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Cup final blues yet victorious by Wooltonian

In 1986 close to celebrating our 7th wedding anniversary, I certainly had an itch. An itch to “bin the bitch”.

Marrying into the Case’s family was an experience and a half. Suddenly I had 14 nephews and nieces, ruddy expensive at Christmas and financial ruin at Easter was only saved by buying eggs from a wholesale outlet. Having seven brother-in-laws had its highs and lows, but as six were Reds we had more highs than lows. But the worst thing by far had to be receiving “Florrie's Command” to attend family weddings. Six of us all had tickets for the 1986 Cup Final against Everton all sewn up and then the bomb shell dropped. The 10th May cousin Jimmy decided, would be the perfect date to tie the knot.

“You Ferkin Plonker”!!

A tribal meeting was called at Flo and Joe’s, mainly to discuss if separate presents or a combined effort was the best idea. As the girls all huddled in the living room, the lads decided there wasn’t enough room for us. Would we sit in the lounge? Nah, the bar was the place for us. Dave Nicho started the ball rolling. He took his prized possession out of his jacket pocket. I pulled mine out of me wallet and declared “snap”. George pulled his out and said “you mean, oh Crap”. Keith Laddie showed us his brace, so even young nephew Carl was sorted. Ronnie completed the showie. Six FA Cup tickets were going to be up for grabs unless someone could have a brain wave.

“What we gonna do”? pipes up Nicho.

“Whats this "we" crap?" I said, "I hardly know the lad”.

We all looked to George, he was not only the eldest but also the wisest. He announced with all his sage powers “We’re fucked Boys”. Sad as it was, I had to laugh; this was the brains of the outfit.

So on the 10th May 1986, eight of us with faces like thunder stood in a Page Moss church. Eight of us stood, not taking a blind bit of notice to the ceremony, one with a pocket size radio in his pocket. As we all lined up for the obligatory photo session, the camera man decided he was David Bailey.

“Just a bit to the right madam”

“Could you put that fag out please sir”

A voice from the back mutters “get a shift on soft arse, we’re missin' the match”

The lads only appeared on one photo that day, by the time the lens was clicking for number two, we were heading for the cars. After one last glance at the traitor who had stitched us up good and proper, I whispered to Lynn “where’s the do?, we’re heading off”. Information received, I headed for the cars.

“George, where are the Blue Rooms”?

“Has no one told yer” ? he said looking amused, “It’s a Woodison function room”.

Rush's classic goal in the FA Cup final

On the way to the shithole, Radio Merseyside informed us the day was getting even worse. Lineker had scored. We arrived at the black hole of Calcutta just as the half time whistle went. The doorman greeted us … “Welcome to Goodison lads, home of the Blues”. Eight fella’s snarled at him as they passed. I’d have loved to be able to read his mind.

The wedding breakfast was nice we were told later. The silver service of the day would be taking at least 12 dinners home with them. We sat in the lounge as Rush put us level and then Ozzie Johnno put us one goal ahead. The loudest cheer of the day was not for Rushie's second though, it was reserved for the final whistle. I forgave Lynn, as the Blue rooms were not the worst place to be when Liverpool humped Everton 3-1 in the Cup. And perhaps sometime in the future her timing would improve. Not a bit of it !

“We need a holiday Babe!” she announced one night after a heavy session at the local Leg-Iron. “Well you book it and I’ll weigh it in” I spluttered. “I was thinking of Butlins for the kids” she came back. “Great, just what I need being woken up by Uncle bleedin' Johnny”. So she booked it.

March 1989, after a successful journey to Middlesbrough where we knocked them for FOUR and they knocked me for SIX, I arrived home. “The postman’s been Darlin' and the tickets for the holiday have arrived”.

“Great, when we going?”

“From the 20th -27th May, the week after the season finishes". I sat in Blackpool Pontins the week we beat Everton in the Cup and lost to the Arse in the final match of the season. Events at the time meant I wouldn’t have gone to either game anyway but needless to say though, Lynn has not booked another holiday in the last 20 years. I love my missus, but her bonce has the contents of a balloon at times.

Copyright - Wooltonian

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