I first came to Liverpool in the summer of '67. A
day trip. Just to look round. 'Creeque Alley' was playing on the pub juke box that
lunch-time. It had to vie with the boom of the demolition gangs. They were clearing the
surrounding Victorian terraces. Part one of Dick Crossman's concrete vision. Only the
corner pubs seemed to remain, marooned fortresses, presiding over their ravaged
communities. Thirty years on, many of these pubs were still there. Battered, chipped and
caged. But still operating. Some had acquired new communities. Unimaginative red brick
housing developments. A return to basics after the concrete nightmare of the sixties and
seventies. Affordable housing, now built by housing associations, not Councils. Graffitti
was at a premium. The anonymity seemed accepted. Only 'Denise' and 'Darren' had made their
mark. A date (1996) was added. There was no mention of love. Kids today seem more
pragmatic. Apart from the new housing, there were the modern industrial estate units, like
'Mr Clutch'; pointless attempts at personifying the impersonal. 'Everton Exhausts and
Tyres'. I appreciated the pun, for it was a laboured walk up from Lime Street. Andrew and
I had prepared for the climb by downing a few pints in a pub adjacent to the station. It
was one of those Firkin joints. The barman looked morose. I could understand why. He was
wearing a T shirt with the inscription, 'I'm a Firkin bar steward'. One-liners usually
work best as once-liners. A sandwich board is not a recommended prop for a credible
comedian.
We were grateful of the alcoholic fortification. The warmth of the train had made us
complacent about the cold. Once removed from the protection of Lime Street, the icy,
Easterly wind found us out. Buffetting and swirling under a slate-grey sky, it rasped in
our throats and nostrils. The place had the hospitality of a Gdansk sunday. En route to
Anfield, we came upon several abandoned Gothic memorials to Liverpool's capitalist past.
Now skulking in wastelands of snow, rubble and coarse, tussocky grass. Boarded-up,
padlocked and useless. Perhaps they're preserved by the Militant Tendency, to revive local
spirits, to demonstrate that the citadels of power can be made to crumble. Except now, the
fight is with multi-nationals, as vast and faceless as the Arctic Tundra. Seizing an
impoverished local authority is one thing; bringing down one of these giants is quite
another. But Nick Leeson has shown it can be done.
Before we got to Anfield, we found another pub. This was stripped down for serious
drinking. The bar contained two chairs only. The toilet was an ante-room. No door
separated the two. Economy of action. The Racing Channel was the attraction and each
breath was worth twenty, untipped. It was a mart, too. Kids came round flogging checked
shirts and deodorant. The cheery landlady seemed surprised at our wish to see the game. We
could have stayed where we were, picking up a few bargains, to boot.
Much has been said about the game, already. Did Heath lose his nerve? I'm really not
sure. Certainly, Burnley fought. Whether their tactics were wrong or not, I thought the
players did us proud. They defended well, particularly Chris Brass, and scrapped for
limited pickings. I was not down-hearted. But at the station, a scouser tried to tap us
for his return fare. Then seeing our colours, he conceded our need was greater than his.
Humiliation doesn't come much bigger than this
