In a few weeks’ time, a couple I have been friends with for the best part of 20 years will be holding a bat mitzvah for their daughter. Anyone who knows even a little about Judaism will know the importance of the event: a celebration for a girl reaching 12, and a great excuse for a great party for friends and families. I would love to have gone but I won’t be there. You see: it’s in Liverpool. And I knew from the emails over the past 23 years and from the anonymous keyboard warriors of Twitter that were I to be seen in the city I would literally be in mortal danger. I am not exaggerating.
So how did I end up being such a hate figure for a city and a club that I (and the paper I edited) had nothing but warm thoughts about prior to that ghastly day at Hillsborough in April 1989? The trap was sprung on me when I was handed copy from a reputable news agency, Whites of Sheffield.
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