Monday, April 17th 1989, 11 a.m., Anfield. Mrs Clarion and myself had gone to lay some flowers in the goal area at the Kop End of Anfield. We'd seen all the devastation unfold on the TV the previous Saturday.
We shuffled along the shale track at the side of the pitch, flowers in hand inside the rustling cellophane. Our tribute was one of the first and was placed on the goal line between the posts. As we did this, we filed past many tributes from other fans, who had draped scarves and flags over the barriers, but, leaning on lots of those barriers were many fans, sobbing, crying and hugging each other in grieving disbelief.
The shuffling of feet on the shale. The rustling of cellophane holding the flowers. The sobbing and crying of the fans. The sounds of sorrow. Hillsborough, 1989.
RIP
I was digging a friend's garden with the football on the radio. "Injuries, fatalities, many fatalities". It seemed surreal. But anyone who went to football games in the 1970s and 80s knew that police were only interested in containment, fans were the enemy, and many grounds were falling apart. Tragic.