THIRTY ONE years ago today. The 1985 FA Cup semi-final. Probably the most raw, intense atmosphere and drama I have ever experienced.
I doubt it will ever be beaten. I’m not sure I even want it surpassed for it belongs in a different age when, pre-Heysel and pre-Hillsborough, we were allowed to revel somewhat in the madness football brought to a generation.
It was the ultimate melting pot — the FA Cup at the height of its prestige and importance, Liverpool yearning for a first final since 1977, and a sour rivalry with United at its most acute.
Ron Atkinson, the Liverpool-born United boss, a figure of hate for the Reds had taken the loathing for United to new levels.
Big Ron from Old Swan’s flash appearance, perma-tan, jewellery and outspoken high profile were the epitome of Manchester United in the 80s — lacking in substance and style but always in the news.
Liverpool, relentlessly successful, existed, somewhat frustrated by the media shadow cast by the latent might of the nations “best supported” club. The hatred though was mutual, for Liverpool swept all before them while United fed on scraps.
Goodison Park was the perfect venue in more ways than one; a vehicle for violence and unrivalled, uninhibited terrace passion.
The surrounds of Stanley Park and the narrow roads of Walton were a battleground for mobs of young Liverpool and United to engage.
It kicked off again and again in the streets before and after the game. In the ground, too, missiles were traded throughout; the infamous golf balls embedded with nails, described as “Missiles Of Hate” by the tabloids, an expression of the sheer lunacy at work.
Liverpool filled the Gwladys Street and Main Stand sides, while United occupied the Park End and Bullens Road. The respective corners where the two tribes met were in ferment all afternoon.
Insults traded, objects thrown, bile exchanged between gangs of lads who would have gladly kicked each others’ heads in. Not nice, not pretty, and certainly not for the old or faint hearted but the very real by-product of a social backdrop that engineered and fostered exciting, fascinating tribalism. In this case, it was the Scouse “scalls” v United’s Lancastrian “wools”.
Liverpool’s end had a continental look. All part of the show. Liverpool the seasoned, all-conquering European travellers, the Gwladys Street terrace behind one goal awash with the favours not just of Liverpool red and white, but the gold and yellow of AS Roma, and the recently vanquished Panathinaikos.
An insane wind, that never abated all day, stiffened the array of Liverpool flags. It was the quite the show; standing on the end normally inhabited by our local rivals and in the face — literally — of our most bitter rivals.
Sartorial standards were high, too — a stylish consequence of a unique and strong Liverpool sub-culture, but imitated by young football followers all over the country. Replica shirts were rare as hens’ teeth, only for gauche children or the fashion-blind. Partisanship was expressed through guts and vocals, and if colours were worn, a discreet pin badge and the vogue bobble or sun-hat was the limit.
The teams entered separately, the ultimate, yet ferocious pantomime with United and Liverpool roundly roared and whistled on to a sparsely covered Goodison pitch by the respective hordes.
A throbbing, tempestuous, blustery bear pit welcoming Liverpool in yellow with red trim and United in traditional red, white and black; the colour of their socks a nod to the Munich tragedy of 1958.
The game itself was a classic. Prior to kick-off there wouldn’t be much between the sides in the eyes of the bookies. Liverpool, struggling a little to find form during Joe Fagan’s difficult, Souness-less, second season perhaps only marginal favourites. Atkinson’s upstarts, full of quality but yet to fully impose in the league, well capable of outplaying the Reds on the day and with something of an Indian sign over us despite Liverpool’s overall period of domestic and European dominance.
United largely held sway during a tense first half. Midway through the second period, Bryan Robson connected well from a corner, his shot clipping Mark Hughes on the heel to divert the ball past Bruce Grobbelaar. Liverpool toiled; the semi-final jinx about to write another chapter, or so it seemed.
Then, with the clock ticking down ever more rapidly, came a goal fit to grace any game of football — its beauty out of place in this ugly, unruly affair. Ronnie Whelan, called to play a cushioned one-two by an advanced Phil Neal, takes the return and whips a curling, scientific masterpiece, accounting for the viscous gale, beyond the flailing arms of Gary Bailey.
Absolute fucking pandemonium.
Take a look at those scenes on the Gwladys Street and elsewhere. Never has a Liverpool end ever gone off its barnet like that since.
For good measure, as the swaying mass of bodies settles down to berate and taunt the startled United contingent, a distress flare rockets from The Enclosure terrace, its fiery-red glow briefly illuminating the Goodison gloom, before crashing fiercely into the scoreboard at the Park End.
Sparks fly.
A defiant, aggressive, You’ll Never Walk Alone is reflective of the moment’s aggressive magnitude.
Liverpool rally still further in the closing seconds but can’t force a winner and extra time ensues. The break and resuscitation of aching muscles on the field is an almost invisible backdrop to the riotous celebrations that still continue in the Liverpool sections. War rages between the corner of the Enclosure and Park End terracing.
In the first period, United catch Liverpool on the break and a tiring Frank Stapleton takes a pot shot which deflects beyond the reach of Grobbelaar. Utter, utter deflation and now, 105 minutes through this sapping drama, exhaustion for all Reds on and off the pitch.
Old Swan’s Ron in his Aston Villa days
Again, it looks like the end and more FA Cup heartbreak at the hands of these United bastards.
Somehow the team, maybe more so than the dejected, knackered fans, raise themselves for one last herculean effort.
With literally seconds remaining, an ageing Kenny Dalglish, virtually anonymous all afternoon, wins a ball from Gordon Strachan wide of the left, his studs showing.
He then swings over an arrowed, peach of a left-footed cross which is met by Ian Rush’s head at the far post.
Bailey, miraculously claws his effort from under the crossbar only for the ball to drop and bounce dramatically in the goalmouth as time stands still.
For the first time all day, there’s a millisecond of silence — which is punctuated by another moment of insane celebration as little Paul Walsh scuttles in to the rescue and, in his own words, is on hand to “bundle it in”.
This time, the let off isn’t quite so intense. It’s the last act of the day but thousands go through another mad ritual of terrace gymnastics, this time tinged with disbelief.
A remarkable 2-2 draw, after extra-time. The most visceral meeting of two warring football factions. The battles recommenced outside and local publicans assessed their losses.
When the dust settled, we reconvened in Manchester, at City’s Maine Road four days later, where United prevailed and another night of insanity followed.
But Goodison, in April 1985, stands out. It will never be the same again, for good and bad.
As a 21 year old most of the footage I’ve seen from this era is just the Reds scoring goals. It’s taken seeing Sammy Lee on the back post defending a corner to truly appreciate how fucking tiny he was. That cross from Dalglish is fantastic for our second, as are the limbs in our end after both. Superb
That’s sensational stuff.
You forgot to mention the linesman having his flag up for the second equalizer!
Fantastic game though and still a must for any post booze-up YouTube session.
Great commentary too…”They, are going going mad.”
I was at the replay at Maine Road — gutted after that lost and our lads were turning cars over after the match. My older brother whisked me away from the pitched battles going in the streets between the fans.
The only thing crazier was the 2nd ’79/80 replay at Villa Park v. Arsenal and Villa fans were waiting outside to take us on. ran for my life that night too … :)
Superb article reflected the game at the time, hated Big Ron, he was a knob wasn’t he? Should bring back FA Cup semi finals at the neutral grounds, miss that. Centre Midfield of McDonald and Wark. My OCD was going mad watching that was Sammy Lee always wore No8 and Ronnie always wore No5 and they other numbers on. Reminded me of and old Shanks story where he played Tommy Smith in No10 but at right back just to fuck with the opposition heads when you used to just mark the number.
Should write more articles on days gone by Mike, great stuff
Stupid auto correct. Soz about the typos
Great times , terrible times
Great article, it brings it all back. I remember my cousin taking me as a naive 13-year-old. As we were walking up Goodison Road my cousin’s mate ran up to him red-faced and shouted “Stanley Park now! It’s fuckin anarchy!”
As I asked “What’s anarchy?” my cousin shoved me through the turnstile and ran off towards the park.
Luckily I was in the top balcony to enjoy the entertainment on and off the pitch!
Hmmm I am in two minds. On the one hand think this article is good and describes the raw emotion and passion of us and the Mancs. On the other I think it delves too close to celebrating thuggishness and violence – and it knows it.
It’s a fine line between reminiscing about what English football has lost since the eighties and early 90s – and actually the aping the ‘i was a professional hooligan’ literature that 13 yr olds and Danny Dyer fans wet themselves over.
Me myself have been to plenty of old firm games down the years where the atmosphere was insane, also an Istanbul Derby (Gal vs Fene) as well as many Reds vs Mancs/Bitters — but the violence beforehand / after or threat of violence in the game never once made the atmosphere better
Supporting LFC is never about wanting to kick anyone’s head in. Just wanting glory on the magic green expanse of carpet in the theatre of Anfield. In a sense I don’t I am personally confused as to what I feel about Anfield now. I want the living breathing swaying organism of the Kop united in full voice every match – I want the old passion back – but i would take the modern day violent free match days
It’s a tough one really – does one invoke the other?
It doesn’t glorify it in any way,shape or form. It was it was.
I wasn’t even born that day but I’ve heard countless recollections over the years. Every single one of them is focused mainly on the violence over both legs rather than the actual match, in times when hooliganism was rife it was, apparently, chaotic even by the standards of the day.
I thought it was a good article, there was more mention of the actual football in this article than in any other I’ve read relating to this.
Fuck Giggs and his fluky run with the ball bouncing off players legs and all over the show against the Arse.
Whelan’s is by far the best semi-final goal. It had everything skill, technique a lovely build up in driving wind and was scored under great pressure as it was the last chance we were going to have…Superb !!
I was there that day, myself had tickets in the Gwladys St, but were both Utd fans. I recall at about 245 the atmosphere was very tense, I was scared, then, out of the blue, a massive bald guy ran at the fence seperating the Liverpool and Utd fans, scaled it and went over to safety, here’s my chance I thought, so I didn’t hesitate and did the same.
My only other recollection other than the violence and the match itself is seeing a Liverpool fan, I assume, hanging on to the outside of the seats above the Park End terrace and Utd fans hammering at him, I assume to make him drop to his peril, I don’t recall how that ended, not well I guess.
What a day, the replay was another epic, I remember that the Liverpool end wasn’t full though and that after the game there were hoards of City fans waiting for the Liverpool fans, and that the next day, the news was full of the night before violence.
Exciting and scary in equal measure.
I’m 53 now but was 17 at the time, and I’m a United fan who was in the Park End, right up against the Gladwys Street fence. It truly was pandemonium. And for a kid my age, a buzz, although, some of the stuff flying across the fences was pretty rough. I remember all of the orange tickets going around outside Old Trafford for weeks beforehand had been ‘Oh yeah mate, United End’ but they were in Gladwys Street, and as said above a shed load of United fans bolted for the fence about half an hour before the game. It kicked off royally. As for the game….well, needless to say I thought we had it, but didn’t. The replay was the only time I have ever seen City and United come together in town to ‘greet’ Liverpool. That night was also incredible….I’m on the pitch on TV at the end of it when there was a pitch invasion. On the way back down Oxford Road heading into town, my brother and I passed a bus the Liverpool fans had gutted, and somehow the seats were flying out of the window. It was some game. Not sure I agree about Wheelan’s goal being better than Giggs’s but…I wouldn’t would I? Although I’ve stopped saying Wheelan fluked the 1983 Milk Cup Final winner. :-)
United’s Lancastrian? Manchester left Lancashire to form Greater Manchester in 1974 the same time Merseyside was born. To label Lancashire as Manc is a big mis service to the thousands of Liverpool residing in the county. Aka Us Wools