Lads like Gerry were priceless in those violent ’70s. He saved our arses on numerous occasions. The lad who tagged along started again: ‘I shouldn’t be here.’
I had a feeling that incident was just a dress rehearsal for what was coming. I was right. We parked half a mile from Wembley at about half six in the morning. Our van logo attracted a gang of about twenty Mancs who’d seen us drive past. They waited at the top of the street where we parked, then all walked towards us. Most of our lads probably felt like I did – a kind of nervous churning, the type you get when you know a situation’s on top. But Gerry was made different. He told us to spread out and keep moving towards them, then he jogged ahead, rolling his sleeves up and giving the Mancs the come on, shouting to them, ‘Come on, keep fuckin’ walking.’ It spooked the Mancs. Most of them stopped. They could obviously see he was game. Our inevitable roar and charge scattered them … saved by Gerry again.
Half an hour later we met Kirkby, Gilly and about thirty of his mates in the car park outside Wembley. We thought things were mellowing when a coach full of decent Mancs asked us if we fancied a game of footy. Next thing there’s a big match going on. Everything was sound until a mob of around 200 other Man U came from underneath the Wembley Way flyover.
Give the Mancs who were playing footy their due. They tried to stop them, but you could see that these other, snarling septics weren’t having any of it. Cue Gerry: ‘Come on, we’ll fuck these,’ he said. The odds were ridiculous, but he led a charge that backed them off … though only for a couple of minutes. They came back big time. We all ran towards Wembley, apart from Big Dave, who ran the opposite way. I don’t know why they all went after him. They cut him off and were breathing down his neck, closing in from both sides. He had absolutely nowhere to go, apart from towards a twelve-foot-high corrugated fence. As long as I live, I’ll never know how he scaled it. He escaped with just a cut head. The mob turned towards us. The straggler was next to me. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he said again.
The Mancs piled up the Wembley steps, bombarding us with all sorts. We headed for a high wooden fence that led to a railway embankment. Bricks bounced off it, making a noise like a drum solo. Gerry stayed till the last again, throwing stuff back at them. I was on top of the fence when I saw something out the corner of me eye and instinctively put me hand up for protection – a broken bottle hit me palm. The pain was instant; the blood followed. My hand was in a bad way, but I was lucky – I’d nearly had me face and me Rome dream shattered.
It was a crazy start to the day. Eight o’clock in the morning and I was heading back down Wembley Way in an ambulance with our kid and two of the lads. I beat Big Dave’s stitch count by four and still bear the scar to this day. In the space of eighteen hours I’d been branded for life twice: once with a tattoo and the other with a bottle. In other words once by a needle prick and the other by a Manc prick.
We stocked up with cans, then got the bus back to Wembley. Take it from me, tetanus injections and lager definitely don’t mix. We stood at the bottom of Wembley Way waiting for the Scouse cavalry to emerge from Wembley Park off the twenty-five specials that left Lime Street that day. Four cans each later we were still waiting, watching wave after wave of Mancs streaming out the station. Scousers were outnumbered by about two to one. At times it felt like four to one. We were taking 26,000 to Rome the following Wednesday – the biggest mass departure across the Channel since D-Day – so understandably a lot of Reds chose to sack the mediocre Mancs for the mighty Munchen.
At every block entrance around Wembley there were tall, revolving turnstiles that the bizzies used as ejector gates, so bunking in was always worth a go. If you got collared, all they did was lash you out again. Bunking has always been rife at Cup finals – a situation brought about by leeches and hangers-on getting tickets before passionate, zealous fans. Some Scousers had it down to a fine art. I’m not talking about just booting gates down; I mean using your head to breach the castle walls. Two of Gilly’s mates climbed over the gates at six o’clock that morning and hid in a ladies’ bog for nearly seven hours. A lad I know from Wavertree walked through the main entrance with the brass band and blagged it (in a Scottish accent) that he was a band reservist. The same fella couldn’t play the fuckin’ spoons.
To front that kind of situation, you had to have confidence and composure. But they’re two qualities that don’t surface when Heineken and tetanus are speeding through your veins faster than a footy special. I was absolutely polluted. Four times I got lashed out. They have to go down as my worst-ever bunking-in attempts. There was no keeping a low one or being cagey. I may as well have had a sandwich board on saying ‘Get out me fuckin’ way!’ The final desperate effort was a drunken, mazy run, then a big belly-flop over the turnstile. All’s I remember is laying face-down on the floor with me foot trapped in the stile and all sorts of laughter going on around me. I think the bizzies were even laughing as they dragged me away. My head was spinning faster than the ejector gate, which I was thrown back through with a full-on warning that if I got collared again I’d be nicked. Next thing I’m on a little wall opposite our end, squinting in the sun and thinking that I’d have half an hour’s kip then try again. I curled up by the wall … bang … gone!
I’m sure you’ve all been there: waking up in a strange place, thinking, ‘Where the fuck am I?’ I focused on the deserted Wembley steps that were now in the shade with litter everywhere. All the gates were open, so I ran up and into the ground. It’s still vivid: emerald-green pitch and an empty stadium dotted with yellow jackets brushing the terraces. I shouted to a sweeper near me, ‘What score was it, mate?’ I could tell by the blank look on his kite that he was a beaut: mouth open, wet bottom lip … you know the score, a bit like a Wigan fan. He shrugged his shoulders (don’t know). At least he could tell the time. It was ten past six.
I started jogging back, paranoid about the result and missing me lift. When I got to the car park, the jog slowed to a concerned trot, then a sickly stroll. Coaches were still pulling away, mostly full of jubilant Mancs. It cut me in half. A bizzie confirmed the score. I felt me stomach drop, then that sickly feeling. The Treble dream was over, I’d missed my lift home and me bandaged hand was throbbing more than me head. I managed to thumb a lift on the North Circular road – off a Manc! He turned out to be a dead sound fella. We stopped for a pint and a nosebag in Walsall, then he went miles out of his way down the East Lancs and dropped me at the lights at Kirkby. There’s Mancs and there’s Mancs … you know the score. I got in about midnight and told me ma that I’d got me hand caught in the van door.
Next morning she woke me up, concerned that our kid still wasn’t back. The others had stopped for a pint in London and ended up in a club full of Man U cockney Reds. There were a few arrests for drunk and disorderly. One of them was the driver, so the lads had to kip in the transit van overnight.
The sun was blazing again that Sunday. The only sound in the house was Rod Stewart playing low on the kitchen radio. It felt like he was taking the piss, singing about how he didn’t wanna talk about it, how somebody had broken his heart. The song was number one at the time. Me da switched it off. ‘Jammy bastards,’ was all he said. It was like a wake. Me ma said that me younger brother had locked himself in the bathroom for hours after the match and his mate had gone home in tears. It made me glad that I’d slept through it.
The Brookhire van finally turned up, and the lads emerged like a gang of spud pickers. Big Dave had done the same as me and slept through the match in the back of the van. Of the others just two had managed to bunk in. It had been a bad trip, especially for the poor bastard who’d tagged along. He’d ended up ripping his jeans on the fence, losing his watch, getting locked out the ground and being charged with drunk and disorderly. ‘I shouldn’t be here, your honour,’ was one shout.
By mid-afternoon the gloom was beginning to lift. If the FA Cup final had been the usual end-of-season showcase, then the stench of defeat would have clung for weeks. But the phone went a couple of times … all Rome talk. ‘What time are yer going?’ ‘Have yer changed your money?’
Later on I lifted me mattress and looked at me Rome gear. It was all there: sterling, lire, passport and that superb ticket. Just eyeballing it was enough to exorcise the red devils from the day before. They’d managed to steal the Cup with a lucky smash-and-grab