hillsborough - 20 years on

[kopite]

Im sure a lot of you are already aware but today marks the 20th aniversary of the hillsborough disaster.

A day etched in the memory of Every Liverpool fan and even fans from other teams both in this country and around the world.

96 people with kids as young as 10 right up to old men dead. Not in a war or a bombing but in a crush in a football ground that could have been avoided.

at 2.45 today there will be a memorial service at anfield to remember our fallen brothers and sisters. at 3.06 there is a 2 minutes silence as well as the bells on both cathedrals in liverpool ringing out 96 times.

If you get chance at 3.06 spend 2 minutes thinking about what happened.



For more information on what happened that day and about the campaign for justice can all be found here http://www.contrast.org/hillsborough/

[kopite]

A list of the names and ages of all the people who died that day.

In Rememberance:

John Alfred Anderson (62)
Colin Mark Ashcroft (19)
James Gary Aspinall (18)
Kester Roger Marcus Ball (16)
Gerard Bernard Patrick Baron (67)
Simon Bell (17)
Barry Sidney Bennett (26)
David John Benson (22)
David William Birtle (22)
Tony Bland (22)
Paul David Brady (21)
Andrew Mark Brookes (26)
Carl Brown (18)
David Steven Brown (25)
Henry Thomas Burke (47)
Peter Andrew Burkett (24)
Paul William Carlile (19)
Raymond Thomas Chapman (50)
Gary Christopher Church (19)
Joseph Clark (29)
Paul Clark (18)
Gary Collins (22)
Stephen Paul Copoc (20)
Tracey Elizabeth Cox (23)
James Philip Delaney (19)
Christopher Barry Devonside (18)
Christopher Edwards (29)
Vincent Michael Fitzsimmons (34)
Thomas Steven Fox (21)
Jon-Paul Gilhooley (10)
Barry Glover (27)
Ian Thomas Glover (20)
Derrick George Godwin (24)
Roy Harry Hamilton (34)
Philip Hammond (14)
Eric Hankin (33)
Gary Harrison (27)
Stephen Francis Harrison (31)
Peter Andrew Harrison (15)
David Hawley (39)
James Robert Hennessy (29)
Paul Anthony Hewitson (26)
Carl Darren Hewitt (17)
Nicholas Michael Hewitt (16)
Sarah Louise Hicks (19)
Victoria Jane Hicks (15)
Gordon Rodney Horn (20)
Arthur Horrocks (41)
Thomas Howard (39)
Thomas Anthony Howard (14)
Eric George Hughes (42)
Alan Johnston (29)
Christine Anne Jones (27)
Gary Philip Jones (18)
Richard Jones (25)
Nicholas Peter Joynes (27)
Anthony Peter Kelly (29)
Michael David Kelly (38)
Carl David Lewis (18)
David William Mather (19)
Brian Christopher Mathews (38)
Francis Joseph McAllister (27)
John McBrien (18)
Marion Hazel McCabe (21)
Joseph Daniel McCarthy (21)
Peter McDonnell (21)
Alan McGlone (28)
Keith McGrath (17)
Paul Brian Murray (14)
Lee Nicol (14)
Stephen Francis O'Neill (17)
Jonathon Owens (18)
William Roy Pemberton (23)
Carl William Rimmer (21)
David George Rimmer (38)
Graham John Roberts (24)
Steven Joseph Robinson (17)
Henry Charles Rogers (17)
Colin Andrew Hugh William Sefton (23)
Inger Shah (38)
Paula Ann Smith (26)
Adam Edward Spearritt (14)
Philip John Steele (15)
David Leonard Thomas (23)
Patrik John Thompson (35)
Peter Reuben Thompson (30)
Stuart Paul William Thompson (17)
Peter Francis Tootle (21)
Christopher James Traynor (26)
Martin Kevin Traynor (16)
Kevin Tyrrell (15)
Colin Wafer (19)
Ian David Whelan (19)
Martin Kenneth Wild (29)
Kevin Daniel Williams (15)
Graham John Wright (17)

[0iD]

20 years, my god. I remember it well.
What got me at the time were the tasteless images splashed over the tabloid front pages at the time. Horrific.

[kopite]

20 years, my god. I remember it well.
What got me at the time were the tasteless images splashed over the tabloid front pages at the time. Horrific.

And the sad thing about that is mckenzie says he did nothing wrong. The sun printed a retraction but didnt apologise. a few years ago an apology was printed but it turned into an article telling the fans to get over it.

[kopite]

The Justice Bell

by Dave Kirby

A schoolboy holds a leather ball
in a photograph on a bedroom wall
the bed is made, the curtains drawn
as silence greets the break of dawn.

The dusk gives way to morning light
revealing shades of red and white
which hang from posters locked in time
of the Liverpool team of 89.

Upon a pale white quilted sheet
a football kit is folded neat
with a yellow scarf, trimmed with red
and some football boots beside the bed.

In hope, the room awakes each day
to see the boy who used to play
but once again it wakes alone
for this young boy's not coming home.

Outside, the springtime fills the air
the smell of life is everywhere
viola's bloom and tulips grow
while daffodils dance heel to toe.

These should have been such special times
for a boy who'd now be in his prime
but spring forever turned to grey
in theYorkshire sun, one April day.

The clock was locked on 3.06
as sun shone down upon the pitch
lighting up faces etched in pain
as death descended on Leppings Lane.

Between the bars an arm is raised
amidst a human tidal wave
a young hand yearning to be saved
grows weak inside this deathly cage.

A boy not barely in his teens
is lost amongst the dying screams
a body too frail to fight for breath
is drowned below a sea of death

His outstretched arm then disappears
to signal fourteen years of tears
as 96 souls of those who fell
await the toll of the justice bell.

Ever since that disastrous day
a vision often comes my way
I reach and grab his outstretched arm
then pull him up away from harm.

We both embrace with tear-filled eyes
I then awake to realise
its the same old dream I have each week
as I quietly cry myself to sleep.

On April the 15th every year
when all is calm and skies are clear
beneath a glowing Yorkshire moon
a lone scots piper plays a tune.

The tune rings out the justice cause
then blows due west across the moors
it passes by the eternal flame
then engulfs a young boys picture frame.

His room is as it was that day
for thirteen years its stayed that way
untouched and frozen forever in time
since that tragic day in 89.

And as it plays its haunting sound
tears are heard from miles around
they're tears from families of those who fell
awaiting the toll of the justice bell.

[kopite]

Let me tell you a story.

Let me tell you a story,
Full of terror and fear,
One of heartache and sadness,
It always brings me to tears.

It started so brightly,
On a warm sunny day,
Laughing and joking,
With mates on the way.

We were going off to Sheffield,
Full of hope and our songs,
But on the 15th of April,
The tune was different and wrong.

The sun then was shining,
And the atmosphere good,
We were betting that Jockey,
Would be playing, he’s good.

As we queued up we noticed,
There were loads still outside,
The police looked quite nervous,
They couldn’t decide.

Should they put back the kick off,
Or just force us all in,
Should they bowl on regardless?
Or would we all make a din.

Let me open the gate,
The officer cried,
There’s too many out here,
Too many outside.

OK, came the order,
Open the gates,
Letting thousands of Scousers,
All in with their mates.

But there was the fault,
In this fatal police plan,
There was just no direction,
Not even a man.

Not one copper standing,
Directing us safe,
Away from pens 3 and 4,
Where the just weren’t no space.

So onwards the crowd moved,
Down the tunnel of death,
And 96 Angels can tell you the rest.

A mistake made so tragic,
Despite a duty of care,
Duckenfield’s a novice,
But what did he care?

He would not take the rap,
For this fatal mistake,
Cos’ in his little world,
We broke down the gate.

Yes that’s right, it’s them,
Who should shoulder the blame,
To think it was me,
Is just crazy – insane.

They all turned up late,
With no tickets and pissed,
And forced themselves in,
So no game would they miss.

I did what I could,
But their weight was immense,
In fact sir you know what,
They climbed over that fence.

They’re are all thieving Scousers,
Who robbed from the dead,
Who pissed on brave coppers,
Yes, over their heads!

Now hang on there David,
Just what are you saying,
Your lies are in print now,
While their families are praying.

While they’re lighting a candle,
And saying a prayer,
The S*n’s printing that crap,
But what do you care?

You shifted the blame,
You saved your own arse,
And cos’ you’re a copper,
The trials were a farce.

You think that you’re safe now,
Wherever you are,
But you’re never save Duckers’
Not even safe now.

Co’s you must have underestimated,
The pain that you caused,
And 96 best friends,
Is too many to lose.

96 sons, and daughters, and mates,
No one to meet at the old school gates,
Nobody to love and to wish all the best,
No one to say I love yer’
You’re the best.

So think on now Duckers,
When your warm in your bed,
And may 96 Redmen,
Come into your head,

And their souls are not resting,
How can they can’t rest in peace,
For while your lying there comfy,
We’re still seeking our justice.

By Mike Nicholson.



---------------------------



From sunshine to rain.

I open my eyes,
And everything’s right,
I’ll go and see friends,
Go out for the night.

But within seconds my brain,
Catches on with a rush,
Then the truth hits like lightening,
He’s been lost in that crush.

My morning thoughts turn,
From sunshine to rain,
And immediately sunshine,
Is replaced by the pain.

Those first few seconds,
When I first open my eyes,
Are the magical ones,
Full of hope and surprise.

But those seconds are fleeting,
As my brain clicks awake,
My son’s now in heaven,
I remember the wake.

All our friends cried like babies,
As The Pacemakers played,
And the vicar was kind,
Although visibly swayed.

You see not just my son,
Was lost on that day,
But 95 others,
On a warm April day.

But it doesn’t make sense,
They just went to see the reds,
So how can nearly a hundred,
End up dying instead.

The police were employed,
With a duty of care,
But they let us down badly,
Watching Reds’ dyin’ in there.

But they didn’t open gates,
At the front to relieve us,
No, they lied and they plotted,
To make sure they’d deceive us.

Co’s they’re South Yorkshire Police,
These ‘brave’ bobby’s in blue,
So how could this happen,
Well they know, do you?

Yes those Scousers turned up,
With no tickets and late,
So the only way in,
Was to break down that gate.

Gate C was forced open,
To let in that crowd,
And they crushed their own people,
And the whole day was soured.

But the truth was far different,
From Duckenfield’s lies,
But the Sun picked up quickly,
Further damaged our lives.

On the Tuesday or Wednesday,
Just days after that day,
That evil scumbag Kelvin,
Set about us again.

It wasn’t enough,
That our siblings were cold,
And never allowed,
Again down Anfield Road.

No Kelvin decided,
From what Duckenfield said,
That the Scousers were drunk,
And stole from the dead.

He decided to print,
The most damning of lies,
While our brother’s and sisters,
Were ripped from our sides.

No compassion was shown,
To the Merseyside Reds,
As they looked on in anguish,
96 lonely beds.

So remember absent friends,
When you turn out the light,
They were just like you and I,
Red loving, with all their might.

But the funny thing is,
If funny’s the word,
Ducker’s admitted he lied,
And everyone heard.

But the judge said if guilty,
He would still walk away,
Despite lying and cheating,
And killing that day.

So Justice is needed,
And justice is right,
And justice is the reason,
We continue to fight.

For what 96 angels,
Pray for this night and day,
Is that South Yorkshire Police,
Arrive at their judgement day.

By Mike Nicholson



---------------------------



What colour is justice?

The blue of the sky,
The green of the grass,
The grey of the concrete,
That housed all of us.

The silver crush barriers,
All mangled and bent,
The bright white of heaven,
Where we were all sent.

The black in my head,
The tears in my eyes,
The feeling of anger,
And hatred, surprise.

For as I stood there,
Not able to breathe,
I saw no one help us,
From South Yorkshire Police.

I heard screams of pure terror,
Saw eyes buldge in pain,
I saw children to fragile,
To stand up again.

I saw people fall down,
In amounst all the fear,
But my body couldn’t manage,
One single more tear.

The red of the jersey’s.
The black of the ref,
Why did so many go,
Down that tunnel of death.

The sweet smell of perfume,
Entered my nose,
Just who did it come from,
Nobody knows.

As I feel myself lifting,
And floating away,
I look down in silence,
At the red Leppings Lane,

See police in the middle,
Not lifting a finger,
And smell the aroma,
Of the death that will linger.

Higher and higher,
I am now in the clouds,
But the screams and the suffering,
Is still everywhere around.

I’m almost at heaven,
Where Shanks’ sheds a tear,
He was made for this club,
That is shattered, and in fear.

So I ask you Mr Duckenfield,
How can you sleep?
When the red of the scarves,
Saw the web of deceit.

The black of the ref,
Was told your vicious lies,
About the blue of the gate,
As we lost 96 lives.

You admitted you lied,
And still got off free,
Now that doesn’t sound much,
Like justice to me.

Do you count lucky stars,
When you think of that case,
Co’s there’s 96 bright ones,
That call you a disgrace.

We were taught my our parents,
To respect the police,
But today’s kids just laugh at,
The South Yorkshire Police.

By Mike Nicholson



---------------------------



Wishing for their old Mum.

Why didn’t they help us,
Despite all our cries,
It was obvious to all,
We can’t breathe ere’
We’re dyin’

Some right at the front,
Who escaped through the gate,
Were forced right back in,
To meet with their fate.

They were crushed close together,
In the warmth of the sun,
With their eyes turned to heaven,
Wishing for their old Mum.

Saying bye bye sweet Anfield,
King Kenny and Rush,
Adios Peter Beardsley,
You gave us so much.

With a song in their soul,
And a bird on their chest,
96 bodies were laid down to rest.

But who was to blame,
On that warm sunny day,
Please tell me now,
The sights won’t go away.

Why did they fail to,
Deliver the care,
And why did they lie to,
All that was there.

We didn’t cause Hillsborough,
As well they all knew,
But they covered their arses,
As Coppers will do.

They said we were rowdy,
And broke in through that gate,
When HE gave the order,
To open it late.

So why is he out there,
Playing golf with his mates,
When 96 reds,
Were consigned to their fate

When you close up your eyes,
At the end of the day,
Say a few words, yes that’s it,
We’ll pray.

For although it seems crazy,
And beggars belief,
The law in this country,
Won’t give us justice.

By Mike Nicholson



---------------------------



Why did you do it?

Why did you do it,
Why did you lie?
You started a story,
That still will not die.

You opened the gate,
The one marked with C,
It’s purpose for exit,
Not thousand’s entry.

Had you directed us safely,
With your duty of care,
96 would still live on,
Replace pain - despair.

Why did you do it,
When the ref came to hear,
Why say we broke in,
Was it because of your fear?

Did you think that your job,
Was in jeopardy,
When you knew we we’re dying,
You stood lying evilly.

You couldn’t be guilty,
You’re South Yorkshire Police,
Did you think we’re just Scousers,
Getting under your feet?

We were helping our family,
We were helping our mates,
While you stood up there lying,’
Bout us breaking down gates.

What the sun wrote was evil,
But they got most from you,
You have sullied the name,
Of the great Liverpool.

Judgement day’s coming,
It’s not in your head,
For waiting in heaven,
Are 96’ Reds,

They all want to ask you,
They all want to know,
How did you live on,
With all that you know.

You should have been sentenced,
For April 15th,
And forever we will fight,
For our right – our justice.

By Mike Nicholson.



---------------------------


His darkest disgrace.

As the day breaks,
I think of the day,
When 96 reds,
Were taken away.

Nineteen eighty nine,
April 15th,
Yet still here today,
We fight for justice.

We all know what happened,
But time numbs the rage,
About terrible lies,
Written on the front page.

About police making errors,
That cost us the pain,
Caused by 96 deaths,
In the hot Leppings lane.

And the lies that they told,
While our reds were still falling,
And that the cover up started,
To me was appalling.

Of the screams of the scared,
And the wheeze of the dying,
Of the thousands who helped,
And of the thousands stood crying.

Can you still shake with rage,
14 years on,
When you think of the lies,
Printed all in the s*n.

If you find that your feelings,
Are fading with time,
Please look through a book,
About 96 dying.

Or visit the website,
Read Aldo' and Kenny,
Of how everything went wrong,
And so badly for many.

Read about how,
Duckenfield opened a gate,
And how 96 reds,
Were consigned to their fate.

Read about lies,
And of cover ups a plenty,
So the coppers would walk,
While the Scousers felt empty.

I am sure you will find,
If you let yourself wonder,
That we must not give in,
We must fight on like thunder.

Out there somewhere,
Duckenfield craves,
The news that we’ve quit,
Fighting over 96 graves.

And that he can breathe now,
More easily,
With the sun on his face,
And forget all about,
His darkest disgrace.


By Mike Nicholson.

[kopite]

The funny thing about Justice.


Imagine the uproar,
And the weight of the law,
If 96 coppers,
Lay dead on the floor.

The law could not stand this,
This terrible day,
The people who caused it,
Would be locked safe away.

The blame would be total,
And the sentence so raw,
The guilty would feel the,
Long arm of the law.

The papers would say things,
Bout’ those brave lads in blue,
How did ‘they’ cause this?
I haven’t a clue.

They were 96 heroes,
And shouldn’t have died,
At least with our Justice,
We’ll avenge their sweet lives.

Justice is needed,
And justice is right,
And justice is the reason,
We won’t give up the fight.

We lost our brothers,
Our Sisters and Dad’s
And our Mother’s and Uncles,
And Friends that we had.

Yet as strange as it seems,
For that terrible day,
The justice we seeked,
Just eroded away.

We never saw Justice,
Like those brave boys in blue,
To me it seems wrong,
Does it to you?

By Mike Nicholson

[kopite]

Why did you do it?


Why did you do it,
Why did you lie?
You started a story,
That still will not die.

You opened the gate,
The one marked with C,
It’s purpose for exit,
Not thousand’s entry.

Had you directed us safely,
With your duty of care,
96 would still live on,
Replace pain - despair.

Why did you do it,
When the ref came to hear,
Why say we broke in,
Was it because of your fear?

Did you think that your job,
Was in jeopardy,
When you knew we we’re dying,
You stood lying evilly.

You couldn’t be guilty,
You’re South Yorkshire Police,
Did you think we’re just Scousers,
Getting under your feet?

We were helping our family,
We were helping our mates,
While you stood up there lying,’
Bout us breaking down gates.

What the sun wrote was evil,
But they got most from you,
You have sullied the name,
Of the great Liverpool.

Judgement day’s coming,
It’s not in your head,
For waiting in heaven,
Are 96’ Reds,

They all want to ask you,
They all want to know,
How did you live on,
With all that you know.

You should have been sentenced,
For April 15th,
And forever we will fight,
For our right – our justice.

By Mike Nicholson.

[kopite]

Originally posted on red and white kop forum by -HH-

The Truth

"Them scousers are theives, and robbers and such
I can't say I care for them very much.
Sure, they're quite funny in the things that they say,
But they'll probably pick your pocket that very same day."

"They're dirty, they're poor, they're always in fights,
I saw it on Harry Enfield just the other night.
I believe what I see, I believe what I read,
They're telling 'the truth', what else do I need?"

"It's a stereotype, yes. But it's hardly treason,
It wouldn't be there if there weren't any reason.
Why would someone say it if it weren't really true?
And why should I listen to someone like you?"

"I know that it's true, that place is a dive,
I know it, though I've never gone past the M25.
I know it, and what's more everyone knows,
And why do we all know it? Because the S*n told us so."

Well I am from London, I get this all the time,
And a lot can be traced back to eighty nine.
It came from a paper, who could ever dispute?
This deep web of lies, The S*n at the root.

I'll tell you the real truth, for those willing to listen,
The truth about these people you are mindlessly dissing.
Most are generous and friendly, the salt of the earth,
And the S*n is just paper, without any worth.


Accidental death

Just minutes before kick-off, the gate was opened,
The kick-off not delayed.
96 people crushed to death,
Surely a mistake was made?

Pens free at the side with plenty of room,
Fans herded to where things were packed.
No-one sent around the sides,
Simple common sense lacked.

That all done, lives still could be saved,
Just let the fans get out.
The shouts - 'People are dying!' - should have told you so,
If there were any doubt.

Then an injustice outweighing most,
Vital equipment never seen.
But of course that day just ended,
At bang on three fifteen.

Incompetence, poor safety, procedures wrong,
Injustices for oh so long.
96 reds crushed, till out of breath,
The certificates read 'accidental death'.

David Duckenfield

How did you feel on the witness stand?
Thinking back - about that day.
Multiply that a million times.
For those with loved ones torn away.

Duck-ing questions, Field-ing questions,
Trying to shift the blame,
96 deaths preventable,
And you should be ashamed.

I see you being prepped for questions
Some big lawyer makes the sale.
"Tell them that you feel their pain,
and you won't go to jail."

"Tell them you weren't a specialist.
Tell them you couldn't see
That the pens were already full to the brim,
And they will set you free."

It started on that April day,
in 1989.
You lied to Graham Kelly,
You thought you would be fine.

As I look back on the court case,
I fear that you were right.
But you can only shirk this for so long
And we continue with the fight.

Duck-ing questions, field-ing questions
Got you off the hook.
But the quest for justice, it lives on,
And we will see you brought to book.

David Duckenfield - a full police pension.
96 dead and barely a mention.

What will it take?

What will it take,
For justice to come,
For those 96,
Their lives now done.

Would it matter if they were 96 dead MPs?
Would it make a difference if we were to say please?
Would we see justice if the victims weren't scouse?
Would anyone claim posh kids were in a public house?

Must it be 96 soldiers lost in a war?
For people to understand the why and wherefore?
Must it be 50 dead doctors for what is deserved and is right?
Or 30 dead teachers before justice comes to light?

What about 20 dead novelists and writers?
What about 15 dead fire-fighters?
Must it be 10 people dead, protesting for peace?
Or just one single member of South Yorkshire Police?

Anyone

I've screamed with joy when my tickets arrived.
I've gone to games on work days - I've happily skived.
I've run to the ground fearing I would be late.
I've chosen the footie ahead of a date.

I've been to a match and stood the whole game.
I've watched my great team in the wind and the rain.
I've gone with my family, I've gone with my friends,
I've never once left till the game's at an end.

Can you say you haven't? I'm guessing not.
You've cheered every goal, every cross, every shot.
And even if you haven't you know someone who did,
And for just ninety minutes, we all spend a few quid.

What do we get in return for that dosh?
Nice facilities, these new grounds are well ******' posh.
A chance to cheer and sing for our team,
And a trophy? - well, we all have our dreams.

What we don't expect when we hand over our pounds?
To have to be buried, dead in the ground.
To not come back from a football match.
For our families to have to start their lives from scratch.

We don't expect to have to ressucitate friends,
We don't expect lives to come to an end.
We don't expect this and rightly so,
This is no way for a life to go.

The victims of Hillsborough have waited twenty long years,
For some form of justice, to dry some of the tears.
Liverpool had to recover, on them did it fall,
But the issues of that day should be felt by us all.

It could have been you, or someone you love,
Life taken away, soul sent up above,
It could have been your father, your daughter, your son,
More than that - it could have been almost anyone.

Twenty Years

Twenty years of waiting.
Twenty years of suffering.
Twenty years of cover-ups.
By those who do not feel a thing.

Twenty years of tears.
Twenty years of lies.
Twenty years and no true apology.
From that scum rag we despise.

Twenty years and counting.
Twenty years too long to wait.
Twenty years of anger festering.
But we do not want to hate.

Twenty years of memories.
Twenty years of love.
Undone by the injustices.
Towards those now up above.

Twenty years of fighting.
Twenty years of courts.
Twenty years of battles.
But justice is still sought.

How much further?
How much longer?
Those twenty years,
Will only make us stronger.

The Cover-Up begins

"I'm sorry for your loss,
But please a second of your time."
"Time will never move again,
I've lost that child of mine."

"Did your lad have tickets?"
"He had one, Leppings Lane.
I can't believe I'll never see,
His sweet young face again."

"Now one more question quickly,
Had he had a lot to drink?"
"He's ten years old, at least he was,
So how much do you think?"

"Ah, I see, your lad was ten,
He'll have had a fair few then."
"A fair few drinks? He's just a kid!"
"Did he have a drink? I'll bet he did."

"Why all these questions?"
"Well, I'll explain,
We're looking for someone
To shoulder the blame."

"We have to keep a lid on
The events of this day.
The truth will be silenced,
You won't have your say."

"Of course we will, we'll speak our minds."
"That's enough out of you, I don't like your kind.
We'll cover the truth with shrouds of our smoke.
Who'll listen to you? You're a national joke!"

"We've put up with stereotypes all of our lives,
Robbing scouse gits, if you believe all the lies.
But we'll fight for justice, we'll carry on with pride,
Years and years if it takes it, we won't be denied."

Twenty years since the cover up began,
Lay the blame on the scousers - that was the plan,
Say they were rioting and out on the piss.
But we know the truth, and we WILL see justice.

96 Reasons

96 people - far too great a number,
Life squeezed out of them, they went under.
Under the crush, with no means of escape,
No justice, though the events are all on tape.

Think just how large the number 96 is.
When you're thinking of that day remember this.
There were 12 disciples, it's a 7 year itch,
2 lottery draws each week to make people rich.

In each lottery draw 49 numbers going,
And each match we sing 'There's only 1 Michael Owen'.
But there's 96 stars that shine extra bright.
96 reasons we continue to fight.

It must have been awful to be around in the wake,
It wasn't a natural tragedy like an earthquake.
I don't think I'd have coped in the days and weeks after,
Trying to comprehend this man-made disaster.

Let down by those whose actions they were forced to trust,
Let down that day, and for years as the law turned to dust.
96 died and we all know who is to blame,
Cheif Superintendant Duckenfield, hang your head in shame.

Each time I go to the memorial, I am pained to see,
The names of more and more people who were younger than me.
The last time I counted it was 39,
It could have been me in a different time.

I stand and think to myself where would they be now,
Though I still struggle with the why and the how.
An unnecessary waste of lives filled with light,
96 reasons we continue to fight.

Survivor

You were at that game, did what you could,
You tried to help, you understood.
Or you lay there helpless with injuries of your own,
As you watched tears falling from men fully grown.

How did you feel when you couldn't find your mate?
Did you feel guilt that you didn't share his fate?
How did you feel when you couldn't find your bud?
And later, when McKenzie dragged your name through the mud?

For some time you fight on feeling always alone,
Feelings of guilt most will never have known.
You try to tell people of how much you've cried,
But they cast you away, none of your family died.

You were told for so long that you don't understand the pain,
Of the lives that were taken at Leppings Lane.
Deep down you used to feel that you should have died,
Is it any wonder some were driven to suicide?

With the things that you saw, the pain in the eyes
Of the young lad who was next to you, whose mother still cries.
There are ninety-six who are never forgotten,
But how far the cost spreads makes me feel rotten.

So for the families of the dead I always pray,
And for the lives that were lost that day.
And while I do, I offer up another prayer,
Lord please watch over those who were there.

Please watch over the man who was stood in that stand,
Who tried desperately to grab hold of that young lad's hand.
So many people left counting the cost,
And Liverpool cries for the lives that it lost.

The S*n will never learn

Murdoch's people get to work as a new deadline faces them,
The S*n's employees filling pages with lazy racism.
What a great and fulfilling way to be paid,
The S*n begins to be made.

On streets in the morning The S*n is first sold,
The first lies of the day begin to be told.
To most it's a laugh that with lies it is packed,
But many still treat it as fact.

As the work day begins, that rag is discussed,
While treated with esteem instead of disgust.
No consideration to the suffering from what's written inside,
The S*n continues to hide.

Outside in the world the S*n preaches it's 'truth',
From the man in the office to the frustrated youth.
All believing the words that they read,
The S*n's a great paper indeed.

We all say we want what's right and what's fair,
But The S*n is a paper that just doesn't care.
We call it the Scum - well, if the cap fits,
Most just see a great pair of tits.

A new copy of the S*n is whacked on the presses,
While people in the real world have to clear up their messes.
But who cares when it's all just harmless and fun?
The S*n's bidding is still being done.

Throughout the day it burns as bright as ever,
Prejudice more important than the need to be clever.
Wherever you look it seems to be there,
It feels like it's everywhere.

Moving forward for that rag never means change,
No target is ever seen as out of range.
Soon every reader will have been offended,
And The S*n's fun will be ended.

As time goes on The S*n will surely burn out,
As 96 souls continue to shout.
As 96 candles continue to burn,
The S*n will never learn.

Questions

Twenty years on since the first tears flowed,
'They didn't feel pain', but how did you know?
The film from that camera, where did it go?
Will there ever be justice? Yes or no?

More questions than answers twenty years on,
96 lives, where have they gone?
Taken from their families, a terrible plight,
Are they really the stars that shine in the night?

Did they go to heaven? Does heaven exist?
Will they be remembered, and always be missed?
Or will memories fade and justice with it?
Will the lies that were written forever inhibit?

Does Duckenfield feel his own private disgrace?
Or does he cash his pension with a smile on his face?
Have the lessons of Hillsborough truly been learned?
If we continue to fight can the tide still be turned?

Does writing about it have a purpose to serve?
Does it educate and make people fight with more verve?
For myself writing poetry can be a great release,
But does it help 96 souls to rest in peace?

More questions than answers twenty years on,
I have many questions, but I know it was wrong,
I know the real truth as do many like me,
The real job now is to make more people see.

Will the 96 memories be always preserved?
Will we ever see the justice that's needed be served?
Every year it seems further away,
But on goes the fight till our final day.

**** The S*n

Poetry can be a great educator but it can also give release,
I feel the need to vent right now, to help me get some peace.
No clever words, no fancy rhymes,
No looking back on happy times.

I just need to get a few things down,
Put my anger on a page right now.
So let me take a bullet from Eminem's gun,
Stick up my middle finger and say **** The S*n.

**** that headline typed in bold,
**** those evil lies you told,
**** the papers that you sold,
**** putting truth behind your gold.

**** the cover up that you paved,
**** the dignity you never gave,
**** the apology you think you made,
**** still dancing on 96 graves.

**** everything you ever wrote.
**** the fact that you're still in existence.
**** that you counted your money while good men and women wept.
**** hijacking a funeral for a picture after writing what you did.
**** the S*n, and all it stands for.

Waste of Space

Would you buy a canvas, and only paint on half?
Would you become a teacher, then only teach half the class?
Would you run half the race so far in the lead,
Then give up when you seemed so sure to succeed?

Would you pay for a pint, but order a half?
And then from your order only drink half the glass?
Would you eat half a meal, but throw out the rest?
Would you go out for dinner, wearing half of a vest?

Would you buy a house, but only use half the space?
Would you sell half your possessions you could never replace?
Would you cash in your pension, but only use half of the yield?
You wouldn't, you sold your soul Duckenfield.

You took charge of the leppings lane end, a semi-final no less,
You polished your boots and you tried to impress.
You had plenty of choices, but you took the wrong path,
You took charge of an end, but you only used half.

That space unused, gone completely to waste,
Along with 96 reds we can never replace.
You took them from us, left without trace,
Then you retired with a full pension, instead of disgrace.

The only waste of space here is you, Duckenfield.

[kopite]

This is the last one for now.

A Terrace Called Leppings Lane.


Check the tickets in my wallet,
Then swig my cup of tea,
7.30 in the morning,
One game from Wembley.

Out the door and on the street,
Off to meet the boys,
To sing the songs we love to sing,
When we fill the ground with noise.

The coach pulls up and we all pile on,
Belly full of butterflies,
Then off to Sheffield we all go,
The FA Cup our prize.

9.00am and the songs have started,
I talk about the game,
To a young lad that’s sat next to me,
I didn’t catch his name.

The journeys taking hours,
And we cross the Pennine hills,
But my mind drifts off to Hillsborough,
As I dream of Beardsley’s skills.

“My favourite players Aldo”
Says the boy sat next to me,
His eyes full of excitement,
And his words are filled with glee.

“I’m meeting me mate when I get to the ground”
“He’s travelling up by train”
“I’ll see you back here on the coach”
“When we’ve beaten Forest again”.

The coach pulled up and off he went,
Going to meet his friend,
I check my ticket once again,
‘THE LEPPINGS LANE END’.

It’s getting near to kick off,
And I’m getting close to the ground,
But nobody seems to be moving,
And I’m stuck tight in this crowd.

I’m just about starting to panic,
Then a bizzie opens a gate,
A red tide moves down a tunnel,
Moving closer to their fate.

I remember clearly that tunnel,
And the light that shone at the end,
And as I think back to that fateful day,
I still can’t comprehend.

That the coppers called us vandals,
And drunken loutish liars,
And the media fed us spite and hate,
When compassion was required.

But back to that day and the things I saw,
Unfold before my eyes,
The sight of grown men screaming
As the air was filled with cries.

But I was one of the lucky ones,
Because I came back alive,
I watched heroes in scarves down on the pitch,
Trying helplessly to revive -
Their friends their family and strangers,
Who’d all come to watch a game,
But their lives were crushed that fateful day,
On a terrace called Leppings Lane.

The memories still haunt me,
Every time I go to sleep,
But there is one memory that gets me,
And always makes me weep.

Back on the coach with my head on the glass,
I remember my heart skipped a beat,
When I turned to the young lad next to me,
And I noticed his empty seat.

There were 96 empty seats that day,
96 friends that we’ve lost,
And while Kelvin counted his pennies,
The families counted the cost.

So next time you are at Anfield,
Visit the eternal flame,
Feel the stone cold marble,
And touch a person’s name.

And whilst you say a silent prayer,
And your dreams are tossed and blown,
Remember those 96 empty seats,
That must never walk alone.


Written by: http://www.redandwhitekop.com/forum/...summary;u=1201

[this_is_gav]

The Anfield memorial service is on the BBC News channel now.

[GhostITM]

Condolences to the Reds from across the park.

[Jay]

Its a day I will never forget. I actually worked with people who where badly injured in the crush... we should never forget the dead, we should also never forget the people who survived but who's lives where changed forever

[kopite]

I`ve just finished watching the service now.

As trevor hicks said 20 years is a generation and there are many people both Liverpool fans and fans of other teams who dont know what happened on that fateful day or who belive what the s*n said about the fans on that day.

Trevor Hicks did have some Good news if its true. Although he couldnt confirm it at the time The chief of south Yorkshire police is supposed to have said that South yorkshire police are sorry for what happened and take full responsiblity. If this is true then maybe the families can get some consolation.

I got sent a text last year on the aniversary and have sent it on to all the people I know reds, blues and even non footballers.


To the 96 that passed away, at hillsborough on that fateful day, now looking down with smiles so proud, you sing with us as we sing aloud, you help us, Guide us, get us through, I know Istanbul was down to you, And though the Future is unknown, One things for Sure. YOU`LL NEVER WALK ALONE.

[kopite]

On ITV 3 at 9 they are showing the Jimmy mcgovern drama Hillsborough.

Its a very good drama and shows what happened

[danroyle]

remember it well was only 9 when it happened sad day.

Sadly the 96 will never get the justice they deserve!!!