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  After imparting the bad news, Kendall moved on to serious business. ‘Howard finished things off by saying, “Anyway, where are we drinking tonight?”’

  Kendall was not alone in thinking that off-field behaviour did not matter if it did not affect performances on the pitch. He encouraged the team to have boys’ nights out and would frequently lead boozy sessions. ‘Howard treated us like men,’ Southall said. ‘We responded like men.’

  Yet the Everton manager was no football relic. His ideas on training were modern. Kendall did not believe in working his players into the ground. Unlike some other clubs, Everton did little stamina training during the season. Kendall had started as a player in 1961 at Preston North End in an age where being able to use a ball in training was considered a luxury and a treat. There were still plenty in English football who put the emphasis on running and fitness. The Everton manager was not one of them. He had only recently hung up his boots after accepting the manager’s job at Goodison and his playing career was recent enough for him to understand his squad’s workload.

  Training was light, focused on skill and tailored to tactics. Playing 50 games a year took care of fitness. The main work was carried out in the 90 minutes that mattered.

  ‘He was very clever,’ Graeme Sharp said. ‘The first preseason we expected him to run the bollocks off us. We turned up at Bellefield and there were balls everywhere. All our running was done with balls at our feet. It won the players over immediately.’

  The Everton manager tried to keep training moving. He felt that stopping sessions to point out errors led to the players getting bored and affected their concentration. At Bellefield, the ball was always rolling and Kendall and Harvey kept up a running commentary – literally – on how the squad were performing.

  Kendall developed his psychological approach to players during his own career. When he started at Preston, the stock response to a defeat – not just at Deepdale – was for the coaching staff to make the players suffer the next day. They would run as a punishment. Victory was rewarded by light work and training with a ball.

  When he moved to Goodison, Kendall worked with a manager who took the opposite tack. Harry Catterick would put on strenuous sessions after a victory. When the team lost, they would have less arduous training, lunch and a sauna. Kendall took this a stage further.

  After defeats, he would take the team into Chinatown for a meal and beer. It was an environment he loved, anyway, and felt it was important for team spirit to respond in this manner. Sharp recalls the first time the manager took the players out for a Chinese meal: ‘Howard said, “I want you all in tomorrow, make sure you’re smartly dressed. You might want to leave your cars at home.”

  ‘We wondered what was going on. We turned up and there was a coach to take us to the restaurant. Howard said, “Eat what you want, drink what you want. All free. The fines will pay for it.”’

  Sharp, a serial complainer to referees, had been booked a number of times for dissent and had been fined by Kendall for each yellow card. ‘I thought, “Hang on, that means it’s me that’s paying for it!”’

  The boozy afternoons and evenings soon became a team staple. Any problems could be broached and dealt with.

  ‘You need honesty,’ Southall said. ‘We’d go to Chinatown and the players would have a few beers. There’d be open and honest conversations and we’d clear the air if needed. We rarely lost a game after going for a Chinese. It was good management.’

  Kendall would let the players sort things out, ‘He’d sit back and watch us and listen,’ Sharp said. ‘As we got more relaxed we’d talk more freely and he just took it all in. He got the players’ perspective.’

  The Everton manager did have his quirks. Kendall liked to be the centre of attention and regale the company with anecdotes and stories from his career. He had his biases about football, too. He was suspicious of blond players, whom he felt stood out on the pitch and attracted attention when it was unwarranted. Frank McAvennie would never have been Kendall’s first choice, though they would have made successful drinking partners. He had the same prejudice against bald players.

  The idiosyncrasies did not hold the team back. Kendall’s hirsute, dark-haired side were the best in the country. ‘We had everything you need,’ Southall said. ‘We could play, we could fight. You knew you were going to win things with a team like that.’

  They were looking like winners once again. The Blues crept closer to the top of the table as 1985 waned.

  United were beginning to self-destruct and Liverpool had a calamitous time over the festive period, losing twice and drawing three times. The New Year’s Day programme ended with Everton in second place in the table, just five points behind United and level with Liverpool and Chelsea. West Ham were two points further back but both London clubs had two games in hand on their Merseyside rivals.

  It had been an impressive spell for Kendall’s team. In the space of ten games, they had reduced a 16-point gap with United to a manageable five.

  14

  With Love From Manchester

  Everton were overlooked by the TV schedulers. Their first live appearance in the league was not to be until mid March, against Chelsea. It was one of a number of surprising decisions. Another was that there would be no live coverage of the biggest game of the year so far: Liverpool versus West Ham at Anfield in January.

  The London club were full of confidence. They had lost just once in 20 league games and, unusually, headed north without any fear.

  They had two games in hand on Kenny Dalglish’s men, whom they trailed by two points. This was their chance to knock Liverpool out of the title race.

  The Hammers had not won at Anfield since 1964 but they saw an opportunity to break that run. For almost an hour, the game could have gone either way. Ian Rush hit the post, turning a half-chance into a near miss, but the visitors probably just had the edge overall.

  Then George Tyson, the referee, became the most hated man in the East End. Liverpool were attacking the Kop but struggling to break down the resistance of Alvin Martin and Tony Gale. Paul Walsh, selected by Dalglish at the player-manager’s own expense, was chasing a ball that appeared to be running out of play. Another attack had fizzled out. Martin, the man from Bootle, was covering the Liverpool forward just to ensure that there was no danger. The West Ham defender made the most marginal contact with Walsh, who tumbled over. The striker did not appeal for a foul and started to rise to continue playing.

  He was interrupted by the referee’s whistle. Tyson was pointing to the spot. The Kop celebrated, Liverpool’s players were grateful but bemused and West Ham went ballistic. Martin was booked during a furious mass protest but things got worse when the linesman called the referee over. After a quick word, Tyson sent off Ray Stewart, the full back, for something he had said.

  The years have not dimmed West Ham’s fury. ‘It was the softest penalty ever seen,’ Cottee said sourly. ‘They got quite a few of them, soft ones, in front of that crowd, in front of the Kop.’

  Jan Mølby, calm as ever, slotted home the penalty. The ten men lost their heads and their shape and Liverpool put them away with a clinical lack of sympathy. Rush added a second goal nine minutes later and Walsh killed the game completely with a third shortly after. Alan Dickens pulled one back before the end but it meant little. It was a serious setback. ‘We gave them a real fright,’ Cottee said. ‘They got lucky.’

  ‘You’d be disappointed if the ref gave that penalty against you,’ Mark Lawrenson said. ‘We weren’t complaining.’

  Afterwards, Dalglish was conciliatory. ‘From where I was sitting, Martin looked a bit unlucky,’ he told the press. He could afford to be magnanimous. News had come through that Manchester United had been beaten at Old Trafford by Nottingham Forest. Liverpool were just two points behind the league leaders and the next home game was against United.

  Ron Atkinson’s pain could not have been greater. He finally got another striker to bolster his squad. United paid Coventry City £65
0,000 for Terry Gibson and threw in Alan Brazil for good measure. It made the Lineker deal look even more of a bargain.

  United were knocked off top spot in the table by Everton on 1 February. The next day they went to Upton Park for a televised game against West Ham. Their title challenge might have survived the 2–1 defeat; it could not exist without Bryan Robson.

  The United captain gave his team the lead but then limped off after a challenge by Tony Cottee. The only relief for Atkinson was that Robson was only ruled out for one game. Unfortunately, that match would be at Anfield. Upton Park would have worse in store for the United captain before the season was over.

  There are rare occasions that Manchester and Merseyside come together. Over a weekend in February, the best and worst facets of this complex rivalry between the two cities were on show.

  On Saturday, 8 February, a concert took place at the Royal Court Theatre in Liverpool’s city centre under the banner ‘With Love From Manchester’. Tony Wilson, the Granada TV presenter and founder of Factory Records, was a resolute socialist and arranged the gig in support of Liverpool City Council. The proceeds went to the legal fighting fund for Labour councillors who were still under the threat of surcharge from the district auditor for failing to set a legal rate.

  Manchester sent its best bands down the East Lancs Road. The Smiths, New Order and the Fall charged only expenses as a show of solidarity with Liverpool’s left-wingers. Here were three groups at the peak of their powers. Tickets cost £6 per head.

  John Cooper Clarke, the performance poet, compèred one of the most memorable nights of the year. Each band had a 45-minute slot on stage and all produced performances that have gone down in north-west music folklore.

  New Order were first up. They were formed from Joy Division after Ian Curtis committed suicide in 1980. Curtis and his bandmates had agreed that if any member left the group they would not work again under the original name.

  At this point in their career, New Order rarely performed the songs from their first incarnation. At the Royal Court, they gave Scousers an unexpected treat by playing ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, Joy Division’s biggest hit and best-known song. The audience loved it.

  The Fall were on next. Mark E. Smith’s ever-changing band of troubadours were in the midst of one of their most accessible and commercial periods. They were probably the least attractive of the three groups to the average gig-goer but their adrenaline-fuelled set was considered by many present to be the highlight of the night. Smith’s droll vocals were the embodiment of Mancunian attitude.

  The main attraction was Morrissey and the Smiths. They arrived on stage to ‘Montagues and Capulets’, from Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, and from that overblown opening launched into a set of unfamiliar songs from the forthcoming The Queen Is Dead album.

  Introducing ‘Frankly, Mr Shankly’, Morrissey warned the audience that ‘this one is nothing to do with anyone you might know’, in case the crowd misinterpreted the song as a jibe against Liverpool’s legendary manager. Those looking to hear Smiths hits were disappointed. The only nod to the singles was when Johnny Marr teased the crowd by playing the intros to ‘What Difference Does It Make?’ and ‘This Charming Man’ before launching into newer songs.

  The performance ended with the three bands and a collection of local musicians gathering on stage for communal singing of ‘Maggie’s Farm’, Bob Dylan’s counterculture classic restyled for the Thatcher era. The night was a resounding success and a PR triumph for Derek Hatton and the council. Many in Liverpool accepted the love and appreciated the rival city’s show of support. ‘Tony Wilson came up with the idea and it was a great gesture for the working class of the city,’ Peter Hooton said. ‘Lots of people were looking at Liverpool and saying “Good on you” for fighting the Tories.’

  The act of friendship meant a lot. When the gig organizer died in 2007 – having restyled himself as Anthony H. Wilson – his passing was marked by Scousers. ‘We sent a wreath,’ Hooton said, ‘with the words “With love from Liverpool”. We hadn’t forgotten.’

  Some of us were not in the Royal Court. I was 500 yards away in the American Bar, where a different sort of singalong was taking place. Concertgoers heading along Lime Street towards the gig must have shuddered at the clear rejection of Mancunian love. ‘Manchester, wank, wank, wank!’ boomed from the pub out into the February air.

  A couple of hundred Liverpool ‘boys’ were gathered in the Yankee (as it was known) and it was not a place for the faint-hearted. Ron Atkinson and United were due at Anfield within 24 hours and hate was in the air.

  Most of us wanted nothing from Manchester. The Smiths, in particular, were near the top of my list of despised bands. Two years earlier, The Farm had played the Oxford Road Show, a live Friday-night pop-culture programme that rivalled Channel 4’s The Tube.

  The Smiths opened the show, we were on afterwards and Marillion played as the closing credits rolled. During rehearsals – we were miming, so practising seemed a bit surreal – we crossed paths with the Smiths. Morrissey looked us up and down in a condescending manner and said something I didn’t catch. ‘What was that?’ I asked, following up the question with a mouthful of Scouse invective.

  The Smiths’ singer sneered and gave a snort, so I took an angry step or two towards him. He scuttled away down a corridor at speed and disappeared until it was time for him to go on stage. By then we were already in our starting positions 30 yards away. There was no sign of him in the Green Room afterwards. I was still keen to hear what he had said. Someone suggested that he had a headache. That was convenient. The rest of the band were pleasant enough. For Mancs.

  I found it hard to get over my antipathy towards Morrissey for a decade. It wasn’t until the mid 1990s that I was willing to accept how great the Smiths were. It was an awful time to make that recognition, with Manchester dominant in football and the pop charts. In 1986, they were playing catch-up in both areas and as far as I was concerned Steven Morrissey was just another self-obsessed tosspot who could keep his support.

  Manchester had sent love, whether it was appreciated or not. Some of the Yankee’s patrons had something entirely different from love in mind for the next day.

  Tension was still running high between the two sets of fans. The comparative lack of trouble at the Milk Cup game raised hopes that this Sunday televised clash would pass off peacefully. Merseyside Police were on a high state of alert but they were anticipating the flashpoints to be Lime Street Station, Stanley Park and the streets around the Anfield Road End. The problem came where they least expected it.

  The United team always ran the gauntlet when they arrived at Anfield. They knew they were in for a difficult day. Ron Atkinson had his men primed. ‘I’d say to the players, “Don’t moan about them kicking you. Kick them first!” It was war in a positive sense.

  ‘You’d look at Kevin Moran and Paul McGrath and think, “Thank God we’ve got these fellas.”’

  United always expected to have a hard time on the pitch. On that February day, the conflict took a more sinister turn. The critical moment came before the match.

  ‘The coach used to pull right up to the players’ entrance,’ Atkinson said. ‘You’d be right up against the door, down the steps and into the ground.

  ‘We had a standard line coming off the bus. It was typical Scouse stereotyping: “Hands on your wallets and run!” And we’d pile into the stadium.’

  Anfield had been refurbished, though. ‘They’d changed things in ’85,’ the United manager said. ‘There was now an overhanging shelter above the players’ entrance. You couldn’t get the coach as close to the door because of it. We were parked about 25 yards away. We had to go through the crowd.’

  The players expected jeering and perhaps even jostling from the hostile Scouse reception committee. They were not anticipating being gassed.

  ‘I felt something wet on my hand,’ Atkinson said. ‘I thought for some reason it was wet paint. It wasn’t. It was some kind of gas spray.’r />
  Panic broke out in the crowd. As well as the snarling abusers, there were a number of young autograph hunters waiting for the team. They took the brunt of the spray. Against a backdrop of ‘Mu-nich, Mu-nich’ chants, chaos reigned.

  The burly Atkinson barrelled towards the safety of the dressing room, blindly scattering anyone in his way. Looking back, he can laugh about the very serious incident and his response. ‘I ran inside and don’t remember much about it,’ he said. ‘My eyes were stinging. Mick Brown, one of my assistants, said I was throwing people out of the way. I didn’t see who it was. Mick said I hurled Kenny and Hansen aside.’

  Liverpool’s manager and his captain were appalled but not by Atkinson’s behaviour. A stream of tearful children and their panicky parents were heading towards the United dressing room, where the injured Bryan Robson helped reassure the victims as they rinsed out their eyes. Most of his teammates went directly on to the pitch where they could clear their heads in the fresh air. The crowd, not knowing what the players had just experienced, serenaded them with catcalls and abuse.

  It was a disruption United did not need. They had enough problems with an injury crisis. Atkinson was so low on players that he was being forced to give a 24-year-old named John Sivebaek his debut in the cauldron of Anfield. The manager was also asking the Dane to perform an unfamiliar role. And Sivebaek, who had signed for the club only days earlier, had the misfortune to be in his manager’s path on the route to the dressing room.

  ‘I threw Johnny Sivebaek out of the way,’ Atkinson laughs. ‘The kid was making his debut at Anfield, I was playing him out of position and he couldn’t speak a word of English … and I was manhandling him out of my way.’

  No one was sure whether the spray was ammonia or CS gas. A 12-year-old was taken to hospital and 22 supporters, many of them children, were affected. The attack had little impact on the United players. ‘We just got on with it,’ Atkinson said.