Two Tribes Read online

  After asking around, I was expecting a £10 fine, so pleaded guilty by post. The case came up the day after Millwall rioted at Luton. The next letter told me I’d have to pay a £50 fine and £50 costs.

  That was what it was like to be a football fan in the mid 1980s. Even when you did your best to avoid trouble it might seek you out. And on semi-final day it found me again on Tottenham High Road.

  Everyone was expecting a quiet afternoon. There was no history of trouble between Liverpool and Southampton and with the numbers on each side more or less similar, few Scousers expected any disorder. The mood in north London was relaxed. Our guard was down.

  Halfway to the ground, a big crew of Southampton appeared from a narrow street on the other side of the road, moving fast and radiating hostility. They passed us but crossed over further on to chase a car that had honked its horn at them. The driver and passenger were wearing Liverpool scarves and they accelerated through a red light to escape the mob kicking the car.

  Now the Southampton lot were on our side of the street and scanning the crowds for anyone they suspected of being Liverpool fans. We were still pretty blasé about the situation. They were not very experienced. Our band of 11 mates was spread out over 50 or so yards in three groups. The first two passed them without incident. A London mob would have spotted us as Scouse in seconds because of the way we dressed.

  The last of our friends approached them. Big Al, the man who had knocked on the police-room door two years before, was among them. He was 6 ft 4 in. and stood out. A Southampton fan shouted at him, ‘You’re a Scouse bastard, aren’t you?’

  Al replied quietly but from 30 yards away I could read his lips: ‘So what if I am, dickhead?’

  Then it was pandemonium. Al disappeared and everyone started shouting. As a group we had observed a lot of trouble over the years and talked about how we should handle it when our turn inevitably came to get done. We agreed that if we were split up, as now, and could not save the person getting the beating, that it was better to stay out of it. There was no point in another of us getting a kicking if we couldn’t help. It did not work like that.

  One of the lads with me was younger than us and down from Scotland for the game. I told him to go into a newsagents’ shop, gave him a shove to get him started and headed for the melee shouting at the top of my voice. It was a mistake.

  About thirty of them were still across the road and homed in on me. Within seconds, I felt the first concussive blow to my head. For a few moments it all went blank.

  When the thought processes started again, I was pretty comfortable. About a dozen of them were trying to punch me and it was too many. I’d ducked into a boxer-style crouch and as they tried to pound my head they were hitting each other’s hands. I was thinking of staying put because it was only a matter of time before the police arrived until I heard a Hampshire voice say the dreaded words, ‘Stanley him!’

  I’d seen the damage a Stanley knife could do. Outside the Anfield Road End I’d watched a fella get his back striped with two blades in one sweep. His shirt was soaked in blood before he even realized he’d been slashed. I could live with a sliced back but this Southampton mob struck me as a bit clueless. One idiot trying to scar my face and missing slightly could slice into the neck. So I decided to bolt.

  There was a little gap in the circle around me and I slipped out of it, crossing my legs as I emerged back into the light. Unfortunately, I tripped myself up. They were still punching each other’s fists when they realized I was out and down on the floor. I’d always been taught that the important thing was staying on your feet. Once you were prone, they could kick your head. Now they advanced grinning.

  Defenceless, I began shouting at them. ‘Go ’ed, shitbags, kick me when I’m down. There’s only about twenty of you and I’m on my own. Go ’ed. Go ’ed.’ The rant froze them for a second. It allowed me to scramble up against a wall and get back on my feet. I bounced up and down, bunched my fists and said, ‘Right, now I’m ready for you.’

  Then they descended on me. This time a different voice said, ‘Throw him through the window.’

  It was another development I didn’t like. They dragged me down the wall and I grabbed at the corner of the brickwork with one hand and cupped the other around the part of my neck that was susceptible to a slash. One of them hit my clutching hand with something hard – a piece of stone or concrete chunk – and three or four dragged me towards the window while the rest pummelled me as I went. Then, as I was beginning to brace myself for impact against the plate-glass shopfront, they were all gone. A punch caused me to shut my eyes and when they opened I was on my own with the match-day crowd walking past looking at me with curiosity. Some of them, middle-aged Southampton fans, were laughing and goading me.

  If the entire incident took a minute, I’d be surprised. A more sensible estimate would be 30 seconds. Maybe less.

  A hand touched my shoulder and it was a policeman. ‘Come with me,’ he said gently.

  He walked me to a van across the street and said, ‘Get in and sit down.’ I thought he was worried about me because of the beating and said, ‘No, no, I’m all right. I’m fine. I don’t need to go to hospital or anything. I’ll be OK.’ I must have had a blow to the head or something to be thinking that way.

  ‘No, you won’t, you Scouse bastard,’ he said. ‘You’re nicked.’

  I exploded. ‘You’ve just watched them beat the shit out of me for doing nothing and now you’re arresting me? Arrest them, you shithouse.’

  He had hold of me and was dragging me towards the van but I was pulling away. A sergeant at the front of the vehicle was laughing. ‘You got a kicking there, Scouse. They did you good and proper. Get on your way.’

  The constable released me, gave me a shove towards White Hart Lane and then toe-ended me up the backside as hard as he could. That was the blow that hurt most.

  Big Al wandered up beside me looking dazed. He said, ‘My watch is gone. I’ve lost my watch.’ A third policeman overheard him. This copper was chuckling, too. He pointed back down the road to the corner where Al had been attacked. ‘They got you at the lights, kicked you across the road to the other side and booted you all the way up to that shop,’ he said, tracing the 50-yard journey with his finger. ‘Your watch will be there – or in someone’s pocket.’

  They had observed the whole incident unfolding. They knew who started it and who were the victims. Still, we knew we were lucky not to be locked up.

  One of the other lads came across the road shaking his head. ‘They were a very unprofessional mob,’ he said. ‘You both got away with one.’ He turned to me. ‘They hit each other more than they hit you.’

  We did a head count. There were five of us together, six missing. Three were lost in the fracas, two were heading for the cells and the other bumped into us in the ground. ‘We weren’t expecting that,’ Al said once he’d got himself together. ‘We will be after the match, though.’ And we were.

  The legends of football hooliganism talk about equally matched mobs of ‘lads’ facing off against each other. The books about the subject are written in a pathetic, mock-heroic style that elevates the protagonists into knights of the streets. It’s all rubbish.

  Most incidents of violence occurred when one side had significantly bigger numbers than the other. It wasn’t some kind of mano-a-mano showdown. It was bullying on a grand scale. The victims of choice were almost always those not in a position to fight back.

  Across the Shelf, there were similar tales of surprise attacks, outnumbered groups being chased by mobs of Southampton and individuals being picked off. It turned out Everton were to blame.

  Two years previously, the Blues had played Southampton in that year’s semi, again in north London but this time at Highbury. The game was tense, tight and went to extra time. With just three minutes of the 120 left, Adrian Heath scored the winner for Howard Kendall’s side.

  After nearly a decade and a half of misery, the Evertonians at Highbury exploded w
ith joy. Arsenal’s ground was the only significant stadium in England that did not have pitchside fences to prevent supporters encroaching on the field of play. At the final whistle, Blues surged on to the pitch and, irked by the celebrations, Southampton fans confronted them. There were riotous scenes as the fans clashed. Everton moved on to Wembley, won the cup and soon forgot about the incident. Southampton supporters had no final to go to. They harboured a festering resentment against Scousers and expressed their anger on another semi-final day.

  Even though hooliganism had dropped off after Heysel, it still sporadically re-emerged. The trouble before and after the semi-final at White Hart Lane barely made an impact in the media, despite the hysteria around fighting at matches.

  The threat of violence was a fact of life for fans. However, in 15 years of going to away games – mostly travelling independently, eschewing police escorts and frequently encountering confrontational situations – this was the only real beating I received. Counting that day, I probably threw five punches in a decade and a half. Two of them were at Liverpool fans. Despite the mythology and incidents like the one on the Tottenham High Road, the game was not quite as dangerous to watch as people believed.

  Both semis were anxious affairs. Everton faced Sheffield Wednesday. It was 20 years since Eddie Kavanagh’s moment of glory at Wembley on the last occasion that these two sides met in the FA Cup. The happier, innocent days of ‘the first hooligan’ were long gone but the semi at Villa Park was as tense as the final two decades earlier.

  Everton were without Gary Lineker and Neville Southall but were too strong for the Yorkshire side. Alan Harper put Howard Kendall’s team into the lead but Carl Shutt equalized within two minutes. The game went to extra time but Everton’s class showed in the additional 30 minutes. Graeme Sharp scored the winning goal and Everton were back in the final for the third year running.

  At White Hart Lane, Liverpool were having a similar grind. It was 0–0 after 90 minutes and the most notable incident occurred ten minutes before half-time when Mark Wright, the Southampton centre back, suffered a dreadful injury. Wright collided with Craig Johnston and his own goalkeeper, Peter Shilton, and broke his leg.

  The game remained scoreless until Ian Rush struck twice in extra time against a tiring Saints side. The Shelf bounced up and down and, amid the joy of victory, there was only one thing anyone connected with Liverpool needed to know: who would they face in the final. As Johnston left the pitch, he looked at Ronnie Moran and asked a simple question: ‘Them?’

  Bugsy nodded slowly and deliberately, the victory over Southampton already forgotten. Moran’s mean-eyed focus was already on ‘them’. The first Merseyside FA Cup final was on. The next month would define heroes or create a lifetime’s bitter memories for Everton and Liverpool.

  20

  Showdown

  With less than three weeks left in the season, the maths was simple. Everton and Liverpool were level on points but the Blues had a game in hand – against West Ham at Goodison. If Kendall’s team won all their matches, they would win the title.

  West Ham had moved into third place in the table and had one more game to play than Everton. They still had a chance if the Merseyside teams made any mistakes. It would be difficult for the Hammers. Their last five games were concertinaed into nine days. Winter, as much as anything else, had made things awkward for Frank McAvennie and co.

  They were still dangerous. In late April they thrashed Newcastle United 8–1 at Upton Park. McAvennie got on the scoresheet but the most remarkable scoring feat of the game came from Alvin Martin, the centre half. The man from Bootle scored a hat-trick – rare enough for a defender – but what made this particular trio of goals unusual was that a different goalkeeper was between the posts for each of Martin’s strikes.

  Newcastle were suffering a goalkeeping injury crisis. Martin Thomas, who started the game, was barely fit and conceded four goals, one of them to the West Ham defender, before failing to reappear at the start of the second half. Thomas was replaced by Chris Hedworth, a reserve defender, who let in a header from Martin 19 minutes into the second period before swapping the goalkeeper’s jersey with Peter Beardsley. The England striker saw out the rest of the game but when West Ham were awarded a penalty, the Hammers urged Martin to take it to complete the unprecedented hat-trick. The defender dispatched the spot-kick and Upton Park rose to give acclaim to one of its heroes.

  The fixture list had given the East End club too much to do. They kept winning but something had to give.

  Liverpool were the team of the spring. They had suffered injuries, too, but even without Mark Lawrenson at the centre of defence they were not conceding. After the Everton defeat in February, they leaked only four goals in 12 games. They steamrollered themselves back into contention. But games were running out.

  Kendall’s team had not exactly hit poor form. Since the derby, they lost just once in eight matches. As April turned to May, eight days determined the direction of the title.

  On Saturday, 26 April, Liverpool hosted Birmingham City at Anfield. It was a mismatch. Kenny Dalglish’s team romped to a 5–0 victory while the packed crowd on the Kop waited to hear how Everton had fared at Nottingham Forest.

  Dotted across the vast terrace were a number of supporters clutching tiny radios to their ears. They provided updates on other games across the country on a weekly basis. They often appeared to be alone – the groups of mates who attended the match together talked among themselves and had no need to spend the 90 minutes listening to the radio. On days like this, though, the loners and their transistors provided a vital service for the eager hordes behind the goal. In the days before smartphones and mobile technology, fans were almost incommunicado inside grounds for the duration of the game. There were updates of scores at half-time but otherwise it was a case of waiting five minutes or more after the final whistle to hear results read over the tannoy. Live updates had one source: fans with radios.

  By the time Liverpool were three goals to the good, the majority of people inside Anfield had lost interest in the match they were watching. All they cared about was what was occurring at the City Ground in Nottingham. It was 0–0. That scoreline kept the title race alive but things were still in Everton’s hands. Kendall’s team could afford one more draw and still maintain pole position.

  In this environment, any news – even if it was fake – was eagerly embraced. With about ten minutes left, a rumour spread across the Kop that Forest had scored. Premature celebrations broke out, while the more cautious waited, fingers crossed, for the full-time results to hopefully confirm Everton’s demise. There was only disappointment. There was no goal.

  In the East Midlands, it was equally tense. Bad feeling was in the air. The Everton fans taunted the home supporters all afternoon with chants of ‘Scab’, a legacy of the miners’ strike when Nottinghamshire’s pitmen crossed the picket lines. At the final whistle, they sang ‘We’re gonna win the league’ as their team left the pitch. The draw was not the ideal result but it was good enough. A much more damaging blow than losing points had occurred, though. Peter Reid had picked up another knock and left the stadium on crutches.

  Everton were still on course to win the title – and therefore the Double. Liverpool had two games left, Everton three. The most crucial week of the season started with Goodison looking the likeliest place for the championship trophy to reside for another year.

  Both teams were away next. On the last day of April, a warm Wednesday, an armada of coaches and cars left the city heading south, Reds in the direction of Leicester City and Blues on their way to Oxford United. Both teams were in a battle against relegation.

  United were in the drop zone with City just three points above them in the last safe position. All four teams were desperate for points.

  Liverpool went to Filbert Street to play the only team that had beaten Everton twice in the league. Leicester were awkward opposition at this stage of the season but Dalglish’s team had won nine out of their la
st ten games.

  Everton travelled to Oxford to face the winners of the Milk Cup. United had lost their only game since the final and were hanging on to their first division status by their fingertips. It turned into a momentous night.

  It was hard to have fond memories of the Manor Ground but it was the scene of one of Kendall’s great escapes. Two years earlier Adrian Heath had scored the late equalizer against Oxford that was widely believed to have kept the Everton manager in his job. On this night, it would be the scene of another turning point.

  Winning would not be easy. ‘It was a horrible place to play,’ Peter Reid said. ‘And we had loads of injuries. I failed a fitness test.’

  The kick-off was 7.30 p.m. Liverpool would start their game 15 minutes later. Everton had the chance to go back on top before their rivals finished playing but there were problems before the match. Gary Lineker’s hamstring was sore and he had scored only once in eight league games. Everton badly needed him to hit the target against Oxford. Instead, the striker was thrown further out of kilter. The England forward had a lucky pair of boots that he had worn all season. They were battered, patched up and looked wrecked but Lineker was comfortable in them. The kit staff left them at Goodison.

  The league’s leading goalscorer was forced to wear a new pair of shoes. There were better moments to break in fresh footwear.

  Back in Lineker’s home town, everyone had the right boots at Filbert Street. Mark Lawrenson was fretting on the bench because he was concerned that, with two league games left, he might not break into the team in time for the FA Cup final. Otherwise Liverpool were relaxed. Kenny Dalglish named an unchanged side. The Reds were confident.

  Their supporters did not share that bullishness. Many were concerned they would get locked out. Everton’s match at the tiny Manor Ground was all-ticket. Leicester decided to make their game pay-on-the-gate. Many thousands more Liverpool fans arrived in the East Midlands town than Filbert Street could handle. Fleets of coaches left Merseyside – it was impossible to get a train home after the match – and the Nottinghamshire and Leicestershire police forces made life difficult by stopping numerous buses to check for alcohol. Their tactics, honed to perfection intercepting flying pickets during the miners’ strike, were aggressive and unsympathetic to the travelling Scousers.