THE TORTUOUS TREK TO TURF MOOR AND A GREAT FA...

The famous quote from LP Hartley reads, “The past is a different country.” Nowadays, the current arbiters of

contemporary morality would react negatively to actions that were formerly deemed the societal standard when I

was navigating the minefield of my formative years. However, there is one custom from the past that contemporary

football would benefit from reviving: the now-seemingly extinct idea of attending a game to support a team that your

friend cheers for but you don’t.

My dad and his pals, who were huge Everton supporters, frequently went to Liverpool games at Anfield in the 1960s

and 1970s. At Everton games, other members of his entourage who were ardent Reds supporters would show up.

This conduct was most likely caused by the fact that most people had to work on Saturday mornings, which made

going to away games extremely difficult.

Unless you were into watching Pathé news in the movies, visiting Goodison or Anfield was the most alluring

alternative available due to the lack of other entertainment options and the fact that the pubs were closed from three

to five in the afternoon.

As a teenager, I continued this tradition. If Everton were playing away south of Birmingham, I would go with my

Liverpool-supporting friends to their stadium and vice versa. It was simply what you did. The prospect of a Saturday

afternoon without a live game was simply too painful to bear. An alternative was going along to cheer on Everton

Reserves in the Central League, but nothing could beat the thrill of top-flight football.

The Old School Yard

I was fortunate enough to have passed my 11+ exam which meant I was enrolled at a rugby union-playing grammar

school, situated in the prosperous leafy suburban setting of Crosby, a totally different environment to my utilitarian

council estate in Litherland three miles away. There were some unexpected footballing benefits, though.

The school intake encompassed a wide catchment area and pupils travelled in from different parts of Merseyside and

Lancashire. This meant that in addition to Everton and Liverpool, there were contingents of boys who followed

Manchester United, Manchester City, Preston and Southport. As a consequence, if I was unable to attend an Everton

fixture, I was often able to meet up with friends and watch their teams instead.

When I was in year 10 of the 1969–70 season, I began to hang out with a guy named Rob Conway, who was a Chelsea

supporter. With movie luminaries like Terry Stamp and Steve McQueen frequenting Stamford Bridge, Chelsea was

the glitziest team of the time. This group also included the ultra-sex goddess Raquel Welch, who was allegedly

attempting to use her charms to entice Chelsea striker Peter Osgood. We gritty northern wastrels could only imagine

the high society sophistication in which their actors appeared to operate.

Rob would frequently travel alone to London to watch Chelsea games, thanks to his dad’s job on British Rail, which

allowed him to get cheap tickets. I would eagerly listen to his stories of his trips to the capital, but as fate would have

it, Everton lost to Sheffield United in the FA Cup’s third round in January 1970, meaning I might not be playing in

the cup for another season. That’s when Rob saved my bacon.

THE TORTUOUS TREK TO TURF MOOR AND A GREAT FA CUP GAME, TOLD THROUGH THE EYES OF ONE AWAY FAN IN 1970