Forty years on from that fateful night at the Heysel Stadium in Brussels, and the memories of that trip remain forever etched in my memory. The weather, the time in the Grand Place, the train journey out to the ground, around the ground before the game and the series of incidents inside the dilapidated stadium are all imprinted in my brain like it happened yesterday. Some things never leave you, I suppose.
A Wednesday afternoon off work to be at Anfield to queue early, to get in for the European Cup Semi-Final against Panathinaikos of Greece. Imagine that these days, paying on the gate for a European Semi. What time would you need to get there? Imagine the days of not needing layers upon layers of loyalty on your member’s card. These were different times indeed.
We were one of the early ones onto the Kop that evening, around 5.30pm if my memory serves me right and a wait around whilst the ground filled up to capacity around us. We could not risk leaving it any later was our thinking; we had to be in the ground that night.
The Reds progressed into another European Cup Final after an easy win over the Greek side, who had a noisy away following, winning 3-0 at home and then 1-0 over in the return leg in Greece.
Official trip
We decided to take the official trip by train from Liverpool Lime Street and ferry from Dover to Ostend, followed by a further train into Brussels itself. The return fare was £70.00, which included a match ticket. It was leaving on the Tuesday, and we would be back home sometime Thursday. I am sure it was a struggle to get the money together because I was only a year out of school and on first-year apprentice’s wages, which equated too little. It was that or the old granddad bank dropped me a pound or two, which was more likely of the two options.
A passport was also needed, and I was not exactly Michael Palin in those days, so a one-year one was adequate and did not eat further into my Belgian beer budget. It was to be my first European away game watching the Reds.
Five of us went; me, my mate and his girlfriend, and another mate and his dad. We got a train into Lime Street armed with my big ‘Liverpool Are Magic’ banner, which incidentally ended up in the Kemlyn Road stand after Hillsborough and the flowers on the pitch, and some hidden alcohol for the long journey south.
We boarded the special and my mate’s girlfriend got royally ruined by loads onboard because she had a blue top on. Not a football top or anything, just a royal blue, Everton colours. Now, who goes to a European Cup Final dressed in blue??
Sayers had kindly donated a little picnic box for each passenger (I say donated but it was in the price) to keep away starvation, on what seemed a marathon trip ahead of us and a case of sleep deprivation. Sayers used the catchline ‘Merseyside’s top names celebrate another magical European Cup occasion.’
Also included in the travelling pack was a joint letter from our then manager Joe Fagan and captain Phil Neal, asking us to be on our best behaviour and how confident they were that this would happen. This was alongside a strong almost warning-like letter from the Belgium police of what would happen if anybody stepped out of line.
Ferry and into Europe
We arrived in Dover for the night ferry to Ostend, which was of course full of Reds and numerous banners hanging around the boat, or was it a ship? I say night ferry because it was at night and very dark, but it was only about four hours and I only had an outside bench for my bed of sorts and my banner for warmth. I could also get away from the two love birds for a couple of hours as well, who had been touchy feely all the way down, even though a chill wind was blowing across the channel. I must have had a dodgy Sayers, or my sea legs were all over the place on the troublesome crossing across the Channel.
Off the boat at Ostend and we got herded onto a train to Brussels. It was them sort of trains that had their own compartments, but the train was heaving and full of tired Reds. Christ, Belgium is flat. For miles you can see fields after fields and pretty much nothing else. No wonder it is called the Lowlands. We pass the time trying to catch a power snooze (where they invented then?) or sing a song or two, mainly about winning the European Cup again or about how rubbish Man United or Everton were.
Brussels it is
Into Brussels and the sun is shining in the bright blue sky. We spend the afternoon drinking beer in the Grand Place, with a quick look round the surrounding area. The Manneken Pis, the famous landmark of a little boy having a pee with nothing on (strange these Belgium people, or are they Flemish?) had numerous red scarves round him and a nice bobble hat on top.
The square rapidly fills up but, and I comment to my mate, even that early in the day, things are not right. The square was filled with numerous accents, which was unusual in those days, and St George flags and England shirts. Not everyone but just enough to question about an England following being onboard the Reds’ bandwagon. This was at a time when hooliganism was rife amongst the national team, all the way down to club level.
We hop onto a tram to take us the Heysel district and near to the Atomium, that construction that looks like some silver balls, with walkways between (I told you they were strange) and then onto the ground.
The tram we got was heavily in favour of Juventus in numbers but plenty of good banter goes backwards and forwards, and I exchange a scarf for a Juve hat, which I still have somewhere in the house. I still wonder to this day if that Juventus fan I shook hands with made it home or not. The Italians were quite boisterous on the short journey out of the city centre and singing songs, in Italian of course, one of which the tune remains with me until this day.
My mate and his girlfriend wanted to go round the Atomium, so half hour or so is wasted in that sweat box that served absolutely no purpose whatsoever. Not sure if it was because I was younger then, but it just did not appeal to me. Put it this way, I have never been back after numerous visits to Brussels.
Crumbling ground
Off to have a wander round the ground and the first thing that strikes me is how out of date the outside looks. A programme was purchased from the shop, and we make our way round to our entrance area, with little security/police in attendance. The sun is shining so we relax and await the gates opening, with the sound of horns in the air. I am sure they all ran out before the ground even opened.
A mate of mine who lived near me but did not travel with me comes staggering round the corner drunk, in just shorts and trainers, and he mumbles something about losing his passport and money. I hook him back up with the gang he travelled with and he must have made it home because I see him a few weeks later, a little less drunk, shall we say.
The gates get opened and numerous flags are put up around the perimeter fence, including some juvenile but amusing Ron Atkinson banner, with reference to the then Manchester United manager. Today that flag would be frowned upon and rightly so, but in those days it was humorous banter. I say perimeter fence but to the left of us it was like chicken wire.
I am sure anyone without a ticket that night had no trouble getting into the ground. Concrete slabs that made up the surrounding wall were easily removed and anyone who wanted to get in, did. The security was very lax and almost non-existent in places.
Trouble brewing
The terracing was also a joke for a match of this stature, it was crumbling for God’s sake. The atmosphere was tense but nobody could have predicted the events that happened next. What started as a bit of banter between the sets of fans grew and grew from verbal, to missile throwing, to finally charges at the chicken wire, which didn’t take long to come down.
The immense pressure in the so called neutral zone, full of Juventus fans it looked, with the small but vicious band of so called Liverpool fans charging them repeatedly. The police did next to nothing to stop it all. We also had the Italians coming from the other end to further antagonise the volatile situation, with one on the running track with what looked like a starting pistol in his hand, or something similar. There were also reports of Juventus fans carrying weapons like knives and throwing bricks or the like.
The wall sadly eventually collapsed at that end, and there were rumours of some casualties, but nothing confirmed in the days before mobile phones, and we were kept in the dark. You could see from our block it looked like absolute chaos in that corner, but the full horror could not be seen from our position on the terrace. Rumours of the game being cancelled went round our end but after appeals from Phil Neal, etc. the game went ahead with Juventus winning from a highly-dubious penalty, celebrated wildly by Michel Platini in particular, but who cared?
Homeward bound
The idea we had was to get back to the trains as quickly as possible because, if the rumours turned out to be true, further serious trouble was inevitable and we did not want to be around to witness it.
The journey home was incredibly quiet and seemed to take twice as long as the outward journey, but it did not in reality. We were herded on to a train from Brussels to Ostend, ferry to Dover and then the train back to Lime Street for the connection home, uneventful but news of the dreadful night in Brussels had started to filter through.
It was only when we arrived back home that the full story hit us, and the full impact hit the English games for many years to come. I promised my then girlfriend and future wife that I would not go again. I am not sure if I meant abroad watching the Reds, or even ever watching them again anywhere, but that promise was soon to be forgotten.
The days and years following the tragedy was grim for football and the city of Liverpool, but nothing compared to the pain felt in Turin. English clubs got hit by a ban, with Liverpool having an extended one, and Margaret Thatcher was far from happy with football supporters. Measures were put in place to try and repair the damage between both football clubs, with Ian Rush eventually moving across to Juventus for a short spell in Serie A. Whether this was linked to try to make some sort of amends for the tragedy or if it was purely a footballing matter, we will never know.
All the time after the tragedy a complicated legal process was continuing in the background, with a full inquiry in Belgium, which eventually concluded, and supporters were found guilty of manslaughter and jailed. A Belgian architect had also conducted a survey of the stadium shortly after May 29 and his criticism of the condition of the stadium was equally damning. Not defending the events of the day, but my experience of the stadium was that it was 100% not fit to host a big final like the European Cup and it would not have looked out of place as a non-league ground here in England, at best.
Liverpool and Juventus next met in a competitive game in the Champions League quarter-final of 2005, nearly 20 years on from the tragic night, when Liverpool earned a tight 2-1 victory at Anfield. The night was significant for the Juventus supporters shunning the hand of friendship set up after Anfield had attempted to pay their respects to the Heysel victims. Liverpool fans held a mosaic in the Kop spelling the word “Amicizia” (Friendship), and while the gesture was applauded by many Juventus supporters, others made a very public point of turning their backs.
The bright sunshine had really turned into a dark, dark night. You should never go to a football match and not return home.
RIP the thirty-nine… You’ll Never Walk Alone.
