In 1970 â71, we reached the FA Cup final against Arsenal, My Dad got tickets, and I assumed if I got one, he would let me go âI was wrongâ. I could have got a ticket for ÂŁ5.00, but my Dad said NO itâs too much to pay and there may be trouble. I was devastated, some of my mates managed to get tickets and I had to stay at home and watch it on the television. I was gutted.
Of course the house was bedecked in Red and White and turned into a shrine, the dog wore its usual Liverpool top and shorts were introduced (with a hole cut out for his tail), the salmon butties made an appearance too.
My dad and his mates left Liverpool bedecked in red and white on the Thursday âbeforeâ the final on the Saturday, he rang up to let us know he had arrived safely on the Friday. In later years he told me they arrived in London on the Thursday afternoon, booked into their lodgings then went out on the Town. They arrived back at the hotel on the Saturday morning having spent all that time on the ale. I never did tell me Mum, she would have gone up the wall.
The game itself turned out to be a bit of a dour event, both teams cancelling each other out. Soon extra time was upon us. Stevie Heighway scored a belter at Bob Wilsonâs right hand post, unfortunately Arsenal proved too strong for us that day with Charlie George scoring the winning goal from outside the box. Then lying down on the pitch with both arms held aloft. God I hated him.
When my mates returned home, I asked if there was any trouble, there had been some so I suppose my Dad was right.
The next day (Sunday) we travelled into the City centre to welcome the Tricky Reds back home. We had to get off the bus on London Road because of the vast amount of supporters walking in the road. At the Piction library the crowds where immense, a sea of people everyone bedecked in red and white with quite a few wearing blue and white.
The team walked onto the rostrum and the place erupted, the great man himself Bill Shankly acknowledged the crowd, and then told us how sorry he was that he couldnât bring the FA Cup back home. Shanks then âproclaimedâ that the team would go one better and bring âThe Championshipâ back to Anfield the next season. The place went bananas, as we acknowledged and celebrated Shanks remarks.
The Derby games were incredible, Everton used to have the whole of the Anfield Road, and the noise was out of this World as both sets of supporters used to try and out-sing each other. Even now thinking back to them days, I donât think the atmosphere ever came across on Match of the Day because the BBC used to turn down the crowd noises so the commentator could be heard.
I particularly enjoyed the Derby games at Anfield, we would all leave Netherton around 11.30 in the morning (red mates and blue mates) and wind each other up on the way to the boozer. Our favourite watering hole then was the âHalf Way Houseâ on County Road, being 15 or 16 we had no problems getting served, many a pint was supped between Red and Blue before a walk up to the match.
After the Anfield Derby games, we used to get down to County Road as quickly as possible and get the bus back to Netherton, the daft Evertonians used to walk across Stanley Park and wait at their usual bus stops. More often than not, the bus was full with Liverpool supporters when it reached their bus stops. Of course the driver very rarely stopped to let them on. Year after year, we always grabbed the best specks in our local boozers.
The Goodison derby games where just as passionate, with thousands and thousands of Kopites filling the Park end, paddock and enclosure. We tended to frequent the enclosure because it was dead handy to get out of and leg it up to the bus stop(s) to beat our blue mates yet again back to the boozer.
For games at Goodison, we always turned up bedecked in red and white and for some reason used to walk around the ground at least once, some sort of show of strength thing?
We very rarely drank in the Anfield area after a Derby, we tended to meet up and drink in Netherton. Derby days were an excuse to have a real good drinking session with no time limit to get home. One thing that still sticks in my mind to this day is that the Red and Blue mates who had gone to the match very rarely caused trouble. It was the ones that didnât that did?
In time we wanted to see more of Liverpool FC, it was time to travel away to watch the tricky reds on a regular basis. For some reason we always used to travel by âSoccer Specialâ train from Lime Street, we would often arrive early at Lime Street and take a walk around clothes shops such as âPatchesâ â Sexy Rexyâ and âIssy Crownâ to see what was new. It became a ritual to pop into the âPunch N Judyâ cafĂŠ on the corner of Lime Street and Skelhorne Street and fill our faces with half-cooked hot dogs on stale buns.
Away games were brilliant, in those days you where allowed to take as much ale with you as you could carry. It became a bit of a competition between us to see who could turn up with the most obscure brand of ale. Every other Friday night we became regulars at Ashe & Nephew stocking up with a couple of Watneyâs party 7âs and countless brands of cans of lager for another journey into the unknown.
It didnât matter if it was a local trip to Manchester United / City away or a long trip down south countless cans of ale would be consumed. Many a fellow red was left on a bench at various railway stations to sleep off the excesses incurred on the train journey(s).
The British Rail people at Lime Street must have been Liverpool supporters or just plain daft, we used to turn up at Lime Street around between 10 to 14 of us. Eight of us would board the train, and then one of us would get off the train (with 6 train tickets in his pocket). Pass them onto the others, then one by one get back onto the train. Boarding the âSpecialsâ on the way home was just as easy, because the local police wanted us out of their Cities as soon as possible.
Once the train had started, you had to keep an eye out for the ticket inspector. Likeminded supporters would keep âDixieâ on the lookout for the inspector. Once spotted, the lads would struggle to get under the tables so they wouldnât have to pay, sometimes we would show him a valid ticket walk past him and collect other tickets to pass onto the fare dodgers.
Nine times out of ten the inspector would know what was going on, every now and then they would clamp down and make people pay for train tickets. It was not uncommon to have a whip around for someone you never knew.
Getting home from Lime Street was also a challenge, if we knew the bus driver we would just pile onto the bus and give him a couple of bob when you got off. If we didnât know him, we would stand around him and pay whilst the others smuggled themselves on board.
In 1974 the Tricky Reds saw off Carlisle United, Doncaster Rovers, etc to reach another FA Cup final. My Kop season ticket didnât qualify for a Final ticket, I was sickened, would I miss out on my first time to Wembley?
Not bloody likely, despite asking every Tom, Dick and Harry I couldnât get hold of a ticket, I had booked a spec on one of the many Wembley âSoccer Specialsâ nothing was going to stop me.
We purchased our Wembley kecks from Flemmings in County Road, these were blue jeans with the Flemmings badge (Liver bird and Union Jack) on it, you could buy âRedâ kecks but these were not for us. I purchased a new silk scarf for this âSpecialâ occasion it was printed with âKings of the Kopâ on one side the other side had the playerâs name printed on it. My red beret from 1965 came out of the drawer to make its first of many Wembley appearances.
On the Wednesday before Cup final day I managed to buy a ticket in the Liverpool end for a fiver, this was an extortionate amount to pay for a ticket, but I gladly paid it. Lime Street station was awash with red and white, everyone seemed to be dressed in red this was going to be some very special football occasion.
Wednesday turned into Thursday, I had a knowing glint in my eyes. My dad again bedecked in red and white said âtarraâ to us all and away they went on another journey in an attempt to drink London dry. The crafty bugger had told me Mum that his works had booked a coach down to London, but for the wrong day and that he couldnât let his mates down. If she only knew?
Friday night was âWISPAâ night, the WISPA was a local club in Litherland, it was dead handy to get too and a great place to go too. We all met up in the Nethy and walked up to the club. The place was bouncing every man and his dog was in here getting some drinking practice for the next day. Canât remember what I had too drink, but I remember I was stone cold sober, I was far too excited thinking about the Cup Final.
Next day, we made our way to Lime Street, flags and scarfâs hanging out from the top deck of the bus, singing our heads off like there was no tomorrow. Lime Street was choker block full of suitably attired Koppites, everyone seemed to be well up for this one.
The journey to Wembley seemed to take an age, we took some cans of ale with us but these didnât calm us down in the slightest, we where all to excited. The twin towers of Wembley were sighted on our left the people on our train went absolutely ballistic, your ears just ached with the noise we all made.
Wembley Way was very special, all manner of people in every conceivable state of drunkenness Red and White and Black and White mixed together all singing all dancing all excited at being at Wembley. The ground was a dump, what a letdown, grotty railings between the car parks and the concourse had rubbish everywhere on it.
I confess at that time I had no idea where Newcastle was and had no idea what Geordies sounded like? I couldnât understand a word they said.
The Geordies we bumped into were great people we just seemed to get on with each other, âHoway the Ladsâ they sang at us âNo way the Ladsâ we boomed back. âSuper Macâ they retorted to us, in a flash âSuper Mouthâ was spat right back at them.
They sang the âBlaydon Racesâ we came right back at them with our own special version.
Oh me lads we're never off the tele
We hate the F***ing coppers
Cos they murdered Jimmy Kelly
United are the bas**rds
City are the runners
And when we get to Highbury
We'll kick F**k out of the Gunners
Newcastle Brown it has to be a winner
Twenty five pints on a Saturday night
And twelve for Sunday dinner
We taught the Geordies how to sing
We taught them how to sup
But most of all we taught them
How to lift the FA Cup
Around the ground were various huge trees, those without tickets climbed up them and straddled planks of wood across to the windows in the stairways, (thirty or forty feet above ground level) hundreds of supporters got in for nothing this way. Others tied flags and or scarfs together and climbed up, whilst their mates held on the other end.
This was the first game I saw âscouse snakesâ out in large numbers, these were streetwise lads who mingled in with the crowd and snatched tickets from unwary supporters. My ticket stayed very safely in my pocket gripped by my hand.
Once inside (after the two turnstiles) Wembley exposed itself in all its glory, an open expanse with a sea of red and white and black and white at each end. âGod Save our Gracious Queenâ the tannoy system blasted out, âGod Save our Gracious Teamâ boomed out from the travelling Kop.
Then minutes before the kick-off, one of the best ever versions of âYouâll never walk aloneâ was rendered to the unsuspecting Geordies and millions of television viewers. It was sung very slowly, sang correctly, and sang from the heart.
During the week prior to the final, all we got in the papers was how âSuper Macâ Malcolm Macdonald was going to destroy us and win the Cup for Newcastle, yes even then a lot of the press were anti-Liverpool its not a new thing?
We had our very own âsecret weaponâ to combat âmighty mouthâ Macdonald, a certain young local lad with big blonde curly hair and sparrow like legs, Phil Thompson.
The first half was a stalemate as both teams prodded each other trying to find a weakness, âSuper Mouthâ Macdonald had one half chance which he ballooned very high into the jeering travelling masses from Liverpool.
The second half was a different kettle of fish, Shanks and the backroom boys certainly made sure we were up for it. We came out and tore Newcastle United apart in what is generally accepted as one of the finest footballing displays ever witnessed in any Cup Final.
Poor old Alec Lindsay, scored one of the best ever goals seen by mankind, only for it to be ruled offside by the referee.
The final whistle was blown and the biggest atomic bomb ever went off. I swear the noise from the travelling koppites could have been heard halfway around the Earth, it was out of this world.
Everyone went ape, grown men hugged grown men, everyone grabbed anyone like a long lost friend the place was buzzing. With hindsight I think this is where the punks first saw âThe pogoâ the place was jumping, we had won the FA Cup again?
The history books say âLiverpool 3 Newcastle United 0â but in fact the real score line was Liverpool 4 Newcastle United 0. They forget to mention the âgoalâ the Spion Kop achieved in out singing the Geordies, the twelfth man? Had yet again played its part in full.
Once outside the ground we walked back to Wembley Central, everyone was having a ball, it was party time âBIG TIMEâ people were singing and dancing in the streets giving each other piggybacks rides, just going mental?
The Geordies on the other hand slowly and quietly walked single file devastated back to their train platform, then one of the most memorable things I have ever witnessed in all my years of following the Tricky Reds occurred. The Newcastle United supporters started throwing their scarves around us and shaking our hands, even hugging us, I still have my Liverpool silk scarf, red beret and a Newcastle United scarf from this game they remain amongst my many treasured Liverpool possessions.
The trip home was one long singsong with many conga lines going backwards and forwards right along the full length of our train. Lime Street was awash with red and white, as wives, girlfriends, mums, dads, aunts, uncles, sons and daughters waited for the Spion Kops return home.
No body could have imagined what was in store for us in the years ahead, nobody cared about tomorrow, This was a very special moment for the thousands and thousands of Liverpool supporters from that era and indeed a special moment in the history of our beloved Liverpool Football Club.
Circled is one supreme black haired koppite [My Dad] and standing in front of him is one very young boy who was very lucky that Liverpool FC chose him.
