Rock bottom: a Kop toilet story

A trip down memory lane that one Kop toilet user would rather forget...

Words: Tom O’Brien

I recently had an epiphany at Bramall Lane, courtesy of my son, Sam.  On the way to the match, we had stopped for a quick drink at Wetherspoons: me a pint, Sam a Coke. We had plenty of time, but a failure to account for queueing meant I had about 2 minutes to neck the pint before legging it to the ground.  By the time we got there, the pint had worked its magic. After we squeezed through the turnstile, I said to Sam, “I’ll see you up there, I’m just going to the loo”.

Beer and football are decades-old companions. From the fizziest lager to the smoothest ale diffused from the sparkler into a creamy head, the beer-drinking ritual – the boozer you choose; the pint, the pour, the sup – is a natural part of the bigger football ritual. And, given recent results, it is inarguably one of the best aspects of the matchday routine.

Of course, consuming gallons of liquid diuretics has less pleasurable side effects on the bladder. At every home game, this ritual leads to thousands of people busting, all at the same time.

“Dad, use the ones at the top of the stand, they are better”. 

I glanced at the Gents on the main concourse where a queue of similarly-effected Blades were scurrying for the urinals, hands on zips. This was my moment of epiphany. The toilets at the top of the Pukka Pie Corner are beautiful.  You can, two minutes before kick-off, enter into an empty and pristine world of plentiful toilets and paper towels. As I relieved myself in these luxurious surroundings, my mind wandered back nearly 34 years to a markedly different trip to a Bramall Lane toilet…

1988

In the 1980s, I used to stand on the Kop. They were those heady days when you could turn up, pay at the turnstile, and push your way to the same spot each week. The facilities were horrendous, especially those toilets behind the Kop at the bottom of the steps – a small brick building with two doors, no roof, a laminated wall to aim against and a trough near your feet to drain it all away.

They smelled horrific. They looked horrific. And it was impossible to leave without drenched shoes and trousers. Washing your hands was a rare opportunity, and drying them was impossible. Into this dystopian nightmare, hundreds of us would shuffle, shoulder to shoulder, week in and week out, resigned to the torment like the downtrodden workers in Fritz Lang’s ‘Metropolis’.

Back then, I very rarely drank before the match, so I could normally avoid having to negotiate the troughs. However, on one ill-advised occasion in 1988, I broke my own rule with disastrous consequences.

I’ve never been good with urinals. It stems from my frequenting of Rebels, Sheffield’s premier (only) rock nightclub, back in the ’80s. Every Friday and Saturday I would blowdry my mullet (which had been imprisoned in a small ponytail for the working week), don my leather jacket, Mötley Crüe t-shirt and artfully ripped jeans (like the ones Joe Elliott wore) and head into town to rock out.

I loved the music, but I hated the toilets in there and would put off using them if at all possible. After ten bottles of Newcastle Brown and a session of tragic headbanging, I would inevitably brave a visit. If I was lucky, a cubicle would be free, and free of vomit, so I could scuttle in there, relax and relieve myself. Sadly, it was more likely that I would have to queue for the urinals, squeeze in between the acned shoulders of a vest-wearing David Coverdale wannabe on one side, and the grease-soaked leathers of a psychotic biker on the other, stand in half an inch of overspill, close my eyes and try to relax. 

It’s hard enough urinating in front of people when they aren’t touching you, let alone when they are so close that you could lift your feet off the ground and still remain in place. That meant – 9 times out of 10 – that I bailed: it just wouldn’t happen. After two minutes or so, I would perform a superfluous shake, zip up, and plod back out to the bar, cross-legged and cross-eyed with bladder-bursting agony. After five minutes, I would go back in and repeat the whole tragic pantomime. And I tell you this for one specific reason: the Kop toilets were worse.

Feeling the strain

The 1987/88 season was pretty bad for the Blades: a 21st-place finish in Division 2 meant we were play-off-bound. At that time, the team that finished just above the relegation slots had to fight it out with one of the Division 3 promotion hopefuls for the remaining place in Division 2. We had played (and lost) at Bristol City on the Saturday, so we needed a good performance on the Tuesday night back at the Lane. I worked in town at the time, and rather than going home, I decided I would stay in town, have a few pints, and stroll down to the ground. What actually happened was that I had four or five pints and stayed in the pub far longer than I should have. I began to regret this decision as we sprinted down Arundel Gate from the Yorkshire Grey, having no doubt downed the last three quarters of my pint in one go, when the first thoughts of “I could do with a piss” jumped into my mind.  

My next bad decision was to ignore the calling and rush straight up the steps at the back of the Kop to take our usual place at our favourite barrier.  As the first half progressed, the need to pee grew and grew, but I told myself I would be OK.  By half time, I was in agony, my distended bladder struggling against my tight jeans. There was no alternative, so at half time I joined the queue for the dreaded Kop toilets. 

When I eventually squeezed into the little brick building, people were packed in like sardines, shoulder to shoulder. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go, but it was impossible to turn round and go back out. When I got to the urinal, the jostling for space meant that I had to hunch my shoulders so much I was nearly folded in half. I needed to achieve a perfect zen state of calm in order for my bladder to relax, which wasn’t going to happen with someone else’s elbows in my ribs and their splashback drenching my high-tops. I was now in a desperate state, so I started to strain and push, desperate to force out the first drop that would release the floodgate. It was at this point that my body betrayed me, and the straining had an unexpected effect: I shit myself. 

I’m sorry to be so crass, but there isn’t a polite way to say it. Just a little bit, not an entire blow out; but let’s face it, if you’re over the age of three, it’s hard to accept.  Defeated, I trudged back to my place on the Kop, a blush of shame colouring my cheeks, and something worse colouring my other set.

It makes you think, doesn’t it? Why would my body refuse to let me do something I really needed to do, but was happy to let me do something I really didn’t? I can only conclude that it hated me, maybe for making it grow a mullet, covering it in heavy metal t-shirts, and making it watch Sheffield United.  

Like my underpants, the game and the result were now a write-off for me.  I couldn’t care less that we lost and got relegated. I never said a word to my mates (what could I say?), all I could think about was that I desperately needed to clean myself up AND I still needed to pee. After the match we headed back to the Yorkshire Grey, where I went straight into the toilet. Ironically, now all was lost, the cubicle was free, so I barricaded myself in there to deal with the fall out.  I shed my befouled boxers, wondering what to do with them. I could hardly put them in my pocket, and I couldn’t just discard them as there might be someone waiting to come in straight after me. In those more innocent times, toilets in pubs still had cisterns, as punters used to use the cubicles for their intended purpose rather than a handy surface for other means. I lifted the lid and dropped the offending underwear into the water. They demolished the Yorkshire Grey a few years later and I like to imagine the scene; a digger grinding to halt over a smashed cistern, construction workers standing around in confusion, the foreman scratching his head, marvelling at the discovery.

Fast forward to the present, to the nice empty toilets. I relieve myself at my leisure, and amble to the sink to wash and dry my hands. I take a quick glance in the mirror. The mullet has gone (as has the rest of the hair) and the jeans aren’t quite as tight, but hey, I’ve still got it. I smile ruefully, tip my reflection a wink, and head out to enjoy the match.