Every time the ball hit the diesel pump, it made a hollow clanging sound. Lol walked across the forecourt to take over shifts. First thing out of his mouth was, ‘Are y’ goin’ to Rome?’
I hoofed the ball at the diesel pump … clang! ‘Yeah, if I get the money,’ I said.
Then he goes, ‘It’s fifty-nine quid on the train, isn’t it?’
I stopped, put one foot on the ball, then booted it again … clang!
I was chocka. Fifty-nine quid doesn’t sound much now, but for me then it was nearly a month’s wedge. April’s wage cheque was owed out, courtesy of five massive league games and the European and FA Cup semis. The endless sequence of big matches had forced me into dipping the odd fiver out the till. I asked the area manager if I could have May’s pay cheque in advance, but he wasn’t having it. I was tempted to do a ‘Tom, Tom, the piper’s son’ with the till (stick it under me arm and run like fuck), but everything would’ve went pear-shaped – bizzies and all that lark … you know the score.
I dipped enough out the till to get the special to QPR (six pound fifty) and Coventry (four quid). We drew both games, paving the way to win the title at home on the Saturday to West Ham. The league was boxed off. One down, two to go. I celebrated big time that weekend but also had a serious sweat on. Rome was just eleven days away, and all’s I had saved was seventeen quid. Time was running out.
On Wednesday 18th May I was on the verge of phoning the Samaritans. The reserved train and match tickets for Rome were going on sale at Lime Street next day at an increased price of seventy quid per ticket. The extra eleven quid came about because the French were having a national strike. It meant a detour through Belgium, Germany and Switzerland and an extra twelve hours on the journey, but to be honest everyone was so paranoid about getting to Rome that no one was arsed about the extra mileage. They could’ve taken us through Spain, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and came in through fuckin’ Sicily for all we cared … just as long as we got there.
By that afternoon the temptation to rob the till was at fever pitch – it looked like the only option. Every time I opened it, I almost grew horns, a pointy tail and started laughing like Vincent Price. The irritation and frustration of handling bank notes when you’re desperate for wedge is mental torture. A few more hours and I’m convinced that I would’ve swooped and took off like an Olympic sprinter. But then something happened.
Through frustration I’d been volleying the ball at the diesel pump. The front panel fell off a few times and the pump made a weird gurgling noise … like a washing machine. I thought nothing of it until a transit van rolled up. The driver asked for a fiver’s worth, and we stood there watching the digits spin round. It got to about three quid, then for some unknown, fateful, beautiful, life-defining reason, the digits jammed. I stopped and stared at the seized numerals. Believe me I may as well have been looking at a 7777 jackpot on a fruit machine. I pressed the pump trigger again and nearly burst into tears of joy. The diesel was gushing out but not registering.
Over the next two hours I made nearly two weeks’ wages but was still short of me Rome money. I was racking me brains trying to think of anyone with a diesel van or wagon … then it hit me: Kirkby Cabs! The phone call was terrible. For some reason me voice went dead shady and deep … like a Red Indian chief: ‘All right. Half-price diesel … East Lancs Garage … now.’
Minutes later a black hackney turned up, and I filled it for a fiver. The driver couldn’t believe it and radioed the office. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what was about to happen. It started off slow – two or three cabs, then a few more, till there were about fifteen in the queue. I was just guessing how much to charge – mostly between five and seven quid. As one cab left, another three would turn up. I started panicking, filling tanks while looking over me shoulder at the queue, which was backing up onto the East Lancs. Most had containers with them. Diesel was splashing all over the bastard place, blowing back out the tanks and containers all over me. After half an hour it went mental. A convoy of black cabs stretched from the diesel pump out the garage, along the Lancs, past the lights and down Moorgate road into Kirkby. It looked like the annual taxi charity day out to Southport. I was like a headless chicken, running from cab to cab filling tanks and containers quicker than Edward fuckin’ Scissorhands. I was shitting meself in case the bizzies got onto it or the area manager turned up; no blag in the world could’ve got me out of that one.
An hour later I slid into the kiosk chair. My right hand was stinging and the rest of me was minging – the smell was pure diesel. If I’d lit a ciggy, I think they’d have heard the explosion in Rome. I locked the garage up early and got a cab to take me home. My pockets were bulging with cash. I emptied it onto me bed, then lashed me fuming jeans out the window.
Straightening and counting those scrunched up, diesel-stinking notes is one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever done. The final count was three hundred and twenty-eight quid. I walked into the kitchen in just me boxer shorts and threw fifty green one-pound notes up in the air. ‘You can have that, Ma,’ I said. She looked at me like I was soft. It was a great feeling, getting me Rome trip sorted and boxing me ma off. It made me realise what a load of bollocks that old saying is: ‘Money’s not everything’. I know it can’t buy health, but take it from me, it’s just a blag spread round by rich bastards … you know the score.
Next day Lime Street was chocka with Roman Reds. I was used to travelling away so knew what a footy-special train ticket looked like. But I honestly thought British Rail would make an effort for the big journey abroad. They didn’t; just the usual little cheapo pink card, only this time enriched with the magic words ‘Rome and back’. We got our photos done in the booth at the station, then got our six-month passports at the post office … job done; I was Rome bound.
It was like little Italy in the alehouse that night. Four of us were making the trip. One was on the taxis, one on the dole, our kid was hitting the sick and I was taking a week’s leave without pay – an easy decision after you’ve just sexually assaulted a diesel pump. Someone suggested we all get a Liverpool FC tattoo done for the occasion. I was well up for it and arranged to meet them next day at Sailor Jack’s hut under the bridge in Tuebrook. There was so much Italian talk going on that the FA Cup final was almost forgotten about. When one of the lads mentioned it, the conversation instantly shifted from European-holiday mode to a more domestic, moody feel – the type that was the norm then, especially when playing the Mancs, like how many Scousers were going, potential trouble, stuff like that. Twelve of us were heading down in a transit van on the Friday night; just two with tickets, and I wasn’t one of them.
I was buzzing when I finished me shift that Friday. It was sunny; I had tank; I was getting a Liverpool tattoo done; I was going to Wembley that night; and at home under me mattress I had a train and match ticket for Rome: life couldn’t get sweeter. Only one of the lads turned up at Sailor Jack’s for a tattoo. It cost us twelve quid each to get branded with the old Liverpool badge. It looked superb – full of colour. But it didn’t half hurt.
United in Grief
It was well after midnight when thirteen of us left St Lawrence’s club in Kirkby in a Brookhire transit van filled with old cushions that we used as seats. The extra passenger just tagged along after singing Liverpool songs in the club with us. By the time he sobered up, we were at Keele service station. He kept saying ‘I shouldn’t be here’. There were loads of United around, so we just swooped on a load of sarnies, then out.
In the car park a dozen or so Mancs had sussed the ‘Merseyside Truck Rental’ logo on the side of our van and started singing ‘We hate the Scousers’. Luckily we had a fearless leader with us. Gerry was a seriously hard lad. It was a boost and a great relief when you knew he was travelling away. If trouble came, he’d be first in and last away. He walked towards them: