In collating the list of advent's players, there was one or two writers I really wanted to get on board, and Mr Fat Scouser was one of them.
Fats is similar to my way of looking at football in that we deal in feelings not facts, and I really love to read his stuff so am very delighted to present to you on the 11th thread of Christmas, Fats' wonderful memories surrounding Peter Thompson, a brilliant player and someone you young'un's should check out if at all possible. If you aren't moved or stirred by his words then you've a brick for a heart, or you're David Moyes.
Thanks Leo and enjoy this great piece of writing of his:
When I defend managers of our club, against smart arses that think they actually know better than them, I always come out with the same old chestnut... “Insert manager's name here, has forgotten more about football in a five minute nap than you'll ever learn in a life time, you.. insert string of expletives here.”
If I was talking to meself, it would be true. So, I don't know why I was asked to write for this. My football memory is absolutely atrocious... “ Remember that time in Newcastle, Lad?” I can't remember if I was in New York or the New Year, let alone St. James' Park.
But one thing I can never forget, my first match... freezing cold, pitch black,1965, Goodison Park, midweek, night game, Everton, against some other team or another. My Father and Uncle Alan took me. And after leaving me for an hour or so, on the step of The Blue House, or some alehouse or another, they lashed me under, or tossed me over, a turn style onto the Bullens Road. At least, I think it was the Bullens. I'm not sure. I don't even know who they were playing.
I just remember looking at, and listening to, the Gwaldys Street... “Ohhhhh, we hate Bill Shankly and we hate Saint John, but most of all we hate big Ron. An' we'll hang the Kopites one by one on the banks of the royal blue Mersey!”
I loved it. I loved it that much, I couldn't wait to go again on Saturday. But... “The other shite are at home on Satdee, Lad. Yer'll have to wait till next week.”
I couldn't. I didn't. Treachery or not, I still don't know how they could. All I remember is harrishing me poor old Nina, (another week in, week out, match going Toffee), until she finally gave me a few coppers to go to Anfield on the Saturday.
Fuck Gwaldys Street. After queueing up, gripping and hiding my few pennies in my short trousers pocket, for what seemed like months, I was in, this was it, The Boy's Pen... “Kopites are Gobshites!”
Who we were playing? I don't know. I haven't got a clue, but I know I've never enjoyed a match so much ever again. Just as much, yeah, of course, but never more. It's true. There's nothing like the first time, and you never forget it.
It was that good, I can't even remember how long the big lads in The Pen hit me and picked on me for. I just remember, after they'd welcomed me, singing with them for what seemed like a lifetime. And watching the more daring ones climb up to the roof, way up in the heavens, and climb down onto the Kop, on the other side of the railings, that kept the aul fellas safe from us.
Without a word of a lie, I thought The Kop was on fire. I don't know when, but I finally twigged... it was the smoke off a million Woodbines, and the steam off the 25,000 bodies and all the pints they'd drunk.
I can honestly still remember staring at it all in total awe... “I don't know what they do to the enemy, but, by God, they put the living shites up me.” “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” The Drone, I found out it was called. I can still hear it in my head, and thinking it was going to bring the roof of the huge Spion Kop embankment crashing down upon it.
The Drone seemed to go on forever, rattling the ground from top to bottom, upside down, inside out and back to front. Then the noise really started, “BRING OUT THE CHAMPIONS! BRING OUT THE CHAMPIONS!” The last title we'd won was the 2nd division, but it didn't matter to us... “When you walk through a storm....”
The place was absolute bedlam. But, as I soon learned, there was an order to it all and how we done things. We called for The Champions. The Champions ran onto the pitch as we sang our anthem. A big fat scruffy aul fella, with a bird's nest of a beard, (probably with youngies still in it), was the only one of us The Walrus didn't chase off the pitch. In fact, the big, handle barred, Moustachioed Dragoon of a Copper, just stood by, watching and laughing, as Johnny Walker took a penalty. I swear the roof near did come off The Kop when John whacked it past Tommy Lawrence. Then he dived back into the crowd, swallowed up until the next home match, when he put us one up again, before a ball was even kicked.
Well, as the great man, Shanks himself, said, we were worth a goal start against anyone. But God himself only knows how we made them players feel. Before they kicked off, every single one of them had to be serenaded with his own song or chant, even if it was only 50 odd thousand of us, harrishing them into giving us a wave.
Strange thing, I was having a pint with a mate of mine the other week. He's a little older than me, and a life long red. So, I expected an answer to something that's evaded me for years, “What was Thommo's song?” Seems my memory isn't the only shot one. (If anyone remembers, please put me an Franna out of our misery).
What I do remember is, (probably because some of the aul arses were talking about it just the other day), “Brazil, Cha-Cha-Cha,” every time Thommo ran down the wing with the ball at his feet. Well, no. That's a lie. Thommo didn't keep the ball at his feet. Jairzhino, Rivelino, he wasn't. Pedro was an absolute speed demon, simply knocking the ball past lead footed defenders, and leaving them, choking in the dust of his wake. That's not to say, Thommo couldn't dribble. He couldn't head a ball to save his life, that's true. I remember one game when the ball came firing at him, way above head height. Thommo leapt like a mentalist contortionist of a ballet dancer, caught the ball on his foot, pulled it down and killed it, stone dead on the deck, all in one move, before sprinting up the wing with it, at a gazillion miles an hour. But as for his dribbling, it thrilled me to bits and drove Sir Bob Paisley crackers, beating about 40 defenders, 40 odd times, with his left foot before getting a right footed cross in. Yep, the mind boggled at the man.
Thommo also got a bit of stick for not scoring enough. But here's what Shankly thought of that... “Good as Tom Finney and George Best, people said he didn't score enough goals. True, but if he had, he'd have been ranked with Jesus Christ.”
To be honest, Thommo was a bit higher in my estimation, but who can argue with the great man. Not me, for sure. But Peter, Pedro, Thommo, Thompson... the man who turned me on to the beautiful game, and showed me just how beautiful it can be. I could go on and on about him for ages. And, in me drunken, sentimental, “modern day football, bah cack,” mood, I sometimes do. But I'll leave with a word from Shanks. Well, it's a story about Shanks, told by Thommo himself...
Thommo had just played a blinder, scored a hat-trick. He was showing off in the bath, giving it a bit of the big I am's. Shankly came marching in... “Thommo, my office, now!” Thommo was that scared he never even got dry, just threw on his suit, tie, the lot, and fixed his hair. Well, had to look respectfully presentable and respectable for Mister Shankly. Running to Bill's office, Thommo nervously tapped on the door... “Come in!”
Proper shitting himself, Thommo done what he was told, when he was told... “Sit down, sit down, Peter, Son.” Caught off guard by the niceness, but still wary, Thommo sat done in front of the big boss...“You were magnificent today, Thommo Son, bloody magnificent!”
Thommo started to unwind a bit, just a bit, though. “I tell you Peter Son, strong... you were strong, strong as a Carthorse.” Relaxing a bit more, “Thank you, Boss. Thank you, very much.”
Shankly smiled, “And fast Son, fast as a Race Horse!”
Now at his ease, even feeling a bit cocky, “I was fast, wasn't I Boss?”
“Aye. Aye, you were Son, you were that. And you was thick as a bloody Rocking Horse! Now get oot my office, an' you won't be playin' next week!”
Oh yes, those were the days to be a young Kopite. If I never remember anything else, I'll never forget them. And I'll never forget Peter Thompson, my first hero, and the lad that taught me to appreciate football as something more than over paid shitehawks wellying a bladder up and down a field.
And if I ever get the enthusiasm back that Thommo and Shanks gave me for that beautiful game, I'll tell you all about Peter, Pedro Thommo, Thompson, left winger, LFC legend, my first footballing hero. And most importantly, the man that saved me from a life time of royal blue bitterness and disappointment. And, possibly, probably, maybe, still to this day, my all time favourite LFC player. Well, no. But some fantastic footballer, non the less, and the poor fella Missus Fat Scouser blames for my life long Liverpool Football Club addiction.
Fat Scouser.
brilliant and thanks Leo:hinesy