Tragedy of the Bradford fire tore my dad apart mentally
ON SATURDAY, May 11, 1985, we already knew Bradford City would be crowned Division Three champions before the final game of the season even began. My dad, former Wales footballing legend Terry Yorath, was assistant manager. The whole day was set up for celebration.
Then 12, I was at the game with my sister Louise, 11, and my brother Daniel, eight. Just before half-time, my mum Christine made her usual early exit to the bar in the players’ lounge. ‘Do you want to come now, or wait until half-time?’ she asked us.
Half-time was only four minutes away when we made one of the most important decisions of our young lives. ‘We’ll come now,’ we said.
Our lemonades had been poured when a man ran in from the direction of the stand we had just departed. ‘The stand is on fire,’ he shouted. ‘Get out!’ Barely anyone moved. ‘It’s on bloody fire – get out!’
Now there was movement – a frantic rush of people to the door that led to the back of the ground. Finally, it was opened and dozens of us spilled out on to the street.
From the window of the pub we’d been sent to, we could see 40ft flames rising from the stand we had been sitting in, while the TV showed us what was happening inside the ground: the panic and carnage as people ran for their lives.
Fifty-six people died that day, and many more were seriously injured. Some families lost relatives from three generations in a single day.
We were a very lucky family. Dad cut his leg jumping out of the window of a bar that was below street level. He’d been helping to clear it of guests. But that cut was the only physical injury sustained by any of us.
Mentally, I cannot tell you how deeply that day has impacted his health, but I think it probably played a role in his slide into heavy drinking and mood swings.
On the day itself, he saw things he has since said he can never unsee. He looked back when a police officer warned him not to. He went to dozens of funerals in the weeks after the fire. After my brother Daniel’s death at the age of 15 in 1992, seven years later, it became clear that the old version of my dad was not coming back.
He was increasingly showing a different face to the world from the one we saw. I was always being told by complete strangers what a lovely man he was.
The guy who lived in our family home wasn’t always that way. He started to drink a lot more than usual and then fall asleep on the sofa, or get shouty with everyone before stomping off to bed.
Eventually, in 2003, after years of arguments and bust-ups with mum, my dad moved out of the family home around the time of my 30th birthday. Dad drifted from our lives. He rarely rang or returned our calls. I have owned houses he’s never visited and had boyfriends he never met.
Just before Christmas last year, dad agreed to come and see us for the first time in five years. When I say ‘agreed’, I mean I really had to persuade him.
‘But what would I do?’ he asked. ‘Er, hang out and have a nice dinner with your grandchildren,’ I suggested.
The day before he was due to come, he contracted a ‘touch of Covid’. My brother Jordan rang to tell me, and we both treated the diagnosis with suspicion.
Dad was obviously not comfortable about coming to see us, and all the therapy in the world doesn’t allow me to be happy with that.
I know it’s not my fault that his life has been dominated by drink for so long, but I also miss having a dad. When I see friends’ dads coming to watch kids play sport, or hang out with their families ‘just because’, it’s hard not to feel a pang of envy. I have nothing but love for my dad and respect for the trials and tribulations he has been through.
For a few years, I sought the company of not very appropriate older men. You don’t need to be Freud to work that one out, and thank God I am happily married to a good, normal bloke who isn’t an addict – so hurrah to me.
Many years later, before having my own children, I did something I would strongly recommend to anyone considering reproducing: I had a lot of therapy. You might not need as much as I did.
I was able to process a lot of what happened to me as a kid, including the fire, the unravelling of my parents’ marriage and the changing shape of our family.
Asking for help was not weakness. It was the route to strength. Having a better understanding of my family put me in a healthier position from which to start my own.
©Gabby Logan, 2022
The First Half, by Gabby Logan, is published by Piatkus on Thursday at £20. To order a copy for £18, go to mailshop. co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937 before October 22. Free UK delivery on orders over £20.