Trouble In The Valley...
Everton Away - FA Cup 2005
February 2005 was very much a state of flux for Manchester United. The deathly procession of the Glazers’ inevitable march to full ownership was well underway, while Fergie horse-played with the Coolmore Mafia. Abramovich’s money lavished Chelsea, steered by the arrogance and panache of new kid on the block Jose Mourinho, were tearing up the league and well on course for their first league title in 50 years. The welcome distraction of an FA Cup tie on Merseyside was mouth watering, given a 5,000 Goodison allocation for United fans, and the added spice of a certain boyhood Toffee returning to Goodison for the first time since his controversial move to Old Trafford the previous summer.
Your author had tried his luck at running a minibus for the first time for this particular fixture. However an initial enthusiastic band of twelve, gradually dwindled down to a forlorn four, as some were chubbed in the ballot and didn’t fancy hanging around Merseyside ticketless, some were going straight in and back out in the car on a smash and grab, and one had recently received a banning order for their part in anti-Glazer protests earlier in the season. A call to Walt to try and fit the forlorn four onto the Ashton bus was futile, fully booked. So the train it was going to be.
There was a lot of talk of trouble before this one. The “Rooney Return” hysteria, along with the reputation of those at the other end of the M62, was rattling nerves amongst us. Earlier in the same season at Anfield, (famous for the Boris Johson ‘Self Pity City’ posters) a group of young lingering reds from Stalybridge were given a kicking in Stanley Park after the game. As younger reds as we were then, and without the safety net of the bus, a decision was made to get the train there, keep our heads down and book a taxi from a Manchester firm to take us back afterwards. Truly shithouse behaviour in hindsight, but none of us had spent much time in Merseyside previously, and didn’t fancy being at the mercy of the Stanley Park knife merchants older reds had forewarned us about.
The forlorn four consisted of my younger brother, a school pal Rory, his pal Rob and I. The plan was to convene at Manchester Piccadilly in the morning, get the train to Lime Street, head to the docks for a drink around lunchtime for a few hours, taxi up to the ground before the match, watch Manchester United emerge victorious at Goodison, from which our awaiting Mancunian chariot would safely whisk us back up the M62 to greener pastures.
One challenge that had been somewhat overlooked, was Leeds, who were playing at Wigan on the same day, and whose route to the JJB Stadium took them via Manchester. Your author and his brother were, at the time still living in Stalybridge, a sleepy satellite town on the outskirts of Manchester, and so the route to Lime Street started out from Stalybridge train station.
Aside from having an award winning buffet bar, a hit on the Transpennine pub crawl, the station was also a stop on the route between Leeds and Manchester. At 09:30 in the morning, the bar was closed, so to settle the nerves of the day, a couple of cold, crisp cans on the platform were the beverage of choice, in keeping with a glum, wintry February morning. As your author and his younger brother eagerly awaited their first transport of the day and a bit of warmth on platform 3, the train finally pulled in filled to the brim with a cargo of Leeds’ finest. Through the windows as the train slowed to a stop you could spot the attire of said cargo; skin heads, Stone Island, CP Company, Lacoste. Their mob. We stepped back and watched as the doors opened.
There was one elderly gentleman who was stood on the platform waiting to board at the door, proudly donning a Manchester United backpack, blissfully unaware of his impending fate. The Leeds mob at the door had noticed this and were beckoning him to board with a gleeful smile, like a lion toying with its hapless prey before pouncing. The gentleman becomes hesitant, pensive. Your author watches on, fascinated, conscious that alerting the gentleman with a shout might then alert this baying mob of Leeds to our football club affiliation, and then in turn become targets ourselves. The gentleman’s survival instincts kicked in, as he wisely declines their offer and decides against boarding, the doors close and the train pulls away with its cargo of the sheep interested. It won’t be the last time Leeds are encountered that day.
There isn’t long to wait for another Manchester bound train to arrive, this time sans the Leeds cargo, and in short order we meet up as a four and head to platform 13 at Manchester Piccadilly for the train to Lime Street. Emerging on to platform 13, the train appears to be packed with lads heading westbound with the doors about to close, so forward we rush and on we pile pushing those in front of us further on to make sure we can fit, barely squeezing on with the rest of the sardines in the tin can. “MARCHING ON TOGETHER!” goes the battle cry, as the doors start to beep to alert passengers that the doors are about to close. For those unaware, the forlorn four had managed to squash themselves onto a train full of Leeds lads heading to Wigan, with the doors about to slam shut behind them for a forty minute train ride. So as swiftly and subtly as possible, off they jump as the doors close. A couple of sheep botherers notice just as the doors close and begin to hurl a mouthful of abuse through the doors as the train pulls away. A collective sigh of relief is exhaled and a laugh at the near miss just encountered. A forty minute journey to Wigan with Leeds’ mob would likely have been curtains for the day.
On stepping back onto the platform, it becomes evident that a combination of GMP and United’s mob had been present also. Anecdotes of an altercation on the platform abound over the shouting of some officers. The Lime Street train pulls into platform 13 several minutes later, and finally your author and the rest of the forlorn four are on their way to Liverpool.
Nothing of note occurs on the train nor on arrival into Lime Street. It’s still early for an evening kick-off. The group heads to the Old Pumphouse on the Albert Docks as planned, to wile away a few hours watching the other cup matches of the day on the TV. Not for us any wandering around the city centre announcing our presence. We’re not brave. Nor stupid.
Mid afternoon arrives, and time to hail a taxi to the ground. Knowing the historical rivalry between the two cities, you’re expecting to get a partisan taxi driver, but the fella who cops our fare that day could not display his utter disgust towards us enough as he drives us up towards Goodison. Muttering and spluttering to himself as he drives listening to our Mancunian twang, it all gets too much for him, as he pulls the taxi to a screeching halt somewhere on Walton Lane just beyond the Everton Valley. He exclaims in the thickest, barely comprehendible scouse that he can’t go any farther, and while there’s nothing impeding further progress on the road, it’s clear that this particular journey has reached its end. The notes presented to him for payment were returned with spittle and change thrown onto the floor of the cab. The change is left as a charitable donation to those at the less fortunate end of the M62, and decide against calling him a cunt, given we’re in the midst of the Everton Valley, with dozens of scousers now surrounding as the 15 minute walk up to the ground commences.
Any Manchester United supporter knows that once you’re on enemy territory, particularly Merseyside, if you’re in small numbers, and you’re not in an escort, you keep your head down and your mouth shut. Even if you’d had a few, you sober up quickly enough when you hear the scouse accents all around you, hoping not to get the dreaded “You got the time, mate?”. Those tactics served the forlorn four well as Goodison was reached without incident on what seemed like an eternal walk.
Goodison Park is a proper ground, with tight terrace housing around it that must be navigated en route to the turnstiles. It is run down and moody, even on a good day. The Bullens Road Stand that houses the away end sports low ceilings, wooden floors and pillars that obstruct the view.
It’s getting dark by the time of arrival, and the mood in the air is tense. On the corner of Stanley Park, elements of United’s Men In Black are spotted, observing. Some of those there on the corner would later be involved in the headline of the day. A couple of the lads from the Ashton bus are spotted walking down from where the coaches have been parked and recounted how an Everton lad had opened the back door of the bus once parked and tried to drag one of the those on board off by his jeans. It was clear today was going to be testy. We were relying on our Mancunian chariot, ironically called Cavalier Cabs, to sweep us up and bring us home, but weren’t entirely sure how close to the ground they’d be able to get, nor where specifically the meeting point was. There were discussions of binning off the taxi and heading back into Lime Street with the escort, which in turn nobody seemed to be certain would be provided. We were heartily assured that the taxi would be there at full time and would bring us back. Nevertheless, the game was about to kick-off, so those worries could be held for later.
The United supporters in the ground were loud that day, with a hearty second half rendition of “Red Army” that seemed to last forever. Rooney couldn’t quite find the net against his former club, which was probably for the best given the occasion and the subsequent post match reception. For your nostalgic viewing pleasure, highlights of the match can be found below.
After the match, the United support emerged into the terrace side streets of Goodison. It was dark, acrid and the initial celebratory songs and chants quickly fell silent. The scousers were out and they were up for it. Your author checks his Nokia 3310 on leaving the ground, with the rest of the forlorn four in tow. The taxi driver has confirmed his presence by text, somewhere on Walton Lane a few minutes’ walk away from Goodison to the right. The phone signal is jammed with so many bodies about post match, and any thought of getting on the phone and speaking out loudly in a Mancunian accent is put on hold as the scousers are spitting phlegm and screaming around us. The police are trying to usher United supporters towards the coaches, and there is much confusion for those not on the coaches.
The forlorn four take a right, darting away from the terrace side streets down Walton Lane, straining eyes for the Cavalier taxi in the sitting matchday traffic, now at a standstill as 35,000 football supporters make their way home, and a subset of that make their way towards each other. In the glum, wintry darkness ahead, it’s possible to see the silhouettes of lads sprinting to and fro, trying to get at each other. The odd shout and scrap breaks out, and fortunately the taxi is spotted in the throng of people and traffic before our rumbling can happen. In we all jump, with a sigh of relief. Now we’re sat cocooned, motionless, waiting for the roads to clear and our getaway to complete.
Several minutes pass, when suddenly a roar fills the frosty air. It’s the scousers to our left. Then there’s the smashing and crashing of bottles. To our right, United’s escort emerges. Containing several hundred supporters and moving slowly, it is surrounded by a phalanx of Merseyside Police, headed to Lime Street. They are all shielding themselves from the persistent volley of bottles and stones, as it dawns upon us that we are sat right in the middle of this onslaught like sitting ducks, with ‘0161’, Manchester’s area code, emblazoned down the side of the car. All it would take is one switched on scouser to spot this, and we could risk a serious turning over. Several tense minutes of this ensue as the escort passes, and fortunately, as scousers are not generally blessed with cerebral brilliance, the bright green ‘0161’ on the side of the taxi is overlooked with the excitement of the escort, and the trouble rumbles onwards towards the Everton Valley.
Our day is over, as the matchday traffic subsides and the path onto the M62 eastbound opens to us. Just as our speedy getaway begins, so does the headline grabbing “Everton Valley” altercation. Forty of United’s more adventurous supporters have broken away from the rest of the support, headed straight into the Lion’s Den of the Everton Valley and called on hell as a mob of 200 locals and Everton hoolies go toe to toe with them, in scenes witnessed on ITV’s News At Ten later that evening (and below). It is fair to say that it was somewhat of a Kamikaze mission from the reds involved, and was as ballsy as our taxi chariot escape was cowardly!