I tried to spend at least 48 hours in a city to write a feature. It irritated me as a Mancunian and United fan when writers were parachuted into Manchester for the day and returned to write lazy features full of stereotypes, which often missed the point. And while I spoke to the usual suspects like players and local journalists, I tried to talk to as many fans as possible. Fans often have a far greater feeling for a rivalry than any player could have. Because of my background editing the United We Stand fanzine, I’ve always felt comfortable around fans and understand the nuances and hierarchy of fan culture. When I went to Anfield or Ajax Amsterdam, I didn’t do what television cameras tend to do and collar the fan desperate to perform for the cameras for his or her opinion.
Instead I sought out the views of the most hard-core supporters. Sometimes they were hooligans; sometimes they were old men who hadn’t missed a game for half a century. But they were always people who cared deeply about their club.
I tried to be objective. I always knew I was going to be in a no-win situation the minute I agreed to write the piece on Cliftonville–Linfield in Belfast. In fact, I turned down the assignment many times. I finally agreed when Mat Snow, then editor of FourFourTwo told me, ‘You either write it or I’m commissioning someone else.’ I couldn’t let the opportunity slip and loved my time in Belfast. I produced a positive and passionate piece to reflect that enjoyment. I tried my best to be fair and the initial feedback on the message board populated by fans of football in Northern Ireland was very encouraging. Then the bigotry started to seep in and extremist cyber warriors took over. One wrote that I had been so fervently anti-Linfield (had I?) because I’d stayed at the house of a Glentoran fan, their hated enemy, on my sojourn in Belfast. Actually, I’d lodged with a Linfield fan.
That’s football fans, though. When Hugh Sleight took over Mat Snow’s job at FourFourTwo, he encouraged me to cover as many derbies as possible. I was happy to oblige. Of the pieces that have appeared previously in the magazine, I’ve already been able to gauge reactions. I’ve been accused of bias, yet been informed that I never need to buy another pint should I return to Wrexham or Rotterdam. I remained in contact with the fans at many clubs, while I’ve no wish to speak to the official of East Stirlingshire who was possibly the rudest person I came across on all my travels.
As in politics, a week is a long time in football: for example, when the Southampton–Portsmouth chapter was written Southampton were in the ascendancy. Now, for the time being, Portsmouth have turned the tables and are the Premiership side, as well as celebrating a long overdue FA Cup win. For rivalries that go back in time, it was decided to retain the flavour and relevance of those particular clashes rather than update to more recent matches, which would dilute the impact of the originals.
Of the games included here, I have covered 14. It would have been impossible for one writer to cover them all, nor am I necessarily the best qualified person to do so. The other writers are listed and credited with their biographies elsewhere. I am thankful to all. Each one of us has tried to convey why these games are, as FourFourTwo entitles its regular feature on derby games of all shades and on all continents, ‘More Than A Game’. From the high theatrical drama of Rome’s Il Derbi Capitale and el gran classico in Madrid to the infinitely more parochial Caledonian tussle for supremacy between the Shire and Elgin on Scotland’s windswept north east coast, football’s most intense encounters are laid bare in these pages.
Andy Mitten
Barcelona, June 2008
Seeing Red Liverpool v Manchester United, March 2007
One of the most eagerly-awaited games of the season, between two teams whose cultural influence extends far beyond their city boundaries.
My head feels like it’s going to explode. Barely ten yards in front of me, John O’Shea is wheeling away in celebration and the stunned Scouse silence means the joyous screams of the Manchester United players are audible. We’ve beaten arch-rivals Liverpool in dramatic and, many will say, undeserved circumstances: one-nil, at Anfield, with a killer late goal after defending for much of the game. As a result, we’re now twelve points clear in the race for a Premiership title most fans considered out of reach last August.
As the players shout at lung-bursting volume and frenziedly hug each other, I have to contain the euphoria of this perfect, body-tingling buzz, not showing the slightest sign of pleasure. I’m standing on the Kop, a lone Mancunian in a mass of 12,000 fuming Liverpool fans.
After glancing one last time at the ecstatic United players and 3,000 delirious travelling fans in the Anfield Road stand, I jog back to the car through the streets of dilapidated and boarded-up Victorian terraces which surround Anfield. Past pubs, the ones closest to the ground teeming with fans from Bergen and Basingstoke with their painted faces, jester hats, and replica kits. It reminds me of Old Trafford. Finally, in the relative safety of the car I let my emotions go and punch the air repeatedly, before looking out to see a man staring at me from his front room window. He raises his two fingers. It’s no ‘V’ for victory and I don’t need assistance from a lip reader to know what he’s saying. It’s time to get on the East Lancashire Road and back to Manchester.
SIX CLASSIC GAMES
United 3 Liverpool 4
League, February 1910
United’s new Old Trafford home, resplendent with an 80,000 capacity, earned the club the ‘Moneybags United’ tag. The stadium’s grand opening was going well as United led 3–1 after seventy-four minutes. Then the visitors scored three times…
My mood had been so very different before the match as I queued to get onto the Kop for the first time in my life. I’d not seen a United fan all day, save for the Mancunian ticket touts working the streets alongside their Scouse counterparts behind the Kop. ‘We’re in the same game and we all know each other,’ explained one. Whether you’re at the Winter Olympics in Japan or Glastonbury Festival, the vast majority of spivs will be Mancunian or Scouse, an unholy alliance of wily, streetwise grafters.
Like me, 95 per cent of the United fans at Anfield wore no colours, but paranoia gripped me as I reached my seat. It would take just one person to suss I wasn’t a Liverpool fan and I’d be in serious trouble. I wasn’t going to attempt to fit in by trying a Scouse accent, mutilating words like ‘chicken’ to a nasal ‘shickin’ or calling people ‘la’, ‘soft lad’, or ‘wack’, but I wasn’t aiming to advertise my allegiances either.
‘Alright mate,’ said the lad next to me in a North Wales accent as I found my seat.
‘Alright mate,’ I replied, cagily. They were the last words I spoke all game.
When Liverpool’s fans sang ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ I focused firmly on events on the field. I did the same when they chanted, ‘You’ve won it two times, just like Nottingham Forest,’ in reference to United’s two European Cups compared with Liverpool’s five.
I ignored the continual anti-Gary Neville abuse, was surprised that Cristiano Ronaldo wasn’t booed once – ls;We don’t go for all that “little Englander” nonsense,’ a Scouser explained later – and stunned that the Kop applauded Edwin van der Sar as he took to his goal. The Dutchman applauded back warmly.
All around me, Liverpool’s flags continue the European theme: ‘Paisley 3 Ferguson 1’ reads one. Liverpool are obsessed with flags. One piece of cloth even has its own website; others try hard to be examples of the famed Scouse wit.
SIX CLASSIC GAMES
United 2 Liverpool 1
FA Cup Final, 1977
With the League Championship in the bag and a European Cup final to follow, rampant Liverpool