England 'til I die

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This book reveals the funny, the absurd, the emotional, the peculiar, the shocking and unbelievable that is part and parcel of being a die-hard England fan. Tales of unwavering dedication and loyalty, of personal sacrifice and emotional trauma, are entwined with stories highlighting superb camaraderie, intense excitement and proud patriotism. Wives as well as jobs have been lost, overdrafts have plunged to new depths and countless 'sickies' have been thrown -- just to be there to cheer on the Three Lions. Real England stories, by real England fans.

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If you're all going to Scotland...

Having regularly attended England games since the early 90s, choosing to recall our national team's defeat the very first time I saw them 'live' back in 1976 may seem a strange decision, but I have so many vivid memories of that occasion, which happened to be against the 'auld' enemy from north of the border! I was just 11 at the time and had been fortunate enough to see my club side, Manchester City, beat United to help condemn them to the Second Division, and had shed tears of joy on my first ever visit to Wembley, as Dennis Tueart's memorable overhead kick secured a 2-1 victory against his hometown team, Newcastle United, in the League Cup Final.

Just over two months later, with the domestic season finished, my dad told me we were going to Scotland to watch England - I couldn't believe it! I'd watched the highlights of our victories away to Wales and home to Northern Ireland on the telly, now I was actually going to see the game which would determine who would be crowned Champions of the Home International tournament. Friday teatime couldn't come quickly enough, as we boarded the train at Manchester Victoria Station, with two other families who were also City fanatics from Manchester (the Henson's and the Rooney's!) for the journey north. I had a beige fake sheepskin coat on, with an England rosette pinned on the fake fur lapel.

The train was unbelievably long, and there were people stood in all the passageways for the duration. The vast majority on board that day were in fact ex-pat Scots going back 'home' for the match. I can remember my rosette proved extremely popular! The Scots took pity on this poor little fella, and I ended up about £4 richer (which was a considerable amount of money at the time), as I was given 10p by seemingly everyone - because I was the first England fan they had seen! Amongst our group, one of he lads, Carl Rooney, showed us his party trick, how to tear up an empty coke can (which were not like the flimsy ones you see today) and flatten it completely, I kept thinking, 'how strong is he to do that?!'

We pulled up in Glasgow Central station many hours later (I think it was around midnight), everything was going well so far, I was an excited kid, glad to be with his dad and his dad's friends, about to watch England for the first time - dreams are made of that. We made our way to the taxi queue, a circular road within the railway station, where taxis queued in a line. When our turn came, we opened the door to get in, but there was a problem. My father (who was born and raised in Ancoats, a notoriously poor and tough part of Manchester) was arguing with the taxi driver, who had apparently refused to take us, because we were English - imagine that today! Well my dad was having none of it, and the next minute, the poor driver realised the error of his ways. A huge looking policeman, complete with a Dixon of Dock Green helmet, came over, and it was all too much for me, I was in blind panic that I thought my dad was going to be arrested and locked up in prison, and the tears flowed. Fortunately common sense prevailed, the taxi driver was forced to apologise (but we didn't get in his cab), and by this time dad was so wound up he ended up falling out with everyone else we had travelled up with, so both of us stayed in the hotel right outside the station instead of travelling on with the other families.

As we waited in the foyer to see about availability of a room, my dad saw an old gentleman that he knew and they greeted each other. I can remember his friendly face and smile, and he gave us two grandstand seat tickets for the game! I later found out it was none other than Sir Matt Busby, who my father knew from business interests in Manchester -- he obviously didn't hold any grudges against two City fans supporting England, as two £5 face value tickets, which were like gold dust, will testify!

So the big day arrived and, having patched up our differences, the re-united band of friends travelled to Hampden Park together for the game - thankfully the taxis by this time were happy to take us. Even at the tender age of 11 I realised the importance of having a match programme, and one was duly secured outside the stadium. The dank miserable weather was so reminiscent of Manchester, but the heavy stench of alcohol, and tartan-clad men swigging from bottles of whiskey, and cans of lager, certainly wasn't. The two brick built turrets outside the grand stand certainly looked impressive, but I definitely felt isolated, and there weren't many England colours on show.

As to the game itself, I can remember the chorus of boos as the band played God Save the Queen, whilst the bellowing which followed for the Flower of Scotland frightened me to death! Forget the Manchester Derby, I had never witnessed anything as intense as that, was I going to be safe with my England rosette on? It seemed strange that Willie Donachie, one of my favourite players for City, was playing for the 'other' side that day. Of course my England hero, Colin Bell, should have been out on the pitch wearing the Three Lions, but injury had cruelly robbed club and country of the services of a truly great professional only months earlier. The ground itself was very a very large concrete bowl, predominantly terraced - we were lucky to have two of the few seats available.

The goal posts fascinated me, I'd seen them on TV, and they looked even stranger in real life, a big square white painted wooden section cross bar and posts, with the netting stretched around in a half crescent shape - it gave the appearance of the goals being far bigger than any you would see back home in England. After only a few minutes, the noisy, fervent roar of Hampden was reduced to stunned silence (you could literally hear a pin drop it was so eerie) as Mike Channon put England one up. But parity (for the Scots) was soon restored as Don Masson (of Derby County fame) equalised. The atmosphere was unlike anything I had seen or heard, the constant drone of Flower of Scotland (although I didn't know it was called that, nor could I understand a single word they were singing at the time) was going around and around in my head, could we sing something back at them?

My everlasting (and still as painful) memory of the match came early in to the second half. Arguably Scotland's best player at that time, Celtic (and soon to be Liverpool) legend Kenny Dalglish seemed to scuff his shot with an attempt on goal. Ray Clemence was the most reliable, consistent keeper in England (so much so that Peter Shilton couldn't get in the team at that stage), and as he knelt down to collect Dalglish's 'pea roller' it was just a formality... But amazingly, a touch of nerves, the ball being greasy in the damp, miserable conditions, or a combination of the two, meant the ball went through his hands and his legs, and agonisingly rolled over the line.

The Hampden roar had never been so loud and I was heartbroken. My dad had brought me to my first England game, and I had come expecting England to win, this wasn't in the script! Scotland of course went on to win the game, and complete a rare hat trick of victories against the rest of the United Kingdom to win the Championship outright. As for me, I found myself somewhat overwhelmed by the occasion, Hampden Park certainly wasn't the place for the feint hearted, never mind a small snotty nosed kid with an England rosette proudly pinned on to his jacket.

Alas, my hero Colin Bell would never pull on the white jersey again, but I was smitten, and I still get as much pleasure now by following the national team around the world, as I did as a boy at a windswept Hampden Park 33 years ago.

England, and City, 'til I die!

Sean Riley

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