Very moving piece of literature. - Bring tears to your eyes.

Hillsborough remembrance and related information

Postby murphy0151 » Tue Apr 27, 2004 6:44 pm

Read this lads, I just found it on a other msg board.

ONE FOR SORROW by Dave Kirby

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ONE FOR SORROW

I’ll never forget that morning on Anfield Road. It was as if the great man was looking over us as the sun lit up the Shankly gates. No one could have wished for a better day.
I was standing with a small Kirkby firm; some reading papers with their backs against the shaded wall. The mood was calm and quiet, but gradually became louder as cars and taxi’s pulled up from all over the city. Most of the lads were ridiculed for looking rough on arrival especially Riley, a South-ender mate who looked like Peter Beardsley crossed with Tommy Smith. It wasn’t long till the sunshine crept across the road onto two sandstone gate posts on the opposite side.

I remember hearing the rustle of leaves and a weird bird call, like a kind of chirpy rattle. Back in 1989 magpies didn’t venture into towns and cities like they do today; you rarely saw one, which made this sighting all the more vivid. I looked up. The branch was still shaking, but was empty. I turned to the lads. “What was that?” I said. Alan was looking directly over my shoulder. “Where’s your mate?” He shouted. I turned round again and there it was; a solitary magpie staring across at us from one of the gateposts. “I hope that’s not a sign of things to come” Alan said, meaning the ‘one for sorrow’ superstition that usually goes hand-in-hand with the sighting of one of those birds. At the time his words were only spoken in context with the big match that afternoon. To be honest, the worst thought in any of our minds was that we’d be knocked out of the FA cup semi final; that the bad luck would be confined to the simple score-line of a football match. But just five hours later some 70 miles away in South Yorkshire we were to witness the most inconceivable heartbreak that the magpie’s message could ever bring, as the horror of Hillsborough unfolded before us.

“Nottingham’s that way yer little ba#ta#d!” Someone shouted to the bird, bringing a buzz from the fifty or so lads lined up against the wall. It eventually took off when a ham sarnie from Alan’s lunch was lashed at it. “Throw it two for joy” was another shout. Everyone was bouncing. Humour was everywhere. Our coach arrived to cheers. A few of us turned round and touched the Shankly gates then boarded the bus.

The journey that morning was like deja vu. Nearly 12 months ago to the day we’d crossed the Yorkshire moors at the same stage of the FA cup to the same venue to face the same team, Nottingham Forest. That day in 1988 will also stay with me forever. Not so much for the result of the match which Liverpool won, but for being the main reason why all of us survived the nightmare just one year later. Like the previous April we all had tickets for the Leppings lane end, a small Victorian terrace dissected into caged pens. Back then most terraces were fenced in, mainly due to the deluded perception that all fans were animals. Every stadium including Anfield had metal railings erected, but unlike most terraces Hillsborough’s Leppings lane was a death trap lying in wait.








As we neared the ground that previous year there was a heavy police presence. Everyone was funnelled through metal crowd calming barriers situated a few hundred yards from the turnstiles and made to show their ticket before being allowed past. It seemed a bit heavy at the time, but on reflection was well organised. The main problems though were all inside the stadium. As we entered the ground we were confronted by a tunnel. From the turnstiles it looked the only point of entry to the terraces. We could see the white goal posts and part of the green pitch through it so like everyone else we headed down naturally assuming it would lead to all sections behind the goal. The crushing was unbelievable.

Like most football fans back then we’d experienced similar situations, it was nothing new; so everyone was giving it the old cattle impersonations; mooing as they herded their way through, but that soon stopped. This time it was more intense and prolonged than anything I’d been through before. I couldn’t turn my shoulders and my arms were totally out of it, pressed firmly against my sides. I just went with the cattle flow through the intense heat of the tunnel. The pressure was vice like. At times my two feet were pinioned off the floor. My six foot two, fourteen stone frame helpless as it was carried along in a sea of human life.

My brother was just about visible to my left. The rest of the lads were somewhere behind, but by this time all’s I wanted was to get onto the terracing for some badly needed relief. The situation was made worse by bodies coming back out. “You can’t see a f##king thing in there” someone said as we crossed paths. I ended up facing backwards, spun around by the weight of the surge outwards. We eventually filtered out into the sunlight which lit up pen number three.

Things weren’t any better inside. We pushed our way along the back wall towards the tall blue railings that separated the pens. Like thousands of others we believed there’d be gateways or some kind of opening where we could disperse into the other enclosures, but to our disbelief there was no way out, we were trapped in a cage without a single outlet apart from the tunnel through which we arrived. “f##k this, lets get out of here” my brother said, tugging his shirt collar as he blew for air. His blonde hair was unrecognisable, dark and saturated, stuck to his forehead. Now we knew why so many were heading back through the tunnel. We decided to do the same. It was an unbelievable scenario, like a continuous flow of bodies circulating inside the pen then retreating as they realised there was no way out. There was understandable anxiety and anger as bodies grid-locked in the dark passage. Tempers rose with the heat while anxiety came out of claustrophobic frustration. I’ve never been as relieved as when we got back out.



I squatted down for a breather near the turnstiles then looked up. “Did you see any of the others?” I said to our kid. He was crouched forward with his hands on his thighs. “You’re joking aren’t yer? They’re probably all still swirling round in that f##king toilet.” Although he didn’t realise it at the time his analogy perfectly summed up the experience. We now knew the feeling of being flushed down a dark passage into a sealed chamber, and how it felt to be treated like human sewage. We ended up walking around the back of the West stand to an area high and left of corner flag.

Of the thirteen lads who entered the ground with us that day we were now just two, scattered and lost within 15 minutes of entering the stadium. The next time we met was back at the coach, but nobody really cared. Being split up happened to football fans all the time those days, you just accepted it, and anyway who cared when your team had just reached the FA cup final.

Riley gave the orders from the back seat. “Right boys, you’s all know the score, whatever yer do, don’t go in that middle bit. If we get split up make your way up to the corner on the left.” Everyone agreed. “Only cos you can’t fit down the f##king tunnel!“ Was Alan’s reply, triggering a ripping session across East Lancashire. Everyone within earshot got onto the banter including two young lads sitting across the aisle to my left. They buzzed off Riley, especially when he started singing Liverpool songs into a sausage roll. “He’s off his head him isn’t he mate?” The younger one said to me. I pointed at a Tupperware box that was by the kid’s feet. “Not half lad, and if I was you I’d hide those sarnies. He‘ll end up bumming them off yer.”... “It’s alright” he said. “Me mum’s made extra ones in case there’s no shops on the way home.” The naivety of the lad was apparent. I could tell by his accent that he was a Merseyside lad but not from the inner city. He was bright with the innocence of a kid. We spoke a lot on the way mainly about football. He talked about his Idol, John Barnes, saying how much he’d love to meet him and how his bedroom was covered top to bottom with pictures of the brilliant winger. He also told me of his dislike for anyone who abused Barnsey because of the colour of his skin.

On the outskirts of Sheffield we came to a virtual standstill. Road works and police checks slowed the traffic to a crawl. It was now 1-15pm and we were flapping in case we missed the start of the match. Four policemen boarded our coach. “Ok you lot, If anyone has any alcohol I’d advise them to hand it over now. We’ll be searching the coach in a minute. If we find anyone’s hidden any we’re impounding the coach and none of you will get to the match.” The attitude of the bizzie was cold and uncompromising. Whatever orders he’d been briefed with that morning certainly didn’t include any light-hearted diplomacy or sense of humour, these fellas meant business.

In the 1980’s There were heavy fines for coach firms who were found with alcohol onboard football excursions. If you had any booze you weren’t allowed on. We all knew the score so never bothered bringing any in the hope of getting a drink in Sheffield before the match. One of the bizzies who searched our bags was grossly overweight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a copper as fat. Alan was onto it. He shouted down the coach to the sergeant. “Excuse me officer can I make a complaint?” The reply was moody. “What’s your problem?” He said. “It’s this policeman here, he’s robbing all the f##king pork pies out of our bags.” Within seconds he was getting dragged off the coach to the sound of laughter, returning severely bollocked five minutes later to a round of applause.







We arrived near Hillsborough at around 2-10pm and made our way towards the ground. The weather was amazing. We scoured surrounding streets looking for an off licence, but no joy. We made do with cans of soft drinks then headed to the stadium along Leppings lane. There were no crowd control barriers like the previous year. This was obvious by the unorganised mass of fans building up outside the 3 turnstiles. We joined the swaying queues then at around 2-35pm I barged my way through the turnstile and into the ground. The first thing I heard was Riley’s voice. ”That’s f##king ridiculous that, they haven’t got a clue.” he said fixing his white shirt back into his jeans. The turnstiles clicked none stop above the shouts and commotion outside. We waited a few minutes for the others, watching flushed faces cursing as they burst through the turnstiles.

Everyone apart from us was heading down the tunnel into pen three. There were no stewards or police at the entrance and it was starting to back up like last year. Riley looked at me blowing his cheeks out “f##k that!” he said. I nodded then we both headed up to our arranged meeting place by the corner flag. We couldn’t believe the sparsity inside. It was only 10 minutes to kick off, but there were glaring empty spaces all around us. Alan appeared with our kid and stood in the huge empty space with his arms outstretched. “What the f##k’s going on here?” He said. “Are Everton playing or something?” From where we stood we could see across the length of Leppings lane. The opposite corner and side pens were as deserted as ours. In complete contrast pens three and four behind the goal were bursting to capacity, apparent by the constant swaying of heads that rolled up and down like breakers on a surf.

The last two of our firm arrived as the teams came onto the pitch. One of them was shaking his head. “You wanna see it out there, it’s f##king bedlam. There’s thousands trying to get in.” A few of us walked to the back and looked outside. There was pandemonium going on out there. Control and order had been completely lost. Police horses were rearing up with people pinned up against walls as thousands fearing they’d miss the start of the game tried desperately to get in. “They’ll have to delay the kick off” I said to Alan who agreed. ”They’ve got no choice lad, there’s more out there than in here.”




We were totally stunned when the match was allowed to kick off at 3pm. A decision, or rather indecision, which played a major part in the events that followed. My recollection of the six or seven minutes of football actually played that day is vague, but what I do remember was Liverpool hitting the Nottingham Forest crossbar. It was a moment which brought that familiar roaring sigh heard at football grounds every Saturday. To the thousands massed outside those roars must have been torturous to hear. There is no worse feeling than standing outside a stadium while a match is underway. Magnify that ten fold when the match is an FA cup semi final. The decision by police to open exit gate C was made as a result of the crushing and hysteria which had been allowed to build up outside. Combine that with a caged death trap and an appalling lack of leadership then it would prove to be a fatal decision as desperate fans charged into pens three and four.

“Get off the pitch lad! You’re gonna get the game called off.” was a shout from behind us. It was the first sign that something was wrong. The middle sections of pens three and four had now swelled to damn bursting proportions. Hands and arms waved aimlessly through the blue bars around the cage. Some fans scaled and hung from the railings trying to escape while others were pulled up to safety by people above and behind in the West Stand.

There were people on the pitch clearly distressed, running to the players and pointing frantically towards the terrace. Some fans even punched and pulled at the mesh fencing at the front of the cage until their hands bled. The game was stopped and the players slowly left the field, unaware like all of us of the carnage that was unfolding. The realisation that we were witnessing a living nightmare came when we saw two young lads stretched out behind the goal in their red football tops being given the kiss of life. Many walked around on the pitch dazed and confused stopping only to kneel and vomit. Some had dark wet stains on their pants where they’d urinated. “Something really bad’s happening here lad, I can feel it.” Alan said. He was voicing something we all felt, but were too scared to admit. The churning in my stomach was getting worse. Some of us moved down towards the fence. The sound of people screaming and pleading for help became unbearable.

The despair of hearing the death shouts of innocent people mainly kids, crying as they reach out to you to save their lives is the most painful and harrowing sound that could ever be unleashed on a human being. The vexation at being unable to help served only to augment the pain and distress to levels that go way beyond normality, cutting deep into the mind and soul.

We were now near the front looking through the bars just a few yards from the pitch. Fans who’d escaped were breaking up advertising hoardings using them as makeshift stretches. These people acted in a manner known in military terms as ‘Services above and beyond the call of duty.’ One after the other they placed the bodies of dead and injured fans onto the boards then raced along the length of the pitch to the gymnasium situated underneath the North stand. The noise of ambulance sirens flooding down the surrounding streets added to the mayhem.
Just then only a few yards from where we stood, the body of a man no more than 40 years old was placed down on the pitch. His eyes were open, but lifeless and his hair wet and matted to his scalp. He wore a red Liverpool top with blue denim jeans which were undone and pulled down slightly below his middle. Both shoes were missing. The two lads who put him down were a similar age. One tried desperately to revive him with mouth to mouth while the other one held his hand. It was obvious to everyone but the two lads that he was dead. They tried so hard to bring him back, pleading with him to wake up in between kisses of life. In a state of complete devastation one of them started thumping and pressing on his chest. His cries of “Wake up lad! Wake up!” will never leave me. The thumping gradually gave way to weak taps, before he rested his head onto the white letters of ‘candy’ that were written across his mates shirt. Everyone around that fence cried with them.





Like us, those lads probably set off that morning saying goodbye to wives, kids, or parents on their way to a simple football match. To be lying on a sun drenched pitch later that day over the lifeless body of a mate or relative must have been the most traumatic ordeal imaginable. I couldn‘t take any more. I turned to Alan. “Let’s get the f##k out of here!” We walked back up then out through the back of the West stand.

Outside, the scene reminded me of traumatised soldiers sitting shell shocked after battle. The smell of death was everywhere with people unashamedly crying and hugging each other. Some understandably vented their anger at two passing policemen who walked aimlessly holding their hats. I don’t know what roll they’d played, but one was in a bad state. A shout came at them through fits of tears. “You ba#ta#ds caused that, you f##king killed them all.” Unlike any of his superiors the distressed one of the two covered his eyes and cried. The deafening sound of sirens grew even more amplified as blue flashing lights converged from every possible direction around Hillsborough. I remember covering my ears and closing my eyes. I just wanted to be somewhere else.

The lads arrived in ones and two’s and sat silent on the coach; all of us deep in our own thoughts. The only sound was the coach radio which was broadcasting live from the ground. The death count rose every minute. When we boarded at around 4-15pm the death toll was 34. By 4-45pm it was 78. Alan cried inconsolably at each bulletin. My stomach was now knotted so much that I had to embrace it tight to take away the constant feeling of nausea. At nearly 7pm we were still two passengers short. The two young lads who sat opposite me on the outward journey were still unaccounted for. The steward walked to the back. He spoke quietly. “We’re gonna have to go back to the ground boys, to see what’s happened to these two kids.” Everyone nodded in agreement. He had a list of passengers names so we made our way back to Hillsborough.

The sirens had now eased to the occasional wail, taken over by the surreal sight of hundreds of silent flashing blue neon lights. We waited while the steward went into the temporary morgue under the North stand. An hour later he returned alone clearly upset by whatever he’d seen inside. The two lads still couldn’t be traced. It was now nearly 9pm so a decision was taken to return to Liverpool without them.

No one spoke a word on the journey home. The only sound was the coach engine as it headed back on the A roads across the moors. Although I tried not to, I was constantly drawn towards the two boy’s empty seats to my left. One had left his beige coat crumpled up near the window while on the seat nearest me was the youngest lad’s Tupperware box. I stared out the window at the dark eerie Yorkshire moors. Just like the feeling inside all of us they lay barren and desolate. On any other occasion the endless blackness of these unearthly wastelands would almost certainly have brought that chilling feeling experienced in nightmares. Only this time eyes stared through the dark undaunted. Our nightmare had already been lived out, the mother of all nightmares, which unfolded not in darkness, but in broad daylight.





It was around 11pm when we arrived back at Anfield road. Families and relatives hugged their sons and husbands, many in tears. There were already a few scarves tied to the Shankly gates. Red and white entwined with Everton blue as the city united in grief. We asked the steward for the missing boy’s names then all shook hands before going our separate ways.

In all the time I’d known my wife she’d never seen me cry. For nine years before the tragedy I’d shown no emotion; mainly due to a macho type self esteem which is the mark of my generation. That all changed in the early hours of April 16th 1989. Curled up on the bed like a kid holding its mother I wept unashamedly. As long as I remain on this earth I’ll never forget the grief I felt that night. I woke the next day, and for a split second the nausea wasn’t there. For just one moment I thought that maybe I’d dreamt everything; that the pain and horror would turn to relief like those horrible dreams you sometimes shake off. But the sound of the radio and my wife’s tears signalled the realisation that the nightmare was a reality. The churning returned, this time more severe. I couldn’t move for a while as the devastation and enormity of what had happened hit like a sledgehammer.

I was alone in the garden when the phone rang at around 11am. It was Riley to tell me that the two boys from the coach had been killed. I’d prayed so much that morning for those two kids. I kept hearing the youngest lad’s voice telling me about Johnny Barnes. Kept seeing his mother putting his sandwiches in the Tupperware box he left on the coach; while all the time feeling shame and self condemnation for not taking him with me to safety. I grieved for that kid as though he were my own brother and have done so ever since.

In the fifteen years since Hillsborough, I’ve had many dreams about that day. Sometimes I’m on the coach telling the lad not to go down the tunnel. Other times I see him as he’d be now, smiling outside a church amid a snowfall of confetti with his bride holding a bunch of yellow daffodils. But always as I approach him the flowers wither as the scene changes to mourners at a graveside, and there standing amongst them is his idol Johnny Barnes.

Hillsborough affected all of us in different ways. Understandably, thousands found it too traumatic to ever return. For nearly 30 years Alan had watched Liverpool; always the joker and life and soul of the party. He’s never attended a football match since. His mind scarred too deeply with what he saw and heard that day. Scenes which nobody should ever have to witness interweave with sounds that envelop and soak deep into the memory to be released with tears in moments of solitude. His words “Something died inside me that day,“ can be applied to everyone who was there or was affected by this monumental senseless tragedy.

Each year when the daffodils light up the fields or when I wake to some early season sunshine, I always drift back to that terrible day. Springtime fills me with so many emotions. Visions combine with sounds that will haunt me forever, and there amongst them is the rattled call of a magpie. A call that will torment me till the day I die.

Dave Kirby

JUSTICE
R.I.P.96
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Postby Gareth G » Tue Apr 27, 2004 7:57 pm

That is chilling, goose pimple the whol time i read it...
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Postby Woollyback » Tue Apr 27, 2004 11:14 pm

Me too mate. I can remember where I was that day with crystal clarity, as I'm sure can most on this forum. The memory for those who were actually there must be too vivid to imagine.

Justice for the 96
They'll Never Walk Alone
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Postby Gareth G » Tue Apr 27, 2004 11:19 pm

I can't imagine what it was like that day!

I was totaly swept back by that and actually had to fight away tear's. It's the first time ive ever read into anything about the Hillsborough disaster, i don't know if that's a bad thing being a Liverpool supporter, but's something i choose to do. I don't know what made me read into it this time, but i for sure know why i never have looked into anything to do with it...and im sorry if that's a bad thing?
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Postby Woollyback » Tue Apr 27, 2004 11:37 pm

Kop buddy - not a bad thing, not a good thing. Just one of those things. There's more moving stuff and in-depth discussion on the dedicated Hillsborough page if you're interested in delving deeper. I've read it all and it stirred up all sorts of emotions in me but the way I see it is that we owe it to the memory of the 96 to keep Hillsborough on the agenda until they're finally given the justice they deserve.
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Postby Gareth G » Wed Apr 28, 2004 12:01 am

Ok, thank's. I think i am going to delv into it more for the reason given by yourself, the reason of which i felt it wasn't a good thing.

I guess i sort of pussied out of it.

Oh, and very good post murphy.
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Postby Dalglish » Wed Apr 28, 2004 12:18 am

Moving post ..............Fans, either out of respect for those that perished and thier families or because they dont know what to say rarely speak to each other on this terrible tragedy, I recommend everyone reads up on the tragedy so they can share with sensitivity and understanding what happened that day and the subsequent long fight for justice. If your at the game visit the HJC shop across the road from the Kop or any of the Hillsborough related posts in here.


I'm not wanting to be dramatic or court attention but I'm a  survivor and hard though it is to dwell on or revisit the events of that day , I try to keep informed of the ongoing fight for justice.

I got married 2 years ago and my best man was the guy who pulled me out of pen 4, this August my wife and I  are expecting our first child and so I know how lucky i am to be alive and always remember those that weren't so lucky ..........   Walk On ................ The 96
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Postby LFC #1 » Wed Apr 28, 2004 12:23 pm

extremely ,moving, I also had to hold back the tears reading that, can't imagine what it would have been like to be there or be a family member or friend of one of the unfortunate 96 Liverpool fans who never returned. God Bless each and every one of you.

JFT96 YNWA.
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Postby Scottbot » Wed Apr 28, 2004 4:55 pm

Very moving piece. Reminds you that the little things we get wound up about every day are really a load of cr#p. Puts all the doom an gloom about our football team into perspective because there is ALWAYS next season.

Walk on...
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Postby Gareth G » Wed Apr 28, 2004 7:36 pm

I don't know how you guy's reacted, but since reading that Dave Kirby story, i cannot stop thinking about Hillsborough and i do admitt it's making me very emotional.

Just wondering have all you guy's already been through what i am dealing with now?

Even though i wasn't there, i keep going over and over this little play in my head based on Kirby's story. I actually feel like i was there.
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Postby Dalglish » Wed Apr 28, 2004 7:47 pm

Hiya Kop 1892, it doesn't go away the feeling but you learn to live with it.

So many fans have never really gone into what happened on that fateful day and the subsequent cover up. As previously discussed i understand its usually out of respect for the families or cos they dont know what to say but we talk of our history of successful titles, cups and great games and players from the past. Yet somehow want to forget 15th April 1989. this cannot be allowed to happen until justice is won and the people responsible that day are brought to account.

Remembrance is often about highlighting what happened so that it NEVER happens again. As many fans wil tell you who watched football in the 80's , it wasn't for the faint hearted and if there is perhaps a legacy from that terrible day, fans around the world have benefitted from inproved safety, comfort and policing.

Sadly for 96 fallen Reds who perished that day its come too late ...........


Walk On and R.I.P to the 96
Please
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Postby big al » Wed Apr 28, 2004 10:49 pm

I was also moved by Dave Kirby's story but I think we should encourage all those who have a story to tell to use this forum as a vehicle.  People like me who saw only television pitures, find it hard to comprehend the grief and pain of those moments.  I want you to tell me and educate me and all the users here, so that we can understand a little bit better your hurt.


Dalglish, I don't think those who either witnessed Hillsbrough in person or on TV will ever forget, so I think your right we are mostly just speechless. maybe many of us see our words as being empty and incapable of easing the hurt and pain that all the victims of Hillsbrough feel.  That dosent mean we should say nothing though. 96 people lost there lives on that day but Im certain many many more families of the victims lost their lives later as a result.  I love LFC but the club could fold forever if we could have one life back.
"Football Is the greatest democracy of all, That's providing your not Italian and pay the referee" Big al 2006
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Postby Dalglish » Wed Apr 28, 2004 11:36 pm

Hi Big Al, thoughful and insighful words there mate .

I dont claim any special place for having been there just an overwhelming sense of gratituide that I survived and yes, a sense of guilt sometimes when I read the ages of those that didn't. I was only 22 at the time but whenever you read the names and ages of those that perished it really does bring it home to you.

A public forum such as this wouldn't really be an appropriate place to share my personal recollection of that day but its is important to understand that like several disasters , with a modicum of care and organisation it could so easily have been avoided. The stewarding at the club, the police appoach and attitude, the layout of the ground and the general way that football fans were viewed back were all contributory factors.


I suggest you read the Hillsborough section in here as its helped me to support the ongoing fight for justice and wil give anyone a far greater understanding of hat hapepned that fateful day. I realsie the post here has provoked deep feeling and an emotional reaction for many but when it comes to the law it's facst that prevail and the HJC are seeking to gather the facts and go to the European court of justice for some reccompence and compensation.


The following FACTS wil shock you I'm sure as they did me when i discovered them ...


1. The average payout for Policemen who were in attendence that day and subsequently retired through ill health caused by what they witnessed was in the region of £300,00. The Payout to the families of victims for thier loss and suffering was £3000 .....

2. There was a tactical response emergency unit based very close to the satdium and it was called shortly after 3 PM on April 15th 1989, however Sheffield Wednesday had made structural changes to the satdium entrance but had fauiled to inform the authorities. When the tactical response unit arrived they were unable to gain access to the ground and had to turn away. That unit contained heavy duty wire cutters, defribulators and a plethora of life saving equipment.


3. Inspector Duckinfield was put in overall charge of the Game that day and it was his direct order to open a large door on the outside of the stadium that ultimately caused the already overcrowded pens 3 and 4 to be accessed via a small tunnel. It was also his responsibility to delay the kick off if he felt there was a safety issue. This was Inspector Duckinfield's FIRST EVER GAME in charge of policing a  football match.


3 Indictments on the Police, the Football Club and the Courts that shamed us on that day ....... and people wonder why we are still fighting for JUSTICE .....


Walk On ........
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Postby Gareth G » Wed Apr 28, 2004 11:45 pm

Dalglish, what do you mean by you're last comment?

Do you actually mean that as if people still can't believe we are pursueing justice?

If so, that in itself is shamefull.
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Postby Dalglish » Wed Apr 28, 2004 11:55 pm

The police hold the opinion STILL that it was a combination of drunken fans, fans storming the gates and fans turning up in thier 1000's without tickets. i know none of us buy the SUN because of the lies they published in the days after the tragedy but WHO do you think fed them the story ? ??? 

As for society in general , if you recall there have been several inquiries and i suspect most people think its been concluded. With reagrds to teh law there is nowhere else in England to go , thats why several families are seeking redrss through the European Court of justice ................ As One 15 year old Victim's Mum said "Its not about the £297,000difference in compensation between what the police got for stress payemnts and what i got for the death of my son, its the principle of justice !!!
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Joined: Sat Jan 03, 2004 1:08 am
Location: Liverpool

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