They were gruesome. Don’t ask me what the poor women on board did, but most lads ended up having a burst in the hand-basins. When we got to Strasbourg, scores bailed off the train unofficially and stampeded to the bogs. Others swarmed the cafeteria, where there were more problems. Staff wouldn’t accept Italian lire or sterling. Back on the train they announced that there’d be a fresh water supply at Basle. It was a blag. When we got there, Swiss rail staff refused to fill the water tanks.
By the time we reached Zurich station early on Tuesday evening, the state of play wasn’t good. Swiss bizzies lined the platform and wouldn’t let us off, because one of the starving trains ahead had cleaned out the cafe, and for some reason the Swiss rail authorities still wouldn’t refill the water tanks. There were some thirsty, hungry, irritated Scousers on board. People were desperate. Everyone’s sarnies had been eaten or had fallen apart, and any dregs of juice that were left over were warm. The water shortage was so bad that a few lads from Wallasey near us used a big bottle of warm Kia-Ora orange to get washed with. Stewards partly restocked the buffet car, and we took off again, but you couldn’t get within two carriages of it. After half an hour it was all gone again. I had to make do with a drink of warm, flat bitter off Wardy, who passed me it … grinning, with a can in his hand.
The stewards got serious earache about the water and sanitary situation. The bogs were starting to smell like Widnes. We’d have been well within our rights to start a mutiny. Then, as if by magic, the moody atmosphere mellowed when the Swiss Alps came into view. It was mid-evening, and the sunshine bounced off the snow peaks, lighting up the mountains in a stunning amber-white. Everyone was hanging out the windows, blown away. To put it blunt, it was fuckin’ awesome. Jimmy’s ale-blurred vision even saw the beauty. ‘Imagine sliding down one of them on a piece of cardboard,’ he said.
At one of the highest points, we stopped at a scenic little station; the views were spectacular. Then, from the Belgian end of the train, someone yodelled out the window in a high-pitched voice: ‘Yodel-a-e-dee.’ The echo it made was amazing. Next thing a deeper yodel came from the French end: ‘Yodel-a-e-dee.’ Everyone got onto it. After a few minutes the sound of hundreds of yodelling Scousers echoed round the Alps. It was hilarious to listen to. Just before we left, Wardy handed me a few coins and said, ‘Do us a favour. Go and get us an Echo.’
The water tanks were finally refilled at a place called Chiasso, which is on the border with Italy. It was a big relief in more ways than one, especially for the women. There was a bird in our carriage called Jackie. She was a bit heavy on the make-up but was as fit as a butcher’s dog – white blouse, skimpy red shorts and little white socks. Every time she walked past, at least twenty heads would lean over and follow her arse down the aisle. I had fantasies about her dragging me into one of the bogs … then I pictured the bogs, and the fantasy was fucked.
We didn’t see anything of Milan or Parma – it was dark when we passed through them. I went for a walk to stretch me legs. The train was shitted up good style. There were no rubbish bins, just English plastic carrier bags all over the place, over-spilling with shite. A couple of carriages looked like a grenade had gone off in them. Cans and empty bottles rolled round floors full of playing cards, crisp bags, ripped magazines and Monday’s newspapers. In one of the bogs there was a small, smashed up chocolate vending machine, which must’ve been dragged on at Strasbourg. Its moneybox wasn’t touched, just the chocolate gone. I bummed a couple of squashed ciggies off a lad in the Belgian half. Every compartment I passed had bodies crashed out in the criss-cross-roped luggage racks. They looked more like torture racks. I had to make do with another sit-upright kip. I took the knock somewhere around Bologna with me legs entwined with Jimmy’s, using the cold window as a pillow.
On the Wednesday morning I opened me eyes about 60 km north of Rome. The dawn hadn’t long broken, and already the sun was on about gas mark four. The fields were baked dry, and everything was calm. You just knew we were in for a scorcher. Jimmy was half-awake, staring out the window, and Wardy was still asleep … grinning, with a can in his hand. It was early, and I was buzzing. It was a mixture of match excitement and relief that I was finally getting off the train. It felt strange. This was the run in – just a rag-arse kid from Kirkby ready to enter the Eternal City. It was a place that working-class lads weren’t expected to get to – a city I’d have probably never seen in me life if it wasn’t for Liverpool Football Club.
On the outskirts of the city the poverty was in your face – run-down blocks of flats with washing hanging from verandas and graffiti everywhere. It definitely wasn’t what I’d seen in the Mario Lanza film. Jimmy broke the silence. ‘It’s a fuckin’ dump,’ he shouted, which got a big laugh. We crawled along for the last mile, then finally, after thirty-seven hours of backache, arse-ache, heartburn, thirst, hunger and sweat, we pulled into Rome’s main Termini station.
The Siege of Rome
In 1944 a young Bob Paisley rode into Rome on a tank when the city was liberated. In ancient history it was the Etruscans and the Gauls who flooded in and took over. In the year AD 1977 it was the turn of the Scousers. To say that the Romans were worried is an understatement. English clubs’ rep abroad was well dodgy. Tottenham fans had rioted in Rotterdam at the ’74 UEFA final, and Leeds fans went berserk and wrecked the Parc des Princes in Paris during the ’75 European Cup, both with only a fraction of the fans we had in Rome. The I-ties were so paranoid about the situation that they had 4000 bizzies on duty that day, including crack sections of the Carabinieri (military bizzies) plus riot squads and anti-terror units. It was the biggest-ever police operation in Italy for a footy match. The Olympic Stadium owners weren’t taking any chances either. They actually took out extra insurance cover of seventy thousand pounds, in case we ransacked the stadium. I suppose the hysteria was understandable, but if they’d have done their homework, they could have all sat back with a big fat Italian cigar. Because we weren’t English; we were Scousers … you know the score.
‘Oh, we’re the greatest team in Europe and we’re here in Italy … Italy … Italy’ was the song that greeted Rome as we came out the station. The sun was now on about gas mark seven. The heat hit us like a flame-thrower. I reckon I can honestly say that not one of the 26,000 had sun lotion. Nobody went abroad on holidays back then, and at home the sun was like a UFO, so suncream was unheard of. Some beaut on the train was telling everyone that if it got too hot, the best thing to use was olive oil. The soft bastard must’ve ended up barbecued. Buses were laid on to take us through the city, but we headed straight for a cafe over the road and sat under a parasol. Jimmy had the Italian waiter fucked: ‘D’yer sell bitter, mate?’ The waiter just stood there.
Wardy’s attempt sounded African, like Idi Amin. ‘Bitter … beer,’ he said. The waiter came back with three lagers. Wardy raised a toast to Rome … grinning, with a bottle in his hand. We savoured the moment, watching hundreds of Reds pour out the station; dozens had criss-cross red marks on their backs from the luggage racks.
The I-ties had warned us all via the Echo to beware of pickpockets, Rome being the dipping capital of Europe. It was a big talking point amongst Reds. The bullshitters were in their element. One lying bastard by the cafe said that 200 people off our train were dipped as they came out the station. ‘D’yer mean by the same fella?’ Wardy said. Everyone absorbed the warnings, but by the time we got to Rome it’d become a source of pisstaking. The main prank on the day was sliding your hand into one of your mate’s pockets and watching his paranoid reaction. I had Jimmy spinning round like a gunslinger all day. If the dippers were rubbing their thieving hands waiting for 26,000 middle-class English tourists (the only folk who travelled those days) then they must’ve got a big shock when they saw the rough, unwashed hordes emerge from the station. We looked more destitute than them. One of the best shouts was from a white-haired old Scouser sitting by us outside the cafe. He said, ‘The coppers have just arrested a dipper. They emptied his pockets and found 150 giros and 200 sick notes.’
After a few cold beers and
