Only the Strong Survived: Remembering the Brutal Boys’ Pen at Goodison Park in the 1960s

Ah, Jubbly! Lovely Jubbly - and lethal for the reasons given.

I take issue with the “suburban softies” thing though. If you’ve ever been in a fight with some of those lads from Kirkby, cannibal farm, Skem etc… you’d soon realise there was nothing soft about them.

Christine (14) it was nine pence to get in when I first went and after going for a while I got used to paying half that cost with the two in a turnstyle move and splitting the difference with your mate.

There was no difference in the size of the inmates of the Pen though, there was loads of hairy arsed “ young kids “ there!!

My most abiding impressions (during my Goodison baptism) were the royal blue of the shirts, the emerald, olive, bottle and jade patchwork of the manicured turf and the screeching from the choir imprisoned in a metal cage known officially as the Boys’ Pen. It was eardrum piercing. As the excitement grew, their voices were audible only to dogs in and around Bootle. My experience involved more than sights and sounds. The air was full of unwavering faith and confirmed my father’s claim that Goodison was the most evocative, intimate and atmospheric place on earth.

Old fans romanticize about the Boys’ Pen as the best place to discover what it means to be a Blue but I was no advocate of confined spaces or young Blues screaming like they had been imprisoned against their will. Even as an 11-year old, it seemed to me that the purpose of the Pen hadn’t changed since the day it opened in 1925 - the incarcerated boys were cheerleaders expected to re-ignite the rest of the Goodison crowd when it had gone too quiet. Even then, I concluded that the adult fans only joined in to drown out the ear-splitting screeching.

My aversion had nothing to do with claustrophobia associated with being trapped in a small cage possessing the mood of an asylum. I could never come to terms with the fact that some Blues liked to fight other Blues. I witnessed regular clashes between the juvenile delinquents from Scotland Road and those from Dingle’s Holy Lands. Oddly, the fighting started when Everton were leading by a couple of goals. Whereas, if the home side was losing the fists were unclenched and the inmates would unite in song.

At sixpence, it was by far the most economical place to watch matches. I survived by avoiding eye contact and never giving the slightest impression that I had my bus fare or a programme in my pockets. In truth, the experience stood you in good stead if later in life you found yourself locked up abroad. After a dozen or so games, I preferred to exit the Pen on the hour mark and loiter in Goodison Road before slipping into the Ground when the gates opened to let out the early-leavers. As for the missing minutes? I had experienced them through a crescendo of oohs and aahs. My heart would rise and fall on the waves of sound. Eventually, I graduated to the Ground where Woolybacks (from Widnes) were viewed with less suspicion by those living closer to the Liver Building.

Elizabeth France

My Uncle Harry had a season ticket in the Upper Bullens stand, front row overlooking the infamous pen. Twice he could not go and so gave my Dad his seat which meant we got separated and I was banished to the Boys Pen.

What comes back to me was that my Dad thought that this was a "SAFER" option than the Gwladys Street End??????

Unless clutching monkey-like to the mesh fencing at the front you couldn't see a thing.

You wandered around the menacing darkness getting the odd glimpse of the action trying to concentrate but distracted by the knowledge such environs where the preferred work place of ne'er do wells like Jack the Ripper.

If he had offspring they attended when I was there prowling the fence and hiding in the rafters like vampires revelling in the dark. It was a medieval dungeon that should have been called the black hole of Calcutta.

Out spot was next to the managers dugout I once shouted to Sandy Brown to watch an overlapping full back. He actually stopped and looked right at me. Must have thought it was an order from the dugout. Very funny. Great Times.

Great recollections and memories of the Grand Old Lady from many others.

As the day comes closer there are going to be a lot of emotions. It's going to break my heart, but I know we have to do it. We are leaving Goodison. Let me pause, because every time I think of that, it upsets me.

I don't remember a boys pen. I think I am too young. My first recollection was a friendly against Home Farm in the Enclosure. Probably not the same match, but I still have a picture of me in some dodgy 70s clothes, with an equally dodgy 70s style hairstyle outside the players' entrance with George Wood. I wanted Duncan McKenzie but I still couldn't speak in the big Keeper's presence.

I travelled religiously for seasons, queueing outside the Gwladys Street to wait for the gates to open so we could get our favourite speck right behind the goal just above the ledge I tied my brother to with a scalf, checking on him at half time. Paying £1.50 before I secured my season ticket that my mother paid for. God knows how.

Getting crushed in the sway and movement of the crowd, often not being able to see much of the match as I was a bit smaller back then. But absorbing the atmosphere just as I do now.

At 51, I still get the same buzz as I did when I was 15 (reverse figures). Even though it takes me longer to travel from Euston than it did on the 81D or from Hunts Cross to Kirkdale. I often get questioned was it worth it? There is only one answer. Always.

The same people still serve me in the Goodison Supper Bar even though we are all a bit older.

I don't know how I'm going to feel next year. Happy we are moving to the next chapter. But then. I should stop their. My emotions will run away with themselves.

Here's one to think about, that I keep deliberating over and have mentioned previously. Should we take Dixie and the Holy Trinity Statues with us or leave them where they arguable belong? Close to the ground they graced. I am totally torn.

I will give credit to Chris W, who today commented on my remark that it is time for a Kevin Sheedy statue. There is my Kevin Sheedy shout for the day.

He suggested the 4 Evangelists. Sheedy, Reid, Steven and Bracewell. I know that is a generation thing. It was unfortunate we didn't see more of Bracewell.

Graeme Sharp may have made it five. But he appears to have sold his Everton soul or put his cards on the Kenwright deck.

Just don't name a stand after the obvious.

Everyday is like Sunday as Morrisey sang. Sunday is coming.

Apologies. I think I have just about come down from Monday, but more importantly, it is nearly Sunday, so I am still running on adrenalin. I don't think I will stop until late May and we are safe.

Me Mam wouldn't let me go in the Boy's Pen, I know why now after reading this thread!

She wouldn't let me go to night matches either since I was only 9 at the time so missed the final game against WBA

Could anybody confirm that there will be a ToffeeWeb get-together following Sundays game?

Hope you and Dr. Everton are doing well, and that the Sedona vortex has protected both of you somewhat from the extraordinary stresses of this season!

The only wild celebrations were when we beat Fulham to win the league in 63 when the majority climbed over the fence and ran down onto the pitch.

As John said maybe it was because we were from town and it helped that I was a big lad.

Never saw or heard sight nor sound of Bill though nor his buddy Elvis.

I went to my first couple of games as an 8 year old in the Boys Pen. Luckily I successfully persuaded my dad to top up my pocket money on match weeks so I could afford to go in the Ground, which I think was 4 bob.

The copper who directed policing operations at both Goodison and Anfield in the 1969-70 season was known as ‘Walrus' owing to his distinctive white moustache. He always carried a stick and was quick to intervene if any trouble broke out.

When he walked in front of the Street End, we all used to chant ‘Walrus, Walrus, Walrus' as he passed by. I think he quite enjoyed it but woe betide any miscreants caught up in a fracas.

I was sure that the get-together was to take place on Sunday with it being a 2 o'clock kick-off.

If it is to be held at The Harlech, it would require an early attendance, the last one had us standing outside on the pavement, and unable to talk to some of those who had shown up.

It seems a shame that we may be denied the opportunity of sharing experiences at our leisure in the Bramley Moore after the Bournemouth game.

This is not a slur on Derek's efforts and I hope that he recognizes it, I have a couple of things to discuss with him and I will do my best to attend on Sunday, but the bus and train services leave a lot to be desired.

Brian I owe you 1/2 new penny. Never could get the hang of decimalization.

The Saddle, Harlech, wherever. Just let me know. On matchdays I'm a wandering nomad following my search for the holy blue grail.

I had my scarf stolen by some scrote and the policeman told me to find the guy myself. I'm also surprised that no-one has mentioned the cafe in there or did I imagine that?

I don't remember any wire mesh roofing which came later but there was a pole fence and one of the poles could be slid upward so you could get into the Ground behind the goal. A copper used to stand there to stop it but it was never repaired. At one game the copper, stood on the Ground side, had his helmet flipped off which saw those fans in the Ground start flipping it around over heads and as the copper tried to get it back half a dozen got through the gap. Apart from one instance, the only fights I saw in there were bigger lads pushing aside smaller ones to get through that gap.

As an aside, after spending quite a few years abroad I was back and as usual went to catch the No.4 or 5 to Penny Lane followed by the 46 but a relative offered to drive me to Goodison as it was a night game. After the game I went down to Spellow Lane but couldn't see a 46 bus stop so asked someone passing where the stop was. His reply was that it now stopped on County Road and was called the 62.

Me and mate Rob Fraser usually found sitting on a bar in the Park End in the 1963 Champions season. Also with Reds mates in the Kop boys pen where there was always fighting every match featuring big Ronnie Patto.

Great memories.

What was your mam's pub?

Our Saturdays when we were at home were pretty regular. My dad used to make up bikes from bits he got to supplement his wages as a plasterer.

When I'd go off Saturday morning to go on the altar in the Friary, he'd go over to Paddy's to sell them for a few quid, though he'd always tell my mam he only got 10 bob for them!

Anyway, I'd meet him after, first stop, the Brown Cow. A pint for him, a bottle of sarsaparilla for me, off we went!

Great memories!

Just like Everton except once you were inside, paying 1s/6d, you passed another turnstile. If there was an adult to vouch for you, you could then seek refuge at no further cost on the main terrace.

Once he got in, his first thought was to see his dad through the wire fence and off through the turnstile saving his dad two bob as well!

Was the name of the pub opposite to the Brown Cow in Juvenal Street called Preston's? My mam used to go in both pubs coming out of the market selling fruit and veg off her barra.

She had a few regular customers in both pubs; she also had a couple of “lemon dashes” to help her on her way!

My brother paid the extra and took me in the Gwladys Street, putting me right at the front, before disappearing with his mates, in the middle of the Gwladys Street.

I will never forget his words of him saying, "You will thank me one day, for not putting you in the Boys Pen."

From what I have read, I owe him my life.

Oh, and someone snatching and running off with me silky. Still haven't got over it.