Girls and the football Echo

Discrimination or chauvinism were not words I was familiar with or truly understood as a teenager I just assumed it was banter between men and women that was enjoyed by all and not meant to be taken seriously and should be laughed off with "boy's will be boy's". But I soon got a rude awakening when these two phrases reared their ugly head and would be instrumental in my personal life. I was now the target of bullies who deemed my forthcoming actions are equal to that of a traitor, some would say I sold my soul to the Devil in favour of receiving the affections of a female. According to many I was enticed by a jezebel and my loyalty had been called into question, so what was it that caused such angst? Apparently I had invited a girl yes a girl to come with me to watch Liverpool FC in their next home game, had I been seduced by a Mata Hari? Now you must understand we are talking about the early 60's a time when male chauvinistic tendencies were prevalent and true equal rights had not reached their rightful place in society, this was a time when some men still believed a woman's place was in the home and to be more precise in the kitchen and anchored to the stove and not behind the goal in the Spion Kop, as this was definitely considered the inner sanctum of a male only domain by the chauvinistic Neanderthals of the time. I had never bought in to the chauvinistic beliefs that football is football and girls are girls and the two should never mix, but according to many I was about to commit a cardinal sin. This was a time when being PC meant being a member of the constabulary and sadly being politically correct regarding equal opportunities was just a dream to be resolved in the not too distant future. After ignoring the negative backlash I proceeded to make arrangements to meet my date outside the Arkles Hotel a popular spot for many die hard supporters as it was so close to the ground and for many the last drinking hole before entering the hallowed place of worship, I arrived early to discover she was already there waiting for me and looking a little uncomfortable as hoards of slightly drunk supporters made their way pushing past her trying to get into the hotel for their final beer before reaching Anfield's holy gates. She looked amazing wrapped up in a magnificent Liverpool scarf and knitted bobble hat, It was quite obvious she’d done this before. Sadly for me I just had the scarf my mum knitted for me many years earlier and apart from looking worse for wear with the odd moth hole here and there it was too long and had to be wrapped around my puny neck half a dozen times to stop me tripping over it, I don’t know what happened either she just thought she would use up all the wool she had or she didn’t know how to cast off. As we headed towards the ground my date informed me she had never been in the Kop before, she usually watched from the paddock with her Dad and that she had heard the Kop was a bit rough. But I assured her that everything would be fine and that there is nowhere on the planet better to watch the Red’s from (obviously not letting on I was a recent escapee from the boys pen). The place was buzzing as we approached the ground people were queuing at every turnstile, it was quite obvious that the game was going to be a sellout. We joined one of the queues for the Kop, and I bought a match day football Echo broadsheet off a street vendor. Looking confused my date asked me why did I want a paper for as it will be almost impossible to read it in the ground, looking confused she had no understanding of the importance of having your own copy of the Echo at matches, it’s a ritual she’ll come to understand soon enough. We amused ourselves over the next hour waiting for the gates to open by listening to the religious fanatics with their sandwich boards draped over their shoulders promising ‘hell and damnation’ to the thousands of sinners unless they repent. “The lord is coming to Liverpool” one screamed what will you sinners do then he bellowed? From the crowd came the usual response “move St John to the wing you tosser”. It was now approaching one o’clock and the gates were being opened around the ground. The place was swarming with Tottenham Hotspur supporters giving it the old knees up mother Brown, “We’ll see who’s got a lovely bunch of coconuts at twenty to five” I whispered to my excited date as we scrambled through the turnstile and climbed the steps up to the Kop. We stood at the top of Kop for a few moments soaking up the atmosphere and I could see the look of disbelief on her face as she glanced around the ground, I knew what she was feeling. It still lives with me to this day. It doesn’t matter how many times you visit Anfield that moment of entry from the top at the back of the Kop literally takes your breath away. It seems like the whole population of the City of Liverpool is crammed into the ground, a sea of red and white bodies swaying and chanting as one, it’s an incredible feeling of belonging. As we made our way downwards and through the crowd to our position behind the goal I felt like a soldier joining his comrades at the front line ready to do battle. It was now a quarter to three and we were eagerly awaiting the enemy when out of the tunnel the mighty reds appeared, the crowd exploded with delight into a deafening roar as big Ron Yeats led the team towards the Kop and duly delivered the ball by thumping it into the back of the empty goal. The crowd were swept along in a surge of bodies down the Kop steps as people clambered to get a closer view of their idols as they raced onto the hallowed turf. The adrenaline was pumping as we staggered back up the steps to our original positions, then out came the enemy to a crescendo of boo’s, the toss was made, first blood to the reds as Big Ron won and decided to defend the Kop in the first half, this was the usual action on winning the toss as they could rain down havoc on visiting teams in the second half by marauding towards the mighty Kop end as away teams with there backs at the Kop were shaken by the roars that surrounded them as they tried to defend. We spent the next forty-five minutes ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ as the reds stormed down the pitch raining crosses into the Tottenham goalmouth only to be thwarted by the agility of their brilliant goalkeeper Pat Jennings and the woodwork. Half time had arrived and the score was 0-0, but the crowd was optimistic, after all we would be attacking the Kop end in the second half and everyone knows that’s worth at least one goal. The usual analysis of the game was being discussed during the break, which usually centred on whether the referee’s parents were married or not. When my date asked, how do you go to the toilet? Which brought a great burst of laughter from the immediate area? When one close supporter said, Listen luv, you’ve got about as much chance of getting to the bog as winning the lotto, have you any idea how many people are crammed in here? I just hope you’ve got ya wellies on he continued. What does he mean? She whispered in my ear, not wanting to seem ignorant, look down I said pointing to the torrents of water gushing down the terrace steps, what is it she screamed, urine I informed her why do you think I wanted the Echo? I spent the next five minutes explaining to her that because it was virtually impossible to get to the toilets at half time people peed on the floor. The Echo gets rolled up, you stick your manhood in it and you pee down the tube, which prevents you from urinating down the back of the legs of the person in front of you. That’s disgusting she said, why can’t they wait till the games finished? Because most of these men have had at least five pints of beer before getting in I told her as the crowd burst into applause as the teams arrived back on the pitch for the second half. The roar as the second half got under way was enough to make the hairs on your bottom stand on end, never the back of your neck. It’s the most incredible experience you can imagine watching a sea of red shirts attacking the Kop. I think I know how Davy Crockett must have felt at the Alamo as poor Tottenham tried to defend their territory, with the same inevitable result. Liverpool showed no mercy that afternoon and put Tottenham to the sword scoring three times in fifteen minutes, with goals from St John (2) and Hunt. We sang, screamed and chanted till we could hardly mutter a raspy note and by the time the referee blew the final whistle total exhaustion had set in. We’d been pushed, shoved and dragged up and down the piss-drenched steps of the Kop for ninety minutes and we couldn’t have been happier, after all we’d beaten the Cockney buggers 3-0. As we reached the top of the Kop on our way out we stopped and turned as one to soak up that last bit of atmosphere, as we stood there in our sodden footwear staring down at that magnificent arena my Jezebel said to me thank you that was the greatest experience I’ve ever had, will you take me again? Only if you wear your wellies I chuckled as we headed down the steps and out into the street in search of the end of game customary fish and chips.