Glasgow (37 page)

STAIRWAY 13, 2 JANUARY, 1971
Andy Ewan

The Old Firm derby between Rangers and Celtic was always an occasion of heightened emotion and unbridled passion. In 1971, in front of a crowd of 80,000 at Ibrox, Rangers' ground, the game was goalless as it entered its final phase. In the 89th minute, however, Jimmy Johnstone scored for Celtic. Believing their team was destined to lose, Rangers' fans began to leave. But seconds later Colin Stein equalised for Rangers and their jubilant fans attempted to return to the ground. Andy Ewan was one of many supporters who found himself caught up in what was the worst Scottish sporting tragedy in the twentieth century. In total, sixty-six people died as a result of crushing and asphyxiation
.

I was lying face down about four feet from the cold concrete steps, trapped from waist to toe in the massive crush of bodies. It was halfway down Stairway 13 at Ibrox Stadium on 2 January 1971, just before 5
p.m. Immediately around and above me it was strangely silent, with only muffled cries and sobs but higher up, at the top of the Stairway and beyond, I could hear the singing and chanting of happy football supporters. Amazingly, a matter of yards in front of and below my straining body, hundreds of fans were reaching the bottom of the steps and walking casually towards the exit gates, completely unaware of the disaster they had escaped by seconds.

A policeman, shocked and staring, came up the stairs and began to help those of us at the front of the huge pile of bodies. He was able to pull some people out but I was so tightly jammed that he found it impossible to release me so he moved on. All the time I could feel the tremendous weight on my legs increasing as supporters approaching the Stairway from the passages at the top of the terracing continued to press forward, unaware of what was happening below. There was a sudden movement in the bodies above me, I felt my legs being twisted round and was now lying almost face up with my back to the ground. Up until then I had felt a sense of shock and unreality rather than fear but now a stab of panic went through me. I could feel the strain on my back increasing and was seriously concerned about what further movement above me might bring. I was lucky – after a few minutes, the crushing weight on my legs seemed to ease slightly and I called to the policeman again for help. This time he gripped me firmly under the armpits and, with a powerful heave, pulled me clear. He half-walked, half-carried me to the bottom of the Stairway and I collapsed heavily on the lower steps, still unable to grasp fully what had happened. I had only been trapped for about ten minutes or so but it seemed a lifetime since the referee had blown his whistle for final time on that fateful afternoon.

Unless you have experienced it, it is difficult to explain just how helpless and vulnerable you feel when trapped in the middle of a large crowd of people, especially on steep or uneven ground. You are completely at the mercy of hundreds of others, many of whom you cannot even see. You are swept along, unable to influence what is happening and can only concentrate on keeping your arms high, out of the crush and staying on your feet. By the time I reached the top of Stairway 13 I was scared. I had been caught up in big match crowds before but never had I experienced the level of pressure that was now being exerted on everyone around me. All of us were suddenly aware that this time it was worse than usual, that danger genuinely threatened. People were shouting, trying to get others to stop pushing forwards from the back and sides but it was hopeless. As we began to descend the stairs I felt a slight tug on the bottom of my jeans and was horrified to just make out the hand of someone on the ground. He was
trying desperately but hopelessly to rise against the mass of people so tightly jammed together it was almost unbelievable that he had been able to fall. Someone else trod on my heel and I immediately pulled my foot out of the shoe, thankful that I was wearing slip-ons instead of my usual lace-ups. My other shoe soon followed as the pressure intensified. People were now really suffering; there were cries for help, agonised gasps for breath and faces with veins and eyes bulging. By this time I was about half of the way down the stairs and intent only on keeping upright and staying alive.

What happened next? Did a crush barrier buckle under the intense pressure or did people further down the steps simply stumble under the huge weight of the fans above them? I don't suppose we will ever know for sure but suddenly I was falling, amidst flailing, heaving fellow supporters, a mass of us collapsing on to people below and in turn, being buried by those above.

I don't remember how long I sat on the steps, as more police and rescuers began to appear. Eventually I got to my feet and realised I had lost my supporter's scarf and both shoes and was starting to ache all over. I went back up the stairs and asked a policeman if I could do anything to help. He took one look at me and told me to go home. Cold, bewildered and probably in shock I walked slowly out of the ground. I cannot remember much about the next hour or so but someone in a supporters' bus saw me wandering along the icy pavement in my stockinged feet and took me on board. I tried to explain what had happened, that there were dead and dying people lying on Stairway 13 but I don't think anyone took me seriously. Then, as the bus headed for the city centre, reports started to come through on the fans' radios and the previously cheery atmosphere disappeared. I was dropped off near Bridgeton Cross and eventually got a taxi back to my home in Hillhead. By this time the disaster was the main news item, with the death toll rising steadily.

GORBALS MEMORIES, 1972
Glasgow News

The Gorbals is believed to derive its name from the Latin word ‘garbale', which is a tithe paid to the Church in the form of grain. The history of the Gorbals stretches back centuries. In the seventeenth century, for instance, it was known for coal mining, and the manufacture of guns and worsted plaid. In the same century it was annexed by Glasgow, despite being a burgh in its own right. Throughout the eighteenth century it was as
fashionable in its day as the Merchant City is at present. By the end of the nineteenth century its population had ballooned to over 40,000, mainly due to an influx of immigrants. After the Second World War the tenements in the old Gorbals were largely demolished and the inhabitants were moved to high rises, some more willingly than others
. . .

Woman – Cleland Street (20 years in Gorbals)
.

Aye, I'll have to go. I don't want to go but I'll have to go. I've got a good house. (
Would she like to move to a modern flat?
) No, I would not. Just look at those houses over in Crown Street. The rooms are too small – look at all those wee windows. And concrete stairs inside your house! I work as a home help in one of these multi-storeys and they all have these big long corridors from here to (
gestures about 100 yards
), and all these wee doors, it's like a prison. You expect to see the prisoners coming out to empty – you know. Look at that one over the there (
opposite the Citizen's
) – I don't know what it'll be like when it's finished but just now it's a thousand windows . . .

Newsagent at Centre Street (25 years in the same shop)
.

Oh, I'll be glad to see it go. Well, it's progress isn't it? (
Do you really think it's progress?
) Well, no, to be honest I don't. The people here dread the high flats. I mean, we have all these planners and they build these schemes and there are no amenities, there are no public toilets and the roads are not wide enough for the traffic – where's the planning in that? Just take around here – there were four schools here at one time, now the last one's closing in June. There were four newsagents in this street and we were all making a living. Now I'm the only one left. There'll be no shop left here at all – the people'll have to go over to the shopping centre at Eglinton Street. They'll be at the mercy of the supermarkets then . . .

Pensioner, Abbotsford Place
.

The houses are rotten – too many years on them. Do you know I pay £4 for a couple of rooms here, here's my rent book if you don't believe me. I want an old person's flat in a new block, that would suit me fine. Of course, there were beautiful houses once. I lived in Norfolk St when I was a girl and Abbotsford Place was all doctors then. But there's been nothing done to them for years – I suppose they could be done up but they'd be too big for us. An old person's flat, that's what we're looking for.

Old lady, 44 years in Main St., Gorbals
.

(
What do you think of redevelopment?
) I think it's great. But there's some'll miss it. There's some go away from here and then they want
back. No, I'll not be going for a while yet. They'll not be pulling down this building for at least six year. They'll maybe be moving me out before that – feet first!

NEVER SIT WITH YOUR BACK TO A DOOR, 1972
T.C. Campbell

Thomas ‘T.C.' Campbell led a life of violent crime, as he describes in
Indictment: Trial By Fire
(2001). He is best known for the so-called Ice-Cream Wars, which culminated in 1984 in the murders in Ruchazie of five members of the Doyle family. Campbell, along with his co-accused, Joseph Steele, was found guilty but after a long campaign in which both men protested their innocence, the ‘Glasgow Two' were released after spending eighteen years in jail. Here Campbell recalls an incident from his blood-spattered youth
.

At seventeen I was tall, with a Van Dyke beard, and everyone assumed I was older so sitting in the pub with Maggie and the troops was not unusual. On this particular occasion, it had been just a few days since someone swinging a sword had lost a few fingers and apparently wasn't too pleased about it.

Drinking bottled beer, large Whitbread or McEwan's Pale Ale, pouring our own, the theory being that the bottles were always handy to have around in case of an unexpected attack. So much for the theory for, in reality, when an attack comes unexpectedly, it's the last thing y'think of. I was just having a sip of a pint when I heard these three loud bangs simultaneous with bright flashes and my bobbing head rattling my teeth off the glass, spilling beer down my chin. Putting the glass down and looking up surprised and puzzled, feeling at my mouth for any damaged teeth or tissue. I could see everybody staring in wide-eyed shock, mouths opening and shutting, flabbergasted, while others made frantic hand signals, mimicking some TV show,
What's My Line
, or something.

‘What? Three guesses?' said I. ‘Eh? Hammer?' Aye, right first time they nodded frantically indicating BIG hammer, pointing at the door behind me. Turning round as I put my hand to my head, seeing the exit door still swinging and feeling the bloody mush of my new hair-do I soon got the picture. Sure enough, I'd been battered over the head with a big Thor type hammer as they later described it. The assailant could only be identified by his bloody bandaged hand. I got a matching set of
three nine-stitch zips in my concussed skull and a bloody good lesson about sitting with my back to doors. Everyone who had seen it thought they had witnessed my murder and couldn't believe that I hardly felt it, putting it down to bravado. But I had, quite honestly, believed that it had been the room which shook and not I.