Book serialisation: Far Foreign Land, Chapter 9

Violence spirals out of control at Goodison at the FA Cup semi-final against Manchester United, a horrible forewarning of the deadly nightmare that was Heysel. An account of that day in Brussels

What should have been a joyous time

YES, IT’S A PENALTY but a new terror took over as Xabi Alonso put the ball on the spot. He took a short run, shot to the goalkeeper’s right and Dida saved. Horror. For a split-second. Because

Alonso came hurtling towards the rebound and, under pressure from defenders and keeper, crashed the ball in. We were level.

Five hours later, in an Irish bar on an Istanbul back street, we saw the replay. When Dida saved, I had a panic attack. In my mind, there was no save; Alonso’s penalty went straight in.

The memory plays funny tricks. It can block out whatever it wants.

* * *

Just before 6am on May 30, 1985, on a ferry limping across the Channel, Robert, a big Ulsterman, woke me. He handed me a beer.

Shivering and in the throes of the worst hangover I’d experienced to date, I shook my head.

‘You’ll need it,’ he said. He led me to a television, where the news was about to start. ‘Forty-two Italians killed in riot at Heysel,’ the presenter said.

Appalled, I took a large swig of beer and then rushed to the toilet to vomit. It felt like every muscle was tearing as the dry-retching heehawed louder and louder.

It took a while to compose myself but when I did there was an acquaintance in the toilet, grinning at my discomfort. ‘What do you think?’ I asked, rinsing my face and fighting another heave.

‘Shocking,’ he said. ‘It was never a penalty.’ Off he went laughing.

* * *

The year that followed the European Cup final in Rome in 1984 was as bleak as any in Merseyside’s recent history. Unemployment was chronic and common – I knew young men in their mid-20s who had not worked legally since leaving school.

The Government were embroiled in a battle with the City Council that was growing more fractious. There was even talk of suspending the local authorities and bringing the army on to the streets. We all made sure we knew how to make petrol bombs.

On a national scale, the Miners’ Strike had split the country and violent images from the picket lines were on television every night. Blood flowed nightly in Belfast and Derry. It felt, at least in my circles, like revolution and civil war were at hand. And we expected to be the losers.

Football, which should have been a welcome distraction, made everything worse. Liverpool supporters were bitter at the way the trouble in Rome had been reported – or not reported, from our point of view – in the national press. There was a feeling that if it had happened to any other club, people from any other city in Britain, then there would have been outrage in the papers and questions in Parliament. Like the miners, though, we were the ‘enemy within’.

The standing of the city was endorsed by an Observer review front page piece on the Northeast, which said gratuitously: ‘The way the Liverpool accent is associated with violence, the Newcastle accent is…’

Football was at a low point, too. Hooliganism appeared rampant. It seemed that the only people who went to games were thugs. The mockheroic gibbering on the trains had slipped into the general domain and the media and their consumers took it at face value. There was a growing sense of anarchy that drew more youths towards the trouble. Organised hooliganism was becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.

In early April, it became clear that Liverpool would be playing Juventus in the European Cup final in Brussels. The words that had become a catchphrase for the year began to look ominous: ‘No Italian will do that to us again.’ The events in Rome were a bad memory but, fertilised by fear, they had grown into overpowering and filthy legend.

Three days after the first leg of the European Cup semi-finals, which effectively settled both ties, there was another semi-final, this time in the FA Cup against Manchester United at Goodison Park. The teams had tossed a coin to see which city should host the game. Liverpool won.

It is difficult to explain what happened at Goodison that day. There has always been an antagonistic relationship between the two cities, with the industrial centre that grew around Manchester needing and resenting the port of Liverpool. Although the rivalry has its roots in economic competition, the football teams became a focus for resentment and hostility. Even now, both Manchester clubs have a sailing ship on their badges – the ship canal was an attempt to undermine a real maritime city.

The power of the Mersey port over the Lancashire hinterland may have disappeared, but the residual hostility remains. The enmity of the football fans from the respective cities has grown to unacceptable levels down the years, especially between Liverpool and United.

Yet the events at Goodison Park in 1985 exploded into insanity on a different scale. All the anger, bitterness and fear that infused daily life suddenly dovetailed into an uncontrollable rage that hinged itself to a football match.

Supporters from both sides fought, stabbed and hurled missiles at each other throughout the day. Inside the ground, there was brawling in every section, with magnesium flares fired into crowds from close range and golf balls studded with six-inch nails flung at the opposition pens.

These were not the gangs of elite, hard-core hooligans that had become a fixture in the popular imagination; these were ordinary men – and some women – caught up in madness.

Liverpool were a goal down early but scored a last-gasp equaliser to take the game into extra time. United scored again and another very late goal made it 2-2.  From a crowd control perspective, it was the worst way the game could have developed.

That night the Yankee was out of control. They were singing the full repertoire of Munich songs. A manic joy surged in the voices of the boys.

For once we were not joining in. I said to Big Al: ‘It went too far today. Everyone lost perspective.’ He agreed. Neither of us were fighters, but we moved easily in the scally world and yet we were unnerved. One of the more dangerous characters we knew passed by. ‘What the fuck happened today?’ he asked, awestruck. There was no answer. But this was not funny. The city was rancid with aggression.

As we left for Al to get the last bus home near 11pm, a group of dolled-up girls, carrying their high heels even at this early stage of the night, passed us singing: ‘Who’s that dyin’ on the runway…’

Everyone expected a repeat performance for the semi-final replay at Maine Road in Manchester, but both sides seemed to realise the enormity of what had happened four days earlier and the game passed off without trouble. Liverpool lost and thoughts turned back to Brussels. On the trains, in the bars, it was said over and over: ‘It won’t be like Rome.’

* * *

On a sunny Brussels morning, there was a moment that, more than anything that would happen over the ensuing 24 hours, continues to haunt me. Our train had just arrived at Jette station and a long column of Liverpool supporters set off downhill towards the centre of the city. I lingered and watched them, chequered flags flying, and thought it looked like a medieval army on the move. Above the narrow street, the locals hung out of open windows and watched, half-grinning but nervous.

As I set off for the Grand’Place, I thought: ‘We can do what we like today. No one can stop us.’

The mood in Brussels was complex. In the aftermath, most commentators would ignore the effect of the events in Rome the previous year and even those who alluded to 1984 saw Heysel in terms of ‘hooligan gangs looking for revenge’. It was very different, much more complex and consequently more frightening.

We were radiating aggression. The ultras had made us suffer once, but it would not happen again. There were few direct attacks on opposition supporters, but there was an eagerness to take the upper hand in any potential conflict. No one wanted to be a victim. Minor misunderstandings quickly escalated into full-scale confrontation, much to the shock of the Italians.

Turning into a narrow street in the centre of town, my brother and I saw about six Juventus fans in their twenties lounging outside a cafe, trying to look cool and tough at the same time. When one looked me straight in the eye, giving me a classic hard-case once-over, I snarled: ‘Go on gobshite, say something.’ They did not take up the offer. But the tone was set.

And the drinking had not even started.

The Grand’Place was less tense than might have been expected. Liverpool fans were here in numbers and small groups who had travelled independently met up, felt safe and relaxed into an afternoon of drinking. Clustered around the bars, we sang, bare-chested in the sun and, briefly, bonhomie abounded. It was almost idyllic.

The morning had passed off quietly and the fear of ultras began to dissipate. Juventus fans ran across the square with their forty-foot Piedmont flags merging seamlessly with the seventeenth-century backdrop. It was breathtaking.

Then the drink kicked in.

The common belief was that Belgian beer was weaker than the booze at home. In the heat, young men used to drinking a gallon of weak mild were quaffing strong lagers and ales as if they were lemonade. Small incidents started to mushroom and suddenly the mood changed and the bars began to shut down.

By now, there were four of us in our little group. We were reluctant to leave the square because other friends were probably heading for the rendezvous. I went to find some beer, taking a red-and-white cap I’d found on the road to give some protection from the sun.

Walking down a narrow street, I saw a crew of scallies laughing almost hysterically. Seeing my quizzical look, they pointed at a shop. It was a jeweller with no protective metal grating over the window.

All you could do was laugh.

Farther on, I saw a group of Juventus supporters, and one was wearing a black-and-white sun hat. It would give me more cover in the heat, so I swapped with him.

Only he clearly did not want to part with his headwear. He had no choice. Sensing danger, he let me have it and looked in disgust at the flimsy, filthy thing I’d given him.

This was not cultural exchange: this was bullying, an assertion of dominance. I remember strutting away, slowly, the body language letting them know how I felt.

There was a supermarket by the bourse and, at the entrance, there stood a Liverpool fan. ‘You’re Scouse?’ he said. There was no need for an answer and he knew what I was there for. ‘It’s free to us today,’ he said, handing me a tray of beer. The rule of law was over.

On the way back to the square, the group of Liverpool fans by the jeweller had been replaced by riot police. Glass was scattered all over the street, studded with empty display trays. There was hysteria – and pride – in my laughter. This was turning into an excellent day.

We set off for the ground and there seemed to be more and more small confrontations. On other days any cultural misunderstandings would end in hugs and an exchange of memorabilia. Here, with the hair-trigger tempers, it was tears, and we were determined they would

not be ours.

We boarded a tram to head north to the ground, slurring and swearing and exuding threatening, drunken boorishness. At our stop, we stood up to get off and Robert collapsed, the alcohol that had been nastily overriding a collective sense of decency was now severing the physical links between brain and body.

We hauled him from the middle of the road towards the stadium, two of us with his arms over our shoulder while his feet dragged behind. He appeared unconscious. Then, on the approaches to the ground, a group of young men up ahead snatched the takings from a stallholder and ran away with his strongbox. The man went in pursuit, leaving the stall unattended.

Without seeming to open his eyes, Robert deftly unhooked his arm from around my shoulder and pocketed a Juventus scarf. It was unbelievable. He immediately resumed his comatose state and we dragged him on until we reached a grass verge to lay him down.

Similar madness was everywhere. People were staggering, collapsing, throwing up. A large proportion of Liverpool fans seemed to have lost

control.

We met a group of mates who had come by coach. A fellow passenger we all knew had leapt off as soon as they arrived and attacked two people, one an Italian, with an iron bar. That we’d long believed him to be psychotic did not lessen the shock.

John, who had been in the line of fire in Rome the year before, dodging flares in the empty Liverpool section, was greeting Juventus fans in heavily Scouse-accented Italian. Naturally friendly, he is a man almost incapable of violence. A group wearing Liverpool shirts attacked him and beat him to the floor. ‘I’m Scouse,’ he was shouting. Few people have a stronger accent.

‘No you’re not, you Wop,’ they said. It took a riot policeman to rescue him.

We thought it was hilarious.

What wasn’t funny was the state of the stadium. Even in a drunk and deranged state, it appalled us. The outer wall was breeze block and some of the ticketless were kicking holes at its base and attempting to crawl through. Most were getting savage beatings from the riot police, who were finally making their presence felt. It was easier to walk into the ground and ignore the ticket collector, some of whom were seated at what looked like card tables. I went home with a complete ticket.

Four years later, on another dreadful day, I would enter another ground without needing to show my ticket. It is not just the Belgians whose inefficiency had deadly consequences.

Inside the stadium, we sat the still inert Robert down and waited until he woke up. He emerged from his torpor with a start and was shocked by the Juventus scarf.

‘You robbed it,’ I said.

‘Oh, no.’ He was appalled. ‘I didn’t hit an Italian, did I?’

‘No. It’s new. You robbed it in your sleep from a stall.’

‘Thank God I didn’t hurt anyone,’ he said. ‘I think I was out of control.’

Section Y, where we were standing, grew more and more crowded and, in front of us, a crush barrier buckled and collapsed. Next door, Section Z was supposedly a neutral area. It looked to be mainly Italian, with plenty of room available. We eyed the space with envy.

The rough treatment by police drew a response and most disappeared from the back of the section after skirmishes. Seeing a policeman beating a young lad who was attempting to climb over the wall and was caught in the barbed wire, I pushed the Belgian officer away. He turned to hit me with his baton and I punched him - not hard - through his open visor. He ran away. It was the second time I’d hit someone in almost 10 years of travelling to football matches – and the other punch was aimed at a Liverpool fan.

With the police gone, groups of youths swarmed over a snack stand and looted it. I climbed on to the roof and was passed up trays of soft drinks to hand around. It felt like being on top of the world up there.

Back on the terraces there was an exchange of missiles – nothing serious by the standards of the day. I went to the toilet and, by the time I came back, the fence was down and people were climbing into the neutral section. Unable to locate my group, I joined the swarm.

In section Z I wandered around for a while. There seemed to be very little trouble. People backed away but there were no charges, just a minor scuffle or two.

I climbed back into section Y, unaware that 39 people were in the process of dying.

It was clear that a huge commotion was going on at the front and we began to get tetchy about the delayed kick-off. Then there seemed to be a long tirade in Italian over the public address system – someone suggested it was a list of names – and all hell broke loose.

Juventus fans came out of their end, around the pitch and attacked the corner where other Liverpool supporters were standing. My mother, youngest brother and sister were in that section.

Everyone went crazy. Men tore at the fences to get at the Italians and, at last, the police did an effective job of holding back Liverpool fans.

The brother with me said: ‘If those fences go, football will be finished. There’ll be hundreds dead. It will be over.’ Finally, the police drove the Italians back.

The game? Juventus won 1-0, with a plainly unfair penalty, and the team celebrated wildly on the pitch. There appeared to be as much joy on the terraces. That added to the shock later. Surely no one could have been badly hurt before the game if the players reacted like they did when they received the cup? How naive we were.

Afterwards? Tiredness kicked in with the disappointment but the nervousness over Italian knives lingered. A Belgian policeman gave us a send-off from the stadium by opening the bus doors, throwing in a canister of tear gas and locking everyone in.

At Ostend it was a passive, depressive struggle through overcrowded departure rooms. The police were angry, aggressive and scared. They made sure their guns were very visible and kept dogs snapping at the Liverpool fans. ‘You were glad enough to see us in 1944, you fuckers,’ someone said. No one mentioned death.

When the news spread on the boat there was silence and headshaking. The enormity was overwhelming. How did this happen? The unspoken question perplexed everyone.

But instead of admitting our own culpability, seeing how our bad attitudes and fear created a situation where people would die, we immediately found other guilty parties to blame and put the victims out of our minds. Hillsborough brought some empathy for those who died at Heysel. But even that was paltry to the point of insult.

Now the dead reached across two decades to knock people out of complacency.

Read Chapter 10: And we’ve been to Europe, too

Order Far Foreign Land here: Cost £10 UK, £15 Europe, £18 Rest Of World. All including postage

For those interested in the culture of Merseyside, try my non-football novel. Good Guys Lost, an epic of Liverpool life set from the 1960s to the 2010s