Here We Go Gathering Cups In May. Nicky Allt
Someone said that the two lads in it were on sick leave and had sneaked the van out of the yard in Bootle.
By mid-afternoon the sun felt like it’d just been retubed. The official temp was 87°F, but in the suntrapped streets and piazzas it was easily around 100. In one street a Scouser dressed in a toga and wearing a blond Roman wig kept passing in a taxi … standing up in the sunroof waving to us like royalty. He went past about eight times shouting ‘Hail, Scousers’. We’d all shout it back, then bow.
The I-ties were all smiles and handshakes. In one hotel chefs and waiters waved down from windows. We waved our genie bottles back. Within seconds they were lowering bottles of wine and champagne down on long cords. Jimmy couldn’t stop blowing kisses up to them. Every I-tie who walked past was greeted with Red respect. The birds were stunners. There were a few bad attempts at chatting them up. The pick of the day was outside a packed bar, where Jimmy curtsied to a gorgeous brunette, held her hand and said, ‘D’yer take it up the Tex Ritter?’ I nearly choked. Boy was Rome the place to be that day.
By the time our genie bottles were empty, we were blowing bubbles. The train journey, the wine and the intense heat finally rugby tackled us. We crashed out in the shade of an ancient church and kipped on the pavement. In the hours that we slept, the siege of Rome continued. Every fountain and pool in the city had a pair of Scouse feet in it. One fountain we’d passed looked like Queens Drive baths. The elaborate Trevi was crawling with Reds. Though the bizzies weren’t keen on anyone bailing in, loads did. A few lads I knew from Gerard Gardens made the trip. One was Franny Carlyle, who was Scouse/I-tie so knew a bit about Rome. His mates didn’t have a clue. Shortly after they arrived, Franny said to them, ‘Listen, boys, we can’t leave Rome without goin’ the Colosseum.’ One of the lads genuinely and sincerely asked, ‘Is it a late bar?’
Thousands descended on that ancient old ruin, draping it with banners and playing footy outside. Others swarmed to gaffs like the Pantheon, St Peter’s Square and the Sistine Chapel – a place that me old buddies Stevie and Tony Riley described as ‘Nearly as beautiful as the Kop’. The day was a mixture of football fervour and cultural education. Everyday life for a lot of Reds was seeing graffiti-ridden walls and derelict flats on run-down estates, but here they were feasting their eyes on grandiose architecture, mosaic-covered courtyards and wall frescoes by fellas like Botticelli and Perugino. And let’s be honest, who could fail to be bowled over and gobsmacked by Michelangelo’s incredible ceiling! It definitely beat stipple or swirl Artex. For many this trip was where the first seeds of cultural awareness were planted. LFC weren’t just broadening our trophy cabinet; they were broadening our horizons and minds.
Wardy was grinning as usual when he woke us up at about five o’clock. I still owe him for that. Missing the FA Cup was a blessing, but if I’d have slept through the Rome game I’d have topped meself. Jimmy’s head was torched. He’d slid out of the shade and into the sun – his kite looked like it had been cheese-grated. We panicked and checked our pockets … it was all there. How the I-tie dippers didn’t have us off is a complete mystery.
We walked down a jigger into a proper back-street cafe. Wardy turned African again: ‘Food … spaghetti.’ When it came, it was full-on Italian. We stared at it, amazed at seeing white spaghetti.
‘What the fuck’s that?’ Jimmy said. ‘Ask them have they got any Heinz.’
It was our first hot meal in three days; we didn’t come up for air. I’ve been seriously hooked on bolognese ever since.
The match was kicking off at quarter past eight, which meant a taxi to the Olympic Stadium. On the way there the Colosseum flashed past the taxi window. By the time Jimmy said ‘Where?’ and turned round, it’d vanished. That was the sum total of our sightseeing, though we were in for a feast when we crossed the River Tiber near the ground. A tall, white stone obelisk graced the entrance to the Olympic Way. Behind it was a tree-lined stone avenue that led to the stadium. The sun was still laughing, making the avenue glow ultra-white with veins of red as thousands of Kopites streamed towards the Roman arena. When I got out the cab, I felt like kissing the deck. I was eighteen, I was raw and I was buzzing. This place looked like heaven on earth.
On the avenue red and white chequered flags were changing hands faster than an Olympic baton, at five thousand lires each (about three pound fifty). I reckon the I-tie who sold them must’ve retired on the banks of Lake Como from the business he did that night, though I wouldn’t begrudge him a single lire, because his flags were about to become a defining symbol of this whole amazing night, a visual jaw-dropper that’d soon be written into LFC history. A bit further on a couple more lads who I knew from town, Strodey and Ray Baccino, looked spaced out. At first I thought they were blitzed on vino, till Strodey managed to get his words out: ‘Davey, me prayers in the Vatican have been answered. We’ve just met Shankly.’ It was true. Shanks had walked up to the ground, mingling with all the Reds. ‘We’re gonna win this tonight, boys’ were the great man’s exact words. Strodey was totally gone. ‘Even the Roman statues were bowing as he walked past,’ he said.
Outside the stadium bizzies were frisking everyone for ale. It had been banned inside. I got past them and unravelled me battered match ticket. After three days’ worth of dossing, it looked like one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The final stage of the pilgrimage was passing through those turnstiles. I closed me eyes for a sec, clenched me fists. I was in.
If there’s one sight I wanna see on me deathbed, it’s the scene that greeted me when I walked onto the Curva Nord terrace: a red and white panoramic rush of waving chequered flags, home-made banners, epaulettes, scarves, hats and streamers stretching three-quarters of the way around the ground. As far as breathtaking colour and beauty goes, it was right up there with the Swiss Alps – a vision that’ll never fade. Some of the raised banners I saw in our end are now legendary:
When in Rome, do as the Scousers do
Here we go gathering cups in May
… and the mother, daddy and now grandad of them all, a twenty-four foot by eight-foot banner that became the story of Rome, the Scouse version of the Bayeux Tapestry that will be talked about and revered by Reds until the Liverbirds take flight: ‘Joey ate the frogs’ legs, made the Swiss roll, now he’s munching Gladbach’.
It was an honour to be in its presence. To Phil Downey, Jimmy and Phil Cummings, all’s I can say is well in boys – your banner will wave and echo in eternity.
Down at the front I was looking at the half-deserted Gladbach end when there was a tap on me shoulder. I turned around and, fuck me, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was Vinnie, standing there grinning like Wardy. His white clobber was absolutely rotten. First thing out of his mouth was, ‘I hope yer haven’t ate me sarnies.’ We laughed for ages. He’d managed to bunk a special via the platform nine fire-escape ladder. Lime Street was the only ticket checkpoint on the entire trip. I asked him about getting home. ‘Who cares?’ he said. Seeing him just added to the buzz. Everything was going right.
The racket from our end was non-stop and loud – not bad considering we were in an open-air stadium. Horns added to the din. You could see that the players were shell-shocked when they walked out and saw us all.
Tommy Smith: ‘I couldn’t believe it … and it did hit you.’
Emlyn Hughes: ‘Jesus Christ, we’re back in Liverpool.’
Terry McDermott: ‘Christ, how can we get beat for these lot?’
Terry Mac’s quote said it all. They couldn’t get beat, and the result we all know (you know the score). Every one of them dug deep and gave everything and more that night. They were just young lads, but under the genius of Bob Paisley they understood the historical importance and massive responsibility of it all. They represented who we were – our city, hopes, dreams and fantasies. They were how most of us got through a working week, our escape route from the dole queues, building sites, factories, mundane offices, domestic shit, wedge troubles or family grief. We needed them, and they needed us. We existed for each other, and together on one beautiful spring night we made history. If I had to choose a phrase to describe the moment, I’d put