"We Hate Nottingham Forest..."

“We hate Nottingham Forest, we hate Everton too. We hate Man United but Liverpool we love you.”

Season after season we heard the refrain cascade down from the Kop, a mixture of tribal defiance and petulant rival-baiting.  Like so many of the best songs are.  But, to the fledgling Liverpool supporter of 2012, there’s something about this one that sticks out like Steve Claridge at a Mensa convention.

The disdain for our two biggest rivals lives on, propelled by geography, tradition and, it should be said, the similarities that bind us inextricably together.  But Forest? Unremarkable, underachieving Forest?  Really?   We might as well be singing about Coventry or Bradford.

As anyone with a passing awareness of our club’s history can tell you, though, it wasn’t always this way. Because, for three exhilarating seasons at the tail-end of the 1970s, Liverpool and Nottingham Forest were entwined in a fiercely contested struggle for footballing supremacy, a struggle characterised by the kind of intensity, commitment and quality that top-level sport frequently strives for and rarely achieves.  There was no need for media hyperbole or the manufacture of artificial grudges.  This was a rivalry born out of genuine competition and sustained by the most basic of impulses – to be the best. 


Part of the thrill lay in the newness of the challenge.  Despite the terrace mantra, which had already been in circulation for a number of years (and which was largely centred on harmonic convenience), Forest had barely scraped the consciousness of most Liverpool fans prior to 1977.  It took the appointment of Brian Clough, self-absorbed maverick of the dugout and establishment bête noire, to change all that

For all his faults, Clough knew how to manage a football team.  He’d taken an unheralded Derby County to the pinnacle of the English game before encountering humiliation at Leeds, where outspoken attacks on exalted predecessor, Don Revie, saw his brief tenure end in resentment and mutiny.  Forest, nestling snugly amid the detritus of the second division, represented a chance to salvage his reputation.  It was a chance he seized unequivocally.

Within two seasons promotion to the top tier had been secured.  Not one to rest on his laurels, Clough set about the task of engineering his rag-tag assortment of journeymen, has-beens and rookies into a team capable of challenging Liverpool’s perennial dominance.  And Liverpool, fresh from their first European Cup triumph and bolstered by the rise of a new Anfield legend in the shape of fresh arrival Kenny Dalglish, didn’t see them coming until it was too late.

Forest won the 1977/78 league title at a canter, almost unheard of for a newly-promoted outfit.  Taken in isolation, it was possible to write this off as a freak, an irritating bump in Liverpool’s trophy-laden road to success.  But what happened in the League Cup Final that season elevated Nottingham Forest to the position of tormentors-in-chief in the eyes of the Liverpool faithful and lit the fuse on a rivalry that, at various times, saw both parties singed.

 

Over the course of two games, at Wembley and Old Trafford, Liverpool were frustrated time and time again by a mixture of resolute defence, outstanding goalkeeping, dubious refereeing and rank bad luck.  18 year old Chris Woods, deputising for the ineligible Peter Shilton, performed like a veteran to thwart wave after wave of Liverpool attacks; Terry McDermott, breaking from midfield in trademark style, twice saw goals harshly ruled out; and, with time running out in the replay, Phil Thompson was adjudged to have brought down O’Hare inside the area despite the offence clearly occurring some distance outside, leaving John Robertson to despatch the decisive penalty.  As Forest lifted the cup, Liverpool were forced to come to terms with the realisation that here, at long last, was an authentic threat to their habitual pre-eminence.  It was a bitter pill to swallow.

The Old Trafford defeat signalled the start of a cycle of tightly fought, high stakes battles, in which Forest more than held their own.  To some degree they established themselves as Liverpool’s bogey team, a thorn in the side across all competitions.  Indeed, in the first ten games between them following Forest’s promotion Liverpool tasted victory just once, chalking up a mere three goals in the process.  Clough, it seemed, had found a way to out-manoeuvre the great Bob Paisley, and in doing so ensured a shift in the power-base of football in this country.

Worse still, Forest began to encroach on territory that, in Liverpool eyes, was exclusively their own, personal domain.  The European Cup. 

For two seasons, the coveted trophy had resided on Merseyside, a representation of sporting greatness and a catalyst for civic pride.  Fate, and UEFA’s egalitarian, pre-seeding knockout system, decreed that in 1978/79, Liverpool’s defence of the cup would begin against their newest adversaries.  They viewed it as an opportunity to reinforce the natural order, to confirm that events of the previous season were nought but a blip and normality was ready to be restored.  For their part, Forest dared to dream that this could be a symbolic occasion, a true passing of the flame.  And no-one was better equipped to make men believe in their own ability to excel than Brian Clough.

Again, he orchestrated a masterclass in the art of smash and grab.  The first leg, at the City Ground, saw Forest race into a lead through the emerging Garry Birtles.  Liverpool, desperate to impose themselves on both the tie and the psyche of their opponents, attacked with gusto and, increasingly, a lack of co-ordination.  For once Paisley was out-thought.  Clough was content for his team to soak up the pressure and strike on the break.  It worked to perfection as, with the game drawing to a close, a swift Forest counter saw the full-back, Barrett, double their lead.  It was an advantage that would prove impossible to overturn.

In the aftermath, Paisley admitted that Liverpool had been uncharacteristically naïve, treating the game as they would a typical league clash as opposed to a European tie, where a single goal deficit was considered an acceptable result.  Perhaps it was an indication of just how much Forest had got under Liverpudlian skin, to the extent that logic and rationality were sacrificed.

The second leg saw a repeat of the now familiar pattern.  Fevered Liverpool assaults crashed against Forest’s steadfast defence.  Shilton performed miracles in the Forest goal.  The line could not be breached.  Goalless.  Liverpool’s hold on the European Cup was, for the time being at least, relinquished. 

This was a far more meaningful defeat than the previous season’s League Cup lottery.  This was the cup that meant all to Liverpool.  To see it ripped away by an egotist like Clough and his team of upstarts was a grievous blow.  Particularly in the context of a season that, as it developed, revealed this to be arguably Liverpool’s finest ever team.  Make no mistake, this hurt. 

 

The hoodoo was finally broken, and some recompense attained, in December 1978, when Forest’s remarkable, year-long 42 game unbeaten league record was brought to an end at Anfield, the two McDermott goals being greeted like championship deciders.  The title returned to Liverpool in thrilling style, with Dalglish scaling perfection’s heights ahead of the most powerful and complete midfield to grace the nation’s turfs and a defence that set new benchmarks for parsimony.
 
However, the spectre at the feast refused to be silenced.  As if to underline their status as Liverpool’s new-found nemesis, Nottingham Forest, provincial, unfashionable Nottingham Forest, went on to capture the treasured European Cup and, to add further insult to recurring scouse injury, retained the trophy a year later.  Even the most grudging Kopite was forced to acknowledge the enormity of the achievement.  It didn’t stop them resenting every second of it, mind.


With Forest dominant in Europe and Liverpool imposing their authority domestically, something was always going to have to give.  As it transpired, it was Clough who ultimately was found wanting.  He was unable to nurture the kind of continuity that all the truly great clubs exist upon.  When the time came to replace the players that had served him so well, and who he had moulded into an obdurate, irrepressible unit, his Midas touch at last failed, the veneer of invincibility faded and within a couple of years, while Liverpool strode onward to further glory, his Forest team were back amongst the ranks of the also-ransTheir last stand, perhaps fittingly, came when the teams met once again in a two-legged League Cup semi-final clash in 1980.  The well-worn plan was dusted off, Liverpool’s best efforts were frustrated and a penalty in each tie from the invaluable Robertson saw Forest through to another Wembley final, where they would taste defeat at the hands of a Wolves team captained, perhaps inevitably, by ex-Anfield legend, Emlyn Hughes.  In a further twist the two sides also met in an FA Cup tie at the City Ground, where Liverpool comprehensively defeated their declining rivals. 

The war was over.  Forest had enjoyed victories beyond their wildest expectations.  However, when the haze of battle cleared, only one team in red was left standing.  Liverpool bore the scars but they would go on to create a legacy of triumph that continues to resonate. 

For Paisley, the competition would never be quite as intense again and, after a few more trophy-laden seasons, he stepped aside, happy to see others carry his work on.  Clough was never able to work the same magic again and his career petered out amid unseemly allegations of corruption, alcoholism and ill-conceived Hillsborough accusations.  It was a sad end for a unique talent.

In the present climate, it’s impossible to imagine a team emerging from second tier obscurity and going on to compete, on equal terms, with clubs who are little more than billionaires’ playthings. The resource gap is so immense, the advantage so clearly stacked in favour of the wealthy, that the main objective of any newly-promoted team is simply to survive in the top flight.  Unless there’s a cataclysmic shift in the structure of the game, we won’t be seeing another Nottingham Forest. 

But we’ll always have the song. 

“We hate Nottingham Forest……” 

As the years go by, it’s nice to think we’ll remember just why that was.

Two Cups, One Goalie

(Originally published in 'We Are Liverpool' magazine, issue 3 - September 2014)

There are two things that, I am fairly certain, won’t come as a huge surprise.

One: Liverpool FC have won Europe’s most prestigious trophy, the Champions League / European Cup / call it what you will (except ‘Old Big Ears’, a term which should only be used as a football reference when discussing the career of Francis Jeffers ), five times.

Two: by the early 80s, Liverpool FC enjoyed the kind of dominance rarely seen outside of Madame Fifi’s Saucy Punishment Parlour.

It was a circular process.  More trophies meant a continuation of the supremacy; the aura of success acquired a self-fulfilling motion, leading to more victories, more trophies.  What a glorious time to be a Red. 

And yet, at the risk of sounding like an ungrateful curmudgeon, I have always felt that we underachieved. It sounds insane when you consider the triumphs we witnessed – title after title, cup after cup – but there are a couple of glaring omissions on our roll-call of honours that have haunted me for the last 30 years. 

For two years in succession, 1982 and 1983, we were favourites to lift the European Cup.  For two years in succession we royally cocked it up.

Well, I say ‘we’.  In reality it only took one person to trample our dreams into the dirt.  And I’ve held a grudge ever since.

J’accuse Bruce Grobbelaar.

People who say lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place aren’t merely ignorant of scientific reality, they also lack imagination.  I doubt they ever saw Grobbelaar play for Liverpool. 

Sure, the spring-heeled Zimbabwean with the Scouser's 'tache was capable of gravity-defying brilliance when the mood took him, contorting his body like an Olympic gymnast to scoop balls away from his net, a maelstrom of reflexes & instinct.  He would race from his line without hesitation to plunge at the feet of an advancing attacker. He would also, with alarming frequency, eschew conventional goalkeeping techniques in favour of a more esoteric approach. Great in theory.  Often disastrous in practice.

For every spectacular save, every match-turning interception, there'd be a calamity.  A loss of concentration, a reckless charge, a ball squirting through hands or legs.

In his first season at Anfield, Grobbelaar went through the full repertoire.  It was a major culture shock to a crowd accustomed to the steady brilliance of Ray Clemence.  A nadir was reached on Boxing Day, 1981.  In a 3-1 home defeat to Manchester City, Brucie managed to display all the goalkeeping competence of a blocked sink. There seemed no way back, for both keeper and team.

And yet, just a couple of months later, his rehabilitation was almost complete. An ultimately successful title challenge was back on track, the European Cup quarter final beckoned.  Grobbelaar had started to repay the faith Bob Paisley unconditionally placed in him.

At which point, the familiar destructive tendencies once more kicked in.  CSKA Sofia were the opponents. Twelve months earlier, a consummate Souness hat-trick had inspired Liverpool to a 5-1 thrashing of the Bulgarian champions.  With wounds well and truly licked, they saw the rematch as a chance for rapid revenge.

A 1-0 Anfield home win gave few indications of the drama to come.  And for much of the second leg, Paisley’s team exercised a level of control that had long become a Liverpool trademark. Chances were created, a legitimate Rush effort was deemed invalid, penalty shouts went unheeded. There was, of course, a grim inevitability about what happened next.

With 20 minutes left, a speculative cross was punted into the Liverpool area. Like an impatient toddler keen to be noticed, Grobbelaar saw his chance. He shuffled forward with intent, carefully eyeing the flight of the ball. He readied himself to gather. As the ball sailed over his head, it occurred to everyone that, for neither the first nor last time, his judgement had been seriously awry.  I'm talking ‘Boris Johnson in a thong’ levels of awryness here.  Awryness all over the shop.

With the goalkeeper occupying the proverbial no man’s land, CSKA striker and potential Countdown conundrum, Mladenov, had the simple task of nodding the ball into the unguarded net, sending the game into extra time.  As Liverpool imploded, the Bulgarian grabbed a second, to knock the holders out of the competition. 

Now clearly, there are no guarantees in football and we should be wary of jumping to unsustainable conclusions.  But Aston Villa went on to win the European Cup that season.

Cheers, Bruce.

Fast forward twelve months.  The same stage of the same competition.  Opposition from Eastern Europe once again, this time Poland’s Widzew Lodz.  And a repeat of the same dire spectacle, played out as if to reassure those doubting the conceptual validity of déjà vu.

This time it was the first leg.  A comfortable stroll against moderate opponents transformed into an insurmountable deficit thanks to Grobbelaar’s uniquely erratic decision-making tendencies.  Again it was a high ball.  Again there was no logical need for him to attempt to collect.  But that’s exactly what he did.  One-handed.  Like the world’s worst juggler, trying to catch wet soap, blindfold, on a trampoline.  Obviously, he spilled it.  Obviously, the result was a Widzew goal.  Followed, as Liverpool poured forward to atone for their goalkeeper’s well-honed profligacy, by another.

As some kind of warped encore, in the return leg Bruce again raced from his line to concede a penalty, after an uncharacteristic Souness blunder.  There was no way back.  European glory was put on hold for one more year. 

In Rome, redemption, of a sort, was achieved.  As Liverpool secured their fourth European Cup, Grobbelaar was cast in a leading role, with wobbly-legged capers conferring legend status on the madcap gaffe magnet.  

Not for me.  I still have visions of two ruined campaigns.  Of two lost cups.

Some grudges take a whole lot of shifting.