If you’ve fondled the erect ear of a Blackpool donkey you know what twelve inches of rock-hard gristle feels like. Unfortunately we got something akin to that rammed up our arses on March 14. Getting stuffed is not fun. What was anticipated as a grand ol’ day at the seaside ended up as Grimsby revisited – bummed hard by the Scousers and sent home with faces like smacked arses. And to make it worse, I was there in person; flew the pond on a spot of business. Stayed in some top notch Kensington hotel right a-facing Hyde Park. Rode the Underground and savoured the quality of Londone Towne; like a wonderland after that frozen wilderness of plastic McMansions and Wild West strip malls. A rampant week-long piss-up. The Liverpool game at OT smack in the middle of the trip. We clambered onto a deserted 6:36 AM Euston train for the two-hour jaunt to the tundra. It’s been two years since I was at a match; the 0-1 loss to West Ham at OT, when Tevez did the biz for the Hammers. Saw the goal on a telly while I slurped my Budweiser at the onset of half-time. But this one would be different. For one, my Yank workmate Brian would be amazed by Manchester and by Manchester United. For another, we were poised to destroy the Scousers and leave their season in bloodied ribbons. Unfortunately, little of the above came to pass.
The walk from Piccadilly station to Blackfriars was chilly and quiet. A dead city, not yet resurrected from Friday’s infusions. Uneven pavements, funky too-modern buildings. Fuck all Olde Worlde grandeur as far as the eye could see. Mancs probably think this blasphemy against Prince Charles is cool. The eastern edge of town, where rinky-dink shops blared crap music and ugly bastards strolled to mysterious ends, lent teasing possibilities of a world long gone. But we were there to see United. On a pilgrimage, walking those same streets where 19th Century Scuttlers swarmed like cockroaches while machines were introduced to the equation. “Machines the likes of which had never been seen before,” I told Brian, lost in a haze of drunken waffle. Lost in a book called Gomorrah I was currently reading, by a man with a death sentence hanging over him. “It kicked off a cotton fixation that quickly spread …In Naples they import silk and cotton from China. Little people cram into sweatshops and churn out designer masterpieces for Armani and Gucci. Those Neopolitan sweatshops were invented in Manchester. Our machines conjured fabrics and textiles the world had never dreamed of. Style was the key and criminals had it sewn up. Be it Scuttlers or Camorristi, speed is the essence and the gun is King”. I gave my Yank mate a running commentary, non-stop waffle on the state of the Republic and the parallels between Vesuvius and Salford smoky tops. He seemed confused; why would I would be proud of descending from sweatshop denizens and peasant criminals? My dad gave us a lift from Blackfriars. Through Ordsall, where brooding houses hid evil secrets. Where a generations-old army had weathered the transition from seafaring to coca-mochacinno in glazed designer outlets. Early morning docks; steel-cold air and iron cranes towering over the water. Glass-panelled scaffolding clustered and wisped like a futuristic vision. Brian forced to endure my adolescent rantings regarding Scousers, Salford, aliens and Planet X. I tried to explain that this was Goat Country. Where Ferguson is rumoured to sit silent in a Quays condo. A carnivorous leprechaun on his shoulder whispering team selections into his ear with a raspy tongue. I told the Yank where the bodies were buried; I had to lay it on thick. To impress our visitor from the New World. I pointed out the hairy necks and dusky skins of the natives. Explained that much mafia had trickled into the area from exotic ships. How you didn’t insult Family. Showed respect for the black sign of Lucifer. Obeyed an ancient tendency to organise and take control. The innumerable squads, virile and vigilant, very cool indeed. Manchester had arrived in the public imagination late but our thing came from deep underground and was never going back down. Proper Salford has always been behind the times. Part of a previous, more polite tradition, shrouded in history. Shiny dress-shirts and man-pants matched with shoes and short haircuts. Till the plastic sportswear overcame the resistance and wore them down like a dying breed.
“There’s nothing like this in London,” I spat, knowing that was untrue and the East End was yet another parallel in the waffle machine. The mass of claims and counter-claims urban man makes on behalf of his tribe and its animal range. Mine was a finger of land extending west from town, between Irwell and Ship Canal. That collarbone of concrete, those barracks and crash-barriers. OT its Tower of Babel. Lofting a high structure is the aim of any tribe worth its salt. Indicates the natives’ ability to make the desert bloom. The Quays crane forest, with its crop of ripe concrete and steel hung high, testifies to Salford’s fertility in these ball-crunching times. Then a thought hit me, the first sober one in days; maybe I was proper schizoid and in full-on denial? About my sanity as well as this place. I bought a UWS off a lad near the bridge. Pointed out my article to him. “I fuckin’ pissed meself all the way through that!” he said. Good. At least two of us get it then.
And suddenly there it was.
The Northeast Quadrant rising like an immense clamshell, fusing the two stands in its smouldering grip. The Yank cocked his brow and I grinned as if I’d built it myself. In a giant sweatshop that catered to parallel universes. But there was only one Old Trafford, or only one per universe. It was a poor facsimile of the old cantilever, but at least it was big; we’d been to Stamford Bridge for a mooch two days earlier, providing a deliciously humiliating contrast to this. My earlier schizoid diagnosis soothed at his astonishment, but I needed alcohol to fully convince me and so did he; a lifelong American fascination with United perched on the brink of fulfilment. Rapid gulps of Fosters and Guinness brought spangles of sunshine. It was gonna be a top outing, this. We went in Platts, where I hoped to see some cockneys we’d met in Soho. They told me I’d get free ale all day on the strength of my book. That one of their mates heralded it as the greatest thing he’d ever read. No such encounter occurred. We got sparklingly drunk and filmed the roaring hordes on Brian’s Flip camera. It wasn’t easy getting up at five for the train after yesterday’s skinfull. I’d been to meet my new publisher and we’d ended up on a bit of a crawl. Very messy.
Inside OT, K Stand Top Left, right next to the Originators of Casual Culture. A bit discombobulated; something was missing. The Liverpool fans looked loud but were so far away I couldn’t rightly judge. Until they ALL started singing, “He’s Crackin’ Up…” All I hear these days are tales of season tickets rescinded and turfing out. Lads lobbed onto the forecourt for standing, singing, swearing or something. It’s nothing new; Derby at OT in April ’79. I was 13. Derby came out and warmed up in advance of the Reds. Their little section singing, “Come on Derby! Come on Derby!” The entire Stretford responded with a thunderous, “Fuck off, Derby! Fuck off Derby!” I’m on the ledge giving Vs-a-plenty. Screaming my head off. Copper dragging an unfortunate urchin along the gangway grabbed my outstretched wrist and yanked me along for the ride. Turned with terror-eyes to Steve K, who was pissing himself, the heartless cunt. Back of the Stretford Dibble produced his little black notebook and pencil stub. I actually gave him my real name; too honest by far (In July ’87 I gave a London tube inspector my real name. A dragnet sweep for jibbers and no request for ID forthcoming. Had to pay a fifty-quid fine. Returning from a month in Cairo. Carrying a bag of dirty clothes and mystic thoughts. I had a lot of cash in my shoes and a small chunk of sandstone in my bag. I was very nervous. It had been chiselled off a wall in the Valley of the Kings. Worth a lot of money. Later gave it to Siân, a bird with a circumflex accent. Could have sold it for a fortune. If you’re reading this darlin’ please get in touch; I want it back). I can still hear the Stretford giving it, “Ray Wilkins, King of all cockneys!” while I stood wondering what would happen. Got thrown out and had to walk home. Crying like a girl from anger. One big difference between then and now is that terraces didn’t have numbers corresponding to every space. These days they own YOU, not just your seat. Fortunately, K Stand Top Left allows for some considerable obscenity and violent threats. These were very much required as Liverpool scored their first, then their second, then their third…If I’d been in the main stand I’d have got nicked, definitely.
Maybe it’s all part of some grander scheme in the matrix. Some journey unfolding from the coils of our steaming brains. Written in tissue, in neurons, in parallel futures. Bad turbulence on the skylark to some unknown footballing Utopia. Either way, it’s shite. Especially when we get leathered 4-1 by the Scousers. I rode that donkey’s ear all the way back across the Atlantic and it was a rough ‘un, believe me.
