Charlie Ashmore
I bet I can make you all smile. Just by saying a date. You don’t think so? OK, how about 26th May? If you’re not smiling now, I’d hazard a guess that you’re pretty young. Either that or you’re not an Arsenal fan and shouldn’t be reading this, for as we all know 26th May was the date in 1989 when, against all the odds, we went to Anfield and stole the League Championship from right under their horrible scouse noses.
I know the headline above is a touch dramatic, but no more so than the situation itself. Remember, we had all but won the League by March, then nervously frittered away points and allowed Liverpool to sneak up on us and indeed past us on the back of the emotional groundswell that followed Hillsborough. Finally, having dropped points at home to Derby (lost) and Wimbledon (drawn) it looked for all the world to be over. Liverpool promptly trounced West Ham leaving us needing to win by two clear goals at Anfield where we hadn’t won for some time. We were on their turf in front of their fans playing for their trophy. The odds were against us (16-1 against a 2-0 win) as we were simply not given a prayer of pulling it off; Liverpool’s second double was a formality.
Except it wasn’t like that at all. Because despite everything, we all believed it was going to happen. I know there is a temptation to rewrite history, but Anfield 89 for me began with the final whistle of the home match against Wimbledon. A 2-2 draw when it seemed to be common currency that for us to have a chance of the League, we had to win. To this day I cannot explain what I felt that night but as the players completed their traditional last game lap of honour at Highbury, I turned to my neighbour who, then as now, was Matt, and told him that “I don’t care what anybody says, whatever we need to do that team out there will do.”
May 26th 1989 was a strange day for me. The match had been rearranged because of Hillsborough and now coincided with the last day of my finals for my degree, as well as being the Friday before the second May Bank Holiday. I had pre-arranged a weekend in Blackpool and had to negotiate carefully a drop off in Anfield from my driver (a Tottenham fan of all things). Liverpool to Blackpool after the game was then arranged with a minibus load of Gooners heading ‘over’ Hadrian’s Wall for the Scotland-England match that weekend.
The morning dawned with me having to trek down to Ealing to do my exam. I stopped off en route at Pete’s stall. He was a Chelsea fan and my newsagent. I told him I’d be back on Monday and asked him to keep every newspaper for me between now and then. He looked at me and said, “what if....?” “Just keep them”, I told him, secure in the knowledge that this was not going to be a waste of what was left of my student grant.
To be honest I can’t remember what exam it was, but I can remember that my heart really wasn’t in it. All I kept thinking of was where I wanted to be - on the road to Anfield. I rushed half-heartedly and in something of a daze through the exam paper. I knew I had to finish it at least half an hour early because of a rule not permitting you to leave the exam room during the last thirty minutes. So with thirty-five minutes to go, it was pen down, hand up, goodbye. A few thumbs up from fellow students who knew what they meant and I was off. Meeting point - Marylebone. 2.30pm we hit the road and then.... NIGHTMARE!!!!
Traffic everywhere, from London to Birmingham and beyond. All sorts of records were broken that day in terms of traffic jams. Thousands of football fans combined with the bank holiday traffic led to a virtual standstill.
Seven o’clock. Should have been at Anfield for a good couple of hours by now. Where was I? Spaghetti bloody junction and barely past Villa Park. Anxious looks were being exchanged across the lanes. Everyone was thinking the same thing. We’re never going to get there. The crawl continued. People started turning off, giving up, looking for a pub to watch it in. Then came the announcement - “they’ve delayed the kick-off.” Hooray! “For ten minutes” - you’ve got to be joking.
Nerves were frayed and it’s fair to say that there came a point when I slumped. I wasn’t going to make it. The biggest English League match ever, a ticket in my pocket and I wasn’t going to be there. The match kicked off and Radio 2 (as it was then) was my eyes. I remember only two things from the first half, all of which I heard on the radio - Steve Bould heading just over and the noise coming from the Arsenal fans.
As we approached the Liverpool turn-off, the first half was over 30 minutes old. We turned off and suddenly the road was clear; not a car in sight. We reached Anfield in record time and I jumped out of the car and ran towards the Arsenal end. As I reached the turnstiles some smart-arsed copper said “eh, you’re a bit late, aren’t you?” A fine example of Scouse wit. Not amused.
Suddenly I was there, in with the heaving sweating mass of humanity of the away end. All you could hear was “Georgie Graham’s Red And White Army” - a crescendo of noise. We still believed. You may find this hard to believe, but the game itself is a series of blurred images. It is difficult now to differentiate what I saw then and what I’ve since seen on TV, but the memories of which I am certain are few.
Firstly the goal. The free-kick floated across, Smudger running in on it, not sure whether he got a touch - GOAL! Mayhem ensued. Then the drama as most of the Liverpool team surrounded referee and linesman complaining about something (anything?). Hearts were in mouths as we waited for the outcome of the referee’s deliberations with his linesman - he’s given it. Mayhem restarts.
The singing increases in volume as the team is urged on. Suddenly the ball breaks to Thomas, he’s through, one on one, this must be it. Groans as he fails to take advantage. The match continues in a blur, a frenetic hustle and bustle as we try to force the break. Then Richardson goes down with cramp. It was at this time that Steve McMahon went around his colleagues giving it the minute signal, and John Barnes shook hands with a colleague. But we didn’t see that - as with Gazza’s tears in Italy, those were exclusively TV images.
What I remember clear as a bell is seeing the linesman on the far side signal full time to the ref. What I also remember is that even then, it never occurred to me that we were not going to do it. I also saw a glint of silver from the tunnel and was sure I could make out the FA Cup - cheeky bastards were getting ready for a double celebration. The game restarted and the ball found it’s way back to Lukic.
“Welly it up there” was the general consensus, but no the silly sod threw the ball out to Dixon. He did the necessary and walloped it upfield and suddenly it was all in slow motion as the ball broke for Thomas in an action replay of his earlier chance. “Hit it, hit it”, we screamed as one. He seemed to take an age then.... well, you all know what happened next.
There seemed to be a moment’s silence as everyone in the ground registered the meaning of what was unfolding before their eyes. Then came the explosion of noise. My next few words were a garbled nonsense, the translation of which would probably be “we’ve done it, we’ve f*****g done it. I don’t believe it.” Strangers hugged, kissed and danced as history was made.
The final whistle followed and the party began. The most abiding image is of David O’Leary standing in front of the Arsenal fans staring at his medal and blubbing like a school kid. The players cavorted in the corner of the ground below us. It was utterly, utterly wonderful and I can honestly say that I do not believe I have ever been, or ever will be, as totally and completely happy as I was in those moments.
Even as I sit here typing away, it brings a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye just picturing in my mind how we were that night. Those of us who had the privilege to be there know we witnessed something special. It was a historic night and one that however long football is played in this country will never be repeated.
At the start of the following season, I saw a father and son walk past me on the way to Highbury. They were wearing what seemed to be identical yellow T-shirts. The blue lettering on the front said simply “26th May 1989”. As we passed I turned to look at their backs. “I was there”, the blue lettering proclaimed on the back of the father’s shirt. The son’s shirt said “My Dad was there”. No doubt Dad is still telling son of that glorious night in May 1989 when against all the odds, the Arsenal Light Brigade charged into Anfield and turned predicted defeat into the most glorious victory. And son should never tire of hearing the magnificent story.
