Here We Go Gathering Cups In May. Nicky Allt

at the very same time as we were pillaging and scavenging in Germany, half of Liverpool was overindulging and partying, watching the team celebrate on the steps of the Picton Library back home.

      That Thursday night was definitely the worst: dehydration, hunger, thirst, weariness, desolate expressions, dishevelled clobber, bouts of silence and basic self-survival. It was getting like the film King Rat. I didn’t think anything could make me laugh that night, but some Scouser did. He opened our carriage door and stood there for a few seconds holding out his clenched fist. We all sat there baffled. Then he slowly opened his hand and said, ‘Does anyone wanna buy a fly?’ There was a dead fly in his palm. What’s that old Scouse saying: ‘If yer don’t laugh, you’ll cry.’

      The only escape was sleep. It was mine and Wardy’s turn in the luggage racks. Getting into them wasn’t easy, like climbing into a narrow top bunk without a ladder. They were no more than two foot wide. The criss-cross rope was quite thick and sagged down between three metal support rails. The middle rail was the bastard. It was bang on line with your hip, your arse or your plums, depending on which way you turned. The only comfort was that you were lying down for a change, instead of trying to kip sitting upright. I psyched myself into thinking it was me own bed. After a while I couldn’t feel the rail against my side or the rope on me cheek. It was a seriously rough doss, but it was the longest kip I had on the entire trip. Thursday passed into Friday.

      As we got nearer the coast, the mood picked up. The buzz was similar to the feeling prisoners must get on the morning of their release. That’s what the train felt like: a moving nick – restricted movement – confined cells – loss of freedom – claustrophobia. Though, as Wardy said, ‘Even prisoners get food and drink.’ We pulled into Ostend about half eight on the Friday morning. The sheer relief of disembarking was orgasmic. The Belgians in the station couldn’t make us out. We looked like a train full of extras from Planet of the Apes. I remember inhaling the fresh sea air at the harbour. It was a boss feeling knowing we were only a gangplank away from an English brekkie.

      The ship’s cafe was always gonna struggle. Hundreds were skint and hadn’t eaten for days, so any sense of conscience went right out the portholes … you know the score. Those cafe scenes are now known in Scouse circles as The Invasion of the Brekkie Snatchers. At least three pigs’ worth of bacon went west. Some of the eating noises were primal. People were grunting and making sounds you’d only hear in a blue movie. In fact the breakfast afterglow was actually similar to post sex – sitting back smoking with a pervy, satisfied smirk on your gob. The rest of the crossing was spent on the top deck boozing in the sunshine. Jimmy sat in the shade due to his burnt, peeling kite. He wasn’t the only victim of the Roman weather. A lad called Tony Burke from Walton was walking round like the tin man from The Wizard of Oz.

      The ale did enough to prepare us for the final stint. I couldn’t have faced getting on another bastard train without a few beers down me. We docked at Dover around half one, then right onto another rickety footy special. That last part was an absolute grueller. It seemed to take as long as the Europe trek. We read Friday’s papers over and over. They were still paying tribute to the team and to the fans for the way we’d conducted ourselves in Italy. There wasn’t one single incident or arrest. The Mayor of Rome was full of praise, stating that we were welcome back any time. It was the perfect scenario, the red ribbon on the cake. The match now seemed like a distant memory, like we’d been away for weeks. Then, after another five arse-torturing hours, at 7 p.m., Friday 27th, the train finally pulled into Lime Street, nearly forty hours after leaving Rome. We emerged like a cargo of refugees and shuffled slowly along the platform, round-shouldered, battered and exhausted.

      Liverpool was as sunny as Rome that night. I stopped by the taxi rank with Jimmy and Wardy. They were amongst the many diehards who headed straight to Anfield for Tommy Smith’s testimonial. I just don’t know how any of them did it. I was like most Reds: a physical, mental and financial write-off. Before they jumped in a cab, we said our goodbyes, Jimmy half-cut and Wardy … grinning, with a can in his hand.

      Going home on the bus, I stared through the window at nothing, thinking about Rome and the whole week. It was a strange feeling, a kind of hollow emptiness – I just didn’t want it to end. The derelict, vandalised flats in Kirkby made me realise it was all over. I missed Jimmy and Wardy already. I suppose if we’d lost, the trip would have gone down as a five-day nightmare. But when you win Big Ears, even the worst nightmares can turn into epic adventures. I got off the bus and cut through the council estate to me ma’s … and into LFC folklore.

      *

      Thirty years on and nearly fifty years of age, that trip means even more to me. If they ever invent a time machine, I swear I’d go back and relive it all again. We were the European Cup pioneers, the first Scousers out there, and Rome will always be our first love. It was the classic rags-to-riches fairy tale – a story of doggedness, devotion and a dream that came true.

      I slid the match programme back in me footy box and climbed out the loft, me head too laden with memories to do a tap that morning. I poured another tea, dug out a CD then sat back and let Mario Lanza do the rest. There were mixed emotions as he waltzed me around the ‘Seven Hills of Rome’. I thought about Emlyn Hughes, Bob Paisley, Shanks and all those Reds who made the trip in ’77 who’ve now moved on. Then I pictured Jimmy’s sunburnt, polluted kite, Wardy’s grin, genie bottles, laughter, red chequered flags, Big Ears gleaming and the best night of me life. Oh yeah … and a dodgy diesel pump.

      If the European Cup story had ended there, I’d still have been sitting here all these years later with a content smile. But something else happened in ’77. In May a young Jock called Alan Hansen signed for a hundred grand from Partick. Then, on 10th August, another Scotsman arrived. His name: Kenneth Mathieson Dalglish.