[This article is subject to a legal complaint]
MY ABIDING memory of Millwall’s midweek FA Cup replay at Everton was not Tim Cahill’s fine winning goal, or even our exciting, solitary shot on target. I missed both because the view afforded me by my expensive ticket did not stretch to very much of the field of play, although I am grateful for the lengthy chance to admire the construction of the roof of Goodison Park.
It was instead the memory of an incalculably dense, porky little Hitler of a Merseyside copper yapping out orders from astride his horse: “Come on, keep up, keep up. Shut your mouth. Don’t answer back. Do as you’re f****** told.” And so on, interminably, throughout the duration of our five-mile forced march from the football ground to Liverpool Lime Street station (where, incidentally, most of us didn’t want to go).
And maybe the memory of his horse, too — a great stupid black beast that had been making unwelcome advances to me all evening, nuzzling the back of my neck, occasionally snorting beguilingly in my ear, a bit of gentle tonguing here and there. I just wish it had cleaned its teeth before coming over all amorous. Hell, any port in a storm.
A couple of weeks back I mentioned that football fans, regardless of their good behaviour, are not necessarily treated in quite the same way as, say, the attendees at Glyndebourne. The overriding attitude seems to be: sod them. As the Scouse matron in the away end refreshment bar put it, having been politely challenged on the total lack of any food or drink save for a few bottles of Diet Fanta, “Well don’t be so stupid as to come here, then.”
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She had a good point. This was the more usually unvoiced thesis all evening; from the club itself, which kept only two turnstiles open for visiting supporters, ensuring that a good few hundred of us missed the first 20 minutes of a game we had travelled 180 miles to watch, to the police commander responsible for matchday security and his legions of uniformed, puffed-up, self-important monkeys.
I get to about a dozen away games each season and while the Merseyside police operation was imbecilic and iniquitous, it was only a bit more unjust and unpleasant than is usual at a big game. It’s all a matter of degrees. Frankly, if you’re a football fan who wishes to see your team play away, you can expect to be treated with contempt and disdain and there will be no clamouring from pressure groups to alleviate the infractions of your human rights, which is what it is.
So, kept waiting outside the ground for half an hour and then force-marched five miles at 10 o’clock at night — kids, the elderly, the infirm and so on — and refused permission to hop in a taxi cab (empty taxis, gallingly, passed us on an average of one every three minutes or so). Marched where, in many cases, we didn’t want to go, continually and rudely harangued the entire length by the police (or the bizzies, as I believe they are known on Merseyside).
Why? “It’s for your own safety,” we were repeatedly told. The police let it be known that we were being “stalked” by a few hundred (the figure rose with every inquiry) Everton supporters, who wished to inflict some sort of mischief upon us. To be honest, we would have welcomed the diversion, if it were true.
But I saw no people stalking us at any point, unless they were cunningly disguised as dossers or prostitutes. The point, though, is this: in every other case, the police would surely apprehend the people intent on criminal behaviour rather than take it out on the supposed victims.
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Further, why not lay on some buses if you’re that worried, or let people use taxis? But there was no discussion: a plan had been decided on and there would be no deviation from it. “If we let you get taxis you might get your heads kicked in,” said one astonishingly stupid woman on a horse. Yeah, right.
Merseyside police reckoned the operation was a great success, but that wasn’t the view of the constables I spoke to en route. “It’s absolute nonsense,” one of them said, “taking us back to the bad old days of the Seventies.”
Another said: “I am so embarrassed at the way you’ve been treated,” and then added, rather sweetly, I thought,
“I’d like to apologise on behalf of myself.” The police press office, meanwhile, said: “There was no intention to deliberately discommode you. It was for your own safety.” That’s the first time I’ve heard the word “discommode” used in a non-ironic sense in 30 years.
Funnily enough, when that Scouse matron was asked why we couldn’t have any of the pies on display in the oven in the refreshment bar, she made a similar recourse: “It’s for your own safety. They’re not hot enough.”
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So, what to do? The simple answer is not to travel to away games. Watch it on Sky or the BBC instead? That would seem to be what everyone wants; the clubs, the Old Bill, the politicians.
A few facts for you: there were six arrests at the Everton v Millwall FA Cup replay, all for public order offences, a grand total of two of them Millwall supporters. There are no prosecutions in the pipeline. Three people were evicted from the ground during the game, which was watched peaceably by more than 25,000 people.
Oh — and for the pedants among you — yes, the distance from Goodison Park to Liverpool Lime Street station is three miles, not five miles. But, you see, we didn’t take the direct route. We took — as one Merseyside police- man put it, with a display of that famous Scouse wit — the scenic route. Why? “It’s for your own safety. There’s cars and stuff on the other roads.”