We were the child survivors of Britain’s worst sporting disaster – yet quickly became the accused

By Dickie Felton | 15 April 2024

I remember the music.

The five of us headed to Hillsborough in a blue Ford Orion and we’re listening to a cassette of Deacon’s Blue’s ‘Raintown’.

Despite setting off early, traffic was bad getting to south Yorkshire.

But we had the music – ‘Real Gone Kid’ – ‘Dignity’ and ‘Town To Be Blamed’…

Up and over the moors we finally get to Sheffield.

On the outskirts of the city, traffic cops send us completely the wrong way.

We quickly realise we’re being directed away from the ground. I sometimes wonder whether they did this on purpose.

Us and about ten other cars carrying Liverpool fans soon realise we’re being sent the wrong way so all do u-turns to get us back on track.

And time is marching on…

Mum is driving. We finally park up. Mum’s last words to me: “Don’t stand behind the goal.”

So I do what most 15-year-olds do. I ignore her advice.

I grip my flimsily thin match ticket like my life depends on it. Not realising that my young bones actually do depend on it.

The ticket out of sight but my constant touch a compulsive ritual of reassurance.

In the distance there’s jumpers for goalposts, some Sheffield kids kick a ball in the spring sunshine.

Their muffled shouts suddenly raised as one of the youngsters rounds the keeper and shouts “GOAL!”

We have a one and a half mile walk to the turnstiles.

But we’re a bit late. So we jog. The sea of supporters snakes its way to the hallowed of all places, a football ground.

Finally at the turnstile my ticket sees open air. Once through brick and metal I sigh relief. We’re in.

A South Yorkshire policeman pats me down and pulls a Mars bar from my jeans pocket.

A hop, skip and a quick dash to the loo.

Stood by the urinal at the semi-final, the toilet floor awash with pee.

There’s thousands of fans beyond the bogs already with their places on the Leppings Lane terracing.

I hear the Liverpool fans sing. I see the backs of heads and first sight of white crossbar and glorious green grass.

Minutes to kick-off and the music… Joyous Mexican folk song La Bamba plays on a crackly tannoy.

And down the tunnel we go…

Once inside pen three there’s no-where to go. Fans everywhere. So packed in. Ridiculously congested.

It’s about 2:40pm.

We try to push our way to the sides but don’t make much headway.

I’m half trying to get to a better spot on the terrace and also looking out for my school mates who had travelled by coach. I know they are in here somewhere…

Beach balls bounce around. Despite the hectic cramped conditions, the mood is good.

But me and Liam have a decision to make.

Do we stay where we are and watch the match in these overcrowded conditions – or do we make a move?

We opt for the latter and start edging our way back to the tunnel. To try to find somewhere else to watch the match.

At this point we are unaware of the scenes outside the turnstiles.

We are unaware South Yorkshire Police have lost control outside.

We are unaware that police will open a gate that would lead to the fatal crush exactly where we are stood.

It takes a few minutes to force our way back along the terrace to the tunnel.

We get out – giving each other a high-five – not realising what is going to happen next.

There are no stewards, there is no signage, the layout of the concourse is confused, but we find another way to find a side pen.

We cannot believe how empty our pen is compared to the two pens directly behind the goal.

We edge as close to the central pens as we can – two steel fences separate us from our fellow fans in the middle.

It’s close to kick-off and time to watch The Reds.

And then it starts. Worried looks. Screams. Fans scaling fences and getting pulled up to the stand above.

People trying to frantically escape the horror.

The match starts. Beardsley hits the bar. But no-one’s watching the  game.

We see what’s happening to our right, unable to do anything to help. I edge a little away from what I’m looking at. I don’t want to see it. This can’t be real?

Instead of rushing to help, a long line of policeman stand across the half way line doing absolutely nothing. Where is the help?

The horror plays out in slow motion. There is no help.

It is the fans that are the emergency service operation. The very people who have just escaped the horror turn to help their fellow fans.

After about an hour we decide to leave. I’d memorised the seats my mum and friends had in the stand above so am able to find them quickly.

No-one says very much. We leave the ground. Scenes of chaos everywhere. Ambulances. Injured. Tears. It’s like we are not there.

We are let into a little terraced house by an old lady and we use her phone to let people know we are safe.

There’s no music on the way back to Liverpool. Just the radio telling us how many of our fans are dead. The number rises and rises. No-one says a word.

I wonder if my school friends are ok. I wouldn’t find out until the Monday morning when they turn up at school.

School was strange that day, that week, that month.

No counselling, no support, no-one putting an arm around your shoulder. Just an endless stream of masses in the local church.

I don’t think a single teacher asked us about Hillsborough. I find this staggering today.

South Yorkshire Police, Thatcher and The Sun are busy concocting lies that we caused the disaster.

The disaster was caused by the ineptitude of police and a decaying death-trap of a ground.

We only found out years later that the Leppings Lane end had seen severe crushing in 1981, 1987, 1988 and fatally in 1989.

A week or so after the tragedy two officers from West Midlands Police CID arrive at our house to interview me.

One of their first questions is: “How much did you have to drink?”

I hadn’t drank anything. I was only 15.

We were the child survivors of Britain’s worst sporting disaster – yet quickly became the accused.

On the Monday games teacher was unhappy I had not brought my PE kit. This class was just 48 hours after the tragedy.

I told sir: “Sorry, I don’t feel like doing it today.”

His reply: “You need to learn that life goes on.”

Decades later I found out my Hillsborough statement had been amended by police – to add to the false narrative that fans had caused the disaster.

I’ve never had an apology or explanation.

Thirty-five years on I get the same sick feeling on 15 April that I had on the drive back from Sheffield.

I’m so sorry for those fans that died and the families that still suffer today.

I get weird occasional Hillsborough dreams. Sometimes I’m stood alone on empty Leppings Lane terraces.

Sometimes I get an aerial view of that end – like I’m floating above it.

I hate the 15th of April. I hate that justice has never been done. I hate The Sun newspaper.

I love my fans and my city for their dignity, defiance and love.

Justice for the 97.

You’ll Never Walk Alone.

https://www.hsa-us.co.uk