But instead, I neither feel the urge for self-chastisement, nor the joviality which comes from a self-consciously anachronistic personality. Perhaps on another day, I might recognize the humour in not tidying up the old shortcuts on my desktop, but today, they just seem like poignant noises. In much the same way that seasoned professional doctors and lawyers still twitch when they hear the sound of a school period bell or buzzer, I am particularly susceptible to statements of meaning on this day. Now, looking at the little icons, I recognize that clicking on them will do nothing at all, since the program to which they were attached has long been deleted. However, it’s April 15th. That changes everything.
Thirteen years ago, everything changed on a bright and sunny April 15th. We didn’t know it then, but it was the apex, the zenith of an era - the last great display of the great Liverpool sides of the ‘70s and ‘80s. Those of us who followed the team were spoiled. We had seen a team conquer Europe four times in seven years, crush domestic opposition as though they were noisome insects, and collect trophies at a rate never equalled, before or after. Manchester United gave it a good run back in the ‘90s, but there really is no comparison. Liverpool Football Club in those days was a titan striding amongst gnats. They played hard in every competition, two or three matches a week, in the days before teams had thirty men to a squad and were allowed to make three substitutions a game. FA Cup, League Cup, League, Champions’ Cup - week in, week out, Liverpool were in it, and more often than not, celebrating afterwards.
The League Cup, brought in as a new competition to allow the old third and fourth division teams another shot at a Cup, became almost the exclusive property of Merseyside, with Liverpool winning it about every other year, and Everton managing to fill in the cracks whenever the titans lapsed. The Champions’ Cup (for that is what it was back then) was not only a private reserve for those who had conquered their domestic league, but had to endure a gruelling set of home-and-away knockout rounds to progress in the competition. Now, an English team only needs to finish in the top four in the Premiership, and then scrape their way through two group stages where they can theoretically still go despite losing twice to the same team. Not to name names here, but in the past year, Arsenal and Manchester United both lost all of their group-stage matches to Deportivo La Coruna. La Coruna then fielded an understrength team in their last group match (against Germans Bayer Leverkusen) to deliberately dump Arsenal from the competition, only for their lackadaisical tactics to backfire and their players to stagger and lose their place to the team they had previously embarrassed twice already - Manchester United.
Not to sound overly nostalgic or too full of the mythology of the past to appreciate the quality of the present, but winning the big prize in Europe was a bigger deal back then. And Liverpool did it often. In between doubles and trebles every year, they still managed to win accolades for fair play and good sportsmanship. Then came Heysel.
Heysel was the first sign that the empire was in decay. Bill Shankly was the coach, the manager, the gaffer that had taken the team in 1958 and crafted a well-oiled machine dedicated to winning things. He had taken a team in decline and foundering in a lower division, brought it up to the top-flight, and then began to swell the confines of the trophy room. First came the titles, then the Cups began to follow. By 1973, Liverpool had won their first UEFA Cup (doing a double by also winning the championship that year), and Shankly had already set up his own systems for training, scouting, and developing players as well as future managers. Like a mediaeval monarch, he set up the conditions for his successor -and what he used was his own creation and consequent Anfield tradition: The Bootroom.
Players generally feared the bootroom. Shankly and his team of coaches and trainers would stand about amidst the racks of uncleaned boots with a couple of bottles of Bell’s Scotch Whiskey and would discuss the game. Occasionally, a player was called to the bootroom. Generally, this meant that the player was being called to account for some form of poor performance or underachievement on the pitch. And specifically, this meant that five or six men who knew football more intimately than any of the players knew their own wives would incisively interrogate them until they realized the error of their ways. Aside from the potential discomforts of any player, the bootroom also provided the perfect grooming-ground for any future manager. Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan and Roy Evans - all future managers - sprang from the bootroom staff.
When Shankly retired, Bob Paisley took over the management of the club. He quickly became England’s most successful club manager of all time, winning 13 major trophies in 8 seasons. Not only did Liverpool become the most dominant team of their time, they became the flagship for English clubs setting off for Europe. While Liverpool spread their wings of dominance, fledgling teams such as Aston Villa and Nottingham Forest grew to maturity, challenged and won the most prestigious cup in Europe. The Champions’ Cup became an English hallmark, and every year, teams anxiously examined the fixture lists to see when the Mersey giants would thunder through their vicinity. Brian Clough and his exceptional Nottingham Forest team fooled no-one. They were good. They were great. But only when compared with the Red Machine from Liverpool.
After Paisley’s short and benign reign, Joe Fagan relutantly took the throne which now seemed doubly vacant since Shankly’s death in 1981. The Bootroom management seemed older, more world-weary than in the days when Shankly still stalked the training ground. Fagan was particularly susceptible to this malaise. Like Tolkien’s Elves, he seemed to want to join his illustrious predecessors on The Undying Shores rather than suffer further upon the battle-grounds of Middle Earth. In his last year as manager, perhaps the last year that things could be perceived as “being the same”, tired, old and kind, Joe ran face first into Heysel.
He had already announced his retirement. He was on the way out, and his successor was the only player who could hold his own in the bootroom - a cold and sardonic Glaswegian named Kenny Dalglish. Previously, both Paisley and Fagan had tried to summon the short-spoken captain to the bootroom for some form of disciplinary measure, and been astonished to find that the Scotsman could do more than defend himself. He could discuss in detail every movement, every motivation, and every mistake made on the pitch in the previous 90 minutes without batting an eyelid. He knew the game, and Fagan had never seen such a devoted force of will or dedicated spirit, save perhaps in the departed Shankly.
In that year, spanning the autumn and winter of 1984 and reaching into the spring of 1985, things went far, far worse than dear old Joe Fagan could have imagined.
To dispense with the trivialities quickly, Liverpool lost. Quite a bit. Despite winning the League Cup four years in a row, they dropped out in a forgettable match. Having won the three previous league championships, they dropped that trophy to their Merseyside neighbours. They lost the chance to compete in the FA Cup Final by losing in the semi-finals. And despite being both defending champions of the European Champions’ Cup and being champions of England three times previously, they not only lost that Cup, but lost the ability to compete in Europe for six years. After twenty-one years of being an ever-present European power, they had simply dropped off the international map.
What happened? Where human frailties cause flaws in ideals, there is always a loss for words. Heysel happened. For years, hooliganism had been the bane of the English game. Through the previous twenty years, it was always seen as a peculiar feature of urban Englishmen that their young and unemployed men would seek to vent their dissatisfaction and feelings of disenfranchisement at football matches with violence. Whether it was the romance of the gangsterism of the ‘60s and ‘70s, the influx of immigration so colourfully declared by Enoch Powell, the rise of a feeling of tribalism in an increasingly segmented and compartmentalized world, or the growing feeling that populism was dead and that violence was the only way to make a statement in a world without individuals, people in England began to misbehave at football matches. Anthony Burgess banned the movie based on his own book “A Clockwork Orange” in England because he thought that it had too much of an English quality to it. And so it proved. Ordinary, tea-drinking, crumpet-munching Englishmen could turn into rabid monsters given a couple of factors: mobs and incentive. Basically, that is to say that coal is quite sedate and manageable unless turned into aerial dust and exposed to an open flame.
In the early eighties, watching football had given a lot of people both cause and opportunity to perpetrate mischief, and the fact that Liverpool perennially had fixtures on the continent made them wonderful vehicles to perpetrate such mischief abroad. At Chelsea, people had begun to arrive at matches armed with fistfuls of 25 gram darts to throw at stands of opposing supporters or police stewards. Leeds had become a haven for race violence best encapsulated by the graffito “Hitler was a Leeds Fan”. Long-running battles along the canal became stories of legend rivalling Bannockburn or Marathon as Liverpool fans escaped the wrath of Mancunians. In Scotland, the Glaswegian derby was beginning to claim lives for no better reason than one lad was Catholic rather than Protestant. Into this cauldron of hate and dissatisfaction came the European Champions’ Cup match between Liverpool and Juventus of Turin.
Scenes of horror, disgust, and disbelief would do very little to reassure people that the authorities in control have any idea of how to deal with surgung masses of humanity. What can be said of Heysel is best said in quick verbal flashes.
The players become concerned during the pre-match warm-up as they ran around the pitch. One player asks what the fans are eating in order to throw such hard stuff at them. The response: “They’re throwing the bloody stadium at us.” The concrete is so old and decayed that it has begun to disintegrate.
Darts are thrown from a section designated for “neutrals”. Fans react with anger.
Police are unable to control movement of fans, take to clubbing and tear-gassing them.
A group of Juventus fans are cowering in the lee of a wall when the cement wall collapses on them. The screams freeze people within hearing distance like an icy gust of wind.
The hooligans pretending to be Liverpool fans immediately begin fleeing from their side of the collapsed wall. They’d wanted blood, but they hadn’t realized what the devil had given them in their bargain. Several are later caught and incarcerated by the Belgian Police with the help of closed-circuit cameras.
The Belgian Police, meanwhile, while hearing of the “disturbances”, decide that what they really need to do at the moment is to practice their drills, and promptly move out to the middle of the field, declaring the game to be postponed, and march about in formation for 20 minutes.
A little 8 year-old boy begins to cry. His father, laid face-up on the hood of a car in front of him, has just vomited up his intestines and died. The boy can’t think of anything to tell his mother. A Liverpool fan and his son help the young lad, despite the difficulties of language.
The tales of tragedy and sorrow continue, but what purpose would they serve? Thirty-nine people died at Heysel. Ever since, Liverpool have held a soft reverence for the northern Italian club. On the other hand, there have always been crowds in England and elsewhere all too eager to sing “Ice on the Runway” in a morbid celebration of the Munich Air Disaster of 1958 which claimed most of a Manchester United team who may have risen to become heroes. Such crowds are to be despised with more venom than is reserved for Windows 95. The cruelty of some crowds are never to be underestimated. Some opposing fans visiting the Stadio Della Alpi in Torino were known for chanting the numbers one through thirty-nine, a grisly chant perhaps vaguely reminiscent of the taunting given to the Philadelphia Flyers’ Ron Hextall by the New York Rangers fans in the 1980s. He was told to “Buy a Porsche” in an obscene reference to the Flyers’ previous goalie who had died in a car crash whilst driving his Porsche.
Joe Fagan retires in tears. Kenny Dalglish reluctantly takes the reins of the world’s most successful club, and tries to steer it past the catastrophe of Heysel. The club begins to recover, despite being banned from European competition for six years, with Dalglish becoming the first player-manager to claim an FA Cup and a League Championship in the same year. The board begin to find ways of curbing crowd violence, like closed-circuit television cameras and increased police and stadium steward presences. People begin to think that life will continue, that things would get better, and that the wounds and hurts of Heysel would be respectfully allowed closure and resolution. Then came 15th April, 1989.
The Heysel disaster was tragic, but the fact remains that the 39 victims were all Italian supporters of Juve. The people of Liverpool felt the shame, sadness and anger about their involvement - almost complicity - in the terrible events of the day. But Heysel is in Belgium, and the victims of the disaster were Italian. There was distance and space which fans and club could use to insulate themselves from the horrible nature of the tragedy. There was no such insulation from Hillsborough.
It had all the makings of a classic match. Nottingham Forest, having already won the European Cup twice, faced Liverpool, the four-time champs in an FA Cup Semi-Final showdown that looked to determine the relative fates of both clubs. It did, but not in any way the players or managers could have foreseen. The Football Association had chosen , as was the tradition, to have the match played at a neutral venue. They chose Sheffield, South Yorkshire as the city, and Hillsborough as the stadium. Fears that the police crews there were inexperienced, and that the stadium had actually been denied licensing for such events by the city council were pooh-poohed. In retrospect, they were just some of the small details that added to a catalogue of critical blunders that led conclusively to the worst possible result, like snowflakes before an avalanche.
The day was beautiful. Bright, sunny, and with a faint, tingling breeze, it seemed to echo the promise of the most sparkling and exhilarating game of the season. Liverpool fans, though, began to become concerned at a few things. Although they were allocated almost half of the seats in the stadium, they were all forced to enter through the narrow Leppings Lane entrance, while Forest fans and neutrals enjoyed the luxury of all the other entrances. The police had not begun organizing queues or cordons for the line-ups at the turnstiles. Worry and hesitation had already begun to creep into people’s minds as they were forced to wait outside the stadium, seemingly interminably while the turnstiles slowly let one fan after the next to trickle in, before searching and taking the ticket from the fan. The clock ticked by. After what seemed like an eternity, the match began to start. The announcer’s voice began to boom over the tannoy to list the starting line-ups and the commercial sponsors for the event. The teeming crowds outside began to shout in annoyance and frustration.
Meanwhile, in the police control-room, Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield supervised an array of television monitors and communications equipment. The decision to filter thousands of Liverpool fans through such a tiny entrance to the stadium concourse had not yet begun to dawn on him as being somewhat unrealistic. He was a man given to following procedure and what he was doing was, according to what his experience and his training had taught him, correct. Shouts of alarm over the police radio that the crowds were beginning to press against the turnstiles, and that there was not enough police staff in the area to cope with the crush of humanity. Of the two thousand cops on duty, there weren’t enough present at the most crucial point of entry into the stadium.
Duckenfield panicked. Over the crackly walkie-talkie static, he heard the word that terrified him: death. He wanted to serve out his term with the police as quietly and as innocuously as possible before retiring to a quiet life with a full pension. There was no desire for drama, conflict, or heroism. On the contrary, he did exactly as he was told so that there would be no opportunity for anyone to identify him as the point of origin for any mistake or controversy. As soon as he heard that the situation outside Leppings Lane turnstiles was becoming dangerous, he began to tremble with fear, but when a police officer mentioned the possibility of death, he saw his quiet existence threatened. A death in the crowd might involve him in an inquiry, or worse, an investigation. His control of procedure left his grasp, and he panicked, ordering one of the large metal exit gates to be opened to let in the influx of Liverpool spectators, and ease the pressure on the turnstiles.
The procedure that Duckenfeld failed to follow was, in the words of the later Taylor Report “a blunder of the first magnitude”. Although he opened the gate, he forgot to block off the tunnel directly in front of the gate which led down to the terraces. All ticketing for that area of the terraces were misleadingly printed, leading everyone to believe that their area was directly ahead, through the open tunnel. There were, in fact, terraces off to the side, but they could only be reached by rather circuitously navigating that area of the concourse. The police who were ordered to open the gate could only look at a few tickets, but they saw what was printed, shrugged, and gestured for everyone to go down the tunnel.
The tunnel led to two penned-in areas. These areas were designed to control crowd violence and prevent potential hooligans from leaping onto the pitch. With those purposes in mind, they were constructed much like corrals for wild animals: chain-link mesh, barbed wire, and bars that overtopped the fence that tilted inward, to prevent anyone climbing over. There were also large metal rails set up horizontally across the pens to prevent any sudden crushes down toward the pitch. By the time that Duckenfield ordered the exit gate to be opened, both pens were completely packed, with people already feeling the discomfort of overcrowding. Then the thousands that flowed in were pointed down the tunnel, and rushed joyfully to see the match from which they’d been previously barred by the limitations of the turnstiles, sighed with relief at getting out of the confines of the surge to get in, and eagerly chased at the chance to see the game already in progress.
Take a full bucket of water. It’s heavy, clumsy to move about, and tends to slosh about a bit. It takes a lot of effort to throw that whole bucket at another person, get them with the full impact, and after that, make a significant effect. Most people can quite easily suffer a splash like that while standing on one foot and not fall over. Now consider a bathtub. If you sit in a bathtub, and slide your torso backwards and forwards, you can soon get a wave running the length of the tub. As you keep adding energy to that wave, it can get larger and stronger. With a very small movement, you can soon get a force that will not only shoot water by the bucketload out of your tub, but can knock many people ass over teakettle. And you don’t have to lift, carry, or throw anything. In the same way, one person slamming his or her shoulder into your chest is no great cause for concern, but several dozen people gently leaning into your chest is suddenly a crisis.
In the same way, the already packed confines of those two pens groaned with compression when another couple of thousand people tried to push their way in. There was a sudden feeling that the air was heavy and hot, like there was a blanket of steam over everyone. Some of the younger girls began to scream, and some of the younger lads tried to climb onto the shoulders of anyone bigger or taller in an effort to rise above the suffocating haze. Those near the pitch began to scream at police to do something: open the doors at the front, or cut down some of the fence walls. Outside the pens, those who stood in the empty side pens began to scream at police to take some form of action. One police response is notable: “Shut your fucking prattle.”
The later inquest said that those who were killed suffered from crush asphyxia, and that their brains, starved of oxygen, had basically shut down, leaving their bodies to slowly die for minutes afterwards. The deaths were supposed to be quick, painless, and without any significant trauma. The reality was more like the sequence from the animated film “Watership Down”. Lungs aching for air, muscles cramping with lactic acid, eyes unnaturally wide, the victims fought for their lives every last second, but as their skin grew blue and their eyes grew red, their panic exploded in a shower of pain and a cataclysm of broken blood vessels, surging stomachs, and spasms in every part of their bodies.
Some escaped. Some of those even lived. The brave Forest and Liverpool fans who flooded onto the pitch, grabbed the advertising boards and began to use them as stretchers were heroes. Duckenfield was now positively paralyzed with indecision. He couldn’t find an option which would allow him to deny responsibility for anything. His mind raced as he thought of ways of cancelling the match, cutting down fences, making appropriate announcements over the tannoy… what was the best way for him to avoid being noticed? The decision was taken from him. Some police officers began to act independently, carrying fans, trying to administer first aid, attempting to bring down the fences of the pens. One ambulance even managed to get onto the pitch. In the absence of Duckenfield’s decisions, everything was still being treated as he had last commanded. And his last commands indicated that there was crowd violence, and therefore no medical personnel were to be allowed near the pitch until police had calmed the situation.
One lad, volunteering for St. John’s Ambulance for the first time, ran about madly, trying to be helpful, but his first aid bag was empty - being only a demonstrator for his first experience. Without any paramedics, doctors, ambulances, or medical equipment, people began to die in the most tortuously slow way possible - feeling their muscles twitch and their esophagus dilate, but having no air enter their lungs. For minutes upon minutes. One man desperately sucked vomit from his daughter’s windpipe to clear her airways. Nearby, his other daughter turned an awful purplish-blue and expired.
Nature abhors a vacuum. Whenever there is a space, something will fill it, or try damnably hard to do so. When a human diaphragm and the other pulmonary muscles are engaged in trying to draw air into the lungs, and there is none to be drawn, all of that muscle tension creates a vacuum. When the levels of panic and desperation in the human body reach a peak, those muscles are working far too hard to draw air from the nose and mouth, and the force of that suction finally causes something else to give it release. The contents of the stomach are vacuumed out and sucked up the windpipe in an effort to relieve the pressure the lungs and diaphragm are exerting. Her mind exploding with fireworks, and her throat muscles stinging with the effort of trying to swallow and breathe at the same time, Vicki Hicks probably felt her father’s attempts to pull the partially-digested food from her esophagus, but that would only have brought her scant relief as she died. Her sister Sarah died nearby, trapped in a mind that was self-destructing from lack of oxygen, and left alone in a state of panic and fear from which she would never escape.
The remaining events of the day, evening and night are too horrid and exhausting to list. Duckenfield, having recovered from his mental paralysis, and beginning to get a grasp on the enormity of the catastrophe, immediately began to cover his tracks. In his mind, he was already rehearsing excuses. In reality, he was trying to suborn the justice system under the guise of protecting the good name of the police service. The closed circuit videotapes of the pens diappeared from police lock-up. Any recordings or writings made by police officers on the day were to be submitted for inspection and revision. In the meantime, his police began asking weeping parents and siblings to identify their loved one from a wall of 95 photographs.
Most of them were young. A few were middle-aged, and less than a handful were elderly. They ranged from 14 to 62 years old and were both male and female. Trying to pick a loved one out of such a morbid catalogue of death was an exercise in plunging the depths of human misery. Meanwhile, Duckenfield’s police had found a new tack - they would blame the whole disaster on the fans. Finding the nearest available stereotype, and trying his damndest to avoid blame, Duckenfield fixed upon the idea that drunk, ticketless fans arriving late had forced him to open the gate. Therefore, they had made the decision and not he, and therefore the responsibility could not be said to lie with him. A wonderful alibi for a cowardly bureaucrat. Fans were to blame. It was their fault.
Bereaved families were asked if their loved ones had bought a ticket, or had had a drink prior to the match. Bodies of the dead weren’t allowed to be taken to mortuaries or hospitals until after blood-alcohol tests were run on them. The results came back resoundingly. 14 to 17 year old boys and girls didn’t drink, and even the older casualties who fancied a pint hadn’t had much opportunity by 2 PM. The results of the tests were hushed up until further review could be conducted. In other words, Duckenfield was grasping at straws. It was around this time, when people were just beginning to realize that almost a hundred people were dead as a result of attending an ill-organized football match, that Duckenfield’s police began to leak stories to the media.
In the records of Greek history, a man who was said to have defiled one of the sacred shrines of the Gods was mentioned by a historian. But, noted the historian, although I know his name, I shall not mention it here. And so his punishment was set: his identity would be forgotten by future generations. And so it has been. In the tradition of such august history, I set the newspaper which printed every lie it could find about the tragedy at Hillsborough. I know its name, but I will not print it here. May future generations learn the lesson of hideously irresponsible journalism without knowing the name of the tabloid rag that caused so much pain.
Liverpool fans were alleged to have urinated on the dead and dying, to have picked the pockets of the dead, and to chant sexually lurid taunts at the dead bodies of the girls who were being carried away. How such accounts could possibly be treated with seriousness is incredible. The fans supposedly urinating on their fallen fellows were frantically carrying away the wounded on stretchers or trying to apply CPR. The two thousand police on duty didn’t arrest or even detain a single person on suspicion of any crime, let alone pickpocketing. And as for chanting explicit or demeaning sexual slogans… I challenge anyone to make any such remarks around any group of Liverpool fans - drunk, sober, young, old, male, female. As has been mentioned, Liverpool fans are not the sort of yobbos who chant the numbers from one to thirty-nine, or sing “Ice on the Runway”, and never shall be. Heysel had put paid to that sort of nonsense four years earlier.
The families of the dead were offered funeral expenses for their losses. No official apologies or acceptance of blame or responsibility has ever been taken. David Duckenfield retired for medical reasons and was accorded his full pension, in addition to immunity against any prosecution against him or his position whilst he was Chief Superintendant.
Liverpool has only now begun to recover from the blow of Hillsborough. The city is invigorated with a host of new EU projects, the restoration of the Albert Docks, and a number of other civil projects designed to beautify and enlighten the city. The club has finally turned a corner. After Hillsborough, the players and managers were directed to be available and on hand to those who suffered the results of the disaster. Player after player burst into tears, and finally player-manager Kenny Dalglish couldn’t take it any more. His son had been at the other end of the stadium, and was one ticket away from death. Shattered, he left the club to Graeme Souness, a former Liverpool player of hard midfield tendencies and fluffy permed-hair tendencies. And a ridiculous 1970s porn-star-style moustache.
And now? After Souness’ horrid reign, in which he drove the club to a second exile from Europe, another bootroom boy took the helm. Roy Evans, everyone’s favourite counsellor and the generally most likable and genial bloke around the staff was made manager. He created a wonderful array of young talent to replace the deadwood that Souness had used to pack the squad. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the wherewithal to control the young lions he’d unleashed. Steve McManaman, one of the most exciting dribblers and skillful wingers in the world, eventually left for Real Madrid. Robbie Fowler, known affectionately as “God” for the numerous times his divine intervention saved the club, eventually had to leave for Leeds United. Jamie Redknapp, the inspirational midfield general whose career was plagued by injuries, eventually left for Tottenham Hotspurs.
And yet, after all these years, it was a Frenchman who taught secondary school in Liverpool when he was younger who had arisen to become the new Shankly. Gerard Houllier, technical advisor to the World Cup-winning French squad in 1998, quietly and firmly established himself as the gaffer. In the 2001-2002 season, his team accumulated five trophies - the League Cup, the FA Cup, the UEFA Cup, the Charity Shield, and the European Super Cup. His young prodigies and shrewd foreign purchases have allowed him the luxury of being able to survive a life-threatening illness, and being able to spend six months recovering while his capable assistants ran the club for him. The sight of the man walking again was inspirational.
And what now? The team is doing well, though not spectacularly. The city is alive, though strangely conserved. And the last match played at Anfield showed that no one has forgotten the 96 that died, nor forgotten that the issue is neither resolved nor concluded. Of course, that last match involved the national team against Paraguay, and it is hoped that the minute’s silence that was observed stands for the entire nation.
And my desktop? It’s always been untidy. I’m a very untidy person. I can’t always dismiss things that aren’t of immediate use as being irrelevant. But whenever I see “Go Back” and “Remember”, I don’t think of the stupid science-fiction game to whch they ought to relate, but rather those memories that should always be kept with me in order to remind myself of who I am and what I do. Clicking on the little icons may not do anything computer-wise, but the fact that they are still around stimulates me to understand that I am a part of a greater whole. I know that while I keep the history alive in my head, I shall never walk alone. I have 96 friends. 15th April is one of the things that brings us together, and I would be a fool to forsake such comrades for trivial interests. Like tidying my desktop.
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