from rtk on the offal.
Arsenal again. Saturday 19th April 1980. Today’s Division One fixture has arrived right on the back of our FA Cup semi-final clashes. Last Saturday at Hillsborough, record gate receipts and an attendance of more than 50,000 witnessed the stalemate. And after Davie Fairclough had put us one up at Villa Park, Wednesday’s reply ended 1-1. So back down the M6 we’ll go a week on Monday, whack ’em proper, and book our right to line up against West Ham in May. A doddle for the boys in Red.
I’m standing on the Kop, halfway up, to the right of centre. Down in the Kemlyn, lads and men pack the aisles, shuffle to their seats. The ground is filling up, the chanting beneath the dark girders reducing the tannoy to the irritation of a dying radio. The scrum in the middle joy in a game of keepy-up with a deflated ball someone’s smuggled in. HOORAY. Each time it’s prodded upwards. HOORAY. Up it goes. HOORAY. And again. HOORAY. The ball bobbles above the ripple of heads before a mistimed jab directs it over the jagged perimeter fencing and onto the pitch. Entertainment over. The many bodies ease backwards, finding their feet, and I slip the scrunched-up programme from the back pocket of my Lee jeans to follow the team news. Will Heighway start?
HOORAY. Through the safety gap in the fencing, a young urchin has run onto the pitch. In one move he scoops the ball from the turf and launches it high into the Kop. HOORAY. The game of keepy-up starts all over again. HOORAY. Higher and higher. HOORAY. HOORAY. But too soon it sits again upon the hallowed green, closer to the penalty spot.
A collective groan drifts amid cigarette and pipe smoke. Results of the Golden Goal from the little man up in the gods of the Main Stand. At the front, a pack of rats aid each others’ attempts to scale the fencing and get on, but a portly constable who has hurried from the corner of the Kemlyn promptly warns them off. He looks high into thousands of scowling faces. The whistling is deafening. Then the Harry Roberts song. He stands his ground, expressionless.
CELTIC. RANGERS. CELTIC. RANGERS. CELTIC. RANGERS. CELTIC.
A chorus of WE WANT OUR BALL BACK builds, but the smug-faced Portly remains unruffled. He’s dead hard beyond that fence, surveying the swaying Kop End. He’s the conductor at the Last Night of the Proms.
A ragged kid senses his chance and darts on. GOO ON. The roar from the Kop could be for David Johnson latching on, finally, to a Kenny Dagger step-over. Stooping to gather the ball, the kid lifts his eyes to see the swaggering Portly – pointing his only warning. It has no effect. The kid swipes the ball and boots it back into the crowd. HOORAY. As he scampers from the penalty area, Portly makes his move. The kid drops his shoulder, almost going to ground. HOORAY. Portly snatches at thin air. HOORAY. One navy helmet of HM’s constabulary bouncing on the deck. HOORAY. The kid steals a yard, but by now an assistant of Portly’s, Portly 2, has dashed over to head him off. The kid hares off in the direction of the corner flag. GOO ON. Slowing near the fresh white touchline, he’s quick over the advertising hoardings and into the Kemlyn. HOORAY. The whole ground is with him, the deflated ball long forgotten.
I hold my breath, half in expectation that some middle-aged wool will fang hold of the kid and turn him in. But everyone stands off as he scrambles through the seats, tumbling this way and that, falling into people, shoving them aside. This kid has zero regard for the difficulties of those handling Bovril or Higson’s slop.
Portly and Portly 2 are making ground. They’re with the kid step for step until one sharp turn forces them to stumble into each other, thus sending the Kop delirious. Left the kid goes. HOORAY. Then right. HOORAY. He checks back to see his pursuers tangled in a mass of legs and bodies. Into the final furlong, he clambers forwards, down the seats, his knees clattering the heads of those already seated. In a vain attempt to double back, Portly goes headfirst. HOORAY. The kid reaches the hoardings and hurdles onto the running track. HOORAY. Along the side of the pitch. GOO ON. He’s nearly there. GOO ON. Portly and Portly 2 are nowhere, stranded in the seats. It’s over. The kid straightens in front of heads and heads and heads of glinting teeth; he takes his final bow before diving through the gap in the fencing. Gone. A standing ovation resounds from all close sections of L4.
BORING, BORING ARSENAL. 1-1. Pulling out of Limey, I allowed the question of value for money to wash over me. How can I not go to that replay?
For more songs, wit, wisdom and advice on suitable headgear stay logged on to liverpoolfc.tv or visit reclaimthekop.co.uk and raotl.co.uk
brought a smile to my face anyway
Arsenal again. Saturday 19th April 1980. Today’s Division One fixture has arrived right on the back of our FA Cup semi-final clashes. Last Saturday at Hillsborough, record gate receipts and an attendance of more than 50,000 witnessed the stalemate. And after Davie Fairclough had put us one up at Villa Park, Wednesday’s reply ended 1-1. So back down the M6 we’ll go a week on Monday, whack ’em proper, and book our right to line up against West Ham in May. A doddle for the boys in Red.
I’m standing on the Kop, halfway up, to the right of centre. Down in the Kemlyn, lads and men pack the aisles, shuffle to their seats. The ground is filling up, the chanting beneath the dark girders reducing the tannoy to the irritation of a dying radio. The scrum in the middle joy in a game of keepy-up with a deflated ball someone’s smuggled in. HOORAY. Each time it’s prodded upwards. HOORAY. Up it goes. HOORAY. And again. HOORAY. The ball bobbles above the ripple of heads before a mistimed jab directs it over the jagged perimeter fencing and onto the pitch. Entertainment over. The many bodies ease backwards, finding their feet, and I slip the scrunched-up programme from the back pocket of my Lee jeans to follow the team news. Will Heighway start?
HOORAY. Through the safety gap in the fencing, a young urchin has run onto the pitch. In one move he scoops the ball from the turf and launches it high into the Kop. HOORAY. The game of keepy-up starts all over again. HOORAY. Higher and higher. HOORAY. HOORAY. But too soon it sits again upon the hallowed green, closer to the penalty spot.
A collective groan drifts amid cigarette and pipe smoke. Results of the Golden Goal from the little man up in the gods of the Main Stand. At the front, a pack of rats aid each others’ attempts to scale the fencing and get on, but a portly constable who has hurried from the corner of the Kemlyn promptly warns them off. He looks high into thousands of scowling faces. The whistling is deafening. Then the Harry Roberts song. He stands his ground, expressionless.
CELTIC. RANGERS. CELTIC. RANGERS. CELTIC. RANGERS. CELTIC.
A chorus of WE WANT OUR BALL BACK builds, but the smug-faced Portly remains unruffled. He’s dead hard beyond that fence, surveying the swaying Kop End. He’s the conductor at the Last Night of the Proms.
A ragged kid senses his chance and darts on. GOO ON. The roar from the Kop could be for David Johnson latching on, finally, to a Kenny Dagger step-over. Stooping to gather the ball, the kid lifts his eyes to see the swaggering Portly – pointing his only warning. It has no effect. The kid swipes the ball and boots it back into the crowd. HOORAY. As he scampers from the penalty area, Portly makes his move. The kid drops his shoulder, almost going to ground. HOORAY. Portly snatches at thin air. HOORAY. One navy helmet of HM’s constabulary bouncing on the deck. HOORAY. The kid steals a yard, but by now an assistant of Portly’s, Portly 2, has dashed over to head him off. The kid hares off in the direction of the corner flag. GOO ON. Slowing near the fresh white touchline, he’s quick over the advertising hoardings and into the Kemlyn. HOORAY. The whole ground is with him, the deflated ball long forgotten.
I hold my breath, half in expectation that some middle-aged wool will fang hold of the kid and turn him in. But everyone stands off as he scrambles through the seats, tumbling this way and that, falling into people, shoving them aside. This kid has zero regard for the difficulties of those handling Bovril or Higson’s slop.
Portly and Portly 2 are making ground. They’re with the kid step for step until one sharp turn forces them to stumble into each other, thus sending the Kop delirious. Left the kid goes. HOORAY. Then right. HOORAY. He checks back to see his pursuers tangled in a mass of legs and bodies. Into the final furlong, he clambers forwards, down the seats, his knees clattering the heads of those already seated. In a vain attempt to double back, Portly goes headfirst. HOORAY. The kid reaches the hoardings and hurdles onto the running track. HOORAY. Along the side of the pitch. GOO ON. He’s nearly there. GOO ON. Portly and Portly 2 are nowhere, stranded in the seats. It’s over. The kid straightens in front of heads and heads and heads of glinting teeth; he takes his final bow before diving through the gap in the fencing. Gone. A standing ovation resounds from all close sections of L4.
BORING, BORING ARSENAL. 1-1. Pulling out of Limey, I allowed the question of value for money to wash over me. How can I not go to that replay?
For more songs, wit, wisdom and advice on suitable headgear stay logged on to liverpoolfc.tv or visit reclaimthekop.co.uk and raotl.co.uk
brought a smile to my face anyway
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