Here We Go Gathering Cups In May. Nicky Allt

      CONTENTS

      Foreword – Jimmy Case

      Introduction – Nicky Allt

      Rome, 1977 – Dave Kirby

      London, 1978 – Nicky Allt

      Paris, 1981 – Peter Hooton

      Rome, 1984 – Jegsy Dodd

      Brussels, 1985 – Kevin Sampson

      Istanbul, 2005 – John Maguire

      Athens, 2007 – Tony Barrett

       FOREWORD

      Standing on the pitch at the Olympic Stadium in Rome, 1977, was one of the proudest moments of my life. I scanned the massed ranks of red and white, hoping to see a few mates or my two brothers, Frank and Dave, who were amongst the 26,000 that travelled over. It was an incredible sight. It seemed a far cry from the days when we used to get the number 86 bus, then the 27, to Anfield. Like most young scousers back then I served my time in the ‘Boys’ Pen’ watching great players like Peter Thompson, Ian Callaghan and my hero, Tommy Smith. At every home game we’d try and bunk out of the pen into the Kop. We’d wait till the copper moved away from the fence, then bail over and join the swaying crowd and deafening noise. Over the years I travelled home and away to places like West Brom and Walsall – fitting the match around my job as an apprentice spark and my amateur football career.

      While at South Liverpool I was spotted by Tom Saunders and, after a two-week trial, agreed to sign as a semi-pro. I’d play two mornings a week at Melwood then head straight to a building site in the afternoon. Most of my mates off the sites went to the match. It was a welcome diversion away from a tough job with poor pay and poor conditions – following Liverpool could do that; take you away from it all. I finally made my debut in April ’75. It was a fantastic feeling being named alongside Toshack and Keegan. I ran out in front of the packed Kop where I’d stood for so long. The raw passion and pride that they felt was a natural part of me; there was no way I was going to let them down. Two years later – on that incredible night in Rome – I stared at the red masses who had gone to unbelievable lengths to make the journey. If things had turned out differently, I know for a fact that I’d have been right there in the middle of them waving a chequered flag. That’s how it is when you’re a fanatic – you’d do anything and travel anywhere to watch Liverpool. I’d have died for those fans that night. I knew exactly how they felt because they were me – I was them.

      Jimmy Case, Liverpool 1972–1981

       INTRODUCTION

      Walking the atmospheric boulevards of old Marseilles, eventually reaching dockside, I found the bar where I’d sat and spoken to a wizened old Frenchman all those years ago. Presuming he’d be part of the incoming tide by now, I never bothered to ask the owners of his whereabouts. Patrick Le Duveneh, Marseilles fisherman, had told me among many pearls of wisdom that he’d have his ashes scattered at sea the next time I visited his Southern French port. Yeah, that’s what he called it: his; like he was the yacht-owning, wrinkly Popeye version of the southern King of France.

      Almost thirty years since I last breathed the intoxicating whiff of Gauloise smoke, sea air and Gallic streets, I let the scenery, sounds and a sprinkling of Mediterranean salt water wash over me. Noisy ocean waves crashed into boats and rocks with a densely defiant thud that proclaimed, ‘I am the sea’. Like Patrick, I too loved everything about the ocean. Along with old briny, I also loved these rough and ready portside settings – bit like Naples, bit like Hamburg, bit like Liverpool. The rougher the setting, find the right people and, warmer the welcome.

      Thinking how I’d gotten here last time, penniless after another European trek, myself, Fast Eddie and Joey O’ had started out at William Hill’s betting office outside Liverpool’s Lime Street Station. With no real intention other than to pass time and see what Fast Eddie could do with his just-cashed giro cheque, we talked about the buzz of hitting the road. Arriving back from places like Amsterdam, Geneva and Cologne, story-laden, hungry for more, with a travel bug nipping away at toes and backsides that made sitting or standing still for five minutes seem like a life sentence, we badly wanted off.

      Small, blue, betting-office pens between teeth, nervously biting at the over-chewed tops, we talked of where we’d like to take off to, there and then, if a big pools win came in (pipe dreaming, as we didn’t do the pools), or, if wrinkly Lester Piggott romped home on a decently priced filly to put a nice, fat, bundle in your back bin. You know, as a dreamer does, as a kid does, as you do. Fast Eddie, pinpointing Monaco as his beloved destination, grinned to himself, tearing another betting slip from the metal container on the wall. Asked why he’d chosen a rich mans dining table as the place he’d cash his chips, he replied, ‘If all those tax-dodging fruitcakes were spending money there, and the place was riddled with gambling casinos, I’d be aboard glistening yachts, rolling dice under the stars every night with pop stars and princesses.’

      A long-winded answer by our own in-house gambling fiend, his mid-afternoon dream got sliced when Joey O’, countered, ‘Who are you kidding, Betting-Office Balls? On yachts! You only have to bunk the Royal Iris ferry across the Mersey to Birkenhead and you’re spewing your ring soon as the engines kick in!’

      He was right about Eddie’s seafaring legs, but it was only a harmless dream. Defending the lad’s answer, I responded, ‘Well, where would you choose then, Joey the rock-hard pirate?

      ‘I’d get right off to the Caribbean. Money goes a long way there. It’s sunny, there’s loads of cricket and, there’s a thousand black beauties to wine and dine and take to those boss reggae clubs!’

      Loving cricket in school, since getting tuned into Bob Marley’s ‘Exodus’ by a calypso Scouser, he listened to nothing but reggae music. I understood his choice, till Fast Eddie butted in: ‘Ha! Cricket’s a load of shit! Sitting there, bored off your skull with a big bag of money to spend!’

      ‘Yeah, he’s got a point there with the cricket,’ I offered.

      ‘Nah, you’ve got no culture, youse two. Crickets a game for lords. I’d be a lord in the Caribbean. Yeah, Lord Joseph of Trinidad, or Barbados or Jamaica, that’d do for me.’

      ‘Kingston is in Jamaica … isn’t it?’ I quizzed.

      ‘Yeah … why?’ asked Joey.

      ‘Cos Kingston is one seriously rough gaff and you’d be mugged, battered and robbed within a week.’

      Clocking me for a moment, he asked ‘Alright smartarse where would you go then?’

      Without a thought I snapped back, ‘Marseilles!’

      ‘Marseilles?’