I HAD PLANNED to watch my first live Grand National from the best seat in the great open air theatre, the BBC radio commentary box overlooking Beechers Brook.
Here racing's most famous obstacle and its most gripping spectacle would be seen close up. If ever a first date was going to click, then this was it.
The organisational intrigue that had gone into securing this most cherished of positions would have made Albert Speer green with envy, but then a few homegrown fascists decided to get their own spiteful spoke in.
"Operation Aintree, operation Aintree", said the public announcement. "Please evacuate all areas. You have got to take this seriously."
The first incredulous reaction on the course was to do anything but take it seriously. The Grand National had already had its share of world headlines with the 1993 void race. Surely it couldn't happen again?
"The delay won't take long", said one optimistic soul, but as the 60,000 crowd streamed from the stands and on to the infield it quickly became apparent that the Grand National had once again become a world focal point.
Once told to evacuate the commentary box, however, personal welfare became more of a priority. On the long hike back from Beechers towards the stands, some sections of the milling crowd made their frustration known.
"No surrender, no surrender, no surrender to the IRA" chanted a group of young men who were obviously under the influence. Another man, almost on the verge of tears, shouted: "My first National and it's f****** ruined by those Irish bastards."
They were isolated outbursts among the shuffling, teeming throng, but I didn't feel any urge to advertise my Irishness. Even when stopping to ask police where to go, or what to do, there was an irrational self consciousness and guilt about my accent.
The police were professional and courteous, but that guilt was a new and disturbing experience. It wasn't helped by the constant rumours of explosions, fuelled by the non stop wailing of ambulances and police sirens.
Disappointment and anxiety were etched on many faces as we trudged towards the exits.
Outside the racecourse, jockey Mick Fitzgerald, who Won the Grand National on Rough Quest last year, was among a large group of riders and trainers who waited on a residential street beyond the police cordon to see if the course would get the all clear so that people could return for their personal belongings. Shivering in his thin jockey's silks, Fitzgerald, who comes from Wexford, said: "If it is the IRA, I feel ashamed to be tarred with the same brush." He was not alone.
The jockeys found themselves busy signing autographs. Richard Dunwoody was offered cans of beer by the resident whose front wall he was sitting on.
The sense of disbelief persisted, but gradually more practical considerations came into focus. With 6,000 cars penned in for the night, Liverpool was about to be overrun by people desperate for accommodation. Aintree railway station resembled a mini Dunkirk as huge queues developed for the trains which would take us into the city.
One enterprising soul bought about 20 tickets and stood before the ticket box selling them off at double the usual price. He made a very quick profit.
The fortunate managed to secure accommodation, but many had to rely on their wits and their resilience to find a place to sleep. Thankfully, resilience quickly made what was a disturbing day more tolerable, but wit also played its part. One English trainer told his Irish jockey not to worry about bombs.
"They would never have gone off," he said. When asked why, he grinned: "Because there's too many of you f****** over here!"
