Andre Wisdom, speaking 12 months ago

Andre Wisdom was raised on the same street as Micah Richards in the tough Chapeltown area of Leeds. The physical comparison between the athletic Manchester City right back and Liverpool's reserve team captain is apparent the moment he turns to welcome LFC magazine at the club's academy in Kirkby; his torso stretching every fibre in his sweat sodden training shirt with all the elasticity of a cruiserweight champion.

  Wisdom only turned 18 in May. He is a teenager in a man's body. His mind is also advanced of his peers. That's why he is chosen to lead, sometimes rotating the captaincy with Conor Coady.

  By modern standards, though, Wisdom is a late developer. Despite intermittent periods at Leeds United, he was playing park football until the age of 14 when he was spotted by Bradford City. Within six months, a call came from Liverpool. 

 “Everything happened quite quickly for me,” he remembers, pointing out that it was evolution of Richards from street footballer to England international that partly inspired him. “Aaron Lennon came from round our way too...you realise that you can do it; make it in football. You also have to want it more than others.”

 Wisdom is mindful that he hasn't made it just yet, although his development over the last four years has been rapid. Aged 15, he lined up against an Arsenal side containing Jack Wilshere in the FA Youth Cup Final of 2009 when everyone else on the pitch was a minimum of two years older than him. A year later he was selected to captain the under-18s side and before long he was receiving international recognition, winning the European Championships at under-17 level with England. Soon, despite suffering a knee injury at the start of last season that would keep others out for much longer, he was in Liverpool's reserve team well before the end of the campaign with all of his key attributes still in tact, particularly acceleration. His recovery was marked last week when he was selected in Stuart Pearce's England under-21 squad to face Azerbaijan and Israel in September.

 There remains a final push to reach Liverpool's first team, however. And then he must remain there. Wisdom was selected by Kenny Dalglish to travel to the Far East this summer before featuring in three of the Reds' six pre-season friendlies, usually at right-back. His fortnightly schedule is currently split between Kirkby and Melwood; one week here, another week there. The decision is a deliberate one to give he and others the necessary experience in a first team environment if ever called upon, while also reminding them of the prize for consistent performances with the Reserves, under-18s or maybe even lower than that.

 Wisdom's physique is natural. But he admits it will only get him so far. A common pitfall in youth football is the over-reliance on players whose bodies have developed as a faster rate than their contemporaries. It can sometimes make them look special; before the rest catch up. To become an established player in the Premier League, especially as a defender, positioning and an appreciation of space is essential. 

 “When you're younger, you do a lot of things on instinct but as you get older you realise why people do the things they do,” he says with sapience beyond his years. “Being at Melwood, you see how people move. Sometimes you don't need pace as a defender because if you know how to position yourself, you can put yourself one step ahead of the attacker. As you get older, defenders mature and you realise it's not all about physicality. Being built the way I am, I understand that being physical will only help me so much. To be a complete defender, you need to understand how the game is played.”

 Wisdom talks slowly and deliberately, often pausing to consider each question. Dealing with the media is part of a footballer's job. When at Melwood, he listens to those around him – how those at the zenith of the game present themselves.

 “You take bits from everywhere,” he continues. “At the top there's Jamie Carragher. [During training] You watch his movement; the way he read the game and organises the team...then [off the pitch] you see way he talks to people and presents himself. It makes you think 'if I was in the same situation, I'd try and do that...say that.'”

 Like Carragher, Wisdom studies football. “Abroad you see defenders like Carles Puyol who is probably a similar build to me. I love his passion for the game...his aggression. I watch a lot of foreign stuff but I think you can learn from the lower leagues as well. There's a lot of players who have dropped down the league and sometimes into the Conference who you can learn from. Someone in my position needs experience and if you don't have that already you have to learn from others that do.”

 As captain of the reserves, Wisdom takes his responsibility seriously. After just a few minutes in his presence, you can tell that he's the type that others will follow.

 “I think that if you are a leader, you have to set the example by playing well...It's the small things that matter... You can't shout at someone if you aren't giving 100-per-cent yourself so you need to play approach every game like it's your last. You also have to realise that every player is different. I know some captains that might just treat everyone the same but there are some players that you get more from if you encourage them and others if you tell them off. It's about understanding the team and the characters around you. For me, you don't win games if you don't enjoy it so you need to find a way of making everybody look forward to games. If everyone wants to win and you try your best you can't ask for much more.”

 He speaks like a statesman but one with humility. Such grounding comes from his professional day: One afternoon he might be marking Luis Suarez in a training exercise but the next morning he could be back at the Academy playing table tennis with a member of the club's under-15s squad.

 “It's good being around the first team players but I love being down here too. It's like a family...everyone gets along. Being here keeps you on a level...you're desperate to make the next step, something I'm desperate to achieve.”

 How does he go about reaching this? The competition is fierce.

  “All I can do is give absolutely everything...try my hardest in every training session, every gym session and concentrate every time the manager speaks. Training with the first team is a big bonus too, testing yourself against the best players can only help you. You play against Andy Carroll who's a right handful then Luis Suarez who's different to that – very tricky. You learn different lessons. If I take these lessons with me and onto the pitch then maybe at some point I'll get an opportunity. You have to fight for it.”

It's Wolves on Saturday. Time for a chat with George Berry. And why not?

The George Berry afro was one of football’s legendary haircuts.
 In the same class as Barry Venison’s mullet, Jason Lee’s pineapple or Terry Darracott’s comb-over, Berry is one of few players to be noted as much for his barnet as he was for his playing ability.
 The claim is one he admits. In full bloom, the Berry afro was imposing. “If I made a mistake from a corner, everybody knew who it was,” he jokes. “And in the winter when the snow fell, it got very heavy.
 "But I thought it made me look like a bigger, tougher member of the Jackson Five.”
 Berry, now 53, reveals that curls are long gone and he has more in common with Harry Hill than any member of Indiana’s most famous pop act.
 “It happens to everyone – baldness,” he says regretfully. “I was in my mid-30s when it started. I suffered anger and denial before I came to terms with the idea.
 “I’ve said it before, but if I was younger and playing today, I could have got Vidal Sassoon to sponsor my hair.”
 The perceptive former Wolves centre back has considered opinions on money, racism and changing cultures in the modern game, insisting that many of his views were founded at childhood, growing up in a working-class family in Blackpool.
 Born in Rostrup, Germany to a Welsh mother and a Jamaican father who was serving in the forces, the Berry family moved to the Flyde coast in the early 1960s. “We’d moved back to South Wales and my dad was fed up so he closed his eyes and put a pin in the map. So we ended up in Blackpool.”
 Berry played for Bispham Juniors, a team managed by the brother in law of former Liverpool striker Alun Evans. Soon, he was on trial at today’s opponents Wolverhampton Wanderers. “Maybe Alun didn’t think I’d be good enough for Liverpool,” he chuckles.  “On the other hand, he had a close allegiance to Wolves so maybe he was trying to do them a favour.”
 Berry signed forms at Molineux just one day after finishing his final O-Level exam. By 1976, he was just a year away from his professional debut and Liverpool were in town for the final match of the season.
 “Liverpool needed the three points for the title and we needed it to stay up. As an apprentice, it was my job to sweep the home dressing rooms after the game. Wolves lost 3-1 after leading and went down. The atmosphere was depressing. All I could hear was the Liverpool lads celebrating – and rightly so. They deserved it.”
 Berry featured in the Wolves squad that earned promotion back to the top flight a year later and soon came up against Kenny Dalglish – a player who he regards as the finest he faced.
 “Ian Rush was brilliant too. But Kenny was a nightmare. He never stopped talking. He taught me never to answer back because it was a ploy to make you lose concentration.
 “There was one game where we were drawing 0-0. There was 10 minutes to go and Kenny was muttering to me, ‘You’ve had a great game to day – man-of-the-match – you haven’t given me a sniff.’ I turned round to say something and in that instance, the ball was played in behind me. Kenny moved the quickest and he scored.
 “From that day on, I never spoke to an opposing forward during the game. Unless it was telling him to get up.”
 During a 16-year playing career, Berry never won a game at Anfield.
 “We were beaten before we walked onto the pitch. Any away team has to bow to the ‘This Is Anfield’ sign and walk underneath it. Watching the Liverpool players touch that sign crushed the confidence of a lot of players because we weren’t worthy to do the same. It took me a couple of years to realise, but it was psychologically damaging.”
 Berry played 160 times for Wolves and helped them secure the 1980 League Cup in their greatest period of success since the 50s. Then one day in 1982, he was pulled into Ian Greaves’ managers’ office.
 “He said, ‘I’m going to do you a favour – I’m going to release you.’ I said that if that’s doing me a favour, I don’t want you to do anything bad. I never thought for a minute that I’d ever leave Wolves.
 “But Ian explained to me that the club was struggling financially and would be lucky to see out the year. I thought he was winding me up, because as a player you never think that things will ever get so desperate so quickly. Ian was right because they got relegated and carried on their decline until they were in the old Fourth Division. It was a travesty.”
 Berry soon signed for Stoke where he remained for eight seasons before spells at Aldershot and Stafford Rangers. After retiring, the former Wales international remained in the Potteries, a place he clearly feels an affinity towards, completing a business degree and becoming the PFA's senior commercial executive.
 He misses his playing days, “especially the craic,” but is adamant there is one side of the game that he doesn’t recall fondly.
 “Like John Barnes, I suffered from racist abuse,” he says.  “It was difficult.  You can either crumble or use all that negativity and turn it into a positive. When the opposing fans had a go at me and started chanting racist chanting, I always used to say in my head, ‘I must be doing my job – because if I was playing badly, they wouldn’t care about me.’
 “Thankfully, attitudes are changing but there is still some way to go.”
 Berry has been impressed by Wolves this season and says Mick McCarthy is a manager he and the fans can relate to.
 “I really like him. You can tell a good manager when a team is shaped in his image. They work for each other, have a strong team spirit, yet there is still room for individuality.
 “They deserve to be in the Premier League. It’s where a club the size of Wolves belong.”

Steve McManaman on...Steve McManaman

You grew up an Evertonian. Why did you decide to join Liverpool?

I was 14 or 15 and desperate to earn a place on a YTS scheme. I went to Liverpool and they were a much better club to join at the time than Everton. They went the extra mile to encourage me to join and Jim Aspinall who was the local scout and somebody who’d introduced a lot of future first team players to the club, made a big fuss of me by taking me to Anfield and introducing me to Kenny Dalglish. When things like that happen and people like Kenny give you a pair of his boots that he had specially made for him when Liverpool played in the Intercontinental Cup in Tokyo, you can’t say no. They’re all special memories. Even my dad, who was a staunch Evertonian, came away from Anfield saying, ‘This is the place for you to go.’ Robbie, Carra and Michael Owen were also boyhood Evertonians before signing for Liverpool so it shows you what a great job Liverpool were doing.

Did the opportunity to sign for Everton ever arise?

I’d played for Liverpool Schoolboys down at Penny Lane and scouts were there watching players every single week. There was interest from far and wide. Both Manchester clubs offered me a chance to go there but I was a home bird and never wanted to leave my parents. Because I was very small and very, very thin, in a bizarre way it made me stand out so there was interest from other clubs as well. I only ever wanted to stay on Merseyside and although Everton asked me to go there, it was a non-starter because they just weren’t as impressive as Liverpool.

Were there any other players in the Liverpool system that were expected to make it but didn’t?

The standard was very high at Liverpool and when I joined, there were quite a few players regarded more highly than me. Two lads Joey Murray and Steve McVey were already playing for England under-16s. I’d been for trials as well but got nowhere near the team because I was tiny. They were big strong lads – virtually men and fantastic footballers. Like anything, I got the breaks, steered clear of injuries and had a bit of luck when I needed it. That can sometimes be the difference.

Who was the first person to call you Shaggy?

That came much later on when I was in the first team. Barry Venison used to call me ‘Muscles.’ Before that, nobody even called me Macca because Steve McMahon was already there and known as Macca. There was no way I could become Macca as well with Steve about.

How do you evaluate Graeme Souness’ time as Liverpool manager?

Souey was maligned by seemingly everybody, but he did a lot for me as a manager. I know a lot of people say it, but it’s probably true that he tried to change things around too quickly. He had to make changes and was doing a lot of things right but going about it maybe in a hurried way that meant he overlooked problems that could arise as a result of the changes. He’d probably agree with that if you asked him because I’m a friend of his now and I know how he feels.

 To a certain extent, he was probably ahead of his time, but at the time, everything he did was questioned. He moved us down to Melwood, ‘Ah that’s a mistake.’ He brought in dietary requirements for the players, ‘Why are you doing that?’ Today, every club has a daily training base. Today, every club employs a dietician.

 The one mistake that he did make was move a lot of the experienced pros on a year ahead of their time. Because we had a lot of injury problems and a lot of kids came in before they were totally ready at a time when we needed leadership. There were other circumstances like his illness ahead of the cup final and speaking to the Sun newspaper, which was misguided.

 I think he realises now that he made one or two many mistakes in a short space of time and this has unfortunately sullied his reputation as one of Liverpool’s greatest players. With hindsight, he probably regrets a lot of the things he did at Liverpool.

How quickly did you become friends with Robbie Fowler?

I was initially a good mate with Mike Marsh who was a Kirkby lad like me. Before Robbie was in the first team, I’d seen him train, play and score lots of goals in the youth teams and the reserves but didn’t know much about him as a person. Once Robbie came into the first team, we became friends very quickly. He was and still is very similar in character and person to me with similar backgrounds and interests. Our fathers had the same interests, so he was very easy to be around.

You received the man-of-the-match award for your performances in both the 1992 FA Cup Final and the 1995 League Cup Final. Which game did you play better in?

That’s difficult to say because we won both games. I injured my back in ’92 and couldn’t walk afterwards. I scored two in 95 and it’s always nice to score and win. Maybe the FA Cup was slightly better because the FA Cup is a more prestigious competition – it was also my first medal and I was extremely young. I’d literally just come back from a dislocated knee sustained in the semi-final and I had to be rushed back because Barnesy was struggling too. 

When Roy Evans became manager, he changed the formation from 4-4-2 to 3-5-2. How did the players take to it?

It was a bold decision because 4-4-2 was the Liverpool way. But I think Roy realised the team needed to be flexible because of the way football was changing. Managers were becoming more obsessed by tactics and I think Roy wanted to make sure we could adapt formations in different situations. Sometimes if teams are overrunning you you need to be able to change on a whim.

 Roy knew the personnel we had and understood that we had two or three players that would shine as wing-backs – a key position if you’re going to play that way because they contribute going forwards and going back.

The change in formation also allowed you to play more centrally didn’t it?

Many people called it a free role but it only becomes a free role when you’ve got the right personnel around you. A lot of credit in our attacking play should also go to Jamie Redknapp, John Barnes and Michael Thomas. They gave me the option of being able to play freely because they had such a great positional sense.

How did you deal with being man-marked?

Well I know that only became an issue when we didn’t win. There were plenty of games when I was man-marked and we won and nobody said a thing about it. But when we drew or lost, they’d say they’d stopped me playing and therefore Liverpool playing. I found it quite strange that opposing managers and players would concentrate on a player rather than the ball. There was times when the ball was two yards away from a defender and they’d leave the ball and focus on stopping me instead. I remember we drew with Sheffield Wednesday and everybody was going on about what a great job Peter Atherton did on me. There were other players that had good games against me but it wasn’t mentioned because we’d won the game. Because Wednesday got a draw, Atherton got all kinds of praise.

 If anything, being man-marked wasn’t a compliment – it was more frustrating. It got to the stage where players wouldn’t pass the ball to me because it looked like I was marked. When really, they should have passed it and allow me to try and beat the marker or get him booked, leaving him on the back foot.

How good a player was Rob Jones?

Had it not been for injury, he’d have earned more than 100 England caps, I’m sure of that. Gary Neville would have been under more pressure over the years. Trigger was a great attacking full back, superb on the ball, a fine cross. It was sad that he had to retire so early because I’m sure he’d have become a Liverpool legend. When I left Liverpool at 27, he had to retire the same summer and slowly slip away. It shows you the contrasting lives of footballers because he could have achieved everything in the game. He was really that good.

You played in Euro 96. Why didn’t England win it?

Well we were very unlucky to go out to Germany because we should have beaten them. I’m sure we’d have also beaten the Czech’s in the final. On the other hand, we were certainly the second best against the Spanish who scored a goal that should have been counted but wasn’t. Then we beat them on penalties. Before that, we were also quite fortunate to beat Scotland after David Seaman saved Gary Mac’s pen. At the end of the day, we were fortunate to beat Spain and unfortunate to lose to the Germans. It’s not something I sit there thinking, ‘Ah we should have done this…we should have done that,’ because the luck probably evened itself out. That’s football.

Do you think Liverpool should have won the title in 1996/97?

Whoever wins the title deserves it so no, we shouldn’t have. It’s funny now how people remember that season quite fondly. Roy Evans got absolutely slaughtered by some for playing attacking football, which got us into some problems defensively. But I’ll always back Roy because he was brilliant with the players and defended us through thick and thin. Everybody respected him.

 These days, I get people, and I’m sure Roy does as well, coming up, saying ‘That was a great Liverpool side that.’ The same people weren’t saying it at the time. Roy Evans was a great manager and slightly unlucky at times. If he was managing nowadays and finished third or fourth every season like he did then, it would be good enough to get in the Champions League and would be regarded as an achievement.

What went through your mind when you received the ball in the 1997 UEFA Cup against Celtic and was it your favourite Liverpool goal?

I remember a forward or a midfielder came to tackle me way behind the half way line and his body shape was all wrong. So I beat him and realised there was acres and acres of space. That made my mind up for me that I was going to have a run. Nobody really tried to tackle me so by the time I got to the box I realised there was an opportunity to shoot. Rather than thinking, ‘I’m going to run here and score,’ it was circumstance that everything opened up.

 My best goal would have to be one that meant something. I could never choose a goal in a game that we lost. The ’95 League Cup Final goals were special to me.

Before you signed for Real Madrid, how close were you to moving to Barcelona?

It was 12 months before and it was never really that close. Liverpool had agreed a fee with them for me and told me I could speak. There was only a conversation over the phone and we were a million miles away from each other in terms of what the club wanted and what I wanted. I was due to go on holiday to Majorca and because there were no direct flights to Palma the day I wanted to go, I flew  via Barcelona. The press caught wind of it, put two and two together and came up with everything. When I arrived back home, there was a furore but really, it was a load of lies. I never wanted to go to Barcelona and never met anybody from the club in person.

Eventually, you joined Real Madrid. How did Spain change you as a person?

First of all, the football was completely different and the culture around it is different as well. You’re playing at nine or ten at night and the sights, sounds and smells around the stadiums are different to England. Then country itself is again, different, and Spain is a very family orientated land. It was about embracing different experiences because I didn’t know the language and Liverpool was the only club I’d ever been at, Real Madrid probably made me mature a bit as a person. It was tough at first and I can understand why English players find it difficult to settle abroad mainly because we aren’t encouraged to learn different languages in this country from an early age.

Who was your best mate at Real Madrid?

Initially, I got on with Clarence Seedorf and Christian Karembeu, mainly because they spoke English. You find solace in anybody that can speak the same language as you. As time progressed and my Spanish got better, I’d like to think I got on with all the players. I still speak to Santiago Solari and Luis Figo – they’re great mates.

Where does Zinedine Zidane rank amongst the greatest players of all time?

To be honest, he really struggled in his first year at Real Madrid. But then he scored that goal in the European Cup Final. It was like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders. For the other three or four years, he was truly brilliant and became the one of the best if not the best player I’ve ever played with. I can’t compare him to Pele, Maradona, George Best or Cruyff because I never played with them but in the modern era, he’s probably the best.

You retired in 2005 after a spell at Manchester City. Have you considered management?

I took my first coaching badge last year in case I fancied it in the future. Ten or 15 years ago, it would have been attractive to an ex-footballer like me, but now management a very difficult job to hold down. You lose two games, you get slaughtered and can’t go out for a meal with the wife because everybody has an opinion who should and shouldn’t be playing. Unless you have lots and lots of money to spend, it’s even more difficult. I spoke to Alan Shearer last week about Newcastle and a genuinely sympathised with him. When your hands are tied financially and you can’t get rid of players that aren’t good enough, it reflects badly on yourself. My mind fluctuates because sometimes I think that I’d like to give it a go, then other times you see the criticism that the managers get and it puts me off. Eighteen months ago, Zola at West Ham was the next big thing and being linked with the Chelsea job. Now, after a bad injury list and a couple of retirements to key players, he’s lost job at West Ham. There is also a dearth of young English managers – good managers like Alan Curbishley and Gareth Southgate who want to get in at the right club – but can’t. Maybe in a year’s time, I’ll feel differently.

Looking back at the Boys' Pen

A squealing colony of pimply-faced urchins stood expelled in the westerly corner of the Kop. Every other Saturday, little monsters – ‘extras from Oliver Twist’ as one fan described them – no older than 12, would shriek and curse their way through matches knowing it soon would be time to graduate through the crèche of fandom and into the real world.

 The Boys’ Pen was meant to be a satellite community of Shankly’s vision: Day care for the offspring of seasoned Kopites - a place where sons deemed too diminutive for the genuine thing – would spend their Saturday afternoons cheering on the Reds and learning what it meant to be a Liverpool supporter. In theory.

 The reality was quite different. The Kop was an all-welcoming society. The Pen - a caged jungle – was a holding ground for frustrated juveniles and sometimes a lonely place for newcomers outside the clique. Those that weren’t, didn’t hang around.

 In one game some time in the 70s, as Liverpool cruised towards yet another comfortable home victory, the Kop was on its round of "Annie Road, give us a song", "Main Stand, give us a song" before arriving at the Boys’ Pen.

 "Kopites are gobsh*tes" yelped the hyena pups.

 Kids that stood in the pen were tough - the head to toilet flusher types from school. Regulars in the Main Stand, just across from the pen, would witness and be the recipients of their wrath.

 “The Main Stand got a lot of abuse,” said Mick Potter, from The End fanzine. “There was a feeling that they looked down on the Boys’ Pen. We were the underclass of Liverpool and they were the gentry.”

 Peter Hooton of The Farm, whose father acquired tickets through the son of former trainer Albert Shelley, started watching Liverpool from the obstructed view seats in the Main Stand.

 “I was always fascinated by the Kop and this communion between fans’ and players,” he said. “The Boys’ Pen was different.

 “You had to go in there with a mob to stand any chance of survival.”

 There were some lighter moments.

 In 1962, two goals from Kevin Lewis gave the Reds a 2-0 over Southampton to hand Liverpool the Second Division Championship.

 "Just after the final whistle, everyone was going berserk and amid the celebrations I got thrown into the Boys´ Pen,” Ron Yeats recalled fondly. “We had a great sing along.

 “They seemed like a nice set of lads.”

Escaping

Mick Potter, late of Scotland Road

LIKE A lot of kids from his part of town, Mick Potter would jump the 26 bus on his way to Anfield. “It stopped right outside the ground so it was a convenient way of getting to the match. I went with a gang from Scotland Road but there were groups from Breck Road, Walton, Everton and Vauxhall.

 “Many of them were hard lads.”

 Once inside the Pen, Potter says that like a prisoner of war, it was a detainee’s duty to escape.

 “There was only one objective in the Boys’ Pen. And that was to get out. Every kid wanted to bunk into the Kop – it was like an obsession.

 “I was nine when I first went. It was a night game against Man City and I think we won 3-2. My recollections are vague because I spent most of the game looking at people scale the barbed wire in an attempt to free themselves.

 “The system worked with one kid climbing over and deliberately getting caught by a steward manning the fence. The steward would throw the sacrificial lamb out of the ground and while that was happening, 20 lads would jump over and escape.

 “I probably missed some great moments on the pitch because I was so busy trying to get out. There were many routes– some of them more precarious than others. I think we sometimes annoyed the older fellas on the Kop but they must have been impressed by our determination.”

 Life inside the Pen was arduous. When Potter was nine, a kid of around 13-years tried to pinch from his pockets.

 “There was nothing in there. I’d spent all my money getting into the ground. He was a lot bigger than me, so if he’d taken something, I’d have probably stayed quiet.”

 A game against Everton in 1970 saw the Boys’ Pen become a mock setting of Stalag Luft III for the afternoon.

 “It was the Great Escape,” he says. “There were times when older fellas would pay the cheaper price to get into the pen, then try and get into the Kop.

 “God knows how they got in. But two fellas brought iron bars and hid them under their coats. They managed to bend the steel on the fence of the pen and lead a break out. A screaming mob of kids broke free after them.

 “For some reason, the club didn’t fix the railings afterwards. They were bent for months and months and were manned by an extra steward or a copper.”

 The most adventurous attempt to flee came via the Kop toilets.

“They were directly below the Pen so you’d get some terrible smells wafting through. Hot air rises so there would be a bit of a pong. The sanitary conditions in the Kop were horrendous.”

 Potter served his apprenticeship before finally gravitating to the Kop.

 “Times were hard so sometimes I’d bite the bullet, pay the cheaper price and try and go through the pen and climb over, even though I was too old.

 “It was a great way to learn about football matches. It was where I started supporting Liverpool. You get a lot of people slightly younger than me saying they started watching Liverpool in the Kop. I think that generation has missed out.”

 Now a season ticket holder in the Kop, Potter would like to see an area at Anfield exclusively for children.

 “Human rights would probably have a problem with it if it was anything like the original Pen,’” he jokes. “Its one saving grace was that it wasn’t as bad as Everton’s.

 “The Boys’ Pen in the Gwladys Street was like a monkey cage. The bluenoses had no chance of getting out unless they brought some cutting gear to the match.”

The aftermath

Steve ‘Mono’ Monaghan

ON ANY given Monday morning, Steve Monaghan would hold service at his primary school, St Marks, in Halewood. A successful breakout from the Boys’ Pen 48 hours earlier would be the issue at hand.

 “Sometimes, a crowd of around 50-odd kids would sit there and listen. Everyone knew that I went to the match every week and my classmates respected that.

 “I would tell them about all the ways people managed to escape from the Pen and into the Kop. They couldn’t get enough of it.”

 One of Mono’s first games in the Pen was Liverpool’s 10-0 win over Dundalk.

 “My dad was mates with Bobby Graham so we got tickets. He’d sit in the stand and leave me with my mates to go our own way.

 “It was a difficult place to be at first for a kid trying to fit in because unlike the Kop, it was suspicious of newcomers and outsiders.

 “If you ever dared go in with a programme, it would soon be liberated from you by a bigger lad.

“But after a while, when your face became recognised, you got to know all the other lads in there and it was a great place to educate yourself.

 “A lot of the lads I met there, 30-years ago, I’m still friends with now.”

 Unity amongst the urchins led to many successful escapes.

 “It was the main event. Being young kids, our head’s were being turned all the time.

 “Skinny lads had an advantage because they’d be able to squeeze through the fence. Others would be more direct and go over the ‘Berlin’ – or straight over the wall. I didn’t fancy heights so I’d do my best to squeeze.

 “The typical way out would be to crawl across one of the girders. It literally was like the Great Escape. If one of our own managed their way into the Kop undetected, a huge cheer would go up.

 “If a copper got hold of him, we’d still cheer him on the way to the cooler.”

 Mono acquired his first season ticket in 1973/74.

 “I was still a kid – 13 or 14, but I felt liberated. You were with the big boys’ then and the Kop looked after you. I used to sit on the bar and people would protect you from the crushing.

 “After spending time in the pen – it was a reward.”

A view from the outside

Brian Reade, Kop season ticket holder and Daily Mirror columnist

JOHANN Cruyff only played twice at Anfield. On one of those occasions, Brian Reade got to see him for free.

 “I was 18 and I bunked in at three-quarter time,” he says. “I’d got down to the ground with my mates and fully intended to pay, but it was a lock-out for an hour and a half before.

 “I hadn’t done it since I was a kid but I desperately wanted to see the game.

 “It meant we ended up waiting in the pub with a few pints – it wasn’t on TV – and went back with 15-minutes to go.

 “We’d beaten Barcelona away and managed to draw 1-1 at Anfield. We hadn’t won any European Cup’s at that stage (1976) so seeing Cruyff play was something special – even if it was for 15-minutes.”

 Reade became an Anfield regular as a child, again finding his way into the Kop at three-quarter time.

  “I’d rather have waited until three quarter time than have gone in the Boys’ Pen. It seemed like alien territory to me. When you’re a kid, territory is everything it’s not a nice feeling when you’re an outsider.

 “There was no ranking if you went in at three quarter time because you charged in and found whatever space you could get.”

 Soon enough, when he could afford to watch the whole match, Reade ended up in the Anfield Road. Hailing from Huyton, that end of the ground was easier to reach on a matchday.

 “Traditionally, geography played a big part in the side of the ground you stood or sat. I always ended up arriving on somewhere near the Arkles, so naturally, I’d end up in the Anfield Road or the Kemlyn Road. We’d get a bus to West Derby Road then walk through.

 “I always liked the view from the Anfield Road because kids could get at the front and it seemed like a better spec than right at the back of the Kop in the Boys’ Pen. Even if you were a kid at the front of the Kop, it was difficult to see the whole pitch because of the slope that subsides at that end of the ground. In the Annie Road, you could see everything.

 “I’ve never stood or sat regularly on the west side of the ground. For one year, I had a season ticket in the Main Stand and it just didn’t feel right because I had to walk right round Anfield before the game to get to my seat.

 “Even when I did work in the press box, I didn’t like it because it didn’t feel natural to me. Psychologically, I think a fan gets used to a vantage point and anything different makes you think it might be unlucky.”

 Reade, who studied at De La Salle, didn’t know many lads that dared to venture into the Pen.

 “In the mid to late 60s, the Annie Road was more dangerous than the Kop or even the boys’ pen because all the away fans were there and there was no segregation. With all the boot boys and the skinheads, there would be a lot of trouble.

 “At 11 or 12, I used to take a stool to the game and on one occasion I went flying and hit my head on the barrier in front of me because of the movement of the crowd. I nearly ended up in hospital.

 “There was definitely more problems in the Anfield Road than at any other part of the ground. The atmosphere was cutting edge and I believe that we ended up singing a lot more because the away fans were so close and we wanted to prove to them that we were louder.

 “There’s sometimes a stigma left with Liverpool fans who stood in other parts of the ground other than the Kop.

 “But I always say that there’s seems to be more songs these days about the Annie Road than anywhere else in the ground so it must have had something going for it.”

 Reade, though, concedes that he missed out by not standing in the Pen.

“I did feel later on that I missed out on an apprenticeship. I was lucky enough to have witnessed some great nights at Anfield and some wonderful trips abroad. As a Liverpool supporter, I think I’ve experienced most emotions that go with the territory. Then someone will say, ‘ah, but you didn’t go in the Boys’ Pen did you?’ 

 “It didn’t help because I was a bit of a sh*thouse.”

 An area for young supporters, he concludes, is sadly missing from all stadia in the Premier League today.

 “I despair in the number of kids you see going to the game. For me, it was the greatest time of my life. When I started going between ‘66 and ‘73, we didn’t win anything, but the atmosphere at Anfield and the thrill you would get going into the ground at half one would be brilliant. There would be hoards and hoards of kids.

 “Now, when I walk up to the match, you see the odd kid with his dad that looks privileged. Instead, they’ve been replaced by fat 45-year-old men who are trying to squeeze into replica shirts.

  “That’s just plain weird and wrong.”

From the Pen to the dugout

Phil Thompson, player, coach, assistant and manager.

PHIL Thompson is the only person in the history of Liverpool Football Club to have progressed from the Boys’ Pen to the manager’s seat.

 “When Gerard (Houllier) was ill and they gave me the job, albeit on a temporary basis, I thought, ‘I started up there in the heavens of the Kop as a kid and now I’m picking the team – just like Bill Shankly did.

 “I couldn’t get my head round that.”

 Kirkby born, Thompson came from a divided family.

 "My dad was a blue and my mum was a die-hard red,” he explains. “Luckily my mum had always gone to the game so I followed suit with her. Dad was a merchant seaman and spent a lot of time away so his influence on the football side wasn’t so big.

 "I spent a bit of time in the Annie Road and the Paddock with my mum before I started going it alone with my mates in the pen. So I had limited preparation for what came."

 Thompson had the legs to flee the Pen-keepers.

 "It was a means to an end. My aim was to watch football regularly from the most famous terrace in world football. To get there, a fan would have to progress through the boys’ pen.

 "I was desperate to stand on the Kop I used to get to the ground really early and do a runner. The earlier you got in, the easier it was because there were fewer stewards around. We used to call them guards.

 "I frequently managed to get to the game for about 1pm so I could maximise my chance of escaping the pen. I was a good climber and nifty on foot so I have to say, quite proudly, that I was a prolific escapee.”

 Like Terry McDermott and John Aldridge, who also spent time with the youthful steerage of the Pen, Thompson eventually played for Liverpool’s first team.

  "I joined the club as in 1969 as a 15-year-old. When I was in the reserves, cleaning the boots and kit for Emlyn’s and Cally’s boots then on a Saturday afternoon, I was joining my mates in the Kop with my scarf on and getting behind the team.

 "By 1972 I was making my first team debut.

"The sense of pride was unbelievable.

 "When I looked up at the Pen during matches, it also felt strange.

 “That was where it really started for me.”

Madrid in the springtime

ON approach to Atletico’s Vicente Calderon, a stadium that clings onto the banks of the barren Manzanares River, the antipathy towards Real Madrid from supporters of city rivals Atletico is as clear as Castilian spring sky. Stall holders captialise on this angst. For the red and white replica kits of Atletico nestle behind the Anti Madridista t-shirts, available in extra large, large, medium, small, baby and ladies pink.

 “Madrid fans think that being Madrid fans make them someone which irritates the Atletico fans, who are the complete opposite,” says Michael Robinson, Liverpool striker turned Spanish TV presenter. “They’re nicknamed the pupas [gaffed one], and they’re like a stray dog with fleas and wonderful, sad eyes staring up at you. They’ll never win Crufts, whereas Real Madrid won’t even compete at Crufts if they don’t think they are going to win it. I have moments when I think: God, I like Atletico.”

 Atletico Madrid supporters are identifiable. Any football fan that has spent a moderate amount of time in Madrid can spot the difference between a Real and an Atleti supporter. It’s can be something as simple as the way a person sits on a park bench or munches on a lunchtime bocadillo.

 “There are no real geographical differences or religious differences between the clubs – Spain is a Catholic country,” adds, Antonio Sanz, a journalist based in Madrid, who wrote Fernando Torres’ autobiography. “Historically if you look before 1930, there have been no political differences. All I can say is that really, Atleti is more about what’s in your heart as a person. Atleti is the closest thing we have to real life. We take defeat in the same way as victory. With Real, they are something from science fiction.”

 Atletico and Real are clubs with very different identities, and according to their supporters, contrasting destinies. Historically, Real – the Galacticos have long been seen as the club of the establishment. “Real Madrid are the best embassy we ever had,” once said a conservative minister, in reference to the club’s reputation abroad at a time when Franco Spain wasn’t embraced in the international community.

 Atletico fans, by comparison, find their beliefs firmly in ‘sentimeiento de rebeldía’ (a sense of rebellion). The Calderon and Santiago Bernebau, the respective homes of each club, symbolises these distinct characteristics: The Bernabeu, a cathedral of football, stands majestically alongside the worldwide banks and multinational businesses on the classy Castellana in the north of Madrid. It is the closest structure in football to the Coliseum in Rome. The Calderon, meanwhile, can be found beside an abandoned Mahou brewery in the working class south.

IT is here on this chilly Monday night in March when Atletico supporters have something else to complain about. Sitting in a bar sipping cold cerveza 45 minutes before kick off, it is noticeable how few people there are milling around the stadium. Monday night football in Spain is a new concept, initially piloted to deal with the extra games created by the expansion of the UEFA Cup into the Europa League, but now conveniently pressed regularly into the fixture list for television.

 The supporters aren’t happy about it, especially Atleti who unfurl two banners before kick off. One points out ‘SAD + TV = The End,’ and the other, more prominent behind the south stand where the club’s most fanatical fans usually sit, questions. ‘El futbol de los aficionados de las televisions?’ [Is football for armchair supporters?]. The attendance of 25,000, down by half from usual weekend matches, suggests that supporters are prepared to act on their grievances. Not a single Osasuna fan has travelled the five hours from Pamplona, high in the north of Spain.

 “When Atletico fans are unhappy, they’ll let you know,” Robinson continues. “They seem to deal better with defeat than they do victory. It proves they care more. I’ve never seen Atletico fans so unhappy as the year they won the double.” Although Robinson’s view may be exaggerated, he has a point. When Atletico were relegated in 2000 from La Liga, 38,000 fans purchased season tickets the following summer, the highest figure in 13 years and more than the season after they won the league in 1996. Jesus Gil, the club’s firebrand president described it a ‘social phenomenon.’

 From the top of the Calderon’s west facing Main Stand, the view is similarly phenomenal. By kick off, night has fallen but there is a panoramic view of Madrid. In the distance, the lights from the Palacio de Oriente flicker, reflecting off the stadium’s Eastern European style stark looking floodlights. Down below, however, the lack of spectators means more than half of the red, white and blue seating is exposed.

 Monday night football at the Calderon has also arrived at a time when matters on and off the pitch are predictably unsettled at Atletico. Jesus Gil y Gil, the club’s former sloth president who ate managers for breakfast may have gone more than seven years ago but his replacement, Enrique Cerezo has proven equally unpopular.

 Cerezo, who like Gil was found guilty in court of fraudulently acquiring the club when it became a plc, is by day, a cinematographic producer, ie a maker of films. Since his arrival at the top chair in the boardroom, Atletico have continued hiring and firing managers. Eight have come and gone in his time. They include Luis Aragones, latterly the coach of Spain in their successful Euro 2008 campaign, as well as Carlos Bianchi, formerly with Boca Juniors – similarly a capable manager with plenty of experience – but unable to sort out Atletico’s problems.

 The biggest problem here is that Cerezo and Miguel-Angel Gil Marin (son of Jesus and still majority owner of the club) can’t stand each other. Fans argue that this is destroying Atletico from the inside. And slowly.

 The latest particular crisis – this season – began in the final minutes of the transfer window when Atletico sold meat headed defender Johnny Heitinga to Everton. Former coach Abel Resino had Heitinga removed from above "sneakily and undercover of darkness", as one member of the coaching staff put it; at the last minute, and with no chance to get a replacement.

 ‘There was no sign of Miguel Torres (the Real Madrid full back)’ the Guardian wrote, ‘and, sadly, no sign of Rod Fanni (Rennes). There was certainly no sign of the ball-playing midfielder they desperately needed. No wonder the coach Abel Resino went bonkers. No wonder he privately moaned: "This club is a madhouse."’

  The morning after the transfer window closed, Jesus Garcia Pitarch (the sporting director who famously bought Rafa Benitez a lamp in the form of Momo Sissoko when he asked for a sofa at Valencia) gave an unnecessary, hour-long press conference. Picking on someone of his own diminutive own build, he insisted the only signing he regretted making was that of Liverpool’s little Luis Garcia and claimed that he could not sign anybody else because Atletico did not have any money.

 Cerezo came out and snapped: "If there's no money, there's no need for a sporting director." Then Gil Marin came out and said there was money. Then Pitarch escaped to a holiday retreat. Then the fans got angry and out came the banners, the hankerchiefs and the whistling. Then the protests. Atletico are currently mid-table and another season where mediocrity in the league has reigned is just about to finish.

ATLETICO players take to the pre-match handshakes in a tracksuit top while Osasuna, wearing a garish and awful combination of black and aluminous yellow look more like a cycling team preparing to ride over the Pyrenees.

 Within seconds, the visitors’ Iranian midfielder Masoud falls over and the whistling begins – an endemic feature of supporter discontent across Spanish football. It is only broken when Ricardo, formerly with Manchester United and a goalkeeper who grew up around the corner from the Calderon before a making single appearance for Atletico, touches the ball for the first time to be greeted by mild applause.

 The commentators from Radio Marca explode into action like John McCririck on Derby day whenever Sergio Aguero comes within five yards of possession but he and Atletico’s other creative threat Simao struggle to involve themselves in play. Osasuna, with a 4-5-1 formation intended to stifle, do exactly that and look more likely to score. Walter Pandiani, the former Birmingham striker, is a danger and supplemented by ex Real Madrid winger Juanfran, he is foiled by David de Gea from close range. The locally born goalkeeper replaced big-money summer signing Sergio Asenjo at the turn of the year and has been a revelation under new boss Quique Sanchez Flores.

 Flores, dressed in an urbane suit, funneled trench coat and mahogany coloured loafers, cuts a relaxed figure on the touchline despite the visitors’ domination. Arms behind his back, with dark oily slicked back hair; the former Valencia and Benfica boss has made several other changes to the Atletico team since replacing Abel Resino. While Maxi Rodriguez has been allowed to move to Liverpool, Flores has given youth a chance with Alvaro Dominguez becoming a regular at centre back, 21-year-old winger Eduardo Salvio arriving from Lanus in Argentina, and telescopic-legged Senegalese striker Ibrahima being promoted from the B team.

 Here, Dominguez and his Colombian defensive partner Luis Perea are kept busy by Pandiani and co and the influence of Osasuna’s midfielder Javier Camunas becomes more apparent as the opening period wears old. When the half time whistle blows, there is no reaction from the supporters who seem to accept that a placing in the league that would qualify them for Europe is beyond Atletico this season.

 That hope is made more distant when Simao chops down Cesar Azpilicueta around the hour mark, earning a second yellow card. Simao’s ejection rouses the crowd and Atleti take control of the game with 10 men. Aguero is substituted and almost instantly, left back and captain Antonio Lopez finds himself in an advanced position to curl past Ricardo from 20 yards.

 Atletico are well in control now and surprisingly, Tomas Ujfalusi, the mean looking Czech defender playing at right back becomes a foil for all attacking movement. Ibrahima, christened, ‘Ibra’ on the back of his unnecessary number 58 shirt replaces a subdued Diego Forlan. Like Benjani, he sports a perma-smile and he nearly extends the hosts lead before tripping over his own feet in front of Ricardo.

 Osasuna now look like they’re contemplating a coach journey home that won’t get them back to Pamplona until 4am and Atleti – like Robinson said earlier, are reveling in their underdog status. When the full time whistle goes, they are clear and deserved winners.

 In the post match press conference, Osasuna coach Jose Antonio Camacho, the complete antithesis to Flores, looks like he can’t wait to get on the bus after seeing his side crumble when the game was seemingly theirs. Flores, meanwhile, could stay and talk all night in his casual, endearing manner.

 Exiting the stadium and heading towards the nearest tube stop at nearby Embajadores, a set of lumpen, grey tower blocks choke the skyline to the west of Madrid. Go in that direction and you’ll reach Aluche, the industrial suburb where Rafa Benitez grew up in.

 It is planned that Atletico will leave the Calderon for the stadium being built in the east of the city as part of Madrid’s failed bid for the 2016 Olympics. “Some fans have lobbied against this move,” says Alberto Romano, Atletico’s correspondent for Marca. “Atleti only moved to the Calderon in 1966. Before then, we played at the Metropilitano, which is close to the University across the city, so any historical significance of location should really be dismissed.

 “We’ll have a new stadium that will be slightly smaller than the Bernabeu.

 “The Calderon will be missed though.”

Re-visiting Bolton, 2009 (pre-match grub)

August bank holiday weekend. The morning after an evening that would have made the cheeks of even Shandy Van der Meyde turn an embarrassed shade of pink.

Herds of giant wildebeest-like shapes are grazing in the Lancashire countryside as we approach the outskirts of Westhaughton. Maybe it’s just the locals. Franny Lee was born here.

Fifteen minutes later it’s half a beast of alleged pig in sausage form surfing across the grease on the Sam Allardyce sized hostess trey in front of me. Ten of them.

It’s not the bangers that worry me, though. It’s the ten pieces of toast. Buttered with Stork. Accompanied by ten eggs, as many rashes of bacon, five black puddings, fried mushrooms and a red ocean of beans – this dubious feast deserves its title as the largest commercially available English breakfast, according to Guinness World Records.

At 5000 calories per serving - twice the daily-recommended intake for a man - it is probably the unhealthiest menu on the planet. It also comes without a cup of tea, coffee or any other drink and must be consumed within 20 minutes. My mouth feels as dry as a desert nomad’s sandal just thinking about it.

Mario, the Neapolitan born proprietor and head chef of the imaginatively named Mario’s Cafe Bar, is not your average Italian home foodie lover. “My family would have a heart attack if they saw what I was serving,” he says before revealing that he supports AC Milan.

Today, we’re the ones facing up to the prospect of a coronary bypass. Barely 12-hours earlier, I had watched Red Barclay - a champion amongst gluttonists - meet a food-filled death in the Simpsons episode where Homer challenges him to a tenderloin-eating contest. It crosses my mind as a second hunk of lowest-cut bacon slides down my throat aided by its coating of fatty lubricant.

My starvation tactics that include a breakfast comprising of lager (consumed the night before), one cup of tea, a yoghurt and chewing gum, isn’t working so in an attempt to distract from the task ahead, I take reassurance in the knowledge that not a single person from the 60 who have confronted this challenge have yet completed it. Health disclaimers droop on the walls of the café charting previous contestants to have a go. The furthest came from Alabama but Mario says a man from Aberdeen ate more than anyone else only to be defeated by the dreaded toast.

Three local teenagers in greebo uniform, all vying to become the town’s answer to Morgan Spurlock (Supersize Me), are all struggling. One of the lads doesn’t like black pudding, so he has five extra sausages (making it 15 in total) and he’s half the way through the plate when he eventually gives in. An armada of Hindenburgs would struggle to winch my own anxiety as I watch him squirm before his head hits the checkered clothed table in front of him with fatigue.

I’m halfway through my fifth and final pud, when Betty, certainly the local gossip queen of around 75 years, announces her departure from the establishment (after a mere egg on toast). Then, just as she gets to the exit door, "I’d best go t’ the loo before I make my way." I recall my reconnaissance mission to the unisex throne ahead of the breakfast where I found one slither of toilet paper left. Those Bismarck-brown sausages just don’t hold the same as allure as they once did. If they ever did.

My sinuses by now are filled with factory prepared meat. There’s no room for any more food. I’m done – 18 minutes in.

A group of Kopites scramble through the door brimming with hopeful exuberance and keen to take on the ultimate test in morning greed. But one look at our sorry efforts encourages them to only tackle a standard full English.

Taking my seat at the back of the Reebok later, the players are already out completing their pre-match stretches. With Yossi Benayoun looking like he needs a feed and new signing Sotiros Krygiakos moving like he's just been fed, thoughts return to the sausage fest earlier.

The journalists around me don’t know what I’ve just done but look at me as if I’m Mr Creosote from Monty Python’s Meaning of Life. Luckily for them, I’m not about to explode.

Not yet.

A word with John Gidman

The Scouser who became a United full-back speaks ahead of Liverpool's visit to Old Trafford next weekend

The Boardwalk in Venice Beach, Los Angeles has been a Mecca for unconventional types since the 60s when beat poets and artists headed west in search of inspiration. John Gidman, the former Liverpool apprentice and Manchester United full-back, fitted right in when he visited towards the end of his time as an Everton player.

Abandoned by newly appointed manager, Howard Kendall, Gidman was pondering his future at a hotel on the Pacific coast, when a telephone call came prior to an afternoon trip to Malibu.

Born near the docks in Garston, Gidman had been released by Bill Shankly as a teenager after failing to conform to the methods of a Melwood coaching staff member. “I had long hair and didn’t look like a footballer my teens,” he says. “Having a different appearance has never helped young lads trying to make their way in the game. So I annoyed one or two.”

A decade later, in 1981 and now at Goodison Park, Gidman’s reputation was preceding him again. In the opening game of a post-season tour to Japan, he went to pick up his number two shirt in the dressing room when the Blues boss approached him.

‘No, no, no. no,’ Kendall said.

Gidman continues, “I assumed that meant I’d be on the bench. So I walked across and picked up a subs shirt. Again, Howard followed me and said, ‘No, no, no. no...you’re in the stand.”

Following two defeats with Gidman on the sidelines, the Everton squad flew back to Heathrow via LA. Then the phone rang.

“The receptionist announced, ‘Mr Gidman, there’s a Mr Ron Atkinson wanting to speak to you.’

“Howard was sitting there in the reception and his ears pricked up.

“I thought that’s all I fucking needed. It looked like I was manoeuvring a deal myself.

“Howard looked at me coldly, but I went away and took the call regardless. I knew Howard didn’t want me but he never told me the real reason why. I’d caused a few problems for Gordon Lee, the previous guy in charge, because he wanted the team to play defensively and my strength was going forward. Maybe he didn’t want that kind of problem and that’s why I wasn’t in his plans.

“Venice Beach was my kind of place but I couldn’t wait to get back home. I couldn’t say no to United. It was a relief to leave Everton.”

Gidman became Atkinson’s first signing at Old Trafford, joining for £450,000 with Mickey Thomas moving the other way. Atkinson, who was born in West Derby, but raised near Birmingham, had some words of advice for his new signing.

“He told me that he’d sign any player for United providing they were good enough and he believed that as long as I reproduced the kind of form from my Villa days, I wouldn’t have a problem with the crowd. He was right. Atko wanted to change the style of play and bring exciting football to the club. I was an attacking full back and he believed that would go down well with the fans.

“Ron knew I had a bit of a reputation off the field but in his book he said that he’d never met a more nervous person than me because I couldn’t stop going for a pee during negotiations.

“He offered me a three and a half year contract and told me not to be greedy and accept it. So I did.”

Gidman also received guidance from another Scouser, Steve Coppell.

“Steve was brilliant with me and made me feel part of the set up from day one at the Cliff (United’s training ground).

“After one game, I came back into the dressing room to find my shirt sleeves, tie, pants, shoes and everything else I owned cut up. I later found Steve had done it.

“I put them back on and walked straight into the players’ lounge like nothing had happened. It went down with the lads like Gordon McQueen, Arthur Albiston and Martin Buchan who were all big personalities. I was right in the thick of all the fun and games after that.”

Gidman’s debut in a defeat at Coventry marked a turnaround in his career. The release from Liverpool more than 10-years earlier had wedged in his throat like a fishbone and his desire to prove people wrong at Anfield was only just escaping his thoughts.

“On the letter Bill Shankly sent and signed to my parents confirming that the club didn’t want me, it said something like I didn’t meet the required standard of skill for the club. Really, they thought I was a disruptive influence. I looked and sometimes acted more like a rockstar than a footballer.

“I still had people like Ronnie Moran to thank, though. Ronnie converted me from a winger to a right-back and had enough faith to put me in the reserves when nobody else would. I made my debut at Blackpool alongside Alec Lindsay and I did really well.

“I ended up signing for Aston Villa and really enjoyed my time there – earning an England cap. That’s when I really felt that I’d proven people wrong because international football back then was the highest playing field to perform on.

“Then I joined Everton against my better judgement and things didn’t go so well. So signing for United was a big moment for me – even though I was born and brought up as a Liverpool fan.”

Gidman joined United at a time when Liverpool were the most feared team in England and on the continent, but United’s highly paid stars were playing exciting football

“I wouldn’t say I wanted to beat Liverpool more because Liverpool Football Club, the people of Liverpool and Liverpool as a city is in my blood. I always want to see the club doing well no matter what because it was instilled into me from childhood.

“When we got a result against them, whatever team I played for, it always made me proud because it’s always good to beat someone of something you admire. It proves you’re doing something right in your own career.

“Liverpool were a brilliant side but we had a really good record against them, especially at Anfield. The big games against the best teams always brought the best out in us, but if we went to Coventry or Southampton on a Wednesday night, we’d always struggle.

“That was the way United were in the 80s and ultimately a big reason why we never really challenged in the league. United signed big players with big personalities for even bigger fees. In the 90s, the roles completely reversed and Liverpool were like United were in the 80s.”

Despite playing for United, Gidman remained living on Merseyside.

“At the time, it seemed like a good idea. I liked a drink but everyone knew me in Liverpool.

“Every Sunday without fail, I would meet Souey (Graeme Souness) and Warky (John Wark) for a pint. Souey lived in Cuckoo Lane in Woolton Village and John had a place in West Derby so we’d meet at Sammy Lee’s wine bar in Smithdown Road.

“In ’85 when we played the FA Cup semi at Goodison (Liverpool drew 2-2 with United) we met up that night. As we were coming off the pitch, Warky walked up the tunnel and shouted, ‘Giddy, I’ll give you a bell in a bit – we’re going for a Greek meal in town.’

“We had the replay the following Wednesday, but it didn’t matter and we went out with our wives at this restaurant.

“People sitting near us couldn’t believe that there was a Liverpool player and a United player who’d just played a semi-final in the FA Cup with a replay to come within days and they were having a nice dinner together.

“That was the way it was then.”

Gidman says that despite featuring for United and being a former Everton player, he didn’t receive too much abuse from Kopites whenever he returned to Anfield.

“Most Liverpool fans understood that I was a huge Red and the club had let me go years before. I’d already made my name with Villa even before the move to Everton so people were questioning why Liverpool let me move on.

“It was at a time when Liverpool were the best in Europe, so my appearance on the field for United didn’t matter too much because United were so far behind Liverpool.

“When I went back to Everton, the fans were very good to me on the whole. You get the typical Scouse humour, ‘Why didn’t you play like this for us.’”

Gidman enjoyed his best season in a United shirt in 1984/85 when he won the FA Cup and received player of the year awards from numerous supporter groups. It prompted calls for him to be given a chance in the England team ahead of the World Cup, which was to be held in Mexico a year later.

But after sustaining a broken leg, he was sold to Manchester City. Within four months, Ron Atkinson was sacked by the United board and replaced by Alex Ferguson.

“If I’d have played under Fergie, the hairdryer would have blown up by now,” Gidman jokes. “I’ve heard a lot from lads that played under him that things changed drastically.

“Atko was a man’s manager and liked to be close to the players. I think Fergie does but his management of younger players has been second to none.

“You hear stories about him going to Ryan Giggs’ house and gate crashing a party before ordering everyone out. Even the girls.

“If I’d have seen him marching down my path, I’d have hidden in the loft.

“I probably wouldn’t have lasted long under Fergie.”

Today, now living near Marbella in southern Spain, Gidman says his heart isn’t with Liverpool or United.

“Villa were the ones that gave me the chance. I have huge respect for Everton, United and Man City without maybe having the same kind of deeper affection. There was a lot of pressure at United and the fans treated me brilliantly and it was the same at Goodison and Maine Road.

“I’m still good mates with Andy Gray from my Villa days. Last season we had a bet on who would win the league. I backed Liverpool and watched all the games supporting them like I did when I was a kid.

“Unsurprisingly – Andy backed someone else.”