls who lost their loved ones - deserve SO MUCH respect from us. I was moved to write this small tribute to all of them about a small part of what they've been through.

NEVER IS A LONG LONG TIME

Never hurt this way before
Never wounds that gaped so raw
Never watched as people die
Never stood whilst others try
Never knew what we were seeing
Never from those shackles fleeing
Never smile the same again
Never fathom where or when
Never clutch a mother's breast
Never sure a son's at rest
Never hold a lover's hand
Never boy and father stand
Never share a daughter's laugh
Never - just a photograph
Never hug a dear kid brother
Never be like any other
Never drinking with a mate
Never properly celebrate
Never get to reason why
Never just a wistful sigh
Never less than wrenching pain
Never staunching tears like rain
Never quell the desolation
Never any consolation
Never trust the word of power
Never truth where lies can flower
Never anyone to answer
Never, like the cause of cancer
Never will they find atonement
Never shed what all alone meant
Never love and hate connect
Never less than our respect
Never lose yet never win
Never failing kith and kin
Never sure of what will be
Never losing dignity
Never shedding any love
Never help from up above
Never from our hearts they'll stray
Never ever far away
Never reasoning nor rhyme
Never till the end of time

"Their flame will always burn" by Rushian

The 96 will always be in our hearts
Their flame will always burn
Their memory will continue
While the lessons they must learn
Every year in springtime April
Our tears should remind
Those who have forgotten
What happenend to our kind
We'll cry out for some justice
The crimes must be atoned
We'll always ask for answers
They'll never walk alone
We'll support our team in Europe
Celebrate in verse and song
But always on our travels
Our brethren will come along
They'll never become a footnote
In some rewritten history
That Sheffield day will stand out
The call for Justice will not sit quietly
96 fans travelled to a game
96 never to return
96 fans who'll always be remembered
While their eternal flames still burn


"I Don't know what to say....." by Red in the Rockies

I have spent all day wondering what I should put on the page as a forumite:
I don't know what to do
I don't know what to say
96 people who passed away 12 years ago today
On what should have been, a glorious Hillsborough day
Went to see a game they wanted to have fun
A trusting mothers daughter, a loving fathers son.
Trusted those around them they just wanted to see their team
The fact they all died makes it all so obscene
Lies in the paper, on the TV too
People who lost everything, not knowing what to do
Bound up with grief, anger down below
Nobody wants to hear the truth, nobody wants to know

The police and the establishment should hang their heads in shame
96 people who went to see and enjoy a football game
They should have been protected, they should be here today
Not remembered on a football field in a sad and haunting way
You cannot bring them back
But in your memory they must stay
The truth about what happened should never go away
Counter all the lies, tell them it ain't so
The truth will take a hold, the truth it WILL GROW
RIP 96
Not only my own red tribe but those in South Africa and anyone else who has lost anyone needlessly.
Steve Phillips
Cochrane, Canada

"DUCKINFIELD , WHERE DO YOU GO" by braces and boots

DUCKINFIELD. WHERE DO YOU GO

As this day finally ends, and we lie in our beds
Many thoughts will be with us, many tears will be shed
For today all our memories were frozen in time
As we recalled the events of 1989
The tears that flow should bring relief
They should'nt be through gritted teeth
But the gritted teeth we cannot help
As our pain is filled with anger as well
There's a chilling similarity
With JFK in '63
Webs of lies and conspiracy
From the heads of the authorities.
Now even the masses choose to ignore
Their prujudices come to the fore
It's easy for them to disbelieve
For to them we're only scum and thieves
What reaction would there have been
If this had happened at Ascot or Queens
Or if those poor victims were from public school
Or from anywhere but Liverpool
Hey. Duckinfield I want to know
On your pillow at night were do you go?
Do you cry any tears do you hear the screams
Do spirits visit you in your dreams
Or are you glad you saved your neck
Do you count your big fat pension cheque
Do you think "I should have shut those gates"
Or do you say "I'm glad I hid that tape"
If you had one iota of decency
You'd make a statement for all to see
You'd beg forgiveness on your knees
And own up to responsibilities
But by our nature we don't take shite
And will never ever give up the fight
Till the blame lies firmly on the head of police
And the victims can finally rest in peace

Braces and Boots
 

[cyn]

Someone on the Official Forum gave the link to this article written in a Sunderland fanzine:

http://www.ithics.com/
Issue 14, Dec 1998

Ninety-Six
April 15th 1989: As Sunderland aren't playing at home, I've decided to settle in front of the TV to watch Grandstand and await reports on the two FA Cup semi-finals taking place: Everton v Norwich and Liverpool v Nottingham Forest.

 
It's a beautiful day and my beer is gloriously chilled. I didn't have a care in the world. Sunderland's season was fizzling into mid-table obscurity (for a change), so I was just going to enjoy the afternoon and hope that Norwich beat Everton. (Like a lot of SAFC fans, I’d developed a soft spot for Norwich after the 1985 Milk Cup Final). I also hoped that Forest would beat Liverpool ; Cloughie was still a hero of mine and I wanted him to win the F.A. Cup for the first time.

At about quarter past three the TV reporter paused from the upbeat chattiness of delivering the latest racing results and strangely told us they were trying to get a report from John Motson at Hillsborough. The pictures were confusing and difficult to take in. No players on the pitch, just a swarm of humanity layered over by Motson's patchy comments that he'd got reports that there had been crowd trouble, a gate had collapsed and apparently someone had been killed. It was Heysel all over again; Liverpool fans were involved. I was furious. My immediate reaction was to blame the Liverpool hooligans.

Grandstand remained at the scene and Motson kept trying to make sense out of the bedlam unfolding before him. The twelve people that were thought to be dead soon became twenty. By this time I was standing in front of the TV. Crying.

The rest of the day gave the media a truly horrific opportunity to piece together a montage of tragedy and misinformation. Like all tragedies, innocent people had died and the viewer remained shocked, helpless and was left asking "Why? It's only a game!"

At the back of my mind though, I think I was scared. I'd been in massive crowds dozens of times, and knew the claustrophobic fear of being pushed against walls and crash barriers, ending up fifty feet from where I'd been standing as the crowd surged forward at moments of excitement. Christ, I'd been doing it since I was seven years old! It was all part of the game, the atmosphere . We accepted being herded like cattle because we knew nothing different.

In fact we had been treated with utter contempt by the clubs we love "Get the bastards in, get their money, and get them out". As for treatment by the Police, the worst experience I ever had was during the sixties when Sunderland were due to play Leyton Orient (or was it Luton?) in a mid-week League Cup game. I was about ten years old and went with a couple of my mates. The weather was bloody awful and I was soaked to the skin by the time we got to the kid's turnstile at the back of the Fullwell End. I couldn't understand why there was such a big queue as I approached the closed turnstile, and I was cursing that I couldn't get out of the rain.

Understandably, as more people arrived, the queue got deeper and wider and spilled onto the road. Someone advised us that there was a pitch inspection because the pitch was waterlogged, so we groaned but remained huddled together against the wall for some kind of shelter. Then a copper arrived on a horse the size of double-decker bus and started barking at everyone to get off the road. He then started using the horse to push the stragglers onto the path! As I said, I was up against the wall already, so for the next ten minutes I was crushed against it, screaming for help at first, and then unable to breathe. I thought I was going to die and started crying. Thankfully this big bloke saw me and helped me out. The game was called off and I returned home totally drained, wet through, but glad to be alive. I didn't dare tell my parents what had happened in case they stopped me going to more matches.

In the Hillsborough aftermath, I couldn't stop thinking about that night at the back of the Fullwell End. I kept looking at my then four-year old son and wondered if I should reconsider taking him to his first match. I thought about the parents of those kids that had died and wondered how the hell they were coping with the loss of the most important thing in their lives.

During the days after the tragedy, we saw more pictures and received, this time, truthful information regarding the total failure of Police control. By now I was feeling shamefully guilty that my immediate reaction to the TV pictures was to blame the Liverpool fans. Now we were told that Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield had lied when he told Graham Kelly (at 3.15 on the day) that the crush had been caused by fans breaking down the gate ; he himself had given the order to open the gate. The Sun newspaper had produced vile front-page stories about drunken Liverpool yobs stealing from dead bodies. Even the Mirror had taken this line until making a bilious about-turn a couple of days later when the true facts were being unearthed, Robert Maxwell donating a penny for each Mirror sold to the Hillsborough disaster fund by way of apology.

The worst image for me though, was the sight of that distinguished public servant, Chief Superintendent Murray, standing in the Police control post, arms folded, surveying the utter carnage around him like a latter day Nero, doing sod-all. Despite directions from the Police Complaints Authority that Duckenfield and Murray should face hearings charged with "neglect of duty", neither actually were. Duckenfield in fact retired early, on medical grounds (what a surprise). Another ugly feature of the tragedy is the profit fourteen Police Officers received, claiming £1.2m between them for the trauma they suffered on the day, presumably they weren't among the Police Officers keen to ensure blood alcohol checks were taken from dead bairns.

I actually went to Hillsborough a couple of years ago (when we lost 2-1) and was amazed that the South Yorkshire Police (and Sheffield Wednesday Football Club) were still totally clueless in crowd control. I arrived forty-five minutes before kick off, there was a massive queue, and this copper (on the obligatory massive horse) was ordering people into two lines. The thing was, there was a cash turnstile and a ticket turnstile, but he wasn't bothered if you had a ticket or not, you just had to go where his horse "ushered" you. This resulted in people having to force their way to the appropriate turnstile once they got there. Crazy!

As recently as last year, prior to the away game at Sheffield United, I was gobsmacked at the hatred some Sheffield people have towards Liverpool. I arrived very early for the match, and wary of bumping into any United fans, I popped into what looked like a quiet looking pub. Some of the regulars started chatting to me and remarked how great our away support is. This was immediately followed with"Unlike those Liverpool bastards, they were at fault for Hillsborough, there were some in here before the game. None of them had tickets, and they were all bragging that they were going to smash down the gates. They were all drunk." I felt sick listening to this bile; the dozy, stupid, gets.

Ten years on, and still no justice. I can't begin to imagine the pain of the Hillsborough victims' families. Every day, every Liverpool game, must bring home their loss with paralysing emptiness. So today, as SAFC fans pour their love down on the team, in our glorious stadium, enjoying a successful end to a great season amongst friends and families, look around and be grateful. The ninety-six who died were just like you and me.

David Miller
 

[cyn]

In Memoriam
Posted by red dave on 14 April 2001

It’s that time of year again when we remember those who died needlessly in the spring sunshine on what should have been a glorious day.
Tomorrow, being Easter Day adds a little more poignancy to remembering the 96.
I doubt that I shall post tomorrow, so I would like to put my thoughts and condolences down early.

We the living will remember,
We the living will never forget,
We the living will continue the fight,
We the living will keep the flame bright.

We the living will walk in the sun,
We the living will teach the young ones,
We the living will ignore all the lies,
We the living will demand our justice.

red dave

Wilko
For Eric Hankin RIP
Posted on 15 April 2001


Eric was a workmate of mine who tragically was killed at Hillsborough.He was 33 years old when it happened,and k#left a wife and two young children.I can never forget the horror and shock I felt on the Monday morning when I scanned the list of dead on the front page of the Telegraph.All the names were in small type,but Eric's just stood out and screamed at me as if it was written in block capitals.I had seen a load of his mates on the Hillsborough pitch after the game ,they were looking for another of their mates who was a bit of a naive sort of lad at that time,none of them were concerned about Eric,he was over 6feet tall about 15 stone and could handle himself.That more than anything told me of how helpless people trapped on that terrace were that day,itwas a broad spectrum of age,sex and physical capabilities.

I don't usually talk much about that day,I am still carrying so much anger,as I'm writing this I am trying to hold off the tears,tears of sadness, tears of helplessness,and still tears of guilt.I still think of how I could have reacted better that day.I can still remember seeing the first body being carried past the North Stand that day,his face covered by a brown leather jacket.A lad next to me said "he's fucking dead".I thought"no way you can't die at a match",but of course this was nothing new,I had seen it all before 4 years earlier at Heysel.

With the traing I have had,I should have been down on the pitch trying to help people(I'm a psychiatric nurse),I maybe could have helped with basic life support,but in reality I was probably too shocked to have reacted quicker.

Anyway I'll stop now as I'm getting wound up'and this only started as a small tribute to you Eric mate,you're still missed at Ashworth.God bless you mate.

Will M
Posted on 15 April 2001

Today
12 years on and for me , just as a Liverpudlian , it seems to get harder and harder.The years of injustice seemed to have magnfied the pain I feel about the events of 15.04.89.

The pain of the families must be mine muliplied a million times over.At least when your own relatives die you take some comfort in remembering the good times and happy memories.This must be hard for the families given all the shit they have been through.

The only comfort I can offer them is that we are all thinking of you - not just on this day - BUT EVERYDAY.

It's heartwarming to visit a few message boards to see the messages from other clubs supporters.I know it's daft but it really does make you realise the petty rivalries we have are just that - PETTY.

Special thanks to Evo . I understand what you have been through but you have come out the other side a stronger and better person.You're a diamond.

NO JUSTICE ! NO PEACE !

Will M

PS : William Melia was 22 in 1989 - just the age Jon-Paul Gilhooley would have been in 2001.

[DAWSON ('forevared')]

We are all together at this time.

The sorrow returns, as always -
The sense of injustice remains forever constant.

Justice For The 96

S*n = Scum.

You'll Never Walk Alone.

[GavBelfast]

The preceeding posts are truly heart-rending but yet inspiring as well.

I just recall that I had very important exams the following week.  As soon as the scale of the disaster began to unfold, my books and revision were finished with.  They just weren't important anymore, and I stayed glued to the radio and TV, and hooked on the papers, for days and days.  It's hard to think what it would have been like had mobile phones, 24 hour news channels and the internet been around then.

Outside of deaths and illness in my immediate family, it affected me more than anything else in my life and I, and I am sure Reds everywhere, will never, ever forget.

My sympathies to all those directly affected for your continuing pain and suffering.

YNWA.

[RedLoner]

On that infamous afternoon, I was listening to the BBC as usual, when all of a sudden came the sad news from Hillsborough, and they started covering the events as they unfolded. I remember the commentator saying that John Aldridge was devastated; that's what stuck most to my mind for some reason.  But I didn't really get my emotions going without seeing the pictures.

Then, just a few weeks later, the French monthly magazine "Paris Match" came out, and on its cover page was the shocking picture of an LFC supporter lying on the turf in his all red jersey. I won't describe how exactly he looked, even though I had started typing the words. He was so young, and dead. The title said something like: "A red supporter who died defending his colours".  

They didn't say his name, but may all of them rest in peace.

[JasonR]

Justice for the 96

YNWA

[MichaelA]

The wait for tickets to the game
The wait outside the Leppings Lane
The wait to chant and and sing and shout
The wait to cheer is what its all about

The weight of expectations in the ground
The weight of playing for the crowd
The weight of bodies pressing down
The weight of guilt in a coppers frown

The wait at home for the final score
The wait at home unfolding horror
The wait to hear a loved one phone
The wait to see them safe at home

The weight of the bizzies boot on the path
The weight of his knuckles as they rat tat tat
The weight of grief a city feels
The weight of tears could fill Anfield

The wait for the truth to be made plain
The wait for the courts to ease the pain
The wait for tawdry politics
The wait for justice for the 96


Michael

[Steve C]

Taken from Raotl.

The most moving piece I have read.

----------

Survivor:
"ONE FOR SORROW

I’ll never forget that calm spring morning in Anfield road. Strips of sunlight squeezed through the Shankly gates, evaporating the last drops of dew as they ran down the
wrought iron on the great mans shrine. We stood with our backs leaned against the wall of the Anfield Road terrace, talking quietly at first, but becoming more boisterous as all fourteen of us gradually arrived from different parts of the city.
Each arrival was greeted with mocking banter as the mood became as radiant as the early season sunshine, which by this time had spread across the road, lighting up two large Victorian sandstone gate posts, situated opposite the Shankly gates.

I remember instinctively turning round when I heard the rustling of leaves accompanied by an unfamiliar bird call, a kind of cherpy rattle. Back in 1989, Magpies didn’t venture into towns and cities as frequently as they do today. You very rarely saw one, which made this particular sighting all the more vivid.
I looked up. The branch on which the bird had been perched was still shaking slightly, but was empty. I turned back to towards my friends. “Where’s yer mate?” Alan said, his eyes looking directly over my shoulder. I turned again and there it was, a solitary magpie staring across at us from one of the gateposts. “I hope that’s not a sign of things to come” said a solemn faced Alan, relating to the ‘one for sorrow’ wives tale
which usually accompanies the sighting of one of these birds.

At the time, his words were only spoken in context with the outcome of the big match that forthcoming afternoon. Indeed the worse thought in any of our minds that morning, was that we’d
be knocked out of the semi final of the FA cup, that the bad luck which the lone magpie had brought, would be confined to the simple scoreline of a soccer match, but just five hours later, some 70 miles away in South Yorkshire, we were to witness the
most inconceivable heartbreak that the magpie’s message of sorrow could ever bring, as the horror of Hillsborough unfolded before our very eyes.

“Nottingham’s that way mate” Someone shouted across to the bird, bringing laughter from the fifty or so lads lined up against the shaded wall. The bird then took flight as a ham sandwich from Alan’s packed lunch, was hurtled through the air in its direction. “Throw it two for joy” came a quip from down the line, to more laughter. Spirits are traditionally high on days like these, humour is applied to almost everything, and today was no exception. It wasn’t long before our coach arrived to the sound of cheers. A few of us turned round, touched the Shankly gates, then boarded the bus.

The journey that morning seemed like dejavu. Nearly 12 months ago to the day, we’d crossed the Yorkshire moors at the same stage of the FA cup, to the same venue, to face the same team, Nottingham Forest. That day in 1988 will also stay forever etched
in our minds, not so much for the result of the football match which Liverpool won comfortably, but for being the single most reason why all of us survived the nightmare just one year later. Like the previous April, we all possessed tickets for the Leppings lane end, a small Victorian terrace dissected into caged pens, a testimony to the segregation brought about by the bad old days of hooliganism. Back then, most of the terraces at stadiums were fenced in with metal railings, mainly to discourage pitch invasions or stop rival fans from clashing, but unlike most grounds, Hillsborough’s Leppings lane was a death trap lying in wait.


As we neared the ground that previous year, we were funnelled through metal crowd calming barriers , situated some distance from the turnstiles which were heavily policed. Everybody had to undergo a routine search and show their tickets before being allowed past. It seemed pretty severe at the time, but was well organised. On entry to the ground, we were confronted by a tunnel which leads to the terraces behind the goal. From the turnstiles, It was the only visible point of entry, so naturally, everybody assumed it would lead to all sections behind the goal.
We could see the white goal posts and part of the lush green pitch as we pushed our way slowly through the packed tunnel.

This experience was nothing new, something reflected by the ironic mooing and cattle impersonations which used to ring out in such situations, but this particular time was more intense and prolonged than anything I’d ever experienced. I found myself unable to even turn my shoulders, my arms were compressed and locked firmly against my sides unable to move as we edged slowly
down through the heat of the tunnel. The pressure was vice like. At times my two feet were pinioned off the floor, my six foot two,15 stone frame helpless, as it was carried along unwillingly in a sea of human life.

My brother was just about visible to my left. The rest of the lads were somewhere nearby, but by this time, my main concern was to get onto the terracing for some much needed relief.
The situation wasn’t helped by bodies coming back in our direction. “You can’t see a fucking thing in there” someone said as we crossed paths. I was now almost facing backwards, spun around by the weight of the surge outwards, until eventually I filtered out of the dark into the sunlight which lit up pen number three.

Once inside I pushed my way slowly to my right along the back wall towards the tall blue railings which separated the pens. Like thousands of others, I foolishly believed there would be gateways or some kind of openings where we could disperse into the
surrounding enclosures, but to my disbelief there was no way out, we were trapped in a cage without a single outlet apart from the tunnel through which we arrived.

“Fuck this, lets get out of here” came the shout from my brother, tugging on his shirt collar as he blew for air. His blonde hair was now unrecognisable, dark and saturated, stuck to his forehead. We now knew why so many were heading back through the tunnel, and quickly followed suit. It was like a continuous contraflow of bodies circulating inside the pen then retreating with the realisation that there was no way out. There was understandable anxiety and anger visible on many faces as we
gridlocked in the dark passage. Tempers rose with the heat, while anxiety was born out of claustrophobic frustration.

We eventually came back out into the daylight and unfused ourselves from the human mass. “Did you see any of the others ?” I said, squatting down for a breather near the turnstiles.
My brother stood crouched forward with his hands on his thighs. Withoutlooking up he replied ..” You’re joking aren’t yer, they’re probably all still swirling round in that toilet bowl.” Although he didn’t realise it at the time, his analogy
seemed to perfectly sum up our experience, for we now knew the feeling of being flushed down a dark pressurised tube into a sealed chamber, and also how it felt to be treated like human sewage.

Stewards and police then started guiding people away from the tunnel entrance, ushering them towards the side pens.
We followed their directions and walked around the back of the West stand to an area high and left of corner flag where we stayed for the remainder of the afternoon.


Of the thirteen lads who’d entered the ground with us that day, we were now just two, scattered and lost within 15 minutes of entering the stadium. The next time we met was back at the coach where the result of the game overshadowed any negative thoughts about our unpleasant parting of company.Things like that happened to football fans all the time those days, you just accepted it, and at any rate we had another trip to the capital to savour, to a place unlike today, where the tunnel walk is organised into two lines and leads to the freedom of a football pitch, below the twin
towers of Wembley stadium.

“Right boys, yer all know the score, whatever yer do, don’t go in that fucking middle section. If we get split up, make yer way to the corner on the left.” Came the orders from Riley, sat on the back seat. We all unanimously agreed.
“Only cos you can’t fit down the tunnel yer fat bastard. “ came Alan’s reply, triggering a wonderfully amusing hour as they traded insults across East Lancashire. Through the laughter, I couldn’t help overhearing the hearty giggles of two young lads
sitting across the Isle to my left. Amused by the overweight Riley, who by now was singing Liverpool songs using a sausage roll as a microphone.
“He’s crackers him isn’t he mate?” Said the younger of the two. “Not half lad” I replied “and if I was you, I’d hide those sarnies.” Pointing at his packed lunch which was placed in a tupperware box between his feet. “It’s alright, me mum’s made extra ones incase there’s no shops on the way home.”
The naievety of the lad was instantly apparent. I could tell by his accent that he was a Merseysider, but not from the inner
city. He was bright with the refreshing innocence of a gullible kid.

We spoke many times on our journey, mainly about football. He told me of his Idol, John Barnes, saying how much he’d love to meet him. How his bedroom wall was covered top to bottom with pictures of the brilliant winger, and of his dislike of any rival fans who abused Barnsey because of the colour of his skin.

On the outskirts of Sheffield we came to a virtual standstill. Roadworks and police checks slowed the traffic to a mere crawl. It was now 1-15pm and we were growing concerned about missing the start of the match. Just then, four policemen boarded our coach. “Ok you lot, If anyone has any alcohol, I’d advise them to hand it over now. we’ll be searching the coach in a moment, if we find anyone’s hidden any, we’re impounding the coach and none of you will get to the match.” The attitude of the officer was cold and uncompromising. Whatever orders he’d been briefed with that morning certainly didn’t include any light-hearted diplomacy or sense of humour, these boys meant business. In the 80’s There were heavy fines for coach firms who were found to be transporting alcohol on soccer excursions. If you tried to board a coach with any beer, it was confiscated. We all knew this so never bothered bringing any in the hope of having a traditional pre match drink in Sheffield before the game.

One of the officers who searched our bags was grossly overweight for a policeman. Sweat continuously rolled down his red chubby face onto his yellow illumines jacket. Alan seized his chance, shouting down the coach to his superior “Excuse me officer, can I
make a complaint please ? ” “What’s your problem” came the stern reply. Alan followed up with..“This policeman here, he’s robbing all the pork pies out of our bags.” Within seconds he was being dragged off the coach, the sound of laughter ringing in his ears, returning five minutes later to a round of applause.


We arrived near Hillsborough at around 2-10pm and decided to make our way towards the ground. The weather was glorious as we scoured the surrounding streets looking for an off licence, with no joy. We made do with cans of soft drinks then headed towards the stadium up Leppings lane. I noticed there was no crowd control barriers like last year, evident by the unorganised mass of fans building up outside the 3 turnstiles which we duly joined. It was approximately 2-35pm when I barged my
way into the turnstile then into the ground.

I emerged to the sound of Riley’s voice..”That’s fucking ridiculous that, they haven’t got a clue.” he said fixing his
white shirt back into his jeans. We waited for the others for a few minutes, watching flushed faces surface from the turnstiles which clicked continuously above the noisy commotion outside.

Everybody apart from us was heading down the tunnel into pen
number three. There were no police or stewards at the tunnel entrance, which was beginning to back up with traffic just as it did last year. Riley looked at me, blowing his cheeks out saying “fuck that,” I nodded in agreement then we both headed up to our arranged meeting place by the corner flag.
We were surprised at the sparsity inside the enclosure. It was only 10 minutes to kick off, but there were glaring empty
spaces all around. Alan then appeared with my brother.. “What the fuck’s going on here ?” He said standing in a huge empty space with his arms outstretched.. “Are Everton playing or something?” From our vantage point we could see across the
length of Leppings lane. The opposite corner and side pens were also as deserted as ours. In sharp contrast, Pens three and four directly behind the goal looked full to capacity, apparent by the constant swaying of heads which rolled up and down like breakers on a surf.

The last two of our party arrived just as the teams came out onto
the pitch. One of them was shaking his head saying.. “You wanna see the crowds out there, there’s thousands trying to get in. It’s fucking bedlam, they’re never gonna make the kick off.”
A couple of us walked to the back of the half empty enclosure to
survey the scene outside. There was pandemonium going on out there. Control and order had been completely lost. Police horses were rearing up, with people pinned up against walls as thousands fearing they’d miss the start of the game tried desperately to
get in. “They’ll have to delay the kick off” I said to Alan who agreed saying..”They’ve got no choice lad, there’s more out there than in here.” We were amazed when the match was allowed to kick off at 3pm, a decision, or rather indecision which was to play a major part in the events which followed.


My recollection of the six or seven minutes of football actually played that day are vague, but what I do remember was Liverpool hitting the Nottingham Forest crossbar, a moment which brought that familiar roaring sigh heard at football grounds every
Saturday afternoon.. To the thousands massed outside, those roars must have been torturous to hear. To a football fan, there is no worse feeling than standing outside a stadium while a match is underway. This can be magnified ten fold when the match is
an FA cup semi final.

The decision by police to open exit gate C, was made as a
result of the crushing and hysteria which had been allowed to build up outside. It would prove to be a fatal unforgivable decision as death rubbed its hands and laughed as it led the charge into pens three and four.

“Get off the pitch lad will yer, you’re gonna get the game called off.” came a shout from behind us. It was the first sign that something was wrong. The middle sections of pen’s three and four had now swelled to damn bursting proportions. Hands and arms waved aimlessly through the blue bars around the cage.

Some fans scaled and hung from the railings trying to escape, while others were pulled up to safety by people above and behind in the West Stand. There were people on the pitch, clearly distressed, running to the players pointing frantically towards the terrace. Some fans punched and pulled at the mesh fencing in the front of the cage. The game was stopped and the players slowly left the field, unaware like all of us, of the carnage which was unfolding. The realisation that we were witnessing a living nightmare came when we saw two young lads stretched out behind the goal in their red Football tops, being given the kiss of life. Many walked dazed and confused stopping only to kneel and vomit. Some had dark wet stains on their pants where
they’d urinated with fear.
“Something bad’s happening here lad, something really bad’s happening I can feel it. “ Alan said. He was voicing something we all felt, but were too frightened to admit The churning in my stomach was becoming intense. Some of us moved down towards the fence, where the sound of people screaming and pleading for help became unbearable. The despair of hearing the death cry of
innocent people, mainly children, weeping as they reach out to you to save their lives, is the most painful and harrowing sound which could ever be unleashed on a human being. The vexation at being unable to help them served only to augment the pain and
distress to levels which go way beyond normality, cutting deep into the mind and soul.

We were now near the front peering through the bars just a few yards from the pitch. Fans who’d escaped onto the pitch were now breaking up advertising hoardings, using them as makeshift stretches. These people acted in a manner known in army terms as
‘services above and beyond the call of duty.’ One after the other they placed the bodies of dead and injured fans onto the boards then raced along the length of the pitch to the gymnasium situated underneath the North stand.

The noise of ambulance sirens from the surrounding streets added to the mayhem. Just then only a few yards from where we stood, the body of a man no more than 40 years old was placed down
on the pitch. As long as I live I’ll never forget him. His eyes were open, but lifeless. His black hair was wet and matted to his scalp. He wore a red Liverpool jersey with light blue denim jeans which were undone and pulled down slightly below his plump middle. Both shoes were also missing. The two men who placed him down were of a simular age. One tried desperately to revive him with mouth to mouth resuscitation while the other held his pale hand and wept.

It was obvious to all but his two friends that he was dead. That lad tried so hard to bring him back to life, pleading with him to
wake up in between kisses of life. In a state of complete devastation , he then began thumping and pressing on his chest shouting in tears. “Wake up Kev, please wake up.” The thumping gradually gave way to weak taps, before he rested his head onto thewhite letters of ‘candy’ which were written across his friends shirt, then broke down.

Everyone around that fence cried with him. Like us, those lads probably set off in exuberant mood that morning Saying goodbye to wives, kids, or parents on their way to simple football match. To be lying on the sun drenched pitch later that day over
the lifeless body of a friend or relative must have been the most heart-rending traumatic ordeals imaginable. It was now too much to bare. “I’ve got to get out of here” I said to Alan.
We walked back up the steps then out through the back of the
West stand.

Outside the scene reminded me of traumatised soldiers sitting about shell shocked after a battle, the smell of death was everywhere, only this time the soldiers were innocent football fans.

People unashamedly wept and hugged one another. Some understandably vented their anger at two passing policemen who walked aimlessly holding their hats by their sides. I don’t know exactly what roll they’d played, if indeed any, but one was obviously in a distressed state “You bastards caused that, you fucking killed them all.” a lad shouted through fits of tears.

Unlike any of his superiors, the distressed one of the two covered his eyes and openly cried. We walked back towards the coach. The deafening sound of sirens had now grown even more amplified, with blue flashing lights converging from every possible direction around Hillsborough.

Back at the coach we met the rest of the lads, nobody spoke.
We took our seats and sat silent in our own thoughts staring at the road through the windows. The only sound was the coach radio which was broadcasting live from the ground. The death count seemed to rise every minute. When we boarded the bus at
approx 4-15pm the death toll was 34. By 4-45pm it was 78. Alan cried inconsolably at each bulletin. My stomach was now knotted so much that I had to embrace it tightly to take away the constant feeling of nausea.

At nearly 7pm we were still two passengers short. The two young lads who sat opposite me on the outward journey were still unaccounted for. Robbie the steward walked to the back of the coach. “We’re gonna have to go back to the ground boys, to see what’s happened to these two kids.” Everyone silently nodded in agreement. Robbie had a list of passengers names, so we made our way back to Hillsborough. The sirens had now eased to the
occasional wail, taken over by the surreal sight of hundreds of silent flashing blue neon lights.

We waited while Robbie went into the temporary morgue under the
North stand. An hour later he returned alone , clearly upset by the sights he’d witnessed inside. The two lads still couldn’t be traced. A decision was then taken to return to Liverpool without them. No one spoke a word on the journey home.

The only sound was the coach engine as it headed back on the A roads across the moors. Although I tried not to, I was occasionally drawn towards the boys empty seats to my left. One had left his beige coat crumpled up near the window, while on the seat nearest me was the youngest lads tupperware box.

We stared from the windows at the dark eerie Yorkshire moors. Just like the feeling inside all of us, they lay barren and
desolate. On any other occasion the endless blackness of these unearthly wastelands would almost certainly have brought that chilling feeling experienced in nightmares. Only this time, eyes stared through the dark undaunted, for our nightmare had already
been lived out, the mother of all nightmares, which unfolded not in darkness, but in the broad light of day.

We arrived back at Anfield road at around 11pm. Families and relatives hugged their sons and husbands, many in tears. There were scarves tied to the Shankly gates. Red and white entwined with Everton blue as the city united in grief. We asked Robbie for the two missing boys names, then all shook hands and
embraced before going our separate ways.

In the nine years I’d known my wife before the tragedy, she had never seen me cry. For years I’d shown no emotion through a macho type self esteem which was the mark of my generation. All this changed in the early hours of April 16th 1989. Curled up on the bed like an infant holding on to its mother, I wept unashamedly into her cradled arms.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of Jennifer Rush’s ‘power of love’ which was playing low on the radio. As it reached the lyrics ‘Im your lady and you are my man.’ My wife who was sat on the bed beside me broke down in tears. “Oh god,how could
this happen, how could it happen.”

It signalled the realisation that I hadn’t been dreaming as the devastation and enormity of the disaster hit like a hammer. It was around 11am when Riley phoned me to tell me that the two boys from the coach had been killed. I’d prayed so much that morning for those two lads. I kept hearing the youngest boys voice in my mind telling me about Johnny Barnes. kept seeing his mother putting his sandwiches in the tupperware box he left on the coach. While all the time feeling shame and self condemnation for not taking him with me to safety. I grieved for that boy as though he were my own brother and have done so ever since.

In the thirteen years since Hillsborough, I’ve had many dreams about that awful day. Sometimes Im on the coach telling the boy not to go down the tunnel. Other times I see him as he’d be now, smiling outside a church amidst a snowfall of confetti with his bride holding a bunch of yellow daffodils. But always as I approach him, the flowers wither as the scene changes to mourners weeping at a graveside, and there standing amongst them is his idol Johnny Barnes.

Hillsborough affected all of us in different ways. Understandably, thousands found it too traumatic to ever return. For nearly 30 years Alan had watched Liverpool.
Always the joker and life and soul of the party.

He’s never attended a football match ever since. His tormented mind scarred too deeply with what he saw and heard that day. Scenes which nobody should ever have to witness interweave with sounds which envelop and soak deep into the memory, to be released with tears in moments of solitude. His words “something died inside me that day “ can be applied to all of us
who were there or were affected by this monumental senseless tragedy.

Each year when the daffodils light up the fields, or when the dawn awakens me with early season sunshine, I always drift back to that terrible day. Springtime fills me with so many emotions, sights and sounds which will haunt me forever. And there amongst them, is the rattled call of a lone magpie, a call which will torment me until the day I die."

A SURVIVOR

[Chris_Mc]

We've seen today how Liverpool fans and fans from other clubs still haven't forgotten. Lets hope it continues for another 13 years.

Justice

[Anthony]

Just been reading through these this evening and, of course, I couldn't fail to be deeply moved.

I count myself extremely lucky that my dreams are not filled with the torment that some of the people in this thread are. But it could have been me if I had had the chance to go.

My first trip to the Kop was for a 0-0 with West Ham - I think Feb 88. I travelled on my own and made the first-timer error of standing in the middle with a barrier in front of me. Needless to say, as the match progressed the fans behind me pressed me harder and harder onto the barrier. I started getting more and more distressed until somebody noticed me and got the people behind me to move back. I made my escape and stood a little further back.

Well I learnt my lesson and the next couple of times I went to Anfield I made sure that I got a  space with the barrier behind me. I finally felt I had it sussed when I stood on the Kop for the 5-1 victory against Sheff Weds on 8th April 1989. Get there early, nab a spot slap bang in the centre of the Kop with a barrier to my back - bliss!

But the next week was Hillsborough, and as time has gone on I've realised that if I had made it there I would have aimed to be one of the first in for the centre pen.

So I am incredibly lucky, I'm still here and my nights are not tormented. And, though it is important not to forget and to remain vigilant, my prayers are that the pain may ease for those who find it impossible to forget.

And as for the 96,

Eternal Rest grant to them,
And may perpetual light shine upon them,
May they rest in peace...

[Kez]

And just when I thought I couldn't get any sadder...I put off reading this until today because I just couldn't..I really couldn't.

Justice.

[treble2001]

Justice for the 96
We will Never Forget

[Jonathan Suarez ☆☆☆☆☆]

I've waited a few days to post on this thread as i did'nt know what to say.

Again, exiled in Northampton when i wish i was at the groung for the memorial.

A bad few days for me.

Knowing that 96 fellow fans are missing and thousands of others will never fully recover from that day.

People laughing and people cheering.

That's how we should remember them as if they were still here they would all be enjoying themselves with the rest of us.

Sorrow does'nt come into it. It never can. We have all gone past that point and still wonder will we ever get the justice we want.

And then we hear that someone has broken into the HJC and stolen equipment on the 15th.

The reason for my late post.

A good friend of mine was buried on the 14th two years ago which was bad enough but 1 day earlier my dad died.

So the 13-15 April will never leave me.

98 poor souls watching from above.

Enjoy it lads and lasses.

We will never forget.

[mobydick]

My thoughts are with the 96 and their families and friends.

JFT 96

The long and winding road.........