[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
versus Celtic. Trouble was brewing, and it had to come to the boil. A Final to
end all Cup Finals. The ultimate victors. Only, in the end, everybody would
lose, teams and supporters alike.
At Old Trafford safety-fences had a frail look about them, with sixty-five
thousand King Kongs about to burst their chains and go on the rampage. The
hooligan element had already devised a human ladder by which followers could
gain access to the pitch. The bottom rungs would soon be crushed beneath the
clambering stampede, but that was immaterial.
Londoners were willing to spill blood at Highbury, where an influx of Spurs
supporters had infiltrated the home terraces. And so it was, nationwide.
And all of this was preceded by a mad Saturday-morning shopping and drinking
spree. Money would soon be useless, so spend it now. On anything. To hell with
the law, too. No prison sentences would be completed.
A total breakdown in the system was beginning - but sport must come first. By
midday Saturday decisions had been reached about a coalition government.
Canverdale was appointed Prime Minister, although it would not be announced
until Monday morning. Meanwhile, the rest of the world just watched and
waited.
Police forces throughout Britain were stretched beyond their limits, even with
help from the armed forces. All leave was cancelled, and tanks occupied the
entrances to Heathrow and major airports. Still the crowds formed, laden with
suitcases and hold-alls, huddling together. But mechanics had rendered the
huge standing aircraft temporarily immobile.
Trouble arose at Biggin Hill, when an angry group of owners of small private
aircraft demanded their machines. When an official informed them from a
distance, by megaphone, that all flights had been suspended, this provoked
outrage. A dozen men with fully qualified pilots' licences marched out in a
column towards their silent machines. Suddenly a shot was fired over their
heads by a young soldier, sweat pouring down his youthful face, praying to God
that they would stop. Fortunately, they did. There was a huddled conversation,
some arguments. A few wanted to risk it, the majority decided against, so they
Page 68
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
returned to their parked cars. There had to be other ways.
The Royal Navy was doing its best to close all seaports. Their task was a much
more difficult one than that of the Army or the RAF. Destroyers formed a
barrier across the harbour entrances of Dover, Southampton, and Portsmouth.
Only foreign ships were allowed to leave. This meant a thorough search of all
vessels, but no doubt a few stowaways made it safely.
But some smaller boats managed to leave from various points around the
coastline with little trouble. Aberdovey harbour, carnival-like with its
multi-coloured sails throughout the summer, now presented a drab picture, one
or two crafts bobbing restlessly at anchor. The season was at an end, and most
owners had towed their boats back inland for the winter months - a decision
regretted by those enthusiasts who could have waited another couple of weeks.
But some had fled out to sea, small crafts riding low in the water,
dangerously overloaded with children, pets, and valuables. The incoming tide
brought many of them back, dozens of lifeless bodies strewn amongst the debris
of capsized dinghies and driftwood.
Small parties of beachcombers ignored the corpses.
Jewellery and rings were left untouched. But occasionally an outboard motor
was discovered, still attached to the remains of some small boat which had
failed miserably in its mammoth task. Then eager hands seized it; angry voices
quarelled over who had sighted it first. Sometimes there was a fight, before
the victor hurried from the beach with his prize. A hurried rebuilding would
occupy his next few days, skilled or otherwise. Then another attempt at
crossing to the Irish shore. It was a continual process: fleeing from death;
dying in the process.
Britain was now in total isolation from the rest of the world. Messages of
sympathy flooded in from all parts of the globe, and offers of help were
unceasing - but there was no time. A whole country cannot be evacuated in a
matter of ten days, so Canverdale adopted a policy of total impartiality:
nobody would be allowed to leave. He and his ministers would remain to share
the fate of the British people. Perhaps that gauge needle in Section Eight
would drop back. Canverdale believed in facing reality, but he was also an
optimist.
That Saturday the towns were packed with a Christmas-like rush that lacked any
atmosphere of festivity. The stores exceeded all previous trading records, but
there was no gaiety. It was indiscriminate buying, almost in silence except
for the jostling of bodies and the ringing of tills. Wines and spirits were
most in demand - for alcohol offered oblivion.
Football fans flocked into the towns, but the usual pre-match rampages were
few and far between. Instead there was a tension, a hint of terrible things to
come, a build-up of frustration that would explode before the day was over.
By 2.15 p.m. almost every means of access to football stadiums throughout the
country had been officially closed. But that made no difference to the crowds
still queuing in the streets outside. Officials and stewards watched
helplessly as young and old clambered over the locked turnstiles or crawled
beneath them. Police made no move to intervene, except to break up one or two
brawls.
Some early trouble began in the stands when season-ticket holders found their
seats occupied by types who normally stood on the open terraces. Despite 'no
standing' signs, the gangways were packed with long-haired hooligans
determined to support their more fortunate companions who had taken over the
seating. A well-dressed man with a large cigar was bodily thrown from his
customary place in the Waterloo Road stand at Molineux, Wolverhampton - down
into the enclosure below. He suffered a fractured arm, and injured two young
children in his fall. It took the St John's ambulance men twenty minutes to
force their way through, and their attempts to reach the ambulance outside
were hampered by an unyielding mob. Cars were double-parked everywhere, and in
his frustration the driver ripped the wing off a Mini. A pack of chanting
Page 69
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
hooligans was charging down the centre of the road, waving their scarves like
banners of victory, as they anticipated fighting their way into the already
overcrowded ground.
This mob barred the path of the ambulance, ignoring its flashing blue light
and blaring siren. The driver kept his foot on the accelerator. They would
jump aside at the last moment . . . But they left it until the very last
second, and, the driver felt a bump on the nearside wing. He did not stop,
rage welling up inside him. Gladly would he have run over the whole bloody lot
of them. More traffic jams. Forty-five minutes before they finally pulled into
the hospital. One of the children, a girl of about nine, was certified dead on
arrival.
But in all the stadiums a kind of hush prevailed amongst the fans as coins
were tossed and teams lined up. Many of the spectators had not been to a match
for years, and for some it was a totally new experience - an involuntary
instinct to congregate. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl freetocraft.keep.pl
versus Celtic. Trouble was brewing, and it had to come to the boil. A Final to
end all Cup Finals. The ultimate victors. Only, in the end, everybody would
lose, teams and supporters alike.
At Old Trafford safety-fences had a frail look about them, with sixty-five
thousand King Kongs about to burst their chains and go on the rampage. The
hooligan element had already devised a human ladder by which followers could
gain access to the pitch. The bottom rungs would soon be crushed beneath the
clambering stampede, but that was immaterial.
Londoners were willing to spill blood at Highbury, where an influx of Spurs
supporters had infiltrated the home terraces. And so it was, nationwide.
And all of this was preceded by a mad Saturday-morning shopping and drinking
spree. Money would soon be useless, so spend it now. On anything. To hell with
the law, too. No prison sentences would be completed.
A total breakdown in the system was beginning - but sport must come first. By
midday Saturday decisions had been reached about a coalition government.
Canverdale was appointed Prime Minister, although it would not be announced
until Monday morning. Meanwhile, the rest of the world just watched and
waited.
Police forces throughout Britain were stretched beyond their limits, even with
help from the armed forces. All leave was cancelled, and tanks occupied the
entrances to Heathrow and major airports. Still the crowds formed, laden with
suitcases and hold-alls, huddling together. But mechanics had rendered the
huge standing aircraft temporarily immobile.
Trouble arose at Biggin Hill, when an angry group of owners of small private
aircraft demanded their machines. When an official informed them from a
distance, by megaphone, that all flights had been suspended, this provoked
outrage. A dozen men with fully qualified pilots' licences marched out in a
column towards their silent machines. Suddenly a shot was fired over their
heads by a young soldier, sweat pouring down his youthful face, praying to God
that they would stop. Fortunately, they did. There was a huddled conversation,
some arguments. A few wanted to risk it, the majority decided against, so they
Page 68
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
returned to their parked cars. There had to be other ways.
The Royal Navy was doing its best to close all seaports. Their task was a much
more difficult one than that of the Army or the RAF. Destroyers formed a
barrier across the harbour entrances of Dover, Southampton, and Portsmouth.
Only foreign ships were allowed to leave. This meant a thorough search of all
vessels, but no doubt a few stowaways made it safely.
But some smaller boats managed to leave from various points around the
coastline with little trouble. Aberdovey harbour, carnival-like with its
multi-coloured sails throughout the summer, now presented a drab picture, one
or two crafts bobbing restlessly at anchor. The season was at an end, and most
owners had towed their boats back inland for the winter months - a decision
regretted by those enthusiasts who could have waited another couple of weeks.
But some had fled out to sea, small crafts riding low in the water,
dangerously overloaded with children, pets, and valuables. The incoming tide
brought many of them back, dozens of lifeless bodies strewn amongst the debris
of capsized dinghies and driftwood.
Small parties of beachcombers ignored the corpses.
Jewellery and rings were left untouched. But occasionally an outboard motor
was discovered, still attached to the remains of some small boat which had
failed miserably in its mammoth task. Then eager hands seized it; angry voices
quarelled over who had sighted it first. Sometimes there was a fight, before
the victor hurried from the beach with his prize. A hurried rebuilding would
occupy his next few days, skilled or otherwise. Then another attempt at
crossing to the Irish shore. It was a continual process: fleeing from death;
dying in the process.
Britain was now in total isolation from the rest of the world. Messages of
sympathy flooded in from all parts of the globe, and offers of help were
unceasing - but there was no time. A whole country cannot be evacuated in a
matter of ten days, so Canverdale adopted a policy of total impartiality:
nobody would be allowed to leave. He and his ministers would remain to share
the fate of the British people. Perhaps that gauge needle in Section Eight
would drop back. Canverdale believed in facing reality, but he was also an
optimist.
That Saturday the towns were packed with a Christmas-like rush that lacked any
atmosphere of festivity. The stores exceeded all previous trading records, but
there was no gaiety. It was indiscriminate buying, almost in silence except
for the jostling of bodies and the ringing of tills. Wines and spirits were
most in demand - for alcohol offered oblivion.
Football fans flocked into the towns, but the usual pre-match rampages were
few and far between. Instead there was a tension, a hint of terrible things to
come, a build-up of frustration that would explode before the day was over.
By 2.15 p.m. almost every means of access to football stadiums throughout the
country had been officially closed. But that made no difference to the crowds
still queuing in the streets outside. Officials and stewards watched
helplessly as young and old clambered over the locked turnstiles or crawled
beneath them. Police made no move to intervene, except to break up one or two
brawls.
Some early trouble began in the stands when season-ticket holders found their
seats occupied by types who normally stood on the open terraces. Despite 'no
standing' signs, the gangways were packed with long-haired hooligans
determined to support their more fortunate companions who had taken over the
seating. A well-dressed man with a large cigar was bodily thrown from his
customary place in the Waterloo Road stand at Molineux, Wolverhampton - down
into the enclosure below. He suffered a fractured arm, and injured two young
children in his fall. It took the St John's ambulance men twenty minutes to
force their way through, and their attempts to reach the ambulance outside
were hampered by an unyielding mob. Cars were double-parked everywhere, and in
his frustration the driver ripped the wing off a Mini. A pack of chanting
Page 69
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
hooligans was charging down the centre of the road, waving their scarves like
banners of victory, as they anticipated fighting their way into the already
overcrowded ground.
This mob barred the path of the ambulance, ignoring its flashing blue light
and blaring siren. The driver kept his foot on the accelerator. They would
jump aside at the last moment . . . But they left it until the very last
second, and, the driver felt a bump on the nearside wing. He did not stop,
rage welling up inside him. Gladly would he have run over the whole bloody lot
of them. More traffic jams. Forty-five minutes before they finally pulled into
the hospital. One of the children, a girl of about nine, was certified dead on
arrival.
But in all the stadiums a kind of hush prevailed amongst the fans as coins
were tossed and teams lined up. Many of the spectators had not been to a match
for years, and for some it was a totally new experience - an involuntary
instinct to congregate. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]