The interview (with the WMSCS)

The Police Interview:

Background:

The newspapers are full of speculation about the causes of the Hillsborough disaster.  Two opposing views are coming out, with the key question being how did the gate into Hillsborough come to be opened?  Was it opened by the police or was it forced open by fans?  If the police opened it, why did they open it?

At the time, the police were collating evidence and a hotline was setup for fans to ring and pass on their details.  I had three crucial bits of evidence that I wanted to share, namely

1.     The gate being shown on the TV, was not the gate through which the fans had come.

2.     The gate was opened more than once. 

3.     The final opening on the gate was done by the police / stewards and the gate was not forced open.

I had been the last fan through the gate the first time it was opened, and had waited by the turnstiles for my friends who had not got in.  I had seen the gate being opened from inside the stadium and knew the police/stewards had opened it without it being broken down or forced open.

So I rang the number, left my details and address and waited for the police to get in touch.  Just short of three weeks after the disaster a knock on the door and two Police wanted to chat about what I had seen.  It took just five minutes, they took some notes and they took my unused match ticket and arranged for me to go to their offices the next day for a formal interview. 

No problem and I went down pleased that my testimony was to be collated, along with the many other pieces of the jigsaw.  As an independent witness, I was sure my testimony would hold additional weight as I had no desire to paint anyone in a good or bad light.

The Interview

I went down to the office and met with the two officers who were to interview me.  They were part of the West Midlands Police, home of the notorious Serious Crime Squad, soon to be disbanded due to their involvement in a series of miscarriages of justice.  None of that was known to me at the time though.

The interview started easily enough, what was my name, my address, who did I go to the match with.  Just background information that was required for the statement.  Then the questioning started and I was asked to detail the day’s events, starting with how I had obtained my ticket and how much I had paid for it.  I explained I bought it from my mate Mike, who got it from his mate.  I paid £8 for it, the price being £6 for the ticket with the difference being for lad to buy himself a drink as a thankyou. 

Interviewer:  So your ticket was from a tout? 

Me:  No, it was from a mate, he got it from a mate, who got it from a player. 

Interviewer:  Why did you pay £8?  It was clearly from a ticket tout. 

Me:  No, I paid £8. £6 was for the ticket and a couple of quid to buy a pint as a thankyou. 

Interviewer:  So who is the ticket tout your mate bought the ticket off?  What’s his name?

Me:  His name is xxxxx, my mate paid him £8. 

Interviewer:  Can we speak to him to verify your story?

Me:  No, he’s dead.

Interviewer:  Dead?

Me:  Yeah, he died at the match….so you can't speak to him no.

The copper was lost for words at this point, recognising I was not going to name xxxxx as a ticket tout.  The guy was dead just three weeks and can’t defend himself.  No way am I labelling him a ticket tout and the copper realises he’s bitten off more than he can chew on this one.

Next up are our drinking habits and the copper asked me to detail mine and my friends alcohol consumption that day.

Me:  What’s that got to do with my evidence? 

Interviewer:  Were you drunk?  You’d been drinking hadn’t you? 

Me:  Yeah, we’d had a drink, but no more than normal.  What’s that got to do with my evidence?  I don’t understand the relevance?

Interviewer:  Look. I’m following guidelines, I can’t take your statement unless you give all the details of the day, including your drinking.   If you don’t tell me, how can we know if your other evidence is reliable?  If you were drunk how can we know you really saw what you claim?

Me:  Ok, if that’s how it works…..

Looking back, the guy was determined to get my drinking detailed, and so it was, the time of our visit to the Nursery Tavern, the quick pint in the Pomona and the stop at an off licence after we got off the bus, were all detailed, all apparently important background evidence.

Next up was our arrival at the stadium. 

Interviewer:  So you were drunk, did you stop to piss anywhere?  You or your mates…?

Me:  We weren’t drunk, we’d had a few pints, nothing over the top.  We went to the toilets in the pub, this is ridiculous….why are you asking me about how much I drank.  I’ve told you we weren’t drunk, we just a few beers.

So we arrived at the top of Leppings Lane, where upon we are met with a crowd of fans….now the fun really starts.  One of my observations I am determined to make is about the conduct of a mounted police officer outside the ground.  Whilst accepting he was trying to control the crowd, at the time, I was so disgusted with his conduct, charging into fans, that I had taken his number with the intention of making a complaint.  I took his number before anyone had died, been injured, so appalled was I at how he and his horse was used in the crowd.  In those days, fans were herded like cattle, and this guy’s actions did nothing other than to agitate fans who were trying to get into the stadium.  He made the crush outside the stadium worse and I was determined that this testimony be recorded, even if the police didn’t want to hear it / record it. 

When I gave these observations, the Policeman’s attitude changed markedly, and he started to contend every point I made.  How could I make a complaint about this guy, when I was clearly drunk?  Why was I complaining about the police…did I have a grudge against them?  I was clearly a student agitator who was “out to get the police”.  He was going to check my criminal record to see if I was a “Criminal with a grudge against the police”  He even questioned whether I was at the match, why did I not have “proper injuries”

The guy decided he didn’t like my evidence and started to aggressively contest every point I made.  On my notes that I had brought with me, he spotted my note that “Some police were drinking tea” – a reference to the many police who did nothing to help with the escape, and to aid he injured.  This observation didn’t go down well and he started to shout at me, that I was just a left wing student and did I know what “Wasting Police time” was? 

Interviewer:  “Yesterday I know what your t-shirt was – Free Nelson Mandela, you are just an agitator out to get us….What is it?  Are you a Socialist Worker?  Workers Revolutionary Party?  I will check, I will be checking which parties you are a member of…you can’t just make accusations against the police and get away with it…

Me:  “You can check all you want, I was at the game, you have my ticket?  What else do you want?

Interviewer:  “Proves nothing, you could have bought that, found it….are you a criminal too, got a grudge against the police?  I will be checking your details and I will be putting together a case against you….wasting police time, false allegations, you want to go to jail?

Me:  You can check all you want, I was at the match, and I will go through the CCTV frame by frame if I have to, I can find myself.

Interviewer:  So what were you wearing?

Me:  Denim jeans and a demin jacket.

Interviewer (sneering):  How convenient.  

The guy was off on one and had decided I was an agitator determined to make trouble for the police.  He told me I was lieing, that my lack of injuries were clear evidence I had not been at the game, that my early escape (I had been lucky to land within feet of the gate on the fence) was not possible, that I could not have been there and that he would be collating my evidence and double checking all the facts.  He even suggested I should leave the interview now and withdraw my statement, or face charges later.

The interview itself took 2 ½ hours to write out 6 pages of testimony.  2 ½ hours…. Why?  Because he didn’t like my testimony, it didn’t meet his expectations.  No my ticket wasn’t from a tout. the observations about the policing, my contention around the conduct of the policeman on the horse, all of this was not treated as my giving evidence, rather it was contended, challenged and was a constant battle and interrogation of my testimony and of my motives.

But the worst was still to come….the biggest problem he had, was my observations was around what I saw outside the ground.  The lack of barriers, no filtering, no police instructions were obvious, but my assertion that this was different to the previous year, was clearly second hand evidence.  I conceded this and so agreed that this was not evidence I could give.  Fair enough, but now he sought to contend my other observations, that clearly were relevant and were first hand.

What I saw on arriving at Leppings Lane was simple, some fans, a handful, were climbing over the turnstiles, over the top, about 8ft tall, and were then jumping down into the area behind inside the stadium.  This was done for two reasons, firstly the flow through the turnstiles seemed to have ground to a halt, and secondly, a dangerous crush was developing outside the stadium around the turnstile area.

The fans climbing over, were doing so with the consent of the police, some police officers, aware of the growing dangers, were helping pull fans up onto the turnstiles and were helping them down again.  The fans showed their tickets and no-one was stopped doing this.  It was done with both the consent and assistance of the police.  That is what I saw and how I described it.

Interviewer:  So you saw unauthorised entry into the stadium. 

Me:  No, I saw fans climbing over the tunstiles, with the consent of, and help of the police.

Interviewer:  So that was unauthorised entry, you are supposed to go through the turnstiles.

Me:  But it was with the consent of the police.  People were getting crushed and the police were helping them escape that crush.  That is not unauthorised entry.

We went back and forth for 10 minutes, my refusing absolutely to agree that I had seen or witnessed unauthorised entry.

Me:  No one broke in, all the people were doing was escaping a crush.  The police were helping them over. 

Interviewer:  How many did you see?

Looking back now, I remember the most at any given point was 1 or 2 fams.  There was no steam of fans, just a few getting up and over as best they could. 

So was my statement a true reflection?

My typed up statement says the following:

“At this stage I saw approx, fifty fans climbing over the side of the turnstiles”

Contrast this to my mates observation in his statement:

"I only saw one or two making entry in this way"

How is it that my statement records that I saw 50 fans climbing over, when I saw and said nothing of that kind?  There is no way is that what I saw or what I said. The only conclusion I can draw is that the police changed the tenant on what I said to misrepresent the facts.

Police writing on statement

My second specific complaint around my statement is that my statement has a hand written note that says

In L/L (Leppings Lane) witnessed unauthorised entry

This was absolutely not what I said in my statement and I had spent 10 minutes denying that was that I saw.  To write that comment on my statement is a complete lie as that is not what I said I had witnessed.

This is really important as the police were building a case of ticketless drunk fans “breaking into” the stadium.  Not only did the police change the observed number of fans I saw climbing over, but they changed the central tenant of what I saw, from entering with police consent to "unauthorised entry".

Wrapping up the interview:

The badgering, accusations and sneering continued for the rest of my interview and I think it did have an effect on my evidence.  For example one thing I remember well, wasn’t just that the police were slow to help people, they were initially actually trying to stop people escape the crush inside the stadium.  The police were pushing people back over the fence, kept the gates closed.  When I escaped through the front gate the policeman was trying to push the gate shut…he did close it after me.  This despite the cries and pleas of dieing fans.

None of that really made it fully into my statement; instead I was at the point of just wanting to get out of the interview, worn down and intimidated by the accusations and threats from the police interviewer. 

I was left thinking I was going to be investigated and possibly charged with "wasting police time".  The policeman told me he would later check my criminal record, my political affiliations and would look to cross check all my evidence against other people.  He would put together a case for consideration of “wasting police time”, though I didn’t have to sign my statement if I didn’t want to.

In my letter home, I asked my mother to ask my brother to keep my match programmes I had sent him, as this was one piece of evidence to back up my testimony….a clear indication that I was left with the impression that I was to be investigated further.

The compliant to the Geoffrey Dear

Unknown to me, my mother passed on copies of my letters home to a family friend, my Godfather, recently retired Chief Superintendent of the Special branch.  Concerned at my treatment he wrote a letter to Geoffrey Dear highlighting that I was neither a left wing agitator nor was I a criminal bearing a grudge. 

Following this complaint, the two officers involved (one of whom had said very little in the interview, other than to apologise for the conduct of the lead interviewer) both said that they felt I was “anti police” and doubted my testimony due to “inconsistencies” 

They also made reference to my “left wing type t-shirt"

No one spoke to me about the interview and/or apologised for their conduct.

Impact:

I feel that my evidence was changed.  I know I was threatened and intimidated and that some things I wanted to record were never recorded.

My evidence was mispresented as having seen “unauthorised entry” into the stadium despite my making clear I had seen no such thing

My evidence was both misrepresented and altered and I think my statement clearly had the potential to be used to back up the false allegations of fans “Breaking into” the stadium which the police wanted to make.  
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A momentous week....

It’s been a momentous week where a lot of us have learned things a lot of new things:

We now know that the police coordinated a corrupt attempt to pervert the course of justice.  They and their Tory friend, Irvine Patnick, lied to the press and media about the causes of the disaster.

On top of lying about the causes of the disaster, we now know that the Police and their unofficial mouthpiece Patnick, were also the source of defamatory lies about the conduct of fans e.g.  Pick pocketing dead bodies. 

You’ve seen him on Youtube, here he is in press too. 

http://hillsborough.independent.gov.uk/repository/docs/PRE000000560001.pdf

We know that the very Tory MP who fed some of these vile lies to the press, was then knighted in 1994 by then Prime Minister John Major.  He remains a Tory lord to this day.

We know Mrs Thatcher refused the resignation of Peter Wright, the Head of SYP and now exposed as the most likely source of instigating the cover up.  We don’t know 100% because the name is redacted from the statement of the brave copper who exposed this 15 years ago.  So we know that the cover up is still going on, they have withheld the name in the disclosures, though Wright is odds on.   

We know that 15 years ago, this brave copper resigned in disgust after finding out his own evidence had been altered without his permission and his signature forged on a cut down version that he refused to sign at the time. 

We know that Bernad Ingham continued to pedal his warped version of the truth well after Hillsborough.   He is yet to issue an apology for his outburst on question time.

We know that the coroner imposed a 15 minute rule meaning that no evidence after that time was admissible in determining a cause of death.  We also know that various courts have supported this, despite clear evidence this was false. 

We know that 41 victims could have been saved had they had proper medical attention.

We know that 40 of 42 ambulances were turned away from Hillsborough.  Ironically that would be very nearly one per possible survivor. 

We know that the lies fed to press were not just about a ticketless mob, they also briefed that fans were attacking and urinating on the police as they gave medical aid, that fans pick pocketed dead fans and (a new one) sexually assaulted one dead fan.

We know that after 23 years to consider their role in this cover up, both Irvine Patnick and Mckenzie only apologized this week for their vile and false allegations.  They didn’t do so after the Taylor report. 

We know that Bernard Ingham and Mckenzie continued to peddle the “it was the fans” lie years after the Taylor report.  Ingham is still to apologise.

We know that the police altered 116 statements by removing comments that did not meet their version of events. 

But you know what, we knew most of that anyway….90% of that was in the public domain and the Police / IPCC / Politicians all chose to do nothing about the cover up.  They didn’t give a shit.  

And the public?  To be brutally honest, most of the public chose to not really give a shit…Why don’t these scoucers move on, they are serial victims, why do they want another minutes silence….yep, a lot of people sort to make cheap jibes and ignore the fact that there was a huge injustice.  

There are a few exceptions, people who refused to be silenced or who kept the issues in the public domain, including MPs Steve Rotherham and Andy Burnham.

So take your hats off to the brave families who carried on despite everything, despite a seemingly hopeless fight and despite the lack of hope.

They will not ever move on, not until they get justice.  Too right. 

As one of mates just said to me “Keep up the rage over Hillsborough”. I intend to.  Damn right I am angry, as I now know that whilst a line of policeman stood two deep across the centre circle, whilst other SYP police were refusing ambulances entry to the stadium, all that time 41 of our fallen were dying.  Some of the 41 who died, could possibly hear those sirens for themselves.

I heard them, I heard them loud and clear, they were constant, the sound of sirens as frustrated ambulance with paramedics sitting idle whilst young kids died all around. me  I also know what happened on the terrace.  How the Police were slow to react and worse, initially pushed fans back over the fence as they tried to escape.  Keeping the gate closed on the cage designed to contain the “animals’.

One other thing we knew all along, is about the conduct of the most senior policeman on duty that day.  We know that at 3.50pm, less than 1 hour after he had personally given the order to open Gate C, whilst Kevin Williams lay not yet dead, needing just a simple tube to save his life, 40 ambulances stood idle a matter of yards away, we know that was the time David Duckenfield told the first lie to Graham Kelly, that the fans has broken down a gate. 

The cover up started within an hour of the gate opening, and before the last of the 96 has even died.  Shame on everyone of them involved.   

A good days work

Ok, one more Hillsborough blog...another recollection of the mentality of the average South Yorkshire Policeman.  

Feb 15^th 1990.  10 months to the day after Hillsborough and I finish lectures and walk upto the spot where I caught my bus home to Hunters Bar.  The bus stop in close to Sheffield City Hall and as I walk across a park, I can hear a protest, an anti-Poll tax one.  From memory this was a day or two before the big Poll tax riot in London.   

As I walk across I see a mounted police officer.  He looks familiar and I check his number, and then I know it is him, the same police officer who I been hit with his horse outside Hillsborough.  All of sudden I am back 10 months, proper flashback and can remember exactly the role this guy played outside the ground.  10 months of nightmares, barely a night when I slept through without waking up shaking.  Literally every night, scared to close your eyes because you know what is coming...

"You were at Hillsborough weren’t you?"   

 

He denied being there.  

 

"Yeah you were, I remember your number as I was going to make a formal complaint about how you were riding your horse, charging into fans.  I remember you and your face, I even put about you in my statement…"

He denied again being there.   

 

"Yeah you were, you were part of the problem, you and your mates who killed the 95 fans".  Tony Bland was not recognized as dead for a few years yet.  "You were there and none of you has lost your job.  Not one policeman sacked or disciplined or charged with anything…"

At this point word gets out among the police that there is a trouble maker and about 20 police started walking towards me from the main demonstration.  

 

"Here we they are, the murderers, does it take 20 of you to deal with one man?  20 of you not happy to hear the truth about how you murdered 95 people.  20 of you for fucks sake.  Go on, nick me, I don’t care, you tried to kill me once, what do I care if you nick me?"

The police refused my suggestion, aware that there were lots of people around and I hadn’t really crossed any line upto that point.  Not yet I hadn’t.  One copper comes up to me and asks what is my problem?  

 

 I calmly told him.  "It’s very simple, 95 fans died and not one Policeman charged with anything."   

 

"But we did nothing wrong" he says, 

"Nothing wrong?  95 people are dead and you did nothing wrong?"  "That’s right" he said "95 dead, a good days work."  

 

My response was actually quite mild, I looked him in the eye and said very calmly “You are scum, utter, utter scum”

The copper had what he wanted and I was promptly arrested and charged with threatening behaviour and verbal abuse.  My brief was a freebie one arranged through the student union and the chat was quite funny.   

 

"What did you actually do?"  

 

"I called some coppers murdering bastards."  

 

"Were there any witnesses?"  

 

"About 20 coppers."  

 

"Hmmm, think you better plead guilty on that one."

So plead guilty I did, though the 12 month conditional discharge that I received, means I am no longer classified as a criminal.  Shame the real criminals remain at large to this day.  

23 years ago...

Apologies if this a little too brutal, too harsh, and I know some of my experiences don’t read too well, but please don’t judge me too harshly. Shed a few tears writing this, but there’s nothing new in that…

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April 14th 1989, Mike comes round to my student digs with a big grin on his face…”We’ve got tickets, we’ve got fecking tickets mate, our kid is bringing them over in the morning, first train like, it’s going to be sound!” Mike’s scouse accent as ever took some deciphering but the gist of it was clear, I was going to an FA Cup semi final, not something that happens too often to an Ipswich fan, but feck it, it’s a big match and I’m not going to turn my nose up at this.

Next morning I head down to the Halls where Mike is meeting with his brother and I am one happy bunny to see Neil, as promised waving the tickets in his hand. I ask him how much he wants and he says 8 quid, six for the ticket and a couple of quid to buy a drink for the lad who got them, can’t argue with that can we? Turns out Neil’s mate xxxx (RIP) knows Johnny Aldridge and ‘Aldo’ has come up trumps last minute. Top lad.

We get breakie sorted and head off to the local pub for twelve. No point heading to the ground too early as the pubs will be rammed and the old bill will no doubt be hassling anyone wanting a beer. We opt to go to our local and knock back a couple of quick pints before jumping on the bus and heading off to Hillsborough. The Penistone Road is bound to be busy, but who cares? Liverpool vs Forrest, Clough’s last chance to reach a proper Wembley Final? Liverpool going for the double again after messing it up against Wimbledon last year. This is going to be magic and I just can’t wait. Watching Ipswich is the dogs, but an FA Cup semi? Bring it on.

On the bus I try and wind up the scouse lads as best I can, 1978, 1981 are repeatedly mentioned and my favourite quiz question: Which team has the longest undefeated home record in Europe? With a droll face I announce it is of course the "Mighty Ipswich", as a smirk the size of the Mersey comes across my face…You lot are not bad for a bunch of northerners, but the real footballing hotbed, East Anglia has only 1 team! The scousers are laughing and enjoying the banter, happy that we are no longer a real threat to them. Johnny Wark, David Johnson are also discussed with a mutual affection.

With the bus stuck and making little progress about ½ mile from Hillsborough we jump off and decide it would be quicker to walk the last stretch. We see an off license and a couple of the lads take the chance for one last can, before heading down to the turnstiles. We arrive about 2.20pm and it’s not moving, a swathe of fans queueing patiently but not seeming to move much. The pressure steadily builds and the police and their horses decide to wade in. What are they doing? There’s a load of lads trying to get towards a turnstile and these idiots decide to ride their horses in?

The crush outside gets worse and more and more fans arrive but little progress is made towards the turnstiles. Things are getting heated now and the police are taking some stick. The coppers on their horses aren’t helping matters, “Hey, what are you doing? We are trying to get in, Why are you pushing us with your fucking horse you prick” One of the coppers is so aggressive with his horse I take his number, determined to make a complaint in writing later. I have never made a complaint to the police, never had any dealings with them, but this idiot is bang out of order, shoving us around for no reason. If he’s trying to help matters he isn’t, he’s just making a lot of people very angry.

As the pressure mounts I say to the lads I’ve had enough, I don’t care if I miss the kick off, don’t care if I miss the match, this is dangerous and I want out. I love my footie but someone is going to die here, make no bones. I head off to the side, pushing myself out of the crush and towards the edge of the fans. Sorry lads, I just can’t cope with that. Then someone shouts, the gate is open and I find myself looking at an open gate, a couple of coppers and a few fans jumping through. I go for it but as I arrive the copper is trying to pull it shut. I stuck my foot on the bottom and jump through, the last one in as the copper pulls it shut behind me. Half expecting to get knicked, I go to show my ticket but the copper isn’t bothered. I’m in, but what the fuck is going on outside?

My mates are still there and that is dangerous out there, really dangerous. Fans are getting agitated that there’s lots of shouting “Open the fucking gates, people are going to die outside” is heard by a number of people and the coppers are standing taking it, looking scared and out of their depth. I decide to hang on and wait for my mates and am stood for a couple of minutes until the call to open the gate is made, thank fuck for that.

As the gate is opened I dodge the first few fans coming in as I try to wait around, but the numbers coming in becomes a flood and I am swept away, up the tunnel onto the entrance to the terraces. I recall a small dividing fence that sends me into one of two pens. I opt to go right, into a pen where a dozen or so fans would die, if I had gone left, many more died there, the remaining fans in the tunnel itself. Why I went right I don’t know, but that possibly saved my life.

I hit the back of the terrace and it is full. Like properly full. I have no idea of the terrace layout, size etc. but recall my trips to Wembley to watch England and how the entrances onto the terrace were always more crowded. Push away 10 feet or so and the density was much less, so I knew standing here was silly. I pushed my may through the crowd, something that took every bit of strength I had. I was constantly apologizing and I eventually made it to a crash barrier. 

Decision time, go under or stand behind it. I knew at Ipswich the best place was in front, as behind it, you get crushed when the goals are scored, but in front you are protected. I decided to go for it and squeezed underneath before popping up. The people around me weren’t happy, but then neither was I. This was a nightmare and I could still not see the pitch, rather just a few spots of green.

After a couple of minutes the teams came out and a cheer went up. The match started and I had no idea what was going on, rather I was starting to get scared, really scared. Something’s not right here. This is no way to watch a game, but I am stuck, and could go nowhere. After a couple of minutes Beardsley hit the bar. I know this only because I have been told that was the cause of the surge that sent things into another dimension, this is close to what hell is like. Bang, a surge (a collapsed barrier?) and I am suddenly thrown forward and bang, I stop as suddenly as I started, as I hit a fence. Only this surge doesn't retract, no one moves back, this is just a surge that stops.

What the fuck just happened? Jesus, this is mental, this isn’t right, I got to get out of here, I can’t fecking breathe, what’s going on? Some of this my brain has partially blocked out, probably for the best. When I think about the fans in front of me, where did they go? Underfoot? Did I trample people to death? Dark thoughts that would reoccur many times in the dark moments that would follow over many years.

Somehow I landed within feet of a gate. I have my left shoulder on the fence and I am facing sideways away from the pitch, but I can see the gate. The cries are simple ones. “Open the gate, people are dieing” “Open the gate, people are dieing” How the copper turns his back on us is beyond belief but he does, ignoring the pleas of dieing people he turns his back on us. The fight for life takes over and I locked my elbows, determined to protect my space, to allow myself to breathe. Again years later you go over this, every breath I took, I stole from someone else, every breath could have kept another alive, just by living you are killing someone else…a headfuck like no other but one you go through no matter.

“Open the fucking gate, at least let some of the kids out…” Finally the copper shows some humanity and allows some them out before bang, he shuts it again. There’s more kids in here I lie, as I plead to him, beg him to reopen it and he does, this time I am not denied as I scramble up a step and onto the pitch where I fall to my knees and collapse. The match is still going on and I am one of the first to escape. My luck in going right at the top, in fighting my way through, landing so near the gate, this means I spent barely a few minutes on the terrace compared to many, and I know I am very lucky to be alive, and lucky not to have suffered the worst of it.

A copper picks me up off my knees and takes back towards the gate from where I escaped, “NO, no I ain’t going back in there – people are dieing in there - dieing – fucking knick me, I don’t care, I aint going back in there” I scream and he realizes it isn’t going to happen. I get taken to a side gate where I am put into what is a half full terrace towards the side of the stand. I walk high up and realize I am ok, but faces all around me are scared, that’s fecking mental in there, people are going to die in there I tell those around me, before sitting down and taking some much needed deep breaths.

The next half hour or so I am a spectator and no more. Behind a fence I ask a few times to go and help but the policewoman is having none of it. Stay where you are we will sort out the trouble she says, still unaware of the situation around her. Watching as events unfold, as the escape goes from a few dozen to a few hundred. The game is held up within seconds and the escape starts to speed up, fans being lifted onto the stand above and some climbing over the fencing sideways as best they can. But the cages are designed to keep you in and this is not easy.

People keep coming out and slowly it dawns on me people are dead. I focus on a young boy, in a blue tracksuit. Someone says he isn’t moving and I focus on him and the attempts to revive him. He is young, very young and they are desperately giving him mouth to mouth and pumping his heart but it makes no difference, he is lifeless and his flailing arms say as much as he is finally put on stretcher and taken away. For five minutes I stared at him and not one movement, not one breath, he is dead, no question, those fuckers wouldn't let us out, they have killed him.

The sound of sirens is constant now, I presume the many injured are being taken away, it is only years later that I discover they are trying to get in, the South Yorkshire police refusing them entry to the stadium and to the pitch, whilst people lay dieing and in need of help, like the young boy in the blue tracksuit.

The sirens go on and on and for me become a trigger, a trigger for flashbacks, every time I hear one, sometimes still to this day, I think of the 96, of the needless violent deaths, and violent they were. Having the life squeezed out of you, until you pop, until there is nothing left, until you can’t force out your chest and force in some oxygen is a violent, horrible disgusting way to die, and it’s something that will live with everyone of us who was on that terrace.

After the game is called off I finally get back onto the pitch, to go look for my mates. Where the feck are they? They were outside when the gate was opened again so I knew they had to be on the terrace. I looked around as best I could but there was no sign of them. I asked a copper how many were dead, “No one, just a few injured" he lied. I suddenly got very angry, “There’s people dead you liar, they are dead, I just want to know how many.” “Maybe 3 or 4” he responded and I carried on my way, worrying about Mike, Neil and Gill, another student who was along for the ride.

I headed back up Leppings lane to the place we had agreed to meet up if we got split, but they weren’t there. I hung around for a couple of minutes before heading back to college. No point getting a bus, the roads were needed by the ambulances, so I decided to walk back, the 4 miles taking a couple of hours. As I walked dazed, worried and distant, I popped into shops on the way, “How many mate?” 15, 23, 37, this was a tickometer that wasn’t going to stop.

I made it half way, into the town centre and headed through the shopping area. Some shoppers were happily talking about their days bargain hunting stopping only to give me a dirty look…for the first time of many I snapped – What the feck you staring at? Had a good days shopping have you? They look at me in disgust before someone else speaks to them, whispering the news that they never knew. They hold their hands over their mouths but I can’t be arsed to apologise. All I want to do is get to the halls and find the lads.

When I get back, it is close to 6 O Clock. Anyone seen Mike? Gill? No one had and I start to get even more worried. There’s a queue of students waiting to phone home but I decide to jump to the front. There’s a queue here mate – Yeah? Well I’ve been to the match so you can fuck off…does the trick and I manage to speak to my Dad first time. What happened son? They didn’t check our tickets, just let everyone in. What of your mates? I don’t know…What do you mean you don’t know? I don’t fucking know Dad, I lost them. I lost them…for the first time I start to cry, as the situation dawns on me….loads dead and no sign of them. I promise to let my parents know when I hear any news and I hang up.

I head up to Mike’s room, not that he’s there. Word gets out among the other students I am back and they want to know where the others are…I don’t fucking know, we got split up outside before the game…One of the girls takes me to her room, makes me the obligatory cup of coffee and I stand at the window were I can see the approach to the Halls of residence. Lots of people are reassuring me but what do they know? People died today, lots of them and there’s no sign of the lads…suddenly I get sight of three silhouettes coming up the road.. .It’s them, Mike, Neil and Gill – all in one piece and I shout down to them. Mike clenches a fist at seeing me, no doubt as relieved to see me and I am to see him.

The lads come up and we have a row, proper scouser style, Why weren’t you at the meeting point? We thought you were dead! I was, I thought you were dead! Like all good scouse arguments, it ends in a smile as the relief that everyone is ok dawns on us and we recognise that is more important.

The following days, weeks, months and now years has many ups and owns. The next day I went to the local Catholic Church and ask the priest if he can say some prayers for the dead (like I needed to ask). During the service I broke down to a hymn that years later would prove another trigger. Bizarrely a couple of years later I am sitting at my sisters wedding crying and people think it’s nice, I can’t be arsed to explain the real reason. Don’t want to ruin anyone else’s day. One of the Church attendees sees me crying and finds me outside. She kindly asks if I want to come round for Sunday dinner, as she can tell from my accent I am not a local. Why I decline I don’t know, typically British I turn away a genuine offer of help.

That night I am watching what remains close to 24 hour news coverage and can’t take it anymore. I walk outside and sit on the floor outside my house. It is raining but I but don’t care. I just want to be hurt, I want to be ill, why should I be unharmed when so many are dead. I sit determined to get ill, determined to get hypothermia if that is what it takes, I want to not be well and I want to have something to show I was there. One of the nurses from next door finds me and sits and chats, she gets me a coat and brings me inside to my house where my flat mates shake their heads in disbelief. I can’t be doing with explaining things and that is that.

On the Monday I pop upto Hillsborough to lay some flowers and my Ipswich scarf goes onto the pile. They have the wrong gate, I guess they need the real one for the tests. I notice some of the families sitting on a bus, some standing around in tears, mothers inconsolable at the loss of their boys. You are supposed to bury your parents, not the other way round. I think of speaking to them but can't find any words that would help.

I head back to college for afternoon lectures and wait in the canteen for my lecture class to come out. A couple of the girls spot me and check if I am ok. One of them buys me a coffee, which I can’t hold, my hands are shaking and I spill hot coffee all over my arm. Two days on and my hands are shaking? What is going on? One of them tells me I am still in shock and goes and gets the course leader.   I speak to him briefly and he tells me to go home, take as much time as I need and not to worry about the lectures.

Still shaking I head off to meet Mike and we arrange to travel over to Liverpool at the weekend and lay some more flowers at Anfield, that is fast becoming a focal point for the mourning. Next day I went to see a doctor at the Polytechnic who checked me over, I had a “print” of the fence on my left shoulder but he said I was ok. No counseling offered, just in and out 5 minutes. Shameful when you think about it.

On the Saturday we queued up for seven hours…seven hours of a sneaking line to lay some flowers. Most of the time we are silent, there are some Man United fans behind us and we decline to take the piss as we would on any other occasion. How many years without the title? Nah, we are grateful for their presence and explain that we were at the game. Liverpool was a city in shock.

People were walking around looking dazed, stunned. Some would be survivors, some relatives of the dead, but that would only make up a fraction of the Lverpool people. Many more would know someone who died, a fellow pupil or workmate, but irrespective, everyone was stunned. What had happened to this community was that someone had ripped a huge hole in it, a huge open wound and the people of Liverpool would deal with it in their own way, as they would continue to do so for many years, irrespective of what outsiders think or say.

But I am not a Liverpudlian nor will I ever be. I do of course share their grief over Hillsborough and I share their determination for the truth to come out, but I am not a part of their community. Like so many, I never had counseling at the time, until 6 years later, when my marriage split up. My mother called a local priest to come and visit me and we chatted and he suggested my wife walking out must be the toughest thing I’d had to deal with.

Bang, that was it, I was back 6 years and I was soon explaining that that was a very easy thing to deal with, when you were at Hillsborough… turned out that Fr Michael had been working in Liverpool at the time and when I described the young lad I had watched die in front of me, he too got emotional, having done the same lads funeral and knowing their family. Six years later I am sitting talking to a complete stranger yet we are anything but strangers. We know. We know the same shit and we know it isn’t going away.

I remember sitting on the train from London going up for the 20th anniversary memorial service and sitting with tears streaming down my face as I went over events in my head. Opposite where a couple of new fans, who knew nothing of the actual day, nice enough, very happy and chatty, but across from them were sat two quiet lads, my age, with a just a touch of tears in their eyes. They caught my eye with a glance that said everything. I nodded. It said I know, I was there too, it’s shit, it isn’t going away, but I know and I understand. Amazing what one glance can say.

I followed Fr Michael’s advice and finally went for counseling. I had tried once previously, but the phone box hadn’t been working. On that occasion I had let rip at an old lady at a bus stop who complained I was in her way…a guy had seen it and said he worked at a hospital, and that I should phone the hotline number that was offering help. But like I said, BT were “out of order” that day and I never tried again. It’s a few years later now, and I rarely talk about things. I am not in touch with survivors and am miles away from Liverpool and the memorial services (working overseas).

 I do still get angry with the ignorance that people trot out and sometimes challenge people who say it was the fans fault or who post such rubbish behind the anonymous message boards on the web. I largely function well and am able to live life pretty much as normal, except for those dark moments.

But let us not forget and let us keep an eye out for the survivors. I think the families rightly take centre stage but it is not about who is or isn’t most affected. We are all affected and those of us who were on the terrace, who fought for our lives are particularly affected with what the quacks call "survivor's guilt".  I know it is irrational, it makes no sense and I know I could have done nothing much different, but it is there and stays with us all.

RIP the 96 and everyone of the guys who has passed away since without seeing justice. I for one fully support the fight for justice and the fight for the truth. I hope it will come out and even if it doesn’t, I know the truth and that is all that matters sometimes.