May 26th, 2025, was supposed to be the culmination of what had been a phenomenal season for Liverpool. For the majority of the 1.5 million fans descending upon the city for the open-top parade that day, it was the let-off we dreamed of. It was our moment.
For those who celebrated on Water Street, however, the day was marred by scenes of an unfathomable nature.
As someone working for Flashscore and a Liverpool fan for as far back as I can remember, when the opportunity to cover a Premier League title parade came around, there wasn’t a second of hesitation in my mind. I was going. Nothing was stopping me.
My day started early. A flight up to Manchester and a train to Lime Street Station for 9 am. Despite the grim overcast weather, the city was already in carnival spirits. Scarves, flags and bucket hats as far as the eye could see. I rendezvoused with fellow Flashscore contributors Lukas and Ste, Ste’s partner and her friend, before heading out for the day.
The plan was simple: Get a bite to eat, grab a drink, wait for my friend Jack to arrive, get to the Liver Building, lose our voices singing and just enjoy the best day of the year.
For Jack, however, the plan was already falling apart. He was struggling to make it to Merseyside, having been caught up in the chaos of cancelled trains and an overpopulated Birmingham New Street station.
My attempts to help him remotely were foiled by phone tower overcrowding. It was an issue which would only get worse as the day progressed. Eventually, I told him to take a taxi. "It was more than a day’s pay, but less than a week’s worth," he would coyly reveal later on.
At around 2 pm, we started to see waves of people appearing en masse at the Liver Building. Trains were arriving, the fans were disembarking, and then taking the 15-minute walk straight towards us.
Before we knew it, the concept of personal space had evaporated, and we were still roughly three-and-a-half hours away from the bus procession reaching us. At one stage, things were so bad that I was being pressed up against a wall and struggling to push people back for breathing space.
Was it worse than some concerts and festivals I’ve been to over the years? In retrospect, probably not, but having heard the countless horror stories of Hillsborough over the years, it’s easy to start thinking dark thoughts in that situation.
Eventually, through the world’s most elaborate game of telephone, word got to us that the police had closed off the road. A late, but appreciated action nonetheless. Over time, the crowd slowly spilt back onto the Strand and space on Water Street dissipated a touch.
Somehow, as if by some miracle, my phone had picked up a whiff of signal for a fleeting moment - Jack had made it. He was nearby, but it was impossible to get to us given the crowd density.
An hour to go. The crowd boos as an Evertonian waves a bright blue kit in his apartment window.
30 minutes to go. A smoke bomb has now been thrown on the Evertonian’s window ledge, blocking his view of what success looks like.
10 minutes to go. A wave of fireworks are set off. The atmosphere is at fever pitch.
And then… The moment: Fireworks. Pyro. Confetti. The crowd roars. The bassline of Calvin Harris’ DJ set gets louder. This is what the whole season has built towards.
A red smoke cloud engulfs the area. I can see the bus… I think. It’s just a rough outline. That’s Harvey Elliott’s shadow! It’s gone. The show’s over. Until next time, whenever that may be.
The crowd turns around and slowly heads back to where they came. My phone buzzes, and I’m greeted with the photo of a familiar face. Somehow, both Jack and I have signal now. "Hiya!" he exclaimed in a very cheery mood. "Where are you? Same place as before?"
As we wait for Jack to make his way over, Ste’s partner and her friend decide to meet us back at the flat, then head down Water Street. This leaves the lads in the group discussing what they were able to see of the parade while my eyes are busy darting through the crowd, trying to spot him.
As I glance down Water Street, I see people screaming in terror and running away from what looked like a street brawl from our vantage point. There’s a giant congregation of people and arms flailing around. "Oh, for the love of… Well, that’s going to be the headline," I remember thinking to myself.
"A small group of people can’t handle a drink, and we all get tarred with the same brush in the press." Then I saw the car. What’s that doing there? The road’s been closed off.
Two women, both panting for breath, stop at the corner.
"A car just ploughed through the crowd!"
They tell us what has happened with as much confusion as we had. As that happens, an ill-timed firework is let off. The boom reverberates off the surrounding buildings. Someone running past instinctively yells, "GUNSHOT!" and now everyone is panicking.
Everything feels like it’s in slow motion, yet paradoxically too fast to comprehend. The sound disappears, leaving only the deep pounding of my heartbeat as it tries to break free from my chest.
Ste charges straight towards the chaos. "I’m going to get the girls!" That leaves both Lukas and me hunkered down at the corner, hoping to regroup as quickly as possible. Police officers run past, then another wave, and another. "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
I start calling Jack. No answer. I try again. No answer. Again and again and again, each attempt with more desperation than the last.
He picks up. "I see you."
The cheer in his voice from just a few minutes ago is completely absent. Our eyes lock from across the street. As he crosses the road, I notice that he looks pale; there’s no spark there. He tells us he was just three metres away from the car when it stopped.
My first instinct was to get us moving down the street, but then it all started to dawn on me. If the timings had been any different, things could have been so much worse. I could have lost him. I stop, turn around and give him the biggest bear hug I think I’ve ever given anyone.
As we carry on walking, I pull out my phone. 'Terrorist attack. I’m safe.' – One tick, two ticks. The message lands in the family group chat, then gets forwarded to my girlfriend.
At that stage, we were none the wiser as to the cause, motives or official incident definition, but it felt like the logical thing to send. The shorthand way of explaining that this day had become a nightmare.
I turn to the lads: "We’ve got to get back to the flat before they lock this all down." The three of us head the wrong way down the Strand, hoping to distance ourselves from the chaos before doubling back on ourselves further up.
We nip into a side street and find ourselves in the middle of a cheerful crowd of fans, completely oblivious to the horrors of just a few streets over. The extreme shift in tone is jarring.
We eventually get clear of the crowd and head down Castle Street, where we find ourselves at the start of the police cordon. Suddenly, we’re back amongst the chaos. People are stumbling around in a daze, there’s a pushchair left abandoned, and a man is optimistically blotting his head with tissues, even though he’s got a gash that appears to go down to the skull.
As we try to figure out which routes aren’t completely closed off to us, I hear my name. It’s Ste, and he’s got the girls with him. Everyone is safe.
We navigate what feels like a near infinite number of alleys and side streets to evade the quickly established cordons, until we eventually find ourselves in Ste’s living room. Shoes off, kettle on, everyone into the living room, news channel on the TV.
We’re greeted with live footage coming from the camera crew on the Pier Head. Now things are starting to turn surreal. We were standing right THERE. Right where the camera is pointing. None of this is making any sense.
The empty street looked eerie as police tape flapped in the breeze and litter was strewn all over the road, a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere just an hour before. The silence in the room is occasionally broken by an update from someone doomscrolling social media for answers.
There’s a video taken from a window, then another one from ground level. There’s one with the car windows all smashed. The same few videos are repeated again and again in the feed.
Reports start to come through that the police are saying he’s White British from the area. "I could’ve told you that. His eyes were as wide as saucers as he was pulled from the car," said Ste.
After we all have a moment to collect ourselves, step outside and call loved ones, I suggested going out for food. We had a table reservation across town, so it would be good to get some fresh air and take our minds off things.
As we headed outside and past the police cordon on Dale Street (leading on to Water Street), a sense of silence filled the air as blue flashing lights illuminated the area. At this stage, we had no idea of the number of victims or any death count, but flowers were starting to appear.
On the next street over, however, a group of lads in Liverpool shirts were belting out the Federico Chiesa chant at full pelt. Were they aware, or were they just like us, trying to find a highlight in a day which had turned sour?
Six months on, and we now know the full story. There were no ‘terrorists’, just a man who had a disturbingly severe lapse of judgment. It’s one which will see him live behind bars for at least the next 14 years.
Looking back, it’s hard to think about that day for footballing reasons. With the way the parade day concluded, and the unfortunate passing of Diogo Jota shortly after, it has left a dark, heavy weight on that period of time. Recent results haven’t helped things, but I’m hopeful that there will be more parades in the near future.
When they do happen, you’d best believe that I’ll be there again. Ready to see the boys lift the big shiny thing. To see the confetti falling from the heavens again and hear the roar of the fans once more.