Last man standing

The second of May, 1992. For about 16,000 people on the North Bank it was a sad day. There were many, many people standing on the North Bank that day that had long since 'graduated' to the seats. Coming to say their own farewell to a dear old friend that they hadn't visited for a long long time. But there were others of us there that day that would be losing our home, our spiritual place in the church that is Highbury.

Let's make no bones about this. The way the terrace fans were treated was contemptable. Poor toilets, few (if any) facilities. Treated like animals by the clubs and police. A corrugated iron shack selling refreshments at the back of the terrace that appeared a few years before had seemed to us the height of luxury! But that's not why we were standing on the North Bank for the last time. We were losing our terrace because of the flawed report by Lord Justice Taylor (he went on record before his death to say that if he'd been presented with the full facts regarding Hillsborough he would have come to a very different conclusion than the one he did) and the desire of the Government to make football supporters pay for giving Thatcher one of the few bloody noses of her premiership.

In the mid-80s the governments favoured way of controlling hooliganism at matches (which ironically was vastly reduced just a couple of years later not by the advent of cctv or any of the police actions, but by the fact that a lot of the 'crews' were running 'acid' warehouse parties and discovering e's!) was id cards. It was thought at the time (and has been shown to be true since) that the idea was to get every football fan carrying one first then roll it out to everyone shortly after. Unfortunately for Thatcher the birth of the fanzine movement was upon us and it was frequently shown that the technology of the time couldn't hope to run the system.

We'd long known that that this was going to be the North Banks last hurrah and we intended to make our point. Not with any kind of violence, merely by sitting there after the match. We'd had sit ins before and various other 'protests'. Including an ongoing one that I honestly wish I'd been able to see at least once from the other side. There was a popular song then by James called 'All Sit Down'. At various times someone would start singing the chorus and everyone would join in and sit right down. Well, at least try to, you kind of ended up sitting on the knees of the person behind you but that was the point – we wouldn't fit into seats!

Southampton were the visitors for the wake. In terms of league position there was nothing left to fight for, in fact the only prize available to Arsenal was Ian Wright's chance of winning the Golden Boot as the top scorer in the division. The newest (and last...) hero of the North Bank was one goal behind the sainted crisp thief but he'd scored a hat trick at Southampton on his league debut for Arsenal earlier in the season, so why not?

The Plimsoll Arms was my watering hole of choice at the time and this day was going to be no different. It's funny thinking back but almost exactly a year earlier we'd been stood in that pub watching Arsenal win the league due to the Forest/Liverpool game and strolled down to watch us spank the mancs as Champions; on this day the atmosphere was a strange mix of anger bubbling alongside an almost funereal atmosphere. Whilst no one was imagining a heroic struggle resulting in us 'winning' that terrace, we were determined to (peacefully) make it as difficult as possible to clear us out. The basic idea was that everyone would sit down at the final whistle and hang around. Not exactly revolutionary I'll admit but we'd done it a few times at previous games and it had gone well. The Police had generally let us get on with it sitting there and chanting for half an hour or so and it had always been good humoured and peaceful. Why should today be any different?

I was in the ground a good hour before kick-off. We used to do that because you had to make sure you got your bit of terrace. We always stood by the 'pig pen' on the Topside and if you got there before your mates you'd sit on the cold concrete and spread yourself as wide as possible to protect the sacred place for them. A few years earlier they'd put a barrier down the middle of the terrace and all of a sudden for one match it was locked and you couldn't get through if. Havoc, even though some of us were only a couple of yards away from where we should have been!

I was the last one there that day and about a dozen of us filled the hour before kick-off as we always did. Chanting the players as they warmed up. Catching up with each other. Chatting about anything and everything (the terraces were almost like a confessional because your mates there were family for a few hours every other Saturday).

There was a match that went on that afternoon, and not a bad one. Although the title (and even Europe) was out of reach the team had gone on a superb run of the type of free flowing goal scoring football that wouldn't be seen again until Wenger was settled in ever since Kevin Campbell had come on against Sheffield Wednesday a couple of months earlier. 1-1 to 7-1 in twenty minutes is very nice, and we'd spanked Liverpool (including Limpar from 45 yards years before Posh's bloke) amongst others, so Southampton...

We were all willing Wrighty to win the Golden Boot but having one disallowed for offside was the nearest he came to scoring in the first half. 0-0 and a couple of 'All Sit Down's' on the North Bank was the first half. The second half had plenty to keep our attention on the pitch though.

That man Kevin Campbell back-flicked a header over the keeper from the six-yard line after a corner but then quite against the script they equalised. Let's just say the scorers' jaw doesn't like Paul Davis...

We knew that the jug eared crisp thief had scored in the first half so when Lee Dixon let Wrighty take the penalty Paul Merson had won the resulting goal left him (at least) one goal behind. Despite our imploring everyone (even their keeper!) to 'give the ball to Wrighty' with a minute left the only other goal had been an Alan Smith header from a corner. Oh well, maybe it wasn't meant to be. Or maybe it was...

David Seaman (rather acrobatically) managed to catch an extremely over hit cross and just stay in play. Wrighty was lurking in the left back position and Seaman bowled the ball out to him and he headed straight for the Southampton goal as fast as he could go. He pulled a couple of beautiful feints to go past players but basically it was a headlong charge for goal. And despite not having a clue what had happened in the second half elsewhere we knew a goal for Wrighty could possible result in a share of the boot. In a most surreal moment we didn't really cheer him on, more suck him in! It was like the whole North Bank was filling its lungs to cheer the goal from about 30 yards out and he didn't disappoint. Well there was a chance he'd shared it now and we were chanting his name as Southampton took the ball forward to run out the last few seconds. Then suddenly we had a break on. We had two on one on the right as Wrighty steamed down the inside left channel. Alan Smith (if there's one guy you want to have the ball when you're charging down the other side wanting to win a goal scoring award it's got to be Smudger) drew the last defender (ably assisted by Campbell) and squared the ball. For once Wrighty didn't get the best of contacts but it was plenty to send the ball into the net, Wrighty into ecstasy, and made us lift the roof one last time. Then it was over and somehow a wake was turned into a party when we found out that he'd won the boot outright.

The team did a lap of honour and were (quite rightly) lauded for a few months of sensational football. On the North Bank we were cheering the team and saluting each other. We were hugging friends, acquaintances, just people who were around. As I said earlier we used to stand on the Topside almost beside the little 'pig pen' in the middle. There was an old Sergeant there for years, always with two PCs. That was where they always used to come in to 'snatch' a few kids and years before we'd figured that if we stood there and said 'Hi' to him from time to time we were never the ones chucked out. Well even the old boy hugged a few of us.

And then, suddenly, the players were gone, the rest of the stadium was emptying, and it was over. The emotion of the last few minutes had been immense. It had been one of those moments you only really get at football matches, where despite 'only' being part of the audience we knew that we'd been vital to the outcome. Ian Wright may have ultimately been presented with the actual Golden Boot, but I think he'd admit we at least deserved an assist that day.

Then as we sat down for our intended peaceful protest the Police appeared from the West side of the terrace. Not the friendly 'Come on lads let's not waste Saturday night' type policing we'd been used to at our protests but a phalanx of suited and booted riot cops with shields, batons, masks the lot.

I'd had enough. I was drained emotionally and mentally and quite frankly wasn't in the mood. Neither were many of my mates. We took a last look and went our separate ways out of the ground after heartfelt promises of keeping in touch.

I'm not ashamed to say I cried as I walked from the ground. Not big sobby crying but leaking eye type sobbing. I knew I was saying goodbye to a big part of my life and there were many people I'd probably never see again. Curly, Damon and all the others with whom I'd shared so much over the years would become almost strangers. In fact the next time I bumped into some of those guys was in Paris for the Zaragoza final three years later!

My father summed it all up when I met him afterwards. He knew I was likely to get involved in a sit in or something so the plan was he'd meet me outside the Supporters Club about 20 minutes after the game and if I wasn't there by then he was going to get something to eat and meet me a couple of hours later. When he got there I was already waiting for him. He was a wonderful man but never the most tactile of people but he walked up to me, squeezed my shoulder and just said 'Let's go home son' as he put his arm round my shoulder. He'd had no desire to stand on a terrace since the he'd been a child in the 50s but he knew enough to know I'd lost something important that day.

User Comments

Adjie

Posted on 8 May, 2006 at 05:25 AM - Reply

Great post EIM !

James

Posted on 7 May, 2006 at 09:19 PM - Reply

Great, touching article

Tegh

Posted on 7 May, 2006 at 08:26 PM - Reply

Wow...

dave

Posted on 7 May, 2006 at 10:53 AM - Reply

I'm getting this feeling you had known that Highbury was closing... The final day feeling

Rich300

Posted on 6 May, 2006 at 11:26 PM - Reply

Great article!

User Comments

• Got something to say?
• Read comments

Vs chelsea