Unashamed nostalgia here today. No apologies. If we can’t celebrate history, what’s the point? Everything before today becomes meaningless. The existence of 99.9% of all football clubs becomes insignificant. Of course, we (at Forest) can overdo it and let the past become a burden, a monkey on our collective backs, so to speak. An albatross. But it’s happened, it was magical, unprecedented, will never happen again (to anyone) and it’s a big part of our lives for us of a certain age.
So, Monday was the anniversary of the second leg of the European Cup first round at Anfield; 27th September 1978, a night much overlooked as a mere post-script to the epic home leg and that Colin Barrett goal. But it’s worth re-visiting. A night of real heroics, as we shall see…
Firstly, and less heroically, we were apprehensive about this trip, to say the least. Our visit to Anfield the season before had been a pretty edgy affair. Crossing Stanley Park had felt like an operation behind enemy lines in the VIetnam War. “Got the time, la?”
That time, we’d been greeted on the Annie Road End with a hail of ball bearings, not far short the size of golf balls, fired from catapults. It could’ve been worse. We’d all seen the photos of United fan Peter Brooke from earlier that year and they did nothing for the confidence, the work, reputedly, of the Annie Roads Darts Team.
Segregation was an odd affair too. A double dividing fence patrolled by the Police, including a fearsome looking copper who seemed to be known to the scallies as Blackbeard, did little to prevent the barrage of missiles and there seemed to be as many scousers in the away end as visitors anyway. Keeping quiet was the order of the day. I recall no singing, cheering, anything whatsoever on any visit there.
Keeping quiet was all well and good, but the Annie Road Enders would have known who was who anyway. If nothing else, the fashions gave it away. They were cool as fuck in tight jeans, Stan Smiths, green Peter Storm, Slazenger jumpers. We were, comparatively, a mess. The wedge or mushroom haircut was also in vogue and we couldn’t match that. This was scallydom well before the rest of the country caught onto the casual thing and it went all Tacchini and Lacoste. For a brilliant read, The Boys From The Mersey: The Story of Liverpool’s Annie Road End by Nicky Allt is highly recommended; much, much more than the usual hoolie biog stuff. There’s also The Liverpool Boys Are In Town; The Birth of Terrace Culture, another fantastic read, this one by Dave Hewitson.
The look, as reproduced for Away Days. I finally achieved the ambition of owning a green Peter Storm only last month!
So, we travelled with some wariness. It all kicked in as you passed that funny onion shaped service station on the M62. After that, you felt like you were falling off the end of the world, entering a parallel universe, or at least another country. The graffiti over the M62 didn’t sugar-coat it, “Away Fans Die.” Reach the Rocket flyover, where Liverpool seems to start and it really did feel and look alien; the landscape, the people. Perhaps perversely, I liked it. Liked it enough to make a point of going to study there a few years later, though that also had a lot to do with an obsession with Echo and the Bunnymen. I still like it - a special city, though less unique perhaps than it was.
The sense of foreboding wasn’t helped by memories of being shot at from a passing car on Loughborough Road after the home leg, we think with an air rifle. A pellet pierced Dave’s jacket (see also Wolves and Kung Fu Star post for more on Dave’s propensity to be pierced by weaponry!) and several more pinged off the wall beside us.
Having paid the obligatory ‘mind yer car’ fee, we avoided the perils of the park and left the car at the bottom of Arkles Lane, the big dual carriageway that leads up to Anfield Road. A nervy walk, but no problem. The away section was heaving, though possibly not with many Forest. As expected, there were scousers all over. Another quiet night in prospect. The missiles flew and the good inhabitants of the Kemlyn Road stand did their best to add to the intimidation with abuse and a torrent of gob.
The match itself was brutal. Liverpool threw everything at Forest and it was a real siege. Shilton was immense, as were all of them really. Poor old Frank Clark was singled out as a potential weakness and they kicked lumps out of him. That Liverpool side was brilliant, but they did have a ruthless side and this night saw plenty of it. The Express report below gets it about right and I seem to recall Joe Melling was usually very pro-Liverpool.
The 51,679 crowd was certainly the biggest I’d experienced, other than Wembley that same year, and the atmosphere was electric. As Liverpoool grew more desperate, the volume just went up and up. Momentarily, we forgot ourselves and taunted the seething Kemlyn Roaders with “…and the Forest fans said sit down, sit down you’re rocking the boat.” Briefly. Liverpool threw on ‘Supersub’ David Fairclough, but even he couldn’t make his usual impact. Again, if I recall right, we mustered up a few supportive, almost ghostly choruses of Amazing Grace, “Forest, Forest…” for the dying minutes and the players dug in. And time dragged.
On the final whistle, I’m sure the celebrations were muted, if any. The players were probably too knackered and we were probably too busy trying to work out how to get home alive.
Brief highlights here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhtauTPkFz0 The lack of coverage and even any photos reflects the different times. Highlights on Sportsnight perhaps, but even they seem to be lost. A few columns on the back pages, but no overkill.
So, to getting out. The mounted police herded us into a corner at the junction of Anfield Road and Arkles Lane. A mounted officer reassuringly informed us, and I remember this word for word: “One fucking sound out of youse and I’m letting them at you. They’ll tear you limb from limb . You’ll die. Fucking got that?” Yes, officer, loud and clear.
Inevitably, the escort headed left through the park, leaving three petrified teenagers and the old man (resplendent as ever, in neon blue rally jacket for easy identification - see post about WHam, ICF, Stinky Turner) to cross the central reservation, occupied en-masse by an army of scallies. Timing was everything. As the escort went left, the scouse mob charged across the road at them. Our cue to scuttle the other way. Nothing more than a few kicks and pushes as we crossed and kept running. And kept running! I don‘t think anyone breathed, let alone spoke, until the sanctuary of those same glass onions and a welcome cuppa and a plate of chips. What a night and what tales to share in double Maths the next morning.
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