When football used to be fun...White Hart Pain

White Hart Pain.

During the 1960s any Liverpool game in London was an essential trip for the Corby contingent of Reds fans, due to the fact that none of us could drive and it was an easy journey on the train. London was exciting in the 60s. Disembarking at St Pancras and heading for the West End was always the starting point from where further excursions were mulled over to fill in the intervening hours before the match. Popular was a drinking hole called the Western Bar in Leicester Square. A unique sawdust -on-the-floor saloon depicting the Wild West complete with Billy the Kid and Jesse James 'Wanted' posters on the walls. Ambling around Piccadilly, Carnaby Street, Soho after a couple of pints was intoxicating. There was a real buzz about these places. People walking around in the weirdest garb. Union Jack jackets, top hats, bizarre multi coloured jeans and shirts, boots of all designs. And that was only our lot!

The music emanating from the stores gave the perfect soundtrack. The Who's Substitute, the Kinks Dedicated Follower of Fashion, The Beatles Paperback Writer all immediately bring back to life those wondrous days of the 1960s. Heady and exciting times. And of course, we had nothing else to worry about! Mortgages, gas bills, water bills? They were something for your parents to worry about.

In the very early days, we’d often make our way to the Monument, near London Bridge. We had stumbled across a great little café there serving the best sausage and chips anywhere. Fabulous and right next door was a pub to wash them down with a pint of John Bull. Opposite the pub was the Monument, Sir Christopher Wren’s column, with 311 steps, indicating the length of the Great Fire of London, 311 days. And this is where it started. A history lesson thrown into the trip as well. 

The capitol gave us easy access for Liverpool games, Arsenal, West Ham, Chelsea, Fulham, QPR... and Tottenham Hotspur. Most of the grounds were fairly easy to get to. Hopping on the Underground, maybe a couple of changes here and there, all fairly comfortable to work out. Except Tottenham Hotspur. How did you get to White Hart Lane from St Pancras? Originally it was a couple of stops on the Piccadilly Line, getting off at Manor House Tube Station, and then it was finding a bus to take you the rest of the journey. Later the Underground edged us a bit closer, to the Seven Sisters Road thanks to the completion of the Victoria Line extension in 1969. It was still a hike from there all the same. If we were feeling plush, we'd maybe get a taxi and share it with fellow Reds fans meandering along the streets. Which itself brought with it the occasional cause of embarrassment. Making out we were scousers, we'd decide beforehand where abouts in Liverpool we came from, if asked. It was all a bit of a laugh, putting on phony accents. And the cause for much ridicule off your mates! Rob Nicol, 'Nick', was the worst at this. Asked by a genuine scouser who had joined us in a cab, Nick drawled out 'Bir-ken-head'. And we all fell out of our seats laughing!

Spurs were a force back then with players of the calibre of Dave Mackay, Cliff Jones, Alan Gilzean and the incomparable Jimmy Greaves. One game sticks out in the memory bank from that period. Greaves took a corner right in front of all the Liverpool fans. Tommy Lawrence, affectionately known as the Flying Pig, took up position just in front of the far post with Chris Lawler behind him. Left back Gerry Byrne was stationed at the near post. Greaves sent the ball over, unbelievably, Byrne ducked, and the ball went right over his head and sailed into the net! The Reds fans were stunned, the Liverpool team were stunned. What happened there? “Someone shouted ‘Leave it’”, a scouser observed. And he was right. Gilzean the canny Scotsman was in the area – and he was now running back up the pitch laughing his head off. Gilzean was the culprit. Gerry had obviously thought Lawrence, Gilzean’s Scottish teammate, had shouted ‘leave it’. Bill Shankly was not amused. Next day Bill was reported to have told Gerry Byrne that there were men in Walton Jail for doing less!

Games between Spurs and Liverpool were always tight with often only one goal separating the teams. In 67’, the Reds managed a draw with a fabulous goal from Roger Hunt. Sir Roger, knighted by the Kop for his efforts in the 1966 World Cup, cut in from the right of the goalmouth, leaving the indomitable Dave Mackay on his backside before sliding the ball past Jennings to cancel out yet another Greaves goal. This was the day when our crew had finally thought we’d cracked it when chatting up some Sunderland girls outside St Pancras after the game. Being young lads, out for the day and on the lookout for some extra entertainment, we always fancied our chances at chatting up the girls. Though it’s fair to say we usually failed miserably. One time I crashed into a wall light in a compartment on the train to Nottingham when going to a Forest match. In our rush to enter the carriage to chat up two good looking girls, I tripped over my own feet and went headlong onto the seat, taking the light fitting with me! The glass shattered, the girls screamed, it was mayhem. 'Big Alan' Clarkson, our gentle giant of a pal couldn’t believe it. Big Al always had a fit of the giggles when one of us made balls up of things. “F***ing hell Clive, how do you manage it!” he'd cry. Needless to say, the girls weren’t impressed, and we shat ourselves in case the guard would throw us off the train. These were the early days of football hooliganism when train wrecking was regularly making the headlines. We made a sharp exit. Apologising for our antics!

Sunderland were playing at Fulham this particular day when we were at White Hart Lane. Outside the Euston Tavern, a delightful little pub opposite St Pancras was a group of girls dressed in the red and black of the Rokermen. Dick (Dighton), John 'Wilf' Wilson, Alan Murphy, Ralph Ralston, Rob Nicol and I made a beeline for them. Our chat up lines weren’t great but nevertheless we made an effort, only to find we couldn’t understand a word they were saying! 'What sort of accent is that?' They might as well have been Chinese! Our clumsy efforts were rewarded with them taking the piss out of us! All the same, Dick and Ralph paired off with two of the girls, ‘how did they do that?’ the rest of us asked. They crossed the road and went for a walk. To where I don’t think even they knew. It wasn’t far anyway. Next thing while the four of us were still trying to make some headway with the four remaining Sunderland girls, Dick and Ralph were spotted walking back, with Dick jumping up and down off a small wall alongside the Euston Road, with the girls looking totally bored and only barely half amused. When asked later how they had been getting on during this brief period of flirtation, Ralph told us Dick had started talking about cricket!! Which if for nothing else, gave us a great excuse for some serious piss taking out of our ‘willow’ loving friend.

Dick and myself paying a visit to see the PM Harold Wilson

The fad of the Skinhead came into fashion towards the end of the 60s, and football supporters were taking up the trend countrywide. Shaven headed, tattooed, heavy booted characters became a blight on the landscape. Hunting in gangs before and after the games, you had to have your wits about you to avoid confrontation. London was particularly well served by these yobs.

Four of us were strolling along the Seven Sisters Road one time in 1969. Nick, Wilf and I were joined on this trip by a workmate called Alf Stacey, a Kettering guy, with that distinctive Kettrin' lilt, 'awright m'duck' sort of thing. Not that he was a soft get. Alf was a bleedin' header!! Lovely guy who didn't give a fuck for anyone!

Minding our own business and chatting away, we were oblivious to a mob getting ever closer to us and chanting anti Liverpool songs. Seven Sisters was busy. Buses and taxis toyed with each other as they tried to maneuver amongst the traffic. The hubbub, hums and smell of exhaust fumes filled the air. In the background and steadily getting louder, was the song we all knew so well. The Everton favourite. 'Oh we hate Bill Shankly and we hate St John, but most of all, we hate Big Ron...' Hang on, who's singing that. Turning round we were stunned to see a group of around a dozen Tottenham fans, heading for us, and out for a scalp! They were doubtlessly wound up because finally Liverpool had broken their duck against their team, the Spurs. Well it was our duck actually. The first time we had seen Liverpool conquer our North London opponents on their own patch, 2-0. Emlyn Hughes and Chris Lawler were the scorers. Fantastic. We were in a great mood, but it wasn't to last much longer. A sudden thought of 'fuck me' and then Alf, the header, said the immortal words, 'come on then yer bastards'. Who brought this moron along, I thought to myself! It was time to show our heels. Alf stood there, beckoning these characters to him. Squat and big shouldered, a punched in unshaven face, Alf was no film star let's say. A Spurs fans rushed forward, this all happened in a matter of minutes, seconds even, and booted Alf right on his chin. Nick, Wilf and I fled across the road, dodging the traffic, expecting Alf to follow suit. Alf hadn't moved! We saw him shake his head, and then head butt the bloke. Then he turned and ran. The herd followed us, we were in big trouble. Stacey thought it was good fun! Though even he must have realised we were up against it, and his pals weren't too keen on hospital food. Refuge was found in a chip shop with a massive queue. We hid at the back until the dickheads passed on by.

The Flying Pig, Tommy Lawrence

Taking our Liverpool scarves and badges off, in the interest of health and safety, a couple of pints were in order before we made the rest of the trek back to West London. Hairy it had been. But we still won! 2-0. A great day!