1985/86 was Kenny Dalglish’s first season in charge, which culminated in a first League/FA Cup double for the Reds.
Everton, Liverpool’s main rivals in those days, had come to Anfield in February 1986 and walked away with a comfortable 2-0 victory, which, if the press had anything to do with it, was a title decider. I walked away from Anfield that afternoon not doubting the Reds’ ability to bounce back, but at the time it seemed like it was Everton’s title to lose.
The tide is turning
However, the Reds had other ideas, going unbeaten in the twelve games to the end of the season (winning eleven) to pip Everton to the league by two points. The tide really turned one midweek night at the end of April with the Reds going to Leicester and winning 2-0 with goals from Ian Rush and Ronnie Whelan. Leicester had a young Gary McAllister in their starting line-up. On the same night, the Blues slipped up, losing at Oxford United.
A sole Dalglish (our player manager) goal at Chelsea gave us the league a week before the FA Cup Final. Now, Stamford Bridge in those days was a bit of a dump. Open terracing and miles from the pitch due to the track round it. No Russian money in those days, just Ken Bates and his mad electrified fencing. It was a rough day on and off the pitch if you get my drift, but it ended up in smiles and beers for the trip back up the North West.
With the League in the bag, it was off to Wembley the following Saturday for the first all-Merseyside FA Cup Final. Even though we had won the league, it was one game both sides just could not afford to lose. Which team would want to be remembered for losing that game?
No ticket for us, even though we had been to loads of games home and away that season. I cannot remember what the loyalty required was, but hey, some things never change. My Grandad stepped in for my brother and me and said there is no way we are going to miss this. He dropped us £60 apiece to buy two black-market tickets (face value £8), with a Derby County stamp on them, for behind the goal standing up in our end. The girlfriend (now wife) was eight and a half months pregnant (the baby was born two weeks later to complete the treble) with our first, and she inquired what I would do if she went into labour. “Put a tannoy message out at Wembley and I will get the next train home” was my reply, with fingers crossed behind my back.
Wembley, Wembley
We took the train early doors from Wigan to Euston with another mate of mine and his Grandad, who got two tickets every Cup Final from a trusted connection in the FA (referees’ society or something). He was a little bit deaf, my mate’s Grandad, and misinterpreted a few words we said, which kept us amused in a funny way. The first pub refused us entry (no colours or some rubbish) and even though we pleaded that it was a Merseyside final, the pleasant cockney doorman was having none of it. We eventually slid into a boozer near Baker Street (The Globe) and a good few jars were sunk.
Off to Wembley via the tube for some merriment round the ground with a few cans and watching the lads trying to climb into Wembley by any means possible. The demand for tickets was literally insane. Into the ground and we stood behind the goal, which happened to be the end none of the goals were scored in! This was before Wembley became all-seated, and a decent spot on the terracing usually depended on how early you got in the ground.
Gary Lineker scored for Everton to take the lead 1-0, but the Reds shook off that setback to win the coveted double. The turning point for me was when Bruce Grobbelaar and the late Jim Beglin had a fallout over something and nothing. After that, the Reds seemed to suddenly turn on the style after a disappointing first hour or so.
Ian Rush equalised in the second half before Craig Johnston gave the Reds the lead. Then a wonderful passing move resulted in Rush getting his second to bring the cup back to Anfield, 3-1. Alan Hansen lifted the famous trophy into the late afternoon air. Howard Kendall’s Everton were devastated, finishing the season empty-handed.
Home sweet home
We (obviously) bought several cans for the train journey home, and we settled down to serious drinking, singing, and celebrations of a fruitful, long, hard season and a first league/FA Cup double under our belts.
We arrived home and my brother had this great idea of going to a nightclub around the corner from the station that we had frequented in the past. He wanted to keep the party going a little longer. I told him he had no chance of getting in (which he did not), so I made my way home walking, with no chance of a taxi at that hour of the night.
It was not long before I walked past a gang of lads outside a DIY superstore, and I thought “here we go, I am in for a pasting here.” They shouted something to me about the match (I had a shirt on, scarf on, and a programme in my top pocket), which had me responding with a bit of humour. I ended up chatting to them, after which one of them offered me a lift home on his high-powered motorbike, which I duly accepted. Unreal really: just been to Wembley and won the double and here I was on the back of a stranger’s 1000cc Honda or whatever it was, with a load of ale inside me. I was home in five minutes, and I dropped the lad a couple of pounds.
I went into our house and my Mum asked if I wanted a drink. My reply: “Make mine a double please, Mum.”
