In Memoria e Amicizia, in Memory and Friendship
Sunshine Turns Into A Dark, Dark Night
A Wednesday afternoon off work, to be at Anfield to queue early, to get in for the European Cup Semi-Final against Panathinaikos of Greece. Imagine that these days, paying on the gate for a Euro Semi….What time would you need to get there ?
We were one of the early ones onto the Kop, around 5.30pm-ish if my memory serves me right and a wait around whilst the ground filled up to capacity around us. We couldn’t risk leaving it any later was our thinking; we had to be in that ground that night.
The reds progressed into another European Cup Final after an easy win over the Greek side (who had a noisy following), winning 3-0 at home and then 1-0 in Greece.
We decided to take the official trip by train from Lime Street and ferry from Dover to Ostend, followed by a further train into Brussels itself. Can’t remember how much it was (or if any loyalty was needed for final tickets) but I’m sure I scrapped the money together because I was only a year out of school and on first year apprentices wages (ie: very fucking little). It was that or the old Granddad dropped me a quid or two….that was more likely.
A passport was also needed….I wasn’t exactly Alan Whicker in those days, so a one year one was adequate and didn’t eat further into my Belgian beer budget.
Five of us went…..me, my mate and his bird, and another mate and his Dad. Train into Lime Street armed with my big Liverpool Are Magic banner (which incidentally ended up in the Kemlyn after Hillsborough and the flowers on the pitch) and some hidden alcohol for the long journey south.
We boarded the special and my mates bird got royally ruined by loads on board because she had a blue top on. Not a football top or anything, just a royal blue top the stupid cow. Now, who goes to a European Cup Final dressed in blue…….
Sayers had kindly donated a little picnic box for each passenger (I say donated but it was probably in the price) to keep away starvation, on what seemed a marathon trip ahead of us and probably a case of sleep depravation.
We arrived in Dover for the night ferry to Ostend, which was of course full of reds and numerous banners hanging around the boat (or is it a ship ?). I say night ferry because it was at night and very dark but it was only about 4 hours and I only had an outside bench for my bed of sorts and my banner for warmth. I could also get away from the two love birds for a couple of hours as well, who had been touchy feely all the way down, even though a chill wind was blowing across the channel.
I must have had a dodgy Sayers or my sea legs were all at sea but rumble tummy turned into pebble dash the shithouse halfway over and the rough looking scouser after me proceeds to abuse me for the smell I leave behind…..fuck off Anais Anais arse I shout…well whisper….well think about whispering !!
Off the boat at Ostend and herded onto a train to Brussels. It was them sort of trains that had their own compartments but the train was heaving full of tired reds. Fuck me Belgium is flat. For miles you can see fields after fields and pretty much fuck all else. No wonder it’s called the lowlands and no wonder we said a bird with no boobs at school was said to be as flat as Belgium or Holland….
We past the time trying to catch a power snooze (were they invented then ?) or sing a song or two, mainly about winning the European Cup again or about how shit Man U were.
Into Brussels and the sun is shining in the bright blue sky. We spend the afternoon drinking beer in the Grand Place, with a quick look round the surrounding area. The Manneken Pis, the famous landmark of a little boy having a piss bollock naked (strange these Belgium people or are they Flemish or German…..weird fuckers) had numerous red scarves round him and a nice bobble hat on top.
The square rapidly fills up but (and I comment to my mate) even that early in the day, things are not quite right and the square is filled with numerous accents (strange in those days) and St George flags and England shirts……not everyone but just enough to question about an England nutter following being onboard the reds bandwagon.
We hop onto a tram to take us the Heysel district and near to the Atomium (that construction that looks like some silver balls, with walkways between….I told you they were strange) and the ground.
The tram we got was heavily in favour of Juventus in numbers but plenty of good banter is had and I change a scarf for a Juve hat (which I still have somewhere in the house). The Italians were quite boisterous on the short journey out of the city centre and singing songs (in Italian of course), one of which the tune remains with me until this day.
My mate (and his girlfriend) wanted to go round the Atomium, so a half hour or so is wasted in that sweat box that seems to serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever. Not sure if it was because I was younger then but it just didn’t appeal to me – put it this way I’ve never been back after numerous visits to Brussels.
Off to round the ground and the first thing that strikes me is how out of date the outside looks. A prog is purchased from the shop and we make our way round to our entrance area, with very little security/police in attendance. The sun is shining so we relax and await gates opening, with the sound of horns in the air….I’m sure they all ran out before the ground even opened.
A mate of mine (who lived near me but didn’t travel with me) comes staggering round the corner absolutely shitfaced, in just shorts and trainers and he mumbles something about losing his passport and money. I hook him back up with the gang he traveled with and he must have made it home because I seen him a few weeks later, a little less pissed.
Gates open and flags are put up around the perimeter fence, including the juvenile but amusing Atkinson Has Aids banner, with reference to the then Man U manager Ron Atkinson.
I say perimeter fence but to the left of us it almost like chicken wire.
I’m sure anyone without a ticket that night had no trouble getting into the ground. Concrete slabs that made up the surrounding wall were easily removed and anyone who wanted to get in, did.
The terracing was also a joke for a match of this stature, it was crumbling for fuck sake.
The atmosphere was tense but nobody could have predicted the events that happened next.
What started as a bit of banter between the sets of fans grew and grew from verbal, to missile throwing, to finally charges at the chicken wire, which didn’t take long to come down.
The immense pressure in the so called neutral zone (full of Juve fans it looked) with the small but vicious band of so called Liverpool fans (I say so called because I didn’t think they were proper reds) charging them repeatedly. The police did next to nothing to stop it all. We also had the Italian’s coming from the other end to further antagonise the volatile situation.
The wall collapsed and there were rumours of some casualties but nothing confirmed (in the days before mobile phones) and we were mainly kept in the dark. Rumours of the game being cancelled went round our end but after appeals from Phil Neal, etc… the game went ahead with Juventus winning from an highly dubious penalty but who cared.
The idea we had was to get back to the trains as quick as possible because if the rumours turned out to be true, further serious trouble was inevitable and we didn’t want to be around to witness it. The journey home was very quiet and seemed to take twice as long but it didn’t in reality. Herded on to a train from Brussels to Ostend, ferry to Dover and then train back to Lime Street for the connection home….pretty uneventful but the full news of the dreadful night in Brussels had started to filter through.
It was only when we arrived back home that the full story hit us and the full impact hit the English games for many years to come.
I actually promised my girlfriend (future wife) that I wouldn’t go again….not sure if I meant abroad watching the reds or even ever watching them again anywhere but that promise was soon to be broken.
The bright sunshine had really turned into a dark, dark night for English football and Liverpool FC in particular.
RIP the 39……You’ll Never Walk Alone.
