Here We Go Gathering Cups In May. Nicky Allt

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СКАЧАТЬ boarding a plane to Germany with no passport or tickets at hand. Thinking of Bill Shankly and how he said he loved the Liverpool swagger made me think, like the Queen of Motown, that, ain’t no mountain high enough that you can’t climb, no country too far to reach and, in my own individual way, no stadium un-bunkable. Even when I had brass in pocket those pathetic allocations handed out by nepotistic, suit-wearing officialdom meant a ticket was always gold dust anyway. I had to take the pain of Cup final rejection away somehow. Having a jibbing-in skill honed over the most successful football seasons any team or its supporters has ever seen, meant that that skill, habit, or whatever you want to call it, was always going to come in handy for a fervent footy kid like me. No, not born of bravado, born of a need of drug-addict proportion to see how the other half lived, twinned with just as strong an addiction to be in attendance if a tiny white Liverbird was taking stage. In other words: a creature of my environment, born of necessity. If Shankly had said that, ‘Tommy Smith hadn’t been born, he’d been quarried’, then his words, the Mersey, the music, the city streets and the enormous wealth of Liverpool characters I’d grown up with had helped quarry me. And, I wouldn’t change a single thing about any of it.

      Though the other writers here may never have shared my perpetual bunking habit, I know they all love to travel – how else could you follow Liverpool FC? – and are every bit as proud of their city as I am. Who knows? Maybe because the city was built by migrants from all over the planet, remains the reason why so many Scousers get ants in their pants and feel a need to see the world. Anyway, ask Dave Kirby, ask Jegsy Dodd, ask Peter Hooton or Kevin Sampson, or the younger John Maguire and Tony Barrett what they would change about their privileged Red upbringing. I’m sure they’d answer in unison: ‘Nothing!’

      Breathing in the aura of the boulevards and scented harbour la rues of old Marseilles once more, I thought of Patrick and Francine, I thought of the glory of Rome ’77, and gay Paree ’81, of heady nights in Munich and Dusseldorf, of drunken nights in Blankenburg and Antwerp, of opportunist nights in Zurich and Prague, of wonderous nights in Barcelona, Bilbao and Lisbon, of truly brilliant … forget it! I followed and follow the Liverbird; you know the dance. I’d have to write the 3000-page A–Z of a true football loon so, that’s a whole lot of dancing. See, I’m on my way to Athens and to sit down and decipher some of those streets that have been pickled by sing-songs, Stella and glory, I’d only end up mixing streets in Vienna, Madrid and Moscow with lanes in Budapest, Basle and Belgrade. To untangle thousands of miles of rail track, paved walkways and salty sea would take years of solitude and contemplation and I’m still too busy travelling.

      It was a few years ago, in Marseilles, while looking for Patrick’s café bar near the sea front that I first thought of how I’d love to read about our European Cup escapades and all the things that get thrown into the mix to make it a trip of legend – a trip of dreams. I thought I’d like to stick to two or three clear-cut years: some abiding memories and football folklore. Then I thought I’d be hogging the limelight and how it might become repetitive hearing me fare-dodging and turnstile and players-entrance-swerving my way to seven European Cup Finals. Then I thought of how refreshing it would be for other Reds, including me, to hear other supporters’ gory-glory stories. So, clocking the class scribblers on offer, that’s why we’re here.

      The book title came about when I remembered one of my favourite old Liverpool banners and searched in vain for its maker and owner. After giving up on finding him, or her, a lad came up to me at Manchester City’s new stadium and introduced himself as John McDonald, telling me he was the owner of the banner and about its illustrious history. John hailed from the Waterloo area of Liverpool and was a face I instantly recognized as a long-gone Red fanatic like myself. He went on to tell me that his brilliantly talented mother, Margaret, had ingeniously come up with the slogan, then the needle and thread, before the banner started its journey to the Cup finals of our dreams. Back in ’77, John and his mates, John Melia and Peter Davies, all wanted something a little distinctive to carry to the final (Scousers eh, always wanting to be different!). John mentioned this to his mum, and the rest, as they say, is history. For Mrs Mac (1924–97) her legacy lives on through the title of this book and through John’s daughter and her granddaughter, Hannah, who now travels everywhere with the Reds as she has since being a Mersey munchkin. Written by the fans for the fans, the banner was carried from the loft by those same supporters, washed and ironed, and will soon be making a bid for a space in Liverpool Football Club’s museum. Noted for their literary wit, Liverpudlians will no doubt acknowledge Margaret and her saying as a truly poetic one of our own.

      Well … with the goose pimples in evidence I’m rattling now, so, with the rattler being a favoured mode of transport, it seems good a place as any to step aboard for Rome ’77: a steaming, sweating, overcrowded football train from hell – get me – from hell, not to hell. As the passengers like Dave Kirby will testify, this train took you on a Swiss Alp’d, water-dry, ghost ride to the thirst-quenching glory that was Rome. But, how were they to know it had been brought back from Hell’s scrapyard to make one last grimy pilgrimage to the holy Roman city. Who knows … maybe a few on-board demons might be exorcised for good; maybe a few wheels might remain intact for the full 3000-mile journey; and maybe, just maybe, if it gets there in one piece, Emlyn Hughes, Liverpool’s captain, might take that big-eared silver beauty down to the supporters to sip from, because from what Dave’s told me, it was the only cup in Rome big enough to quench the thirst of each individual who stepped aboard at Lime Street’s platform 9. If that train now sits in some Rusty Rattler graveyard, it would no doubt tell a tale or two. Listen, I’m parched just talking about it. Win, lose or draw, I’m off to Athens for a bit of who’s who with the Ouzo. See you if it gets there!

      Nicky Allt, May 2007

       Rome, 1977

      DAVE KIRBY

      European Cup Final, 25th May 1977 Stadio Olimpico, Rome Attendance: 60,000

      Substitutes: David Fairclough, Peter McDonnell, David Johnson, Alan Waddle, Alec Lindsay

      Manager: Bob Paisley

      Borussia Moenchengladbach: Wolfgang Kneib (1), Berti Vogts (2, captain), Hans Klinkhammer (3), Hans-Jürgen Wittkamp (4), Winfried Schäfer (5), Horst Wohlers (6), Herbert Wimmer (7), Uli Stielike (8), Rainer Bonhof (9), Jupp Heynckes (10), Allan Simonsen (11)

      Substitutes used: Wilfried Hannes, Christian Kulik

      Manager: Udo Lattek

      Spring 2007

      Friday morning, 25th May, 2007 wasn’t great. I’d jetted back from Athens the night before so was still feeling a bit fuzzy and pissed off … though not about the result. I woke up despising the suits that run football after just being treated like the shit on a UEFA official’s shoe.

      I tried to blank things out – took the kids to school, stuck the kettle on, warmed up me laptop ready for a day’s graft – but me head just wasn’t right. Then a text message came through from me brother: ‘Five out of seven isn’t bad, kid. Happy Rome anniversary, 30 years today.’ From that moment me morning was wiped out. I sat on the couch supping me tea trying to remember what it was like to be eighteen and wondering where the fuck thirty years had gone. Half an hour later me laptop was switched off and I was climbing up a loft ladder heading for me footy box.

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