We were back at Anfield and Shanks was up to his old tricks. As the United party made their way down the corridor to the away changing room, he appeared from his office. ‘Guess what, boys?’ he said, brandishing a little orange ticket. ‘I’ve had a go on the tickets that give the time when the away team will score. And it says here, in a fortnight!’ With that, he disappeared back into his office.

We lost that encounter 2-0 and after the game I was chatting to Liverpool’s Ray Clemence, who revealed to me another piece of Shankly kidology.

Prior to the game, Shankly had received the United team sheet and he incorporated it into his team talk. His intention was to run us down and, in so doing, boost the confidence of his own players. ‘Alex Stepney,’ Shanks began. ‘A flapper of a goalkeeper. Hands like a Teflon frying pan – non-stick. Right back, Shay Brennan. Slow on the turn, give him a roasting. Left back is Tony Dunne. Even slower than Brennan. He goes on an overlap at twenty past three and doesn’t come back until a quarter to four. Right half, Nobby Stiles. A dirty little -beep-. Kick him twice as hard as he kicks you and you’ll have no trouble with him.’

‘Bill Foulkes, a big, cumbersome centre half who can’t direct his headers. He had a head like a sheriff’s badge, so play on him. Paddy Crerand. Slower than steam rising off a dog turd. You’ll bypass him easily.’ The Liverpool players felt as if they were growing in stature with his every word. ‘David Sadler,’ Shanks continued. ‘Wouldn’t get a place in our reserves. And finally, John Aston. A chicken, hit him once and you’ll never hear from him again. As the manager finished his demolition job on United, Emlyn Hughes raised his hand. ‘That’s all very well, boss,’ he said, ‘but you haven’t mentioned George Best, Denis Law or Bobby Charlton.’ Shanks turned on him. ‘You mean to tell me we can’t beat a team that has only three players in it?’ he said, glowering.