The week of the Sport Relief challenge came around very quickly, but it coincided with Liverpool playing Cardiff in the Carling Cup Final at Wembley. Although the Carling Cup is not one of the major cups, it is still a cup. I have referred to it as a drunken girl in a nightclub at ten to two in the morning; she may not be your first choice, but in the absence of anything else you can’t help but be grateful to be in the game. As Liverpool supporters, we used to expect to be in a final every year. That isn’t the case any more, so you enjoy the opportunities when they come. I was not about to break the promise I made to myself after missing the final in Istanbul just because I had a busy week coming up.
I wanted to go to the match before travelling to Paris on the Eurostar to start the challenge, so Bex made all the arrangements necessary in terms of getting me and my mate Duff, who was coming to the start line with me, from the ground and onto the train by motorbike taxi. The plan was to film some footage by the side of the pitch, which could then be used in the documentary to illustrate what a busy life I had: ‘Here’s John, who goes to football matches, too’ – that kind of thing.
The game ebbed and flowed, and at the final whistle it was a 1–1 draw, which meant there would be extra time played. Beth, one of the directors working on the documentary, came up into the stand to our seats to say we really had to get near an exit to catch the motorbikes or we would miss the train, which would have been a disaster.
As we were led by staff through the bowels of Wembley, we had no sense of where we were until we reached a pitch-side entrance leading to one of the corner flags. As the doors opened and our little group stepped back into the daylight and walked towards the corner flag, the ball fell to the Liverpool striker, Dirk Kuyt, who promptly fired the ball into the Cardiff net.
Elated, we all jumped to celebrate: Daniel and my nephew Lee running around the corner, Eddie, Duff and me hugging as we leapt. And then, at that moment, we turned to see a mass of blue and white behind us.
We were right in front of the Cardiff supporters, whose disappointment at conceding a goal was compounded by Liverpool supporters dancing in front of them.
Before we could even adjust our response to the situation we had found ourselves in and walk away quietly, the abuse began. The usual finger-pointing, vein-bulging-in-the-neck rants that you see football supporters do when they are angry. The stewards quickly appeared, as did the two police officers who provided our escort through the ground, and tried to get us back through the exit.
I don’t blame the Cardiff fans for their initial response, but when I saw someone throw a plastic bottle that just missed Daniel I lost it. I could see the culprit, who looked like he was in his thirties, with close-cropped hair and glasses, and a face so red and strained it looked as if he was trying to lift a car, anger and frustration etched across it. The bit I couldn’t understand was the glasses. Whilst he was voicing threats of violence against me when I came to Cardiff on tour, I kept thinking, ‘You can’t be that mad, you’ve remembered to put your glasses on.’
Everyone else had been led away so I was the last one left, looking at the mass of angry blue, but all I could see was the bottle thrower. Just before the police officer came to get me, I managed to shout, ‘Fuck off, four eyes!’
There is nothing more satisfying than seeing a grown man lose total self-control after being called a playground name. His head looked like it was going to explode, and even the people around him started to step away as he raged even more.
When I went to Cardiff later that year on tour, I had nothing but the brilliant time I always have had there. Mr Angry had actually been in correspondence with my nephew, and once it was explained that where we were at the time of Dirk Kuyt’s goal was not something of our making, and we had reacted without knowing our location, it all cooled down and apologies were exchanged. He even said that he was coming to see me on tour, although I would not have recognised him unless he painted his face red. He probably went back to his life as an accountant, where nobody has ever seen him about to burst a blood vessel in frustration. I mean, football is not so important that it should influence your life that much, everybody knows that.
We boarded the motorbike taxis, said goodbye to Eddie, Daniel and Lee and raced through the streets of London to Paddington. When we arrived, Bex was waiting for me with a worried look on her face.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘It went to extra time, but I just had a text to say we won on penalties.’
‘Not the result. Lisa has just rung to say call her straight away as Radio 5 Live have phoned to say you were arrested for crowd trouble at the game!’
Can you imagine worse publicity for a charity event? That, the night before, the main protagonist is ‘banged up for kicking off’ at a football game?
I called Lisa and the misunderstanding was cleared up and, along with Beth and Duff, I boarded the train to Paris, a football game behind us, and a week of hell ahead.