Fresh from lamenting all things Chelsea, guest columnist Marc is back and this time he reflects on his only experience of Old Trafford…
First of all I’d like to thank the good folk at Vital Liverpool for generously taking the time to read the latest results of what happens when I’m let loose on Microsoft Word!
It’s that time of year again when the Redmen make the trek to Snake Mountain to foil Skeletor’s latest attempt to seize Castle Grayskull (He-Man reference, look it up). To mark the occasion, the only football forum that hasn’t banned me for life (yet) invited fellow Reds to share their experiences of playing the old enemy on their own turf, whether positive or negative.
I’ve witnessed many good times against the old enemy at Anfield but the only time I dared to venture through the turnstiles of Old Trafford became a story of pain, misery, illness, dodgy penalties, a broken Playstation controller and me literally needing to be carried home. All of which made me vow to never return to that place ever again.
I’m sharing this story for two reasons:
1) To remind people Champions League qualification is far from secured so don’t taunt the Mancs just yet incase pride comes before a fall.
2) To taunt Mancs with a reminder of a time when they had a decent manager!
It was the 24th September 1998, Westlife were beginning to torture the nation’s ears, Roy Hodgson was torturing Blackburn Rovers, Steven Gerrard was a skinny kid with a basin haircut and Man United were hosting Liverpool on a Thursday night but it wasn’t on Channel 5.
With hindsight I should have worked out the day was going to end in disaster when I started having flu-like symptoms around lunchtime. Liverpool were in the middle of the soon to turn sour Gerard Houllier/Roy Evans joint manager experiment but hopes were still high(ish) for the season. All we had to do was match the previous season’s finish and Liverpool would be back into the big time for 1998-99 was the first season when the top three Premier League teams qualified for the Champions League.
With God himself, Steve McManaman and He who shall not be named leading Liverpool’s attack, it seemed inconceivable we wouldn’t make it. As it transpired, we would eventually slump to 7th after Fowler fell out with Houllier (for the first time), McManaman, with one foot already in Real Madrid, couldn’t be arsed anymore and He who shall not be named starting blowing hamstrings left, right and centre.
Anyway back to the game and I was feeling crap by the time I boarded the train to Manchester with the old man but I dosed myself with Beechams and got on with it, which as far as I’m concerned means I’ve shown more commitment in a red shirt than Charles Itandje ever managed. At this point I would like to apologise to any fellow Liverpool supporters who were at Old Trafford that evening and developed flu in the days that followed…
By a strange and grimly ironic coincidence my own condition throughout the game matched Liverpool’s on the pitch; a shaky start followed by a strong foothold before barely being able to stand up for the final ten minutes.
There had been rumours (later confirmed) of trouble between both sets of fans in the city centre before kick-off but thankfully we were caught up in none of it. The only Man United fans we did come across were actually really sound lads who helped us with some directions to the stadium. I know we think of them as the enemy but when you leave football aside I’ve found I have quite a lot in common with the local supporters over there, for example they felt Robocop 2 was a shit film and I whole heartedly agreed with that assessment, although their description of what Coyote would do to Road Runner if he ever caught him was a little too graphic (but funny in hindsight) for my liking as a 13 year old!
As we know every fan base includes morons, Liverpool has me and Man United had the enterprising, if dense, fan who held up a sign to visiting supporters entering the ground that read and I quote; “Queers, Dicks, Wall Pushers”. I quietly admired the fact someone who looked like Stig of the Dump had managed to spell it all correctly but thankfully it wasn’t long before a police officer/steward took his sign, grabbed him by the scruff and told him to ‘get where you f**king belong’.
Old Trafford wasn’t as big then as it is now but it was certainly a lot noisier by all accounts. This was my one and only time at the stadium but within 20 minutes I’d popped a cherry – sit down perverts, I mean the dodgy penalty at Old Trafford cherry which I’m sure is an experience many a visiting supporter can relate too. It was already starting to become a common occurrence by the late 90s.
Once the chants directed at referee Steve Lodge (corrupt c**t), chants I’m genuinely pleased his mother was not there to hear, had died down there were a few knowing looks between away supporters as if to say ‘that’s not a penalty, that’s an Old Trafford penalty’ and they had a point. How exactly Jason McAteer was at fault for Brad Friedel punching a ball into his hand is beyond me but then again I don’t have Alex Ferguson breathing down my neck. Denis Irwin duly converted and a million neutrals watching on Sky Sports became seriously tempted to switch over to Eastenders, sadly that option was not available to those of us in the stands.
Getting serious for a moment, the thing I remember most about this misery fest of a match isn’t dodgy penalties or Patrik Berger fluffing chance after chance (I like Paddy by the way but he had definitely put his boots on the wrong feet that night) but acts of kindness from fellow supporters. As the second half went on the flu was really taking hold and I was struggling to stay on my feet. The lady next to me (after unfairly bollocking my Dad for letting me come to a game in this state) took the coat from her husband and wrapped it round me while other supporters plied me with Jelly Babies, Smarties and any other sugar based product they had to hand. One gentleman, who called himself Wirral Jim, said the sugar rush would help and I didn’t have the will power to argue! It’s a long shot I know but if that lady, Wirral Jim or anyone else who helped at Old Trafford that night happens to be reading this: Thank you and get in touch, I owe you all some sweets!
My last memory of that evening was the PA announcing Paul Scholes had scored and then blackness. I don’t remember the journey home at all but I’m reliably informed that I was jointly carried to the train station by my Dad and a police officer! I suppose the silver lining was that by going to the game I made my condition worse and subsequently got out of a few days of school which suited me as I had been taunting all my Man United supporting classmates all week with predictions of Robbie Fowler hat-tricks and He who shall not be named turning Jaap Stam inside out! Facing them would have been like facing a firing squad.
Waking up and putting on the TV the next morning was just as bad, Eamonn Holmes’ fat, ugly, gloating face was all over GMTV crowing about “that great result last night” and I vowed there and then that as soon as I was well enough I was going to fire up FIFA ’98, set it to easy mode and pound the Mancs into dust, over and over while screaming ‘Who da man?’ Don’t judge me because I know you all did it too! When I finally did get out of bed I planted my foot straight onto my Playstation controller, putting it permanently out of action and bang went FIFA.
So no virtual victories, no real three points and flu had combined to make for one miserable, shitty football experience. And that children is why I will be watching this weekend’s game from a bunker 1000 feet below Alex Ferguson’s bunker and why I will never return to Old Trafford.
| Not a Vital Liverpool member? It’s 100% free to join and only takes a few moments to sign up. Click here to become a member or alternatively simply sign in using Social Media! | ||