by Amy Lawrence
Although we were part of the British Army of the Rhine, we were out on a limb, 200km from our parent regiment in Berlin. Because we were so far east, we could not receive a BFBS television reception, our vital link with all things UK. This will sound ridiculous to the kids, but in order that we could keep up with events back home our daily TV coverage was recorded on to VHS cassettes in Berlin, and sent to us by train each day, meaning all of our TV was 24 hours behind (if and when we actually got it). A central VHS player then relayed the recordings to our adjacent flats/rooms, with a duty ‘tape swapper-overer’ rostered on to change tape every three hours. While not relevant to this particular night, there were many occasions when watching a late night movie or similar the tape ran out, only for the designated tape-changer to have fallen asleep/gone on the piss etc … oh how we laughed. German TV, you may be surprised to hear, opted not to broadcast the most momentous game of football the world had ever witnessed, so that particular option was not available.
So, six weeks after my arrival, the game we had all been waiting for, for ever, had finally arrived, and I had no means with which to watch it. I could think of nothing else. But what to do? I was unable to leave camp for any extended period, due to being on standby, and knew very few people nearby. Eventually, I befriended a Rangers fan who worked on camp, in a civilian admin capacity. He lived near Hanover, and said he would get his son, who could get a BFBS reception, to tape it for me.
I managed to get someone to cover for me, while I drove an hour and a half each way to collect the tape. I had avoided the result, quite easily (no other Arsenal fans for miles), and I picked up the tape with barely a word spoken between us, other than a quick danke. I didn’t even want to look him in the eye, for fear of getting wind of the result.
So, picture the scene, there I was, in the camp communal TV room (the only place other than the guard room that had a VHS player) completely on my own. With the time difference, I think it was now well past two in the morning, settling down to watch the game, and well, you know the rest. My celebrations were mostly silent screams – and crying. I can feel almost every emotion. Still one of my clearest and most vivid memories, which in the footballing sense, I know will never be surpassed. I couldn’t sleep, and had absolutely nobody to celebrate with, and just remember walking around our tiny compound, German beer in one hand, VHS tape in the other, until daybreak.
JAMES BALDWIN:
In 1988 I got a job in Muscat, Oman. Nominally Muslim, the people were very friendly especially to the British. In those days there was no satellite television, only local, and that was in Arabic. I lived in a quiet suburb in the capital. I remember that evening as being very quiet and very hot, 38 degrees C.
In those days there was no instant contact with the UK other than phone or fax and we were three hours ahead of London. I knew what was at stake but there was no possibility of a live broadcast or radio. In fact, the only way of knowing what happened was to listen to the BBC World Service – Middle East section. As that was broadcast on long wave the only access was in my car. I knew that at 1.30 in the morning they would devote a minute to world sports and I hoped this game was important enough to get a mention. To make sure I did not miss anything and to ensure I got everything right, i.e., radio on but not the engine, I settled in at 1.15. By then I knew the game was over but I just had to sweat it out – literally. At 1.30 came the smooth tones of the BBC presenter announcing that it was time to go to the sports desk. Without any ado he went straight into ‘And Arsenal …’ I leapt out of the car and ran down the road screaming. I did not need any more from the presenter as I knew that the first club mentioned would be the winner.
STEPHEN JOHNSTON:
I missed the goal. I was working in a pub in Dundalk, Ireland and was late for my shift (because of the game). When Richardson went down injured I gave up hope and decided to slink into work and save my job. I hopped on my bike and ten minutes later walked into a bar in chaos. I don’t remember seeing the goal until the next day.
KEV WHITCHER:
In the spring of 1989, my best pal, a Spurs fan, his friend and I spent the summer travelling around Europe in my Peugeot 504 estate car, picking up work where we could, and sleeping in the back with the seats folded down. We planned to depart in mid-May, starting with a drive through France to reach Barcelona in time to see if we could get into the European Cup final on Wednesday 24 May. By the time of our departure, the First Division should have been done and dusted, 13 May being the official date on which the final round of matches were scheduled. Of course, Hillsborough changed everything.
We had reached Barcelona and caught the commentary of the FA Cup final on the BBC World Service whilst sitting in a park. My friend and I had managed to pick up a pair of tickets for the European Cup final between AC Milan and Steaua Bucharest and were treated to a Nou Camp overtaken by Milan fans, and a 4–0 masterclass by a classic Milan team with Gullit and Van Basten scoring the goals. After they had finished parading the trophy and were off the pitch, we – along with a few dozen others who hadn’t left the stadium – were able to get on to the pitch and have a good wander round for about five minutes before being chased off by security. It was a fantastic night.
Forty-eight hours later and we were further south along the east coast of Spain. We had settled down to sleep in the car near a dry river bed. My two compatriots were fast asleep. There was no chance of me getting a signal for Radio 2 here, but I could get the good old World Service on long wave. Not that they had commentary on the game. No, I had to wait for a news bulletin to get the news. There was a dull science programme on before it which seemed to drag on for ever. Finally, the news came on and they read the headlines, concluding with ‘And the league title is decided in dramatic fashion in the last minute at Anfield’, except they didn’t say who had actually won it. I was obviously on tenterhooks, but had to wait for the theoretically more important non-sporting stuff to be read out, before learning that Arsenal had actually won the title with Mickey Thomas scoring the late goal that sealed it.
I went nuts inside the car, waking up my two travelling companions. My Spurs-supporting best pal was not exactly enthralled by the news, and got out to relieve his bladder. Unfortunately it meant a minor invasion of mosquitoes, although we didn’t realise at the time. It was only in the morning we discovered that he’d been bitten all over, but for some reason they didn’t take a bite out of me or his mate.
CHRISTIAN GILBERT:
I grew up in the Channel Islands and was spending a long weekend in Guernsey on a school football trip aged nine. Our match overlapped with the Liverpool v Arsenal season finale and a few of us were gutted to miss the game. Walking back to our B&B we passed someone’s house and they happened to be watching the game in their living room. We crept up to the window and caught the last five minutes peering through the glass, trying to get a good view through the net curtain. It was the most surreal moment when the winning goal went in – disbelief, euphoria and wild celebrations through a window with the unsuspecting family on their sofa. They had been unaware of the three little boys who had unwittingly shared with them one of the greatest ends to a footballing season.
JOHN WALSH:
I was on a fishing holiday in Ireland with my dad, who hated football. We’d booked a room above a pub in a dreary town in County Cavan for the night. The bar was full of local Liverpool fans, flags, champions posters, shirts etc, getting ready to watch the match so I went upstairs with the old man to watch the game in our room. All through the second half Dad was moaning about wanting to go downstairs for a pint. Finally, as Steve McMahon made his ‘one minute’ gesture, I cracked and decided to face the Liverpool fans. Got down the stairs. Telly was off, people quietly leaving, flags coming down. I asked the barman what was going on. ‘The cockney bastards scored in the last minute.’ Me: ‘YEEEEESS! Turn the telly on, mate.’ Not a chance! Didn’t see the goal for ages.
KARL TAYLOR-ROBINSON:
I still haven’t watched
the whole match. Friday, 26 May 1989 I was in Tasmania, Australia near Wineglass Bay, nowhere near anywhere I could get any live info on a football game in England let alone commentary. Sharing remote shoreline hostel accommodation with a New Yorker and a rugby fan, neither of them interested in football, I went on to the beach, looked up at the starry night sky and prayed to the gods of football for Arsenal to please do it. And went to bed. No access to news next day either. At an Aussie party on Saturday evening this diver dude reckoned he’d seen something about a team in red winning the ‘England cup’. Bollocks, must’ve been Liverpool.
Trekking/hitching my way on to Hobart on Sunday I arrived somewhere I could buy a newspaper. Columns on Aussie Rules and other sports, no football news. But then low down on an inside page I saw a black and white picture of John Barnes. Bollocks, must’ve been Liverpool. And then I read the 40 to 50 words that told me that favourites Liverpool had lost and Arsenal had won the league at Anfield. I read it again. And again. I couldn’t believe it. I’ll never forget it.
MARTIN FROW:
When that goal went in most of the bar in Magaluf was in uproar. It was amazing, I don’t remember feeling that happy before or after in my life. I cannot remember much else about that holiday.
AARON BATES:
I was actually in my mother’s womb at the time. My dad got the news of my not-too-distant arrival while on holiday in Italy, the same week that Arsenal had to do the unthinkable and win by two clear goals away to Liverpool. In those times, it was really difficult to even find out the score, let alone sit and enjoy a live match in a very small suburb in Italy, so when my dad found a bar only half a mile from the apartment he was over the moon. He watched the game with another Englishman on holiday until the seventieth minute. Then he put his family first, even on such a big football occasion. With my expectant mum watching my restless two-year-old brother, who was kicking and screaming for attention, she decided to take Ritchie back to the hotel. Feeling guilty and worried for his young family he left too, thinking they wouldn’t do it anyway, and headed back to the apartment. He had no clue how the game unfolded until he bumped into that English bloke from the bar the next day.
CHRIS COLLINS:
I was in a pub in the middle of Merthyr Tydfil, not exactly known for its hospitality to the ‘English’ let alone a Londoner. It was better known for its loud music, drunkenness and a clientele with a tendency for violence and mayhem. The girl next to me was glad the game was coming to a close as she was ready for the nightclub. She was what you would call a ‘Barbie doll’: petite, good figure, perm, make-up, manicured nails, tight white trousers with matching blouse; you know the sort. As Thomas ran through on goal Barbie had a full half pint of lager about an inch from her lips. As the ball hit the net, I shot to my feet, arms in the air, knocking Barbie’s elbow on the way up. I think she wanted to join in the celebrations as she tipped the full contents of her drink over the top of her head. With perm soaked and lager running down her blouse and trousers, she screamed, ‘Look what you’ve done!’
DAVID WEBSTER:
I was living in Amsterdam at the time and listening to the game at home on an intermittent BBC commentary. The commentary kept dipping in and out so it wasn’t always clear what was happening. Once Thomas scored it was almost surreal to realise that Arsenal had won so dramatically but everywhere around was so quiet. My wife, not being a football fan, came into the room to see what the noise was about and promptly left with a ‘that’s good’.
TONY WINYARD:
January 89 I headed to the far north of Norway to a town called Bodø just inside the Arctic Circle where I was contracted to DJ in a club called Joe’s Garage for a few months. I decided I wanted to drive back to London with the forlorn hope of possibly getting a ticket to see the game. On Monday 22 May we set off from Bodø to drive the almost 900-mile journey to Bergen in the south of Norway. Although it was May, high up in some of the mountains that we drove through there was still a bit of snow. Once we made it to Bergen we took the ferry over to Newcastle and then drove down to London.
My best mate was a bloke called Bob, but Bob wasn’t into football at all and knew nothing about it. He’d arranged for us and a few of the lads to go to a club called Hollywood’s in Romford. Five minutes to go and Bob understood that a 1–0 win wasn’t enough and he said ‘Tone, come on, mate, let’s put an end to your misery and head over to Romford and have a laugh at Hollywood’s. Let’s go now.’ I told him in no uncertain terms that I was watching until the end. Within a minute of Adams lifting up the trophy we were back in my trusty GTi and flying over to Romford. Before I drove back to Norway I had decorated my car in yellow Arsenal flags and scarves and was wearing the yellow away shirt. I stopped at a service station in the Midlands and lost count of the number of blokes who approached me telling me they supported Forest, Leicester, Birmingham etc but wished me well and said they’d never seen a game like it. The same thing happened in Newcastle and in Scandinavian places I stopped on the way back to Bodø.
MARTIN:
Here in Australia it was the middle of the night and when Thomas scored I threw my little bundle of joy into the air, he brushed the ceiling, and in true Bob Wilson style I managed to catch him before he hit the floor.
EUGENE ABRAHAMS:
On that Friday night in Cape Town, South Africa, my girlfriend at the time, knowing what was going on, decided to go out for the evening, leaving me alone to watch the game on TV. My only company that night was the cat, Teddy Bear. After Michael Thomas scored, I jumped up, shouting. Teddy Bear, startled by this, also leapt up but dug her claws into my leg. But what’s a scratch or two, or blood rivulets – it was the best night ever.
EIRIK HELLEVE:
I was in Norway and had promised to pick up my dad at home and take him to the train station, where he was catching a train at midnight. As he left the car, the news at midnight came on. I screamed, ran up to my dad, screaming ‘2–0! They did it! 2–0! 2–0!’ My dad, of course, had absolutely no idea what I was talking about, and judging by the looks from the rest of the waiting room, no one else understood it either.
JACK LANCER:
I was in Tenerife for a week with my wife and one-year-old daughter. Managed to find a phone and ring a mate. He said it was 2–0. Then I said, ‘Oh well, at least we tried.’ He said, ‘No, Arsenal won!’ Well, I couldn’t believe it. Lots of hugs and kisses for my daughter (and wife).
JEFF BOORER:
I was in a bar in Malta on holiday, the game was being shown live and a Gunners fan said, ‘If we win this I will buy champagne for everyone in this bar.’ He was true to his word.
NICK C’S MATE:
Three days before the Hillsborough tragedy I’d booked a week’s holiday in Italy, leaving on 26 May. I don’t even want to recall what I put myself through trying to sort this out – I agonisingly explored every alternative, spent hours on the phone to travel agents, but it all came down to this: go to Italy and miss the game, or go to the game and forfeit the cost of the holiday (which was considerable in relation to my wage) and leave my travel companion in the lurch. In the end I chose what I thought was the ‘mature’ option (I was 23).
Friends made it perfectly clear to me that I was making the biggest mistake of my life, implored me to think differently, to chuck the holiday and forget about the money because we were going to win the league at Anfield and I would never, ever forgive myself. I can still picture my closest Arsenal mate at the time, now sadly gone, putting his hands on my shoulders and looking me straight in the eyes and telling me, ‘Do. Not. Do. This.’ And I knew he was right.
It was Sicily. Taormina. We arrived in the afternoon. As soon as we’d got to the hotel, I went out on the prowl to find where I’d watch the game. Some likely-looking bars. Nothing. I’d bought a radio with me, with short and long wave, as a back-up. Nothing. Couldn’t find any broadcast of the game. So I went to bed, completely self-absorbed, miserable and agitated. By now my travel companion was wishing we’d ca
ncelled after all, or they’d come on their own. I remember continually checking the time – oh yeah, so it’s kicked off now … half-time now … trying to imagine what was happening whilst at the same time trying not to think about it any more, read something, watch meaningless Italian TV.