day, with fifty-odd thousand Scousers heading in. United were playing Leeds at Sheffield in the other semi, so quite a few Mancs were mooching around. We heard chants of ‘United’, then they charged at the people in front, forcing them back. It was literally only a minute till the Red and Blue masses spilled out the station and chased them down the street. As far as trouble goes it was an absolutely nothing incident, but it was the catalyst to what happened next and the thing that’s stayed with me. As we set off in a police escort, the entire special (about 500 people) tied their scarves together and held them aloft. The confused expression on bizzies’ faces sticks in the mind. Shoppers looked just as stumped. Buses and traffic slowed … all staring at the ranks of entwined red and blue and white marching down Deansgate in the pissing-down rain, singing:
Merseyside, la la la
Merseyside, la la la.
It was a natural and genuine show of Scouse solidarity – a moment of pride that means more to me now than it did then because it captures the Liverpool that I grew up in; a time before ‘banter’ was replaced by the word ‘bitter’.
Sunday afternoon, 1st May: I can see meself now … kicking an oily ball at the diesel pump in a deserted garage, waiting to change shifts with Lol (the Bluenose). My head was up me arse around that time. British Rail had announced that they were putting on trains to Rome with match ticket included and were taking name and address reservations with payment at a later date. Like most I took a chance and booked not knowing how I’d get the wedge together. I was seriously skint, and back then skint meant skint. If you wanted to travel, you had to get off your arse and do a bit of independent, creative head-working, usually without tank or ticket.
We were due to face the Mancs at Wembley, but all I could think about was Rome. Getting around Britain wasn’t an issue. If you couldn’t afford a train or coach, you’d just thumb it. Loads of footy journeys began with me left thumb at the East Lancs/Kirkby junction, including a trip to Stoke that spring with me mate Gary (Smigger) hiding in the boot of a coach that we opened and dived into at Kirkby traffic lights, taking turns to hold the boot closed. But Rome was different. Europe at that time for me was uncharted territory. I’d never set foot outside the country. Like most Scousers, the only holidays I knew were in caravan parks in North Wales, the highlight of the week being a day out to the Everton stronghold of Rhyl.
Every time the ball hit the diesel pump, it made a hollow clanging sound. Lol walked across the forecourt to take over shifts. First thing out of his mouth was, ‘Are y’ goin’ to Rome?’
I hoofed the ball at the diesel pump … clang! ‘Yeah, if I get the money,’ I said.
Then he goes, ‘It’s fifty-nine quid on the train, isn’t it?’
I stopped, put one foot on the ball, then booted it again … clang!
I was chocka. Fifty-nine quid doesn’t sound much now, but for me then it was nearly a month’s wedge. April’s wage cheque was owed out, courtesy of five massive league games and the European and FA Cup semis. The endless sequence of big matches had forced me into dipping the odd fiver out the till. I asked the area manager if I could have May’s pay cheque in advance, but he wasn’t having it. I was tempted to do a ‘Tom, Tom, the piper’s son’ with the till (stick it under me arm and run like fuck), but everything would’ve went pear-shaped – bizzies and all that lark … you know the score.
I dipped enough out the till to get the special to QPR (six pound fifty) and Coventry (four quid). We drew both games, paving the way to win the title at home on the Saturday to West Ham. The league was boxed off. One down, two to go. I celebrated big time that weekend but also had a serious sweat on. Rome was just eleven days away, and all’s I had saved was seventeen quid. Time was running out.
On Wednesday 18th May I was on the verge of phoning the Samaritans. The reserved train and match tickets for Rome were going on sale at Lime Street next day at an increased price of seventy quid per ticket. The extra eleven quid came about because the French were having a national strike. It meant a detour through Belgium, Germany and Switzerland and an extra twelve hours on the journey, but to be honest everyone was so paranoid about getting to Rome that no one was arsed about the extra mileage. They could’ve taken us through Spain, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and came in through fuckin’ Sicily for all we cared … just as long as we got there.
By that afternoon the temptation to rob the till was at fever pitch – it looked like the only option. Every time I opened it, I almost grew horns, a pointy tail and started laughing like Vincent Price. The irritation and frustration of handling bank notes when you’re desperate for wedge is mental torture. A few more hours and I’m convinced that I would’ve swooped and took off like an Olympic sprinter. But then something happened.
Through frustration I’d been volleying the ball at the diesel pump. The front panel fell off a few times and the pump made a weird gurgling noise … like a washing machine. I thought nothing of it until a transit van rolled up. The driver asked for a fiver’s worth, and we stood there watching the digits spin round. It got to about three quid, then for some unknown, fateful, beautiful, life-defining reason, the digits jammed. I stopped and stared at the seized numerals. Believe me I may as well have been looking at a 7777 jackpot on a fruit machine. I pressed the pump trigger again and nearly burst into tears of joy. The diesel was gushing out but not registering.
Over the next two hours I made nearly two weeks’ wages but was still short of me Rome money. I was racking me brains trying to think of anyone with a diesel van or wagon … then it hit me: Kirkby Cabs! The phone call was terrible. For some reason me voice went dead shady and deep … like a Red Indian chief: ‘All right. Half-price diesel … East Lancs Garage … now.’
Minutes later a black hackney turned up, and I filled it for a fiver. The driver couldn’t believe it and radioed the office. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what was about to happen. It started off slow – two or three cabs, then a few more, till there were about fifteen in the queue. I was just guessing how much to charge – mostly between five and seven quid. As one cab left, another three would turn up. I started panicking, filling tanks while looking over me shoulder at the queue, which was backing up onto the East Lancs. Most had containers with them. Diesel was splashing all over the bastard place, blowing back out the tanks and containers all over me. After half an hour it went mental. A convoy of black cabs stretched from the diesel pump out the garage, along the Lancs, past the lights and down Moorgate road into Kirkby. It looked like the annual taxi charity day out to Southport. I was like a headless chicken, running from cab to cab filling tanks and containers quicker than Edward fuckin’ Scissorhands. I was shitting meself in case the bizzies got onto it or the area manager turned up; no blag in the world could’ve got me out of that one.
An hour later I slid into the kiosk chair. My right hand was stinging and the rest of me was minging – the smell was pure diesel. If I’d lit a ciggy, I think they’d have heard the explosion in Rome. I locked the garage up early and got a cab to take me home. My pockets were bulging with cash. I emptied it onto me bed, then lashed me fuming jeans out the window.
Straightening and counting those scrunched up, diesel-stinking notes is one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever done. The final count was three hundred and twenty-eight quid. I walked into the kitchen in just me boxer shorts and threw fifty green one-pound notes up in the air. ‘You can have that, Ma,’ I said. She looked at me like I was soft. It was a great feeling, getting me Rome trip sorted and boxing me ma off. It made me realise what a load of bollocks that old saying is: ‘Money’s not everything’. I know it can’t buy health, but take it from me, it’s just a blag spread round by rich bastards … you know the score.
Next day Lime Street was chocka with Roman Reds. I was used to travelling away so knew what a footy-special train
