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.