Someone's said this long before me. I suppose, it's a bit of a cliché, but... The assassination of John Lennon, First Man On The Moon, they're the moments I remember, exactly where I was and what I was doing. We've all got them, Rome, Istanbul, Birds and Babies, getting chased and shot at by Crack Heads for the first time, and all them treasures. But for all of us there at the time, Bill Shankly retiring was one of the biggest of all them moments.
All of us that were about at the time, have got our own, “Oh, no. It's really true, Shankly's retired,” memories and stories. I've got nothing new to add to them. I haven't got any original tales from his career, either. But, of course, I've got my own Shankly stories. This is one, in a roundabout way...
A couple of years back, I bumped into a lad I hadn't seen for ages. I wish he was telling the story. He's in his early late 60's. Funny lad, great character, proper red, Boys Pen graduate, got more Liverbirds on him than an Avery, but he wasn't a week in week out, match going fella. Life and it's circumstances, got in the way. But, starting in the 1950's, Some Team Or Another v Liverpool Football Club, no matter where, two bob in his pocket or not, if he was at liberty to go, or sometimes not, he was there.
Planes, Trains and Automobiles, from Tbilisi Georgia to George of Asda, Newcastle to New Year, he's been to some gaffs and got hilarious tales about them all. I'd tape them, only the old bastard would accuse me of selling them or working for MI6, CID, FSG, or some other shady agency or another.
There'll be lads on here who know him. Me and the wife have known him for 30 odd, knocking on 40, years. But we hadn't seen him in a couple of them. No excuse. He only lives a few miles away. But you know how that goes. He didn't. Terrible bollocking, the pair of us, for not coming to see him.
He was in a mobility scooter. So, I didn't call him any names back or say, You know where ours is. He's alright, but he's got some breathing thing going on. And the places he needs are a fair walk from his gaff. (Leave the bloody Post Offices and Libraries alone, Cameron, yer horrible robbing prick. You could learn a thing or two million from Shanks). So, anyway, the scooters handy for getting out and about. But he's far from knackered. Never mind dig me for implying it, he'd dig me just for talking about him on here. Fuck him. (For the PC amongst us, I'd best say, he'd get a laugh out of that).
Anyway, me and her are going somewhere and bumps into him. Bollocking, happy hellos, bit of a laugh over, we go back to his. Tea and biccies, her an him, on the couch, talking family things, his health, her health, the dog and it's wife’s health, everyone's business, the price of Rum and all that shite. Then, the pictures come out, “Go'way, is tha' her. Aged, woeful hasn't she, eh?” “Oh, remember that time when....” They had a laugh strolling down memory lane.
As they're going through them, I spots a picture. There was a big pile. It near dodged through unnoticed. But I thought it was. So I grabbed it, and it was... him, our mate, about 30 years ago, kneeling next to a headstone with his name on it and a big smile on his face. For all the time I'd known him, I knew nothing about it. So I had a proper look at the headstone... Two Liver Birds, one either side of his name, and, underneath that, his date of birth and a blank space for when he shuffles off.
It's not the Shankly story, but he tells me about the headstone. Well, I asked him if it's real, and said, “Bit morbid that, isn't it?”
This is, more or less, his words... “Behave yerself, Soft Lad. Cost wads tha', even back then. An' I kopped it, Liverbirds, the works... next ter fuck all, nothin'.”
I think digging them up is bang out of order, an all. So, any complaints, take them up with the church or the council, or Tesco, or whoever does that crap. But long one short...
Me mate's walking past some grave yard, headstones were being dug up and carted off. He gets into the lads digging them up, bought one, got the first owners details shaved off and he's own put on... “Already got the plot, Lad, family one, had it for yonks.”
I'm laughing. He starts pulling out all sorts of memorabilia and telling match stories. Great stuff, but the pictures... well, from me teens on, I always remember being bang on tidy, the handsomest lad to ever go on The Kop, proper smart and trendy. All I can say is, some woefully dodgy gobs, teeth, clobber and haircuts around back then... I've seen some ugly Scousers in me time, but that Oink Peterson takes the biscuit.” (Aul punchline of an aul joke for the aul arses).
He pulls a draw out the sideboard and puts it on me knee. I'm flipping throw wads of great LFC and Liverpool memories. Me mate starts pulling things out of envelopes, tickets from mad games in far flung places, with fantastic lies and brilliant stories to go with them all. It was great, a real treat, proper laugh. I can never leave it that long, again.
Anyway, I spots this little newspaper clipping from The Echo and start reading it. The headline is, my mate's name and calls him “The Luckiest Liverpool Supporter In The World.” And it says, The Great Man Shanks gave him a ticket to get into the 1971 FA Cup Final, Liverpool v Arsenal.
Me mate tells the story. He'd hitch hiked down from Liverpool the night before...
“Didn't have a carrot, La'. She's kickin off, callin' me all sorts, kids drivin her mad, snuck out the house, murder, kill me when Ah get back.”
Next morning, nice and handy, but not a penny, he made his way to the team hotel. He's got the Final Echo in his arse pocket. It's got a big colour picture of the team, middle pages. He gets himself in the hotel somehow and lurks about, walking round swerving hotel staff, looking nonchalant, hiding, all that caper.
The Lads come down for breakie. Made up, me mate opens the Echo to the picture, holds it up and walks over... “Alright Lads, we'll batter dese terday, eh?”
Hotel staff come over to turf him out. But before me mate kicks off on them, Shanks chases them and...
“Have you got a ticket, Son?”
“No, Bill. I haven't gorra carrot, either, hitched down last night, me bird'll kill me, blag-blah-blag.”
In the Echo clipping, it says Mister Shankly gave him a ticket. Me mate...
“Did he bollocks. He sold it to me at face value, and warned me... he knew the seat number, in case I sold it an' bunked in.”
“Go'way. Did he? How much was it?”
“A fuckin' nicker! The aul mingebag.”
I never bothered asking where he got the nicker from. And I'd leave it there if it was just aul arses reading it. They know what Shanks meant to lads like us. He still does. Cliche again, but my mate loved Shanks like a Father. So did I. We all did. But the older I get, the more I realise, how lucky I am that a bit of my time crossed with Mister Shankly's. And I've no doubt, Shanks would have got a bit of a giggle out of that little story, himself. One of us, but a Giant. We call him The Great Man. I can't add to that, either.