The Hillsborough Disaster: A Fatal Crush, Soccer Hooligans, and a Massive Cover-Up

Summary

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DISGRACELAND: “The Hillsborough Disaster: A Fatal Crush, Soccer Hooligans, and a Massive Cover-Up”

Host: Jake Brennan
Release Date: June 9, 2026

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Episode Overview

This gripping episode of DISGRACELAND dives into one of sport’s darkest hours: the Hillsborough Disaster of 1989, where 97 Liverpool supporters lost their lives during an FA Cup semifinal. Host Jake Brennan masterfully weaves together the historical roots of football hooliganism, the chaotic events of that fateful day, the institutional failures that led to tragedy, and the subsequent media-driven smear campaign that blamed the victims. Through vivid storytelling, dramatization, and first-hand perspectives, the episode challenges long-standing myths and examines how tragedy, community, and a relentless fight for justice shaped the legacy of Hillsborough.

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Key Discussion Points & Insights

1. Roots of Violence in Soccer Culture

Timestamp: [02:01]–[06:30]

• Historical perspective: Brennan sets the stage, tracing football’s turbulent past—starting from the 14th century, where soccer games were so wild and prone to riots that kings had to ban them.
• Rise of hooliganism: By the late 19th and 20th centuries, organized violence at matches intensified. Notable incidents include:
  • 1885: Preston vs. Aston Villa riot — "A Villa fan threw a stone at the head of a Preston player. Point blank. Guy was unconscious for the rest of the riot." ([03:51])
  • 1909: Hampden Park destruction after a match between Glasgow rivals.
  • 1985: Heysel Disaster—another fatal human crush at a European final.
• Key quote (Jake Brennan, [04:52]):
  “By the 1980s, things were really out of control... A mob charged the field in the middle of the game. Why? There didn’t have to be a specific reason. It was just part of the whole hooligan thing.”

2. Setting the Scene at Hillsborough

Timestamp: [06:30]–[13:52]

• Game day preparations:
  • Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield leads a tense police briefing, emphasizing a "firm hand" over the crowd.
  • Officers Roger Marshall and Thorpe recall previous violent matches, reinforcing the police’s deep-seated fear of hooliganism—a perspective coloring their choices that day.
• Dramatic depiction: Duckenfield's anxiety and fear are palpable, hinting at how this mindset sowed seeds of tragedy.
  • “At first he thought it was anger. But then he realized it wasn’t anger at all. It was fear.” ([11:59])

3. The Disaster Unfolds

Timestamp: [13:52]–[22:42]

• Margaret Aspinall and her son James: An intimate focus is placed on an ordinary family, personalizing the scale of the disaster.
  • James’s gold chain serves as a haunting motif, seen later in the aftermath.
• Systemic failures:
  • Liverpool fans are funneled into overcrowded “pens” via just seven turnstiles; the configuration was designed for crowd control, not safety, showing priorities skewed by anti-hooligan paranoia.
  • Requests to delay kickoff are denied; instead, a main exit gate is opened, pouring even more fans into already overflowing areas.
  • Chilling, chaotic scenes are rendered:
    • Fans crushed together so tightly, “the bodies moved as one hulking mass, not as individuals.”
    • Barriers snap under pressure, fans pile against fences, and rescue attempts begin almost too late.
• Key quote (Jake Brennan as James Aspinall, [17:12]):
  "James Aspinall saw the problem almost right away. The pen was too packed... James, like many others, assumed the problem would be temporary."
• Emotional resonance:
  • Margaret sees footage of her son on television: “She swore that she saw her son, James... just lying there. People doubted her claims, but she knew what she saw.” ([21:13])
  • Officer Marshall covers James’s lifeless body with his own jacket, noting the gold chain.

4. The Sun’s Smear Campaign & Institutional Betrayal

Timestamp: [24:22]–[33:45]

• Cover-up begins: A Conservative MP and collaborating police rapidly feed a narrative to the tabloid press—refusing to own up to their failures.
• Dramatized newsroom scenes:
  • Sun editor Kelvin MacKenzie demands sensationalism: blaming "barbaric" Liverpool fans for rushing gates, urinating on police, and pickpocketing the dead.
  • His working headline?
    • “Scum.” ([27:18])
  • Writers protest the slander, but MacKenzie’s position reflects institutionalized attitudes:
    • “These people are pissing on officials. They're stealing from their own dead. And if they're not scum, what are they?” ([28:10])
  • Even when a more junior reporter objects, the editorial machine ignores the truth.
• Impact: The media’s falsehoods cause nationwide vilification of Liverpool fans, compounding survivor trauma and stalling justice for years.

5. The Long Road to Justice and Memory

Timestamp: [33:45]–[40:00]

• Lasting community trauma: Survivors like Steven Gerrard, who lost his 10-year-old cousin, carry memories forever:
  • “The funeral was unbearable. The tears, the awkward conversations, the sadness. The sadness was never ending.” ([34:45])
  • Images of a unified city—scarves stretched from Liverpool’s stadium to Everton’s home.
• Eternal flame: The Liverpool crest’s symbolic eternal flame commemorates those lost, now called “the 97.”
• Institutions finally admit wrongdoing: Decades later, police admit to spreading lies; Duckenfield himself confesses his actions led directly to the disaster.
  • “Years later, even Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield himself would admit that it had all been a terrible lie. That it was his actions on that day that directly led to the fatal crush.” ([36:55])
• Fight for truth: Margaret Aspinall and other bereaved families persist, ultimately shifting the blame from fans to police and administrators.
• From personal grief to civic triumph: The episode connects Steve (Gerrard) as a child affected by the disaster to his iconic leadership as Liverpool’s captain during their miraculous 2005 Champions League comeback. The spirit of the 97, and the city’s persistent defiance, live on in every chant and banner.

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Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

Vivid Storytelling and Quotes

• On the roots of violence:

  “So many fights that the monarchy had to ban the game. Hooliganism was born.”
  —Jake Brennan ([02:38])

• On anti-hooligan paranoia:

  “The authorities weren’t planning for crowd safety, they were planning for hooliganism.”
  —Jake Brennan ([15:21])

• On the traumatic crescendo:

  “Bodies piled upon bodies, piled upon bodies... This must be what hell looked like.”
  —Jake Brennan as Roger Marshall ([20:41])

• On the tabloid lies:

  “You don’t have the fucking balls... These people are pissing on officials... And if they’re not scum, what are they?”
  —Jake Brennan portraying Kelvin MacKenzie ([28:04])

• On Margaret Aspinall’s courage:

  “She rallied other victims’ families to challenge the authorities in memory of her son James.”
  —Jake Brennan ([37:22])

• Commemoration of the victims:
  The episode closes with a recitation of the 97’s names, honoring each one lost at Hillsborough.

• Final reflection:

  “For the people of Liverpool... his [MacKenzie’s] dismissal came 28 years too late.”
  —Jake Brennan ([33:14])

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Important Timestamps

• [02:01] – Episode intro: football, violence, and cultural backdrop
• [06:30] – Duckenfield’s police briefing; history of crowd violence
• [13:52] – Margaret and James Aspinall introduced; matchday logistics
• [16:29] – Hillsborough pens; flawed crowd control and entry
• [18:44] – Catastrophic crush; James’s last moments
• [24:22] – The cover-up in full swing; The Sun’s editorial meeting
• [27:18] – “Scum” headline confrontation
• [33:45] – Gerrard’s memories; community trauma and solidarity
• [36:55] – Duckenfield’s belated confession; turning point in public reckoning
• [38:55] – Liverpool’s 2005 Champions League comeback as redemptive closure

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Episode Tone & Takeaways

Jake Brennan’s storytelling is relentless, immersive, and unsparing—with biting humor, rage at injustice, and moments of elegiac tribute. The language is evocative and raw, always rooting the tragedy in tragedy’s enduring consequences for real lives and communities. The episode doesn’t just unravel a calamity; it exposes the ways institutions and media can intensify wounds, and it reminds listeners of the necessity—and power—of relentless pursuit of truth.

Rocka Rolla.

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Transcript

[Jake Brennan]

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Brought to you by Argenics Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about football, or should I say soccer for all the Americans out there. And it's a story about one of the deadliest tragedies in the history of sports, the Hillsborough disaster. It's a story about not just death and destruction, but also about the press and about hooligans and about justice and community. About fighting for what is right, about screaming out at the top of your lungs as you in tens of thousands engage in the ritual of singing your club's fight song and in the process, making great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't Great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called spaghetti standoff mk1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to she Drives Me Crazy by the Fine Young Cannibals. And why would I play you that specific slice of snare drum pop cheese. Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on April 15, 1989. And that was the day that a soccer stadium was transformed into hell on Earth. And a smear campaign against the game's most loyal supporters was hatched. On this episode, a fatal human crush, Hooligan culture. A war between the establishment and the people, and the memory of the 97 those who lost their lives in the Hillsborough disaster. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. They say it started when King Edward III was on the throne. It was 1349. They didn't even use a ball. They used a pig's bladder. And they didn't kick the pig's bladder into a goal. They kicked it over the opposing team's church. But this isn't about the origins of soccer. This is about the origins of violence. Yes, even way back when Eddie was on the throne, watching those inflated organs sail over church steeples, there were fights, organized fights. So many fights that the monarchy had to ban the game. Hooliganism was born. Fast forward 500 years. New century, new monarch on the throne. Soccer was no longer banned because time heals all wounds, right? Wrong. In 1885, Preston defeated Aston Villa 5 0. The Villa fans stormed the pitch in. A full riot broke out. One Villa fan threw a stone at the head of a Preston player. Point blank. Guy was unconscious for the rest of the riot. 1909 saw the legendary stadium, Hampton park smashed half to pieces after a match between rivals Glasgow and Celtic FC. By the 1980s, things were really out of control. Liverpool and Juventus matched up in a European cup final that has since gone down in infamy. A mob charged the field in the middle of the game. Why? There didn't have to be a specific reason. It was just part of the whole hooligan thing. Both sides winding each other up and tearing each other down. On this occasion, they tore down more than each other. An entire stadium wall collapsed on Italian fans. 39 people died that night. But perhaps the most violent moment in the history of rowdy rioting. Unlawful crowds at soccer matches, AKA hooliganism, wasn't thrown with a punch or tossed with a Molotov cocktail or even stabbed with a knife. It was a smear Campaign against the innocent. And it all started on April 15, 1989. The Morning sun drew a huge shadow across the grass. Roger Marshall sat in one of the hard plastic seats in the west stand of Hillsborough Stadium. He shuffled his ass to and fro. He didn't know what was more uncomfortable, the seat, the scratchy South Yorkshire police uniform he was wearing. In front of where Marshall and the rest of the officers sat, Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield walked back and forth like a Roman emperor, his gait pompous and slow, his head held high. You must take a firm hand in situations like this one. A firm hand, he said to his crew, and then paused for a moment before adding, and a fair one. He was serious as hell. He needed each and every officer, Marshal included, to understand what lay ahead of them. Some of them weren't used to a situation like this. Soon the stadium would be full capacity crowd. With a crowd that large comes risk. You have to be wise to every and any situation. People will be drunk. People will fight. Hooliganism is very real, Duckenfield assured them. He stopped, like he was trying to remember something, and then continued his speech. I myself am experienced in this type of policing. And Duckenfield's voice drifted away and then his mind drifted along with it, back to another game, to another time. The Hillsborough Stadium disappeared and so did the fresh Yorkshire air. Duckenfield was back at Bramall Lane, home of Sheffield United. It was hot, people everywhere. Next to Duck and Field stood his senior officer, Thorpe. In front of them was a sea of blue. Chelsea was in town. Chelsea fans came with a reputation. Violent, rabid, fucking ruthless. Duckenfield and Thorpe could already feel it in the air. Thorpe called it invisible violence. First you see it in the eyeballs. Glances are tossed around. Then it's a quick exchange of words. What are you looking at, you fucking cunt? A bottle gets thrown and then it's on. Duckenfield and Thorpe watched it unfold in real time. Some Sheffield United fans came around the corner, dressed in their trademark red and white, and they taunted the Chelsea boys. Arms were thrown up against chests, heads cocked, hands curled into fists so tight the fingernails dug into skin. Suddenly, all that red and white was tangled up in blue. Thorpe didn't miss a beat. He dove headfirst into the scrum. Duckenfield, meanwhile, was shoved from behind. He turned. A man with a buzz cut, dressed all in blue, screamed filth half an inch from his face. Duckenfield began to speak, but not before the man shut him up with a huge wad. Of spit hawked up good and gooey in his mouth and then shockingly dispensed on the officer's face. The mucus settled across Duckenfield's eyelids. Duckinfo Duncanfield had no choice but to react. He drew back his truncheon, but before he could use it, the scrum that contained Thorpe crashed into him. Both officers fell to the ground, and Duckenfield heard something crack. And then a splatter of blood painted the asphalt red where he laid. He watched a bottle with a rag sticking out from the neck drop from the heavens. It hit the ground and burst into flames, and there was a clopping noise. Hoofs. A horse entered the into his line of vision. He managed to pull himself up to a sitting position. Blood all over his hands. Wasn't his blood. Well, at least he thought, it wasn't his. And the officer on top of the horse was swinging his truncheon violently into the sea of fans. Below him. A Chelsea boy broke free from the crowd and raised something above his head. The Was that a gun? A knife? Duckenfell caught a proper glimpse. The kid had a butcher's hook in his hands. He brought the hook down through the air and quickly carved a long slash into the horse's side. The beast cried out and rose up, tossing the cop to the ground. And another bottle smashed into the road. Flames licked the air. The stench of smoke and booze washed over everything. Thorpe emerged from the ruckus screaming, his truncheon meeting one head, then another, then another. And then he saw a Chelsea fan sitting in shock, bleeding from the head. His face burned black on one side, his eyes vacant. Thorpe made a beeline for him. At first, Duckenfield thought his colleague was going to help the fan. Thorpe thrust his hand into his police uniform pocket and produced a white cloth. But Thorpe didn't use the white cloth as a bandage or a compress. Instead, he used it to wipe his bloody truncheon clean. And then he drew it back into the thick, smoky air and brought it down as hard as he could onto the head of the stunned Chelsea fan. Ducking. Duckenfield watched the fan's limp body fall over onto the ground. And then he watched as Thorpe screamed out loud in delight. The memory faded. Duckenfield was back in the present, standing in front of a group of officers at Hillsborough Stadium. What had he been saying? Oh, yes, he began to speak again and hoped that the man wouldn't detect the quiver in his voice. I've seen games like this before, he said. We must be on top of things, we must be firm. Roger Marshall watched as David Duckenfield emphasized the word firm and saw something in the chief Superintendent's eyes. At first he thought it was anger. But then he realized it wasn't anger at all. It was fear. It was the first time he saw that look on this day. But it wouldn't be the last. It had, wouldn't be the only look. Soon they'd all be making faces. And not just faces of fear. Something even worse than fear. Horror.

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[Jake Brennan]

on the morning of April 15, 1989, Margaret Aspinall stood in the kitchen of her home in the suburbs of Liverpool. She watched as her son James walked down the stairs with a familiar sight in his hands, a gold chain necklace. His pride and joy. James struggled to put the chain on. Why don't you just leave it on when you sleep? His mother asked him. I want it to stay as clean as possible, he said. Margaret rolled her eyes, helped, clipped the chain around her son's neck, and said, your mom won't Always be around to do that for you. A few hours later, James arrived at the Hillsborough Stadium in Yorkshire to watch his favorite team, Liverpool fc, take on Nottingham Forest in an FA cup semifinal. Like all FA cup games near the end of competition, this one was being played at a neutral stadium. Hence the reason they were here at Hillsboro. James stood outside the arena and there was no trouble, no aggravation, no hooligans. He chatted up a friend. His chain dangled from his neck. John Barnes, midfielder for Liverpool, also wore a chain around his neck. It bounced as he stepped off the team bus and out into the Yorkshire air. He felt like pacing. The butterflies of game day were already fluttering in his stomach. From high above the control box, South Yorkshire police officer Roger Marshall couldn't tell that Liverpool's midfielder was nervous. All he knew was that he had the best seat in the house. He and the other officers had just survived Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield's speech and now he looked out over the pitch. He also had a front row seat to a bank of CCTV sets with live images of almost every corner of the stadium. On those screens, Marshall saw nothing but faces. Outside the stadium. There were people everywhere. One thing was obvious, they weren't getting enough of those people in through the stadium entrances. Something was wrong. Marshall cleared his throat. Chief Superintendent Duckenfield. His voice broke slightly as he spoke. Downstairs, James Aspinall and his friend finally made it into the ground, but it was a hell of a squeeze to get in. You see, the way the ground was set up that day at Hillsborough meant that over 10,000 Liverpool fans with standing tickets had to enter through just seven turnstiles. Seven. Strangely, the smaller number of Nottingham Forest fans were allocated a larger area. And why? Apparently, this was done to avoid rival fans crossing paths from the jump. The authorities weren't planning for crowd safety, they were planning for hooliganism. Once inside, the standing room only section or the terrace was divided into pens, and I do mean pens. The pens were nothing more than gated zones with high fences separating the standing room only section from the pitch itself. Once you shuffled your way into the terrace and into those pens like shots sheep herded into cages, he'd have a hard time getting out again, control being the idea. James, like most of the Liverpool fans with standing tickets, was directed into just two pens behind the goal. Pens three and four. The atmosphere was electric. In front of him, he saw a huge blue fence. And then he heard a loud voice on the PA. Please could all Liverpool fans and pens 3 and 4 move forward as much as possible. And so, along with everyone around him, James took a step and then another and another, closer and closer to that huge blue fence up in the control box. Roger Marshall was half shouting now. Sir, he said. It's too packed out there. There aren't enough turnstiles to handle the people. We have to open the emergency duck and fill cut him off. Don't you think I know that? He snapped. He looked at the images on the CCTV screens of fans hands falling over one another outside. Marshall suggested they delay the kickoff to accommodate the unprecedented crowd. He got a one word answer in response. No. James Aspinall saw the problem almost right away. The pen was too packed, but the gates were at the back making it nearly impossible to get out if you were at the front. But James, like many others, assumed the problem would be temporary. The minutes ticked down. Gain time approached. In the tunnel that led from the locker rooms to the field, John Barnes walked with his shoulders back and his chest out. Fuck the butterflies. He was ready. Up in the control box, Duckenfield was growing agitated as he watched the CCTV feed. Maybe Marshall was right after all. He thought about it for a second and then he spoke. Do it, he said. Marshall gave the sign and two of his men sprinted down to the Lovings Lady Lane stand where the Liverpool fans were congregated. Duckenfield and Marshall watched on the TV screen as the huge structure of Gate C opened. People bolted into the stadium. Some were running, others fell over people in front of them. Marshall felt a horrible feeling bubble up in the pit of his stomach. The gate was open. Bodies poured into the already packed pens and there was only one place they could go. Inside the pen, James Aspin all thought his friend was tapping him on the back, but it was actually two or three arms from strangers and they were packed in so tight that the bodies moved as one hulking mass, not as individuals. And then James heard a huge noise. It was deafening. It was the sound of the crowds screaming as the teams walked onto the pitch. John Barnes was on the field with the rest of the Liverpool team now and he waved and smiled at the crowd. Roger Marshall was. He wasn't watching the teams on the field though. He was staring in horror at the sea of bodies moving erratically on the CCTV screen. It must be the camera making it look worse, he thought to himself. So he looked up through the glass of the control box and he immediately wished he hadn't. What he saw was even worse than the images on the screen. The referee's whistle rang out and leather hit leather. John Barnes sprinted forward as the crowd roared. James Aspinall threw both his hands in the air and shouted in frustration. The game was starting and he wasn't even out of the fucking pen. It was then that Roger Marshall began to really panic. Suddenly there was a huge thrust in the Leppings Lane stand. James Aspinall was catapulted forward by a great force from behind him. A man to his left went down, lost in the tide of clothes and skin. James looked for him, but he was gone, swallowed by the sweaty mass. He tried to shout, but the air was knocked out of him in another surge. Only then did James Aspinall realize that he had no control. It was like he was surfing a wave in a violent storm. Roger Marshall was running. He could see the full horror of what was happening now, and the entire stand of people moving forward and then back and then forward and then back uncontrollably. He saw one of the barriers at the front, only a few meters from the main fence. It was being bent forward almost to its breaking point. More and more bombs, bodies piled against it, forward, back, forward, back. And the barrier finally gave way. It snapped. Men, women, children, they all fell forward, crashing to the large blue fence ahead. Bodies piled upon bodies, piled upon bodies. James Aspinall felt like he was in a dream. And there was a second of silence and then the bottom of the world fell out. Everyone, now, everything around him fell forward and crashed hard and to the metal fence. He felt his gold chain necklace loosen. He grabbed it before it fell and then he hit the ground just as the game was stopped. Roger Marshall was screaming now, yelling at the fans who weren't injured to help get their friends and family members over the fence. All he could see were people on the ground, motionless. So many people, motionless. Back in Liverpool, Margaret Aspinall's phone rang. Her sister in law was on the other end. Margaret, she said, there's trouble at Hillsborough. Margaret ran to her TV set and turned it on. And as soon as the screen flickered to life, the chaos greeted her like a gunshot. Years later, she swore that she saw her son, James. She swore she saw him on the pitch, just lying there. People doubted her claims, but she knew what she saw in that moment, though, as she watched in terror while a nightmare unfolded it at Yorkshire. A nightmare that involved her child. She could hardly describe it, she just knew that it was unbelievable. It was terrifying. And life as she knew it was changing right before her eyes. Back in Yorkshire, a body was thrust over the fence and Roger Marshall grabbed him carefully, laid him on the pitch and thought about giving him mouth to mouth. And then he took a second look. Mouth to mouth was futile. The kid's life was over. Marshall took off his jacket and placed it over the kid's body. He covered the head, the torso, and then the hands, one of which was clutching a gold chain necklace. Marshall could feel the tears welling up. He looked up at the chaos and thought that this must be what hell looked like. But for the Liverpool fans, hell was only just beginning. We'll be right back after this.

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Soho was dark. The sex workers and the drug dealers were everywhere. Shadows come to life. The rain hammered hard. So did his anxiety. He upped his walking pace and darted down a little side alley. He was alone. His footsteps echoed off the cobblestones with a rhythmic click, click, click. He worried more about the meeting he was headed to. The sound of his shoes was like a metronome in his head. Click, click, click. And then his Footsteps were joined by another set of clicks. These ones ringing out in the narrow alley were out of time with his, like they were mocking him. And they were loud, too, heavy. He pushed on faster now, but the clicks behind him kept up the pace. His gaze was fixed ahead. His neck was stiff. He didn't dare turn around. He was almost at the hotel. He was almost to safety. Just a few more seconds, and then his blood ran cold. A voice from behind him cut through the rain in the polyrhythmic footsteps. Excuse me, sir. He didn't reply. Instead, he broke into a jog. The voice came again, this time firmer and more direct than before. Excuse me. The stone beneath him was wet and slippery. His expensive shoes made it feel like he was skating on ice. Sir? The voice again, this time even closer than before. Run, he thought. Fucking run. But before we could begin to sprint, a hand touched his shoulder. He spun around. Was a young man, well dressed, with a kind face. Sorry, sir, the man said. Wasn't sure if you could hear me from the rain and all that. There was an awkward pause, and then the man raised his right hand. You dropped your wallet. Jesus Christ. That was a relief. He thanked the young man, but he wasn't about to get rid of his pursuer that fast. The younger man cocked his head slightly to one side. Do I know you, sir? He asked, and then it came to him, clear as day. You're that mp. Of course he was that mp. A Conservative member of Parliament with a familiar face who couldn't shuffle down an alley to a clandestine meeting without getting made. He said something in return, something along the lines of, you must be confused, before darting off to the end of the alley and at long last, safely into the hotel. Seconds later, he was inside the bar of the Soho Hotel. He managed to find the person he was meeting straight away. He could always spot a journalist a mile off. He walked over to the table and, without introduction, asked the man sitting there, are you ready? That night, the Hillsborough story took a turn for the worse. How could it get any worse after the devastation of life that had occurred in the stands that day? A day that ended with 766 injured and 95 dead, when the authorities decided to shift the blame away from themselves and onto the very people who had been devastated by it. That's how it could get worse. All they needed was an outlet. Just a few days after the fatal crush at Hillsborough, Kelvin McKenzie, editor of the sun newspaper, stepped out of his E type Jag. He handed the keys to the valet and walked to The Sun's Fleet street offices. As he made his way through the thick brass covered doors, a man tried to stop him. No one stopped Calvin McKenzie, especially not front desk security. This guy. This guy was new. This guy was asking to see Mackenzie's pass. Trying to speak with authority. Mackenzie walked right past him. He could feel the anger rising inside. It was right there in his throat. And the new guy kept after him. Sir. Sir. Finally, Mackenzie stopped. He spun around, his shoes squeaking on the polished marble floor. Your past, the security guard said. My face is my fucking pass. Mackenzie screamed. Now get the fuck out of this building and never show your fucking face here again. He ripped open the door to the main office and marched through, leaving himself just enough time to scream. Fucking amateur in his wake. Upstairs, his anger was still simmering. One of his writers presented him with some rough copy for an article. Seven or eight other journals sat in his office watching him read. They all puffed on cigarettes. Mackenzie scanned the article. This all came from the mp? He asked. Phillips nodded his head and added in some police. Mackenzie read more. It was the type of salacious front page splash that the sun made its reputation on. Gutter press, his dad had called it. But this. This was Mackenzie's currency. The article, following the lead of the Member of Parliament and the police, blamed the disaster not on the decisions made by Chief Superintendent Duckenfield, but on the barbaric behavior of Liverpool hooligans. It accused the fans of not just illegally rushing the gates, but of pissing on police and even pickpocketing the dead. Mackenzie paused for a moment and then said simply, scum. The room fell into silence. The all male writing staff had been in this spot before, the one where they weren't sure if their editor was about to scream at them or congratulate them. After a moment, Mackenzie cracked a smile. That's the headline, he said. You scum. Silence again. The writer of the draft took a drag on his cigarette, giving himself something to do so he didn't have to reply right away. No? Mackenzie asked the room of hushed faces. The writer blew smoke. He began to say that he wasn't sure about it, that it felt, you know, maybe a little too strong. Mackenzie didn't let him finish. These people are pissing on officials. They're stealing from their own dead. And if they're not scum, what are they? The silence returned. To a man like Mackenzie, it was clear everyone knew what those hooligans did at soccer matches. The fights, the drunken brawls. They've been doing it since 1349 thugs, villains, scum. Finally, the writer found some words. People died. A lot of people died. They shouldn't all be labeled as scum. That just wasn't right. Mackenzie quickly snapped back. You don't have the fucking balls, he said. You northerners are all the fucking same. His voice was just above a whisper, but it landed as hard as steel. Then he moved his face right into the writer's face. Are you fucking soft? The writer suppressed the panic building inside him while he stood his ground and made his argument. They couldn't in good conscience print that. As he went on, Mackenzie's face elongated into sheer rage. He drew a breath to give the writer perhaps the biggest fucking beatdown ever dispatched in his office. But he was stopped before he could begin. I think he's right, came a voice from the corner of the room. The most junior reporter in the place. Suddenly Mackenzie was the one to panic. He could feel the room turning against him. The youth and their fucking principals. A bunch of fucking softies, all of them. The lot of them. He desperately tried to maintain his all powerful image. What shall we go with then? The writer grabbed a pen from the desk and in big letters scrawled the truth at the top of the page. But he was wrong. What was written in that article wasn't the truth. Not even close. The story published in The sun on April 19, 1989, just four days after the tragedy, placed the blame for what happened at Hillsborough squarely on the shoulders of Liverpool fans. Which of course was 100% bullshit. Didn't matter. Soccer officials, journalists and other members of Parliament followed suit, condemning the innocent victims of the Hillsborough disaster in one of the worst misinformation wars in British history. For his part in that smear campaign, Mackenzie got sacked, right? Well, no. He stayed on at the sun in one form or another until the 28th anniversary of the disaster in 2017, when he was suspended for a racist comment about a player from another Merseyside club. For the people of Liverpool, though, his dismissal came 28 years too late. Steve was young when it happened. Eight years old. His cousin was only 10. He was the youngest one that died. The funeral was unbearable. The tears, the awkward conversations, the sadness. The sadness was never ending. There were little things he remembered from that time. Like when he caught a glimpse of his cousin's bedroom, untouched, just as he had left it. Or when he saw the players in their black armbands or the line of scarves that stretched from Liverpool Stadium to the home of their fierce rivals, Everton. He remembered seeing a Liverpool fan Hug an Evertonian. And how strange that seemed. He remembered the day they added the flames to each side of the Liverpool crest. An eternal flame that burned in memory of those who lost their lives. He remembered the TV and radio shows and the headline that read the truth, the burning of the newspapers. He remembered the hollow apologies from the police, the paper and whoever else perpetuated the lie. Like the cops who admitted during inquests into the tragedy that they had spread false stories about the fans to cover their own asses. Years later, even Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield himself would admit that it had all been a terrible lie. That it was his actions on that day that directly led to the fatal crush. Even before this stunning admission, Steve could smell the bullshit. He remembered Margaret Aspinall rallying other victims families to challenge the authorities in memory of her son James. He remembered the trials and how the finger of blame finally turned away from the fans. He remembered it all so clearly later he told someone from a newspaper that he thought about it every day in one way or another. And he thought about it one night in Turkey at the Ataturk Olympic Stadium in 2005. You see, Steve wasn't your average child. The very same year as the Hillsborough disaster was the year that Steve, full name Steven Gerrard, assigned to Liverpool's academy. As he stood on the field that night in Istanbul during the final of Europe's biggest club competition, the Champions League. Things were looking bleak. His Liverpool team were underdogs and were currently down 30 to the mighty AC Milan. There were 54 minutes on the clock and the ball was coming at him closer and closer. Before long, Steve realized he'd found some space between two defenders. He leapt into the evening humidity and connected with the ball. He pushed hard with his neck and directed it to the other side of the goal. The Milan keeper was flat footed as the ball sailed over him and into the net. Goal. Steve barely celebrated. He sprinted back to the center circle, reeling his arms like a windmill. It was game on. What unfolded that night was one of the greatest comebacks in soccer history. After the game, Steve lifted the huge trophy above his head, his captain's armband proudly positioned for all to see. In front of was a sea of Liverpool fans dressed in red, cheering for their club, cheering for their city, cheering for the group they now called the 97. Cheering for Adam Edwards. Spirit 14 Alan Johnston 29. Alan McGlone, 28. Andrew Mark Brooks 26 Anthony David Bland 22 Anthony Peter Kelly 29 Arthur Horrocks 41 Barry Glover 27 Barry Sidney Bennett, 26 Brian Christopher Matthews, 38 Carl William Rimmer, 21 Carl Brown, 18 Carl Darren Hewitt, 17 Carl David Lewis, 18 Christine Ann Jones, 27 Christopher James Traynor, 26 Christopher B. Barry Devonside, 18 Christopher Edwards, 29 Colin Wafer, 19 Colin Andrew Hugh William Sefton, 23 Colin Mark Ashcroft, 19 David William Bertle, 22 David George Rimmer, 38 David Holly, 39 David John Benson, 22 David Leonard Thomas, 23 David William Mather, 19 Derek George Goodwin, 24 Eric Hankin, 33 Eric George Hughes, 42 Francis Joseph McAllister, 27 Gary Christopher Church, 19 Gary Collins, 22 Gary Harrison, 27 Gary Philip Jones, 18 Gerard Bernard Patrick Barron, 67 Gordon Rodney Horn, 20 Graham John Roberts, 24 Graham John Wright, 17 Henry Charles Rogers, 17 Henry Thomas Burke, 47 Ian David Whelan, 19 Ian Thomas Glover, 20 Inger Shah, 38 James Philip Delaney, 19 James Robert Hennessy, 29 John Alford Anderson, 62 John McBrien, 18 Jonathan Owens, 18 John Paul Gilloway, 10 Joseph Clark, 29 Joseph Daniel McCarthy, 21 Keith McGrath, 17 Kester Roger Marcus Ball, 16 Kevin Daniel Williams, 15 Kevin Tyrell, 15 Lee Nicholas, 14 Marion Hazel McCabe, 21 Martin Kevin Traynor, 16 Martin Kenneth Wilde, 29 Michael David Kelly, 38 Nicholas Peter Joynes, 27 Nicholas Mitchell Hewitt, 16 Patrick John Thompson, 35 Paula Ann Smith, 26 Paul Anthony Hewitson, 26 Paul David Brady, 21 Paul Brian Murray, 14 Paul Clark, 18 Paul William Carlisle, 19 Peter Andrew Harrison, 15 Peter Andrew Burkitt, 24 Peter Francis Tootle, 21 Peter McDonnell, 21 Peter Reuben Thompson, 30 Philip Hammond, 14 Philip John Steele, 15 Raymond Thomas Chapman, 50 Richard Jones, 25 Roy Harry Hamilton, 34 Sarah Louise Hicks, 19 Simon Bell, 17 Stephen Paul Coppock, 20 Stephen Francis Harrison, 31 Stephen Francis O', Neill, 17 Steven Joseph Robinson, 17 David Stephen Brown, 25 Stuart Paul William Thompson, 17 Thomas Howard, 39 Thomas Stephen Fox, 21 Tracy Elizabeth Cox, 23 Victoria Jane Hicks, 15 Vincent Michael Fitzsimmons, 34 William Roy Pemberton, 23 Andrew Devine, 52 and James Gary Aspinall just 18. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. All right, thanks for checking out another episode of Disgraceland. A special one here for the World cup on the Hillsborough disaster. Question of the week this week. What? Which tragedy from either sports history or music history or anything from culture hit you the most? Maybe something you were directly connected with in some way? Get at me. 617-90-66638 Let me know your answer. You might hear your answer on the after party. You can also just let me know what you thought of this episode or you can hit me up with recommendations about subjects you want us to cover in Disgraceland. That's 617-906-6638 leave voicemail a Send a text. I'm also available at disgracelandpod. On the socials, Here comes some credits Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis, the Exactly right Network, and iHeart Podcasts. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes [e-mail] if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on [e-mail] Disgracelandpod Rocka Rolla. He's a bad bad man.

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