It’s 1965, I’m 10 years old, and I’m standing with my dad, at the front of the uncovered Spion Kop at Oakwell. Today, the Reds take on the mighty Manchester United in the fifth round of the FA Cup. We’ve been in the ground for over an hour, to ensure I get my own little space at the low wall that borders the pitch. Entrance for juveniles is ticket only, at only two-bob (10 pence metric).
I’m reading the match-day programme that I intend to treasure for the rest of my life. I know our best two players are missing today – our keeper, Alan Hill, and goal scorer, Tony Leighton, are injured. But you never know. As my dad says, owt can happen in the cup – and my dad knows everything.
“Don’t let anyone snatch that programme off you” He tells me, winking. “We’ll need it later.”
15 minutes before kick off the whole ground is bursting at the seams and if a stadium could speak, Oakwell would be groaning loudly. It’s impossible to move an inch in any direction. I can just about breathe freely, but only just.
This is madness.
Those St John’s first-aid volunteers who are not administering to the many who have fainted, are walking around the edge of the pitch, holding a stretched-out army blanket. This is to collect donations that are being thrown from the terraces.
“Ouch!” A misdirected coin hits my right ear like a bullet, and the fat man who’s holding on to one corner of the blanket, has blood trickling down his face from an eye wound. We’re under friendly-fire from our own generous fans. This is just plain crazy.
I screw my neck round like a robot to see to my left and right, and I realise something else is unusual. There are a lot of females in the crowd today!
At half-time a significant problem arises.
“I need the toilet, dad,” I say, but we’re jammed into our tiny spaces like wooden wedges.
“Me too,” answers my father, smiling.
“That’s why I told you to hang on to your match-day programme. Now roll it up into a tube and wee through it.”
“What?”
“It’s either that or soil your trousers, as well as everyone else’s near you. Oh, and pass your programme to me when you’ve done.”
I realise others are doing the same because soon there’s a steaming puddle underfoot, amongst soggy discarded paper. And I can’t help thinking, what about the poor women and girls? They can’t wee through a narrow paper tube, can they?
The game itself is a bit of a disaster, once Best, Law and Charlton begin to work their magic.
The United players are far too quick in their movement and thinking, and soon our defenders are cross-eyed and dizzy like they’ve completed a 10-pint session at the Shaw Inn.
At the final whistle it’s four-nil to United but before heading for the exit we wait a while to avoid the crush.
Ten minutes later, it’s still a tight squeeze to get out, and at times I’m lifted off my feet and carried helplessly along on a human wave. My dad fights against the current to grab my wrist.
The gents’ latrines are still full, so rather than queue, men can be seen spraying shiny patterns on the perimeter walls.
I notice that in this area of the ground there’s only one single toilet for hundreds of females, so some are forced to improvise and form human shields to create a modicum of privacy.
When we reach home, my mam is eager to hear our news.
“It was terrible, Mam. 39,000 spectators was too many and I’ve had to throw away my match-day programme. I could have lost my ear an’ all, as well as almost getting crushed to death.
“And I’ve had to watch grown women squatting down to wee in public. On top of that we were thrashed four-nil. I feel like rooaring.”
Mam looks at Dad. “Well, Mary,” he says, trying to identify a positive. “There’s no shelter on the Kop but at least the weather stayed dry, and we both got home safely.
“But I’ll tell you what: unless facilities improve, and grounds are made safer, one of these days someone’s going to be veeerrry sorry.”
