Hillsborough

[Mostar]

She truly is.

Peter Marshall talked to her in the documentary about a month before she died and she looked as determined as before to find the justice for her boy and other 95..

[Liverpel]

Niamh Cooper O'Sullivan
THIS MONTH, THE families affected by the deaths of 96 people at Hillsborough stadium in Sheffield in 1989 heard that new inquests will be held close to home.
It was a welcome piece of news for the families who have spent 24 years campaigning for the truth to be revealed about the circumstances of their loved ones’ deaths.

Irish writer Niamh Cooper O’Sullivan contacted TheJournal.ie after the 24th anniversary of the disaster, with permission to publish her awards-shortlisted short story, a fictional account of the terror of the day. She said: “I want to share it with you for publication, for those who are still trying to make sense of the horrific events of 15 April 1989.

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“Just hold on! Hold on!” I can see him just in front of me, trying to reach back, trying to grab my hand. “Hold on!” I hear him say again. It’s warm, very warm, the sun is shining on my face, but there is more heat, too much heat. I feel pinned into my jacket and try to shake it off. But it only seems to wrap itself closer around me. It’s Mark’s jacket, his pride and joy, pounds scraped together so he could afford another crest, worn open upon his chest, such as not to obscure his lucky jersey.

“This is the real thing, mate. The real thing. Guard it with your life!”

The persistent hand finally finds mine. I seize it. I didn’t expect it to be this cold, this wet. I have to readjust my grip so I don’t lose it again.

I feel drops of sweat forming on my brow. Very soon they are going to start rolling down my forehead, my nose, my cheek. The heat is unbearable. The man to my left jolts forward and his hat hits me on the shoulder. I try and shake it off before I realise that he won’t be able to retrieve it if it hits the floor. I hold still as he reaches for it. Seconds later it’s back on his head, his arm strangely suspended somewhere the height of my shoulder. I try and lean into it to move it on but it’s wedged between us. The April sun is beating down on us, I can feel it warming my head.

Maybe I’ll start with the scarf. With difficulty I untangle my left arm from the hip next to me and wriggle it upwards so I can undo the bright red banner Dad bought me on the way in. “You’ve got to have one of these! It’s your first one, it’s a special day, you’ll need something to remember it by!” I poke the bald man in front of me in the ear and mumble “Sorry mate!” He can’t hear me but I feel better for saying it.

The man next to me sways into my ribs and I pull down too hard; the scarf wraps itself tighter around my neck, too tightly, too tightly, I gasp. “Dad!” He’s right there in front of me, his arm bent uncannily backwards, like that time Mark was trying to teach me the police grip. I stare at his oddly distorted limb, then suddenly feel how strongly he’s grasping my hand. He can’t hear me above the roars.

“Dad!” I try again, my voice fading thinly once again. Stop pulling, I tell myself, and try the other side. The shorter end of the scarf comes off more easily and relieved, I shake it off. It falls onto my chest, and lingers for a moment, then continues on its journey to the floor. I can’t bend down. “I’ll get it later.” I tell myself.

Just then an excited roar ripples through the crowd and flushed faces raise themselves eagerly as their bodies try to follow, hundreds of sweaty, hot fans, a sea of red, now writhing, surging as one. “Beardsley. It was Beardsley!” I hear a man shout at his friend, who, like me, can’t see. Has the game even started? But before I can understand how the other man can see what so many of us can not, almost immediately, there comes the disappointed “awww” as we try to take a few steps back from the people in front of us. I don’t know the cause of our collective groan but then the answer comes from a few lads further back. “The bar, he hit the bar!” So close. But it’s early days yet, early days, that’s what I’m sure Dad just muttered into the crowd.

Our bubbles have long since merged into one gelatinous mass, rolling forward like a wave crashing towards the shore, on the verge of sharing a moment we thought was the beginning of the victory everyone was expecting, then retreating back in search of a more spacious vacuum. Except there is no space. No room to move. I cannot direct my feet to go where I want them to go. The sun is stinging my eyes. Or is it the sweat. I can’t wipe my brow, but then it suddenly gets roughly taken care of by the bald man’s shoulder as we get bumped forwards once more. Dad’s hand slips out of mine and falls away.
“It’s ok son, I’m here. I’m here.”

We try to reach around a stone-washed trouser leg but it’s no use. A few feet away I see the high wire mesh separating us from the pen to our left. My feet are not my feet, they are being commanded by another force and my body sways with the men on either side of me, in front of me, behind me. I don’t want to lose him. I glance at the fence. Knuckles dig into the back of my ribcage, an elbow swipes my neck, meeting my head with an involuntary blow. I try to shake them back but there is no give in the mass around me. Then suddenly a surge, as a sweaty-faced man yells expletives, then falls silent. The once steadfast buttress behind me, rows of man upon man ten or so deep, has suddenly gone limp. I manage a few sideways steps. Then a few more. The fence looks high. It’s less crowded over there. “Dad!” Where are you Dad? I see his head bobbing in front of me, further to my right now.
“Hold on! Just hold on! I’m coming.”

Dad’s voice sounds distant, though he is only a few feet away. Odd and high-pitched. Not like Dad.

The bodies close in. “Adam! Stay close!” I look up, gasping for air. Hands are reaching down. I try to grab them but I’m not tall enough. The April sun strikes my eyes, an overwhelming wave of burning light, too bright to bear, its glowing core summoning me. I avert my gaze and look instead at faces, hands, hoardings, almost within reach. Another surge and suddenly I am higher than the crowd, there are those hands again, outstretched, inviting me upwards. I cling to an outstretched arm, then another, and several heaves later I am lifted above the sea of red.

“Dad!” I see him just below me, he is trying to reach my feet. “Hold on, Adam. Just hold on.” “Pull, lads, pull. We’ve got to get him out of there.” More hands reach for me. “Hold on mate. That’s it lads, we’ve got him.” Hands grab me and pull. My feet walk themselves over the hoarding, I am not alone, never alone. I meet firm ground and am out of the sun’s angry gaze.
“Dad! Dad!”

Screaming faces down below. They are shouting, crying, grown men are yelling, pleading. Further down a man is slumped forward, onto another man who is still. A woman is wailing, her mouth wide open but I don’t hear a sound. A group of lads with their faces painted cling together, their expressions pained. Screaming faces. And many, oh so many still faces. Silent faces. “Where is my jacket?” Mark’s jacket! He’s going to kill me. “Dad!”

My father lost me in the crush when the alarm went off. I tried to hold onto his hot, greasy, safe hand. But I was losing it. I grabbed harder but it slipped away. “Dad!”

Every time the same. The faces. The heat. The sea of red. The smell of sweaty, swaying bodies. The sunlight on my head. The noise. People shouting. Yelling. Cursing. Beseeching. The uncontrollable lean as I am the crowd, unsure whether to writhe this way or that, a single headless mass. My body is moving in and out with the tide around me, yet we are rudderless, we can only move as one. The arms pinned to my side. The smell, oh the putrid, sticky smell. The jacket. And Dad.

Sometimes I manage to hold on for longer. But I always let go, I always let go.
I lie back in my bed, remembering that morning.

“No, you’re too young. You’ve never been to a game, Mark was fourteen before he went.”
“But Dad! That’s a whole year! I’ll stay close to you, I promise!”

“The answer is no. It’s a long enough trip and there will be people everywhere, there’ll be a fair crowd, sure there’s hardly a more important game than this semi-final. We have them, we almost have them!”

“Come on, I’ll wash your car every week for a month. And anyway, what will you do with the ticket? You can’t waste it, not today. And Nicky and the lads are all going too, and Rob’s Dad said there were still tickets left so no one would buy it anyway. So can I Dad, please, can I?”

“Maybe he’ll be ok.” Dad had reassured himself hopefully, with a nod of the head in Mark’s direction.

But just then Mark’s ash-green face had appeared from the depths of his blankets. He’d shaken his head and that had sealed my fate. Within minutes I had been ready and back in his room, and when he had taken a sip of the ice water Mum had handed him, Mark had pointed at his wardrobe with a shaky hand. “Take it. You can wear it. It’s the real thing, mate. The real thing. Guard it with your life!”

Mum and I are sitting on the long wooden bench, the long corridor full of people. As she brings the hot cup to her lips with shaking hands I see a man in a white coat making his way towards us. He stops to talk to a nurse, and my attention is caught instead by a young man with a blood-soaked bandage around his head. He seems to be walking around aimlessly, why is there no-one with him? Just then I turn my head see the nurse pointing him our way. Moments later the bearded doctor has reached our bench.
“Mrs Jones? We have found your husband.”


Niamh Cooper O’Sullivan is a bilingual writer, based in Co Cork. She writes, edits, ghost-writes, tweets and can sometimes be found behind a drum kit. Check out her latest project on @thehellrun, or at theHellRun.com. More writing can be found at niamhcooper.com.

http://www.thejournal.ie/readme/hillsborough-short-story-908520-May2013/

[Mostar]

https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x102bfp_bbc-1-hillsborough-how-they-buried-the-truth-p1_news#.UZqwq2Qo7Dc

https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x102bl9_bbc-1-hillsborough-how-they-buried-the-truth-p2x_news#.UZqv1WQo7Dc

[Fernandinho]

Finally got around to watch this. Staggering. The policemen hired to care for the fans were really the criminals...

[Exiled_red]

I have no idea how the families affected by all of this managed to continue and fight for justice in such a dignified manner.

Unbelievably tough to watch some of that

[Oberon]

Colin Murray's column in the Metro today is very good and deserves a wider read than that thing can give him.

[Shaggy]

Yeah read that this morning - here it is:

http://metro.co.uk/2013/05/21/colin-murray-hillsborough-continues-to-be-stuff-of-nightmares-3803691/

I didn’t watch it, not initially. I’d had a good day and I knew that would end the minute this programme began, so instead I enjoyed dinner with my family, took in a film, and only pressed play once those I love were safely in bed.

Now I sit here, at 3am, after viewing BBC Panorama’s ‘Hillsborough – How They Buried The Truth’, and I can’t think about anything else. Again.

Quite honestly, I’m thinking about what it would be like if my wife went out tomorrow and never came back. And if for almost a quarter of a century to follow I would have her memory spat upon and besmirched by those in positions of power who are meant to protect us and uphold our collective principles. And I just want to punch the wall in anger.

I’m thinking about how any human being can look at a pitch strewn with the dead, the dying and the wounded, a nearby temporary morgue filling up with bodies, and already be hatching a plan to pin the blame on those very same corpses in order to save their own skin.

I’m thinking that anyone who can do this must have no soul to speak of, and no conscience to answer.

I’m thinking about those left behind, and how they’ve managed to not only keep fighting for justice, but have done so without lowering themselves to the same gutter level as those who have denied them the right to bury their loved ones with dignity and in peace.

And I am not sure I would be able to summon the grace they possess, or be able to show the self-restraint they’ve displayed.

I’m thinking about how my words cannot even begin to describe the suffering felt by those who lost friends and family that day, and I wonder where they’ve found the courage to continue in the face of such despicable lies. I’m not sure I could have.

I’m thinking, with two inquiries charged with finally unearthing the real story of the worst day in the history of British football, that I don’t want to ever have to watch a programme like this week’s Panorama again.

That I want to stand in front of the Hillsborough memorial at Anfield in the near future and touch it in the knowledge that, at last, the truth has been written forever in history, and not to walk away from it knowing that those who caused this avoidable tragedy continue to get away with it scott free.

I’m hoping that the *******s responsible are having as much trouble sleeping tonight as I am.

[Phoenix07]

Just spotted this on RAWK and posted it on here just in case anyone can help.

http://www.broudiejacksoncanter.co.u...s/hillsborough

Hillsborough
Were You at Hillsborough?
Can You Help?

On 19 December 2012, the High Court quashed all the inquest verdicts for the Hillsborough 96 and ordered new inquests.

A new Coroner has been appointed who will be holding fresh inquests in due course.

Broudie Jackson & Canter act for 19 of the families. I have personally been trying to overturn the inquest verdicts for almost 20 years.

The original inquests were a charade. They proceeded on an artificial cut-off point, accepted pathologists’ evidence which has now been discredited and police evidence which was fabricated.

We need your help to put this right.

We are now looking for witnesses who can give evidence as to what happened at Hillsborough on the day and also as to what happened afterwards – in particular where people feel that they were pressurised by the police to alter their evidence, or where they gave evidence critical of the police (or of other organisations) which they feel was ignored or covered-up.

We are also interested in hearing from people who were involved at the time in Crowd Safety, stewarding and the management of football venues or matches.

If you think you can help please call us on 0151 227 1429 and ask for Tara (ext 325) or Tracy ( ext 304)

Or email me on [email protected].

Elkan Abrahamson
Partner

[Shaggy]

Speechless.

Dave Phillips @lovefutebol
There truly are no words. MT “@skynewsnorth: Lawyer for police commanders says HIP report was not truly independent. #hillsborough”

[Alex]

How ****ty.

This was inevitable though wasn't it? I am sure the families have been prepared for **** like this to happen.

[TheElephantMan]

I used to have a mate who is a Manc and he said something similar, he's not my mate any more. The truth isn't the version of events that some people want to believe.

[Exiled_red]

How ****ty.

This was inevitable though wasn't it? I am sure the families have been prepared for **** like this to happen.

As awful as it is, I have to agree that it is somewhat inevitable, while this inquiry has convinced more people of what we have long known to be the true version of events, there have been large institutions and groups of people that have been perpetuating their lies for 24 years, and I don't think that they are ready to give that up yet, for a number of reasons (many to save their own skins). There are probably also many people who still believe the lies because they have heard it so many times they have just accepted it.

Having come so far and finally had our voices heard it is perhaps easy believe that things have changed, but we have not got justice yet, the fight still goes on.

JFT 96

[RichC]

Taken them a while!

New Hillsborough documents found by West Midlands Police
25 Jun 2013 09:55

Two new items found after new search of force archives


New documents have emerged which could hold vital information on the police's role at Hillsborough, it was revealed today.

West Midlands Police, the force brought in to investigate the actions of South Yorkshire officers on the day of the disaster, said a search of its archives had uncovered two items which related to Hillsborough.

The information was found during a routine, unconnected search in the force's Birmingham headquarters.

Understood to be held on floppy disk and paper, they will now be passed to the Independent Police Complaints Commission and are expected to form part of its investigation in to the tragedy.

The IPCC, along with a separate investigation team led by former Durham chief constable Jon Stoddart, will support the fresh inquests in to the deaths of the 96 victims, due to start in March 2014.

Earlier this month coroner Lord Justice Goldring said he would use their documents and investigation teams to help support the inquest process.

West Midlands Police bosses today said the discovery had prompted them to launch a full-scale search of their buildings and archives for similar documents.

Deputy Chief Constable Dave Thompson said: “We have no reason to believe West Midlands Police holds any more Hillsborough related material but, due to the recent finds, we want to be able to assert this with the highest degree of confidence to the inquest coroner.

“That’s why we’ve announced a rigorous, systematic search of all archived material in our buildings.

“This is a voluntary move initiated by West Midlands Police and demonstrates our commitment to openness and transparency. We will leave no stone unturned.

“If any material relating to Hillsborough remains on West Midlands Police property we are confident the search will uncover it.”

As well as the headquarters building, officers will comb through records at the Nechells Green police station in Birmingham, where the force’s investigation of South Yorkshire Police was focused, and other buildings where relevant material could have been transferred at a later date.

The official West Midlands archive storage facility in Derbyshire will also be searched.

Dep Chief Con Thompson vowed all searches would be finished by December, well in advance of the new inquest process.

[Captain Stu]

Oh fancy that. "Lost" were they?

[Neil Young]

Not directly relevant but perhaps people might like to know that Bettison has been referred to the IPCC over claims he tried to influence a key witness at the Macpherson Inquiry to try to discredit the family of Stephen Lawrence.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-23171119