The last week of May 1985

I was seventeen

On the news they said that Kevin Moran is to get his medal. The FA Challenge Cup Committee met today and decided that the shame, humiliation, embarrassment and suspension were punishment enough.

We were naturally very pleased and full of celebrating today that Kev’s getting his medal.

I phoned Louise’s mother to find out how Lou is, so she gave me the hospital number (it’s a BUPA private one) only it was engaged, so I presumed Andrea was on the line. I tried Louise again – and got through. It was nice to hear from her again. It’s amazing how more attractive friends seem after a few days apart. She’s feeling fairly okay, apart from the pain but as I pointed out it’s better to have the pain of an operation now than risk the appendix starting up and grumbling in twelve months time.

Most people would think that the sort of day we have passed has been boring. But the point is, it is not so much what you do, but who you pass your time with and in what mood you are. When you have messed around all day with Andrea, Andi, Angela and Sandi, you can’t help feeling cheerful. We have laughed, played the fool, and generally had the maddest of conversations

Today started well enough – indeed, come to think of it has continued in much the same vein, only I've just played my Ant ‘A’ sides, and realised that it is four years ago tomorrow that I bought Stand and Deliver. Four years ago – my youth has vanished in a cloud of smoke. Mind you, those Ant records are class – no wonder I was so mad on them as a child! Because, obviously, at seventeen I was old and grown up...

I did some Euro History revision: quite an achievement don’t you think, considering I hate the subject! I spent most of the day knitting.

I caught the bus to Stretford and walked up Edge Lane. I spent the whole afternoon with Grandad and Auntie June. We had a good laugh, first of all struggling with a Z-Bed that they bought yesterday, because Tony’s (Aunite June's son, so therefore I suppose my step uncle) coming to stay for a couple of nights. Then we chatted for ages. We looked at photos, including one of Grandad at the age of about two, and one of my great-grandfather when he was a farrier with the Royal Field Artillery in WW1.

After tea I caught the 41 to Holly Royde College. The lecture was about voting patterns and voting behaviour. Nothing, really, that one didn’t know already. Amazing how you can wait forty minutes for a bus that comes every thirty minutes.

I walked into Sale. It was a gorgeous day – I felt hot with just my pink blouse on I assume I was also wearing a skirt or shorts or somesuch..., there was not a cloud in the sky, and it was so nice that people even smiled at you. I went into Tescos to do loads of food shopping. It was great. I adore shopping. Part of the fun of cooking is the shopping – even when it does make your arms drop off.

On the way home I noticed that Mrs J ex next door neighbour - her ex-husband still lives there was chatting to Mrs M who's still around, aged 102, so I waved and she came over to chat. She’s looking healthier, she’s lost weight, doesn’t look so harrassed, and no longer smells. She’s very cheerful and is living in Hawick (or Horwich- I can’t read my own writing) – she’s just home to collect her things and that.

I listened to the album chart with Bruno. At eleven minutes past seven there was a newsflash. ‘Oh god’ I thought ‘what the hell has happened’. The news came through that there had been a spot of trouble at the stadium in Belgium – a wall had collapsed crushing about fifteen people to death. I went down to the telly to find exactly what was happening. As the next three quarter hours progressed it began to sink in the extent of the tragedy: Liverpool fans climbed a minuscule fence and joined the Juve fans. A wall collapsed, crushing twenty eight to death. What was significant was the absence of police – it was mayhem. I went upstairs and heard that Radio One had an eight o’clock news – significant in itself. By the time the eight o’clock news on Piccadilly finished, I was in tears – not just at that, a mixture of shock and shame at events that words cannot explain, but also the news that a party of schoolchildren suffered fatalities when their coach crashed in France. Normally I would not devote a thought to that but when I initially heard the news, I panicked, and thought of the Loreto/Ambrose lot who have gone to Taizé. Thankfully it’s not them, but the two events make me realise that anything can happen - a coach crash, a football stadium tragedy…it’s awful. I found Radio Merseyside. They had a freelance journalist who broke down on the radio, Emlyn Hughes was nearly in tears on Radio Two.

It should have been one hell of a match: the two best teams in Europe, the absolute giants – Liverpool and Juventus. It should have been a festival of football, but instead it’s a bloody, tragic, god what can I say, what the hell our words. It should have been a joyous farewell for Joe Fagan and Ian Rush…instead, I can’t revise.

I watched the news. Juventus won a pretty meaningless match. Michel Platini scored from the penalty spot after Gary Gillespie brought Boniek down. It was one of those days, you could tell that the players were tensed up: Mark Lawrenson had to go off with the recurrence of a shoulder injury: he was in tears.

One might say that Liverpool are in the UEFA Cup next year, but I don’t think they will be, for the same reason that Everton won’t be in the European Cup, Manchester United will not be in the Cup Winners Cup, and Norwich, Tottenham and Chelsea won’t be in the UEFA Cup – can any country really be expected to put up with English murderers?

As you can imagine newspapers and the radio have been full if the Brussels tragedy. Apparently the Express had only one line on the back page” And in the football match that followed Juventus won on nil – but who cares.”

Mr A is outside fixing the new garage doors. The Radio Rentals fella is due between four and a half ours ago and the following three and a half hours. The weather is gorgeous. Manchester is hotter than the rest of Britain.

I got a letter from Susanne. She knows two people who dies in the Bradford Blaze – her brother’s best friend’s sister, and the girlfriend of one of the Bradford players.

After lunch I got the tea ready (well, you know stuck the chicken casserole in the oven) and then Andrea arrived, and we sat around talking while listening to the Secret of Association – Paul Young and the tape of the Red Weekend, which is really smart – particularly the interviews with the likes of Norman Whiteside. On the bus they all sound pissed.

After we went out for a walk. We had a look at Paul’s house and Norman’s house, but we also took in the pleasant walk as well. It was hot – even at six o’clock it was hot, but very pleasant.

We returned home and finished listening to the tape, then we went upstairs and looked at all ten volumes of my United scrapbook before watching Top of the Pops and the News (extended, mainly about the Brussels disaster).

Lunch was sort of okay, only Mother started going on at me and I find it really aggravating that she can’t even ask a question without making me feel like a petty criminal.

Because I dropped my radio on the floor Mother was up giving me a mouthful of nothingness. What really annoys me is that at school one is treated like as an adult, at home one is treated like a child – it’s unfair.

The FA have announced that the English teams will not be in Europe next season. It’s sad in footballing – and financial - terms that these competitions will be without the English teams, but in human terms – the most important of all – it is a prudent decision. A Spurs fan died prior to the match at Anderlecht. Thirty eight people died on Wednesday evening. There is no limit to what can happen if there are no measures taken to prevent a reoccurrence.

It is becoming apparent that the National Front and the British National Party are at the roots of the trouble. NOT primarily Liverpool fans, but criminals, with one thought on their mind: to cause death and destruction by violence – in the name of patriotism. Patriotism – patriotism my foot. England is now hated across the Continent of Europe. I used to be proud to be English…but the word is beginning to stick in my throat. Obviously I am disappointed that Manchester United are not competing in Europe next season, but on the other hand I would hate to see the name of Manchester United linked with aggro.

I went downstairs and started knitting myself a scarf with the remainder of the wool from my jumper. I was sitting peacefully, and Daddy came in. We had an amicable exchange, about pocket money, then Mother stuck her oar in and I HATE The way she cross examines me about everything, so by the time Daddy had gone out again I tried to tell her how I felt about her, only as usual, she sat alternatively reading her book or laughing at me. As you can imagine I just flipped. Well, I’m not the world’s best tempered person, but I have to be provoked. Well, I verbally let fly, causing Daddy to come in and, thankfully, and fairly, he stuck up for me.

Mother sulked because I wanted to see the News at Ten, but tough shit to her. She was probably sulking because the whole of the first half was devoted to the aftermath of the Brussels affair.