Liverpool Stories
The stories on this site are not included in my book.
The tales are snapshots of my life in Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, and the echo chamber of the Mersey Sound that in the sixties resonated around the planet like an acoustic Tsunami. The stories cover a period of 50 odd years and so they touch on every aspect of my life from the rites of passage to the passing of youth. I hope you enjoy them.
Won't get fooled again - The day Bill Shankly got it wrong
By
John Williams
Cynicism is a bit like nostril hair, in that the older we get the more it is in evidence. When I was young I believed fervently in Santa Claus, Robin Hood's re-distribution of wealth scheme and the quaint notion that the camera never lies.
Santa died a natural death the year I decided that I could make better use of the money that my parents spent in promoting the myth of the Lardy from Lapland.
Robin Hood's economic strategy just didn't bear scrutiny, as taking some poor Baron's loot and giving it to the peasants just perpetuated the real problem, which was money per se. I would have felt happier had he lobbed those leather bags full of gold into the river and fought to reinstate the barter system. You know, ten turnips equals one hand-knitted doublet, or something to that effect.
As for the camera not lying, I give you...Joan Collins.
One person I never lost faith in was a balding Scot who was to good looks what Errol Flynn was to celibacy. I am referring of course to Bill Shankly, the man who found Liverpool on the scrap heap of history, dusted it off and began the process of making it the most successful club in the English game
I say I never lost faith in him, but I did have occasion once to doubt his objectivity.
That happened in 1967, the year I had returned to Liverpool after having been incarcarated in Skelmersdale New Town for almost two years. To say I was incarcarated is perhaps an exaggeration, but you have to understand that on Saturday afternoons the last bus from Liverpool to Skelmersdale left at 17.15 which meant I had to run like a lunatic to get my ticket to oblivion, and so, regardless of Liverpool F.C.'s fate on the day, I was usually profoundly depressed throughout the journey. The sense of being cut off from my roots was as palpable as a Headsman's axe. Skelmersdale was a nice enough place you understand but I craved the excitement of the city I had grown up in, and so when the chance arose for me to play the prodigal son I grabbed it.
At that time Liverpool were the reigning champions and so I had no doubts about their chances of beating the little known Dutch champions, Ajax F.C.
On a foggy night in Amsterdam, Ajax, led by the ballmeister Johann Cruyff, thrashed the mighty reds 5-1.
Shankly trotted out several excuses for the humiliating defeat. The fog didn't help, he said, conveniently forgetting the fact that Ajax weren't equipped with radar yet had managed to score five times to our once. Shanks also accused the Dutch team of 'playing mainly defensively and relying on breakaways'. His obfuscation was not simply bad sportsmanship, but was symptomatic of man who would never castigate his team in public.
Such was my belief in the man that when he later declared that we would beat them by a similar score in the home leg I was determined to be there at any price. I was convinced that if we played with our usual vim we would scour from our memory the defeat by Ajax. As things turned out I think every Red's fan in the city also believed him because on the night there were thousands of people still trying to get into the ground just as the kick-off was imminent.
I was beginning to fear that I would miss the kick-off and, given Shankly's forecast, possibly one or even two early goals, so when I saw a man giving his mate a leg up over the wall at the Kop end I turned to the man next to me and asked him if he would do the same for me. He agreed and in no time at all I was straddling the half round coping stones atop the wall and then dropping down into the ground itself.
I stepped onto the Kop just as they kicked off and within a couple of minutes Peter Thompson had hit the bar with a screamer. That was the last chance of an early breakthrough and we eventually drew 2-2, losing 7-3 on aggregate.
After the crowd tragedies of recent times I suppose 'bunking in' like that was quite a foolish thing to do, but I was not only innocent in those days I was more than a little stupid too.