Saturday's Heroes - Skinheads, Sex and Football Violence!

by Joe Mitchell

  Up at the bar, it took Paul ages to get served. By the time the barman started ringing up his order on one of those fancy tills that tells you what drinks you've ordered, Madness' version of the old Prince Buster classic, One Step Beyond, was blasting out of the speakers. He turned around just in time to see Debbie and Carol hit the dancefloor, but his attention was quickly drawn away from the girls and towards the far end of the room.

  About a dozen skinheads had just arrived, but they were no friends of his. This lot were nothing more than bald punks in Paul's eyes, and their brand of Nazi politics did nothing for him. Of course, the baldies had Paul and his mates down as commies, but that wasn't the case at all. Every one of the Medway Skinhead Syndicate considered themselves patriotic and wouldn't have a word said against England. And to the MSS, sieg heiling and worshipping Adolf Hitler had sweet F.A. to do with being British and proud of it. Two World Wars and one World Cup, and you still had idiots backing the losing side.

  The scooterist standing next to Paul at the bar tapped him on the shoulder. "If it goes off, our lot will back you up no problem."

  "Cheers mate," Paul replied, but he was more concerned by what was happening on the dancefloor. It was clearing as quickly as it did that night someone put on a Duran Duran record as a joke, but this time nobody was laughing. Three of the MSS, Alan, Bill and Wayne, had gone over to the boneheads and it was obvious to all that words were being had.

  Paul caught Simon's eye and called him over. The young skinhead was told to take the drinks to the table and Paul walked across the now empty dancefloor to see what the score was.

  "We ain't after any trouble. We've just come for a night out," said one of the boneheads.

  "Yeah, well you make the place look untidy," said Alan. "And we don't want your sort here."

  By now the Joyriders' number one had come over to see if he could calm things down, but this dance wasn't big enough for both skinhead mobs. Not as far as the Syndicate boys were concerned anyway.

  "We paid to get in, nobody else wants us to leave and we're staying," said the same bonehead, who was obviously something of a leader of this little lot.

  "Either you walk back down those stairs or I'll personally throw you down them," said Wayne.

  "You think you're so fucking hard don't you?" said another baldy in black pilot jacket, combat trousers and knee high boots.

  Wayne did as it happens. By then the music had stopped and the noise of Wayne's forehead cracking into his face was the only sound to break the silence.

  Within seconds, the other MSS skins were steaming towards the boneheads, chanting "Syndicate! Syndicate! Syndicate!" and showering them in chairs, glasses and bottles.

  Number-wise the mobs were fairly even, but the Nazis didn't stand a chance. A few of them were handy enough and wanted to know, but they weren't a unit and it was every man for himself. In the opposite corner were the MSS, a football mob. They had stood and fought together since school, and had the master race on the retreat from the word go.

  One bonehead who had been decked by a flying chair was being kicked senseless by two of the MSS, and his mates weren't fairing much better. Three of them just didn't want to know and had made for the stairs, leaving their mates to take their share of the kicking. Paul had run into one, fists flying, and he didn't take a single hit in reply. Colin was the only one who looked like he'd met his match when a nasty piece of work started getting the better of him, but Big Trev soon tipped the balance the other way by smashing a glass into the bonehead's face.

  It was all over in a matter of minutes, as most rucks usually are. The bouncers had waited in the wings until it had quietened down before making a late entry in the peace stakes, but with their appearance the MSS moved away, taking up a position in the middle of the dancefloor. Not that the rival mob wanted to know any more. That boy on the floor wasn't even moving and was a certain candidate for an ambulance.

  The aggro had obviously sickened a lot of those present. Most had come out for a drink and a laugh, and nothing else. Several girls were crying, and to their amazement the MSS found themselves being shunned by those who stood around the edges of the dancefloor. People were blaming them for ruining what should have been a trouble-free night out. And one of those jeering the loudest was the very same scooterist who had offered his club's support up at the bar.

  Paul couldn't believe the reaction the MSS were getting. He just couldn't fucking believe it. He was certainly in no mood to apologise. When the voice through the speakers asked him and his mates to leave, and a cheer went up, that was about as much as he was going to take. The MSS "Syndicate!" chant went up again, and Paul started giving the two-faced scooterist hand signals to join him on the dancefloor. "Come on then, come on!" Paul shouted.

  He started moving towards the scooterist, but before he could reach him, Simon flew by and whacked the bastard in the face. Even little Simon was doing the fucking business! The crowd backed away, knocking a table and its drinks over as they did so. A few of those at the front got a slap for their troubles, but nobody wanted to know - not even the bouncers - and the power felt by a dozen members of the famous Medway Skinhead Syndicate was electrifying. For the next few minutes they ruled that club, and only an announcement that the police had been called ended their reign.

  With the old Millwall chant of "No one likes us!" to the tune of Rod Stewart's Sailing, the MSS bid farewell and headed down the stairs into the cold night air, but still the night's aggro wasn't over. As they stepped out of the club's doorway, they were greeted by a hail of bottles and stones. It might have been more threatening if every single missile hadn't fallen a hundred yards short, but the mugs throwing them were standing far too far away to hit their targets.

  A cry went up, and the MSS were soon running towards the boneheads at the top of the street. A few more bottles came flying, but the enemy was soon on its toes and heading off down a side street. And who could blame them? On another night, they might be lucky and turn the tables, but this time around they were backing a loser all the way.

  Four of five trendies came out of a chip shop to see what was happening, and when the MSS gave up the chase, they turned their attention to this little firm. They had no intention of running them, but a song at the very least was called for - just so they knew exactly who the victors were in the battle of the skinheads.

  "Stand! Stand! If you think you're the best,

  We are the famous MSS!

  And we don't give a fuck whoever you may be,

  For we are the famous GFC!"

  Believing discretion to be the better part of valour, the casuals disappeared back inside the chippy, leaving the skinhead choir to continue on its way. And that's when Paul saw Debbie and Carol getting into a taxi.

  Fuck, he'd forgotten all about them when the fight started. He shouted after them, but they either didn't hear him or didn't want to, because the door slammed shut and the taxi was off on its way.

  "Don't worry, Westy boy. There's plenty more fish in the sea," said Alan, putting his arm around his mate's shoulder.

  Paul laughed and acted as if he couldn't care less, but he knew fine well that he wasn't interested in anybody else. Not now he'd met the girl of his dreams. He just hoped that drink tomorrow night was still on the cards.

  * * *

  When the taxi pulled up at Debbie's house, the two girls scraped together the two quid fare and bid the driver goodnight. As they walked down the path, Debbie put her arm around Carol to guide her indoors. There were no lights on so her Mum and Dad must have gone to bed early.

  Once inside, Debbie made them a cup of tea each and they sat down at the kitchen table to drink it.

  "If I'd have known there was going to be trouble I wouldn't have gone," said Debbie, happier now that they were away from the club.

  "It wasn't your fault. I was having a great time until all the fighting started."

  "Just wait until I see Tony", Debbie said, pausing to suck on her cigarette. "Mind you, if he'd b
een there it would have been no different. He would have waded in with the others and then disappeared, leaving me to face the music. Did you hear what that scooter girl called me?"

  Carol laughed. Debbie was like an old mother hen, and her nineteen going on forty routine always put a smile on her face. "Do you think Paul will still come tomorrow?"

  "Not if he knows what's good for him he won't," replied Debbie, "But that's never stopped him before. Anyway, I thought you were meant to be getting married in a few months?"

  "Nothing wrong with having a final fling then is there?" Carol said as she picked up her mug of tea and took a long sip.

  * * *

  Paul lay on his bed, staring into space. It wasn't much of a room. An old single bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers, were the only sticks of furniture. One of the walls was covered in newspaper cuttings of bank holiday battles, football violence and other skinhead horror stories. Another had a poster of the Gillingham team on it, with a blue satin scarf pinned above it with the club's name on it - just in case somebody thought it was Everton or Chelsea.

  Not that anybody was likely to be in his room. The only people who came to his block of flats were the people who lived there, and Paul didn't want any of them visiting him. The only ones he had any time for were the old folk. In fact he felt sorry for the poor bastards who were condemned to spend the last years of their lives in this concrete hell-hole.

  The lift hadn't worked for as long as he could remember, and the stairways and landings were covered in graffiti, litter and dog shit. Worst of all though were the needles that the junkies left behind. To Paul, the druggies were scum, low life who deserved a slow and painful death. To him they were no better than the pushers, rapists and other assorted perverts who polluted today's society.

  The story went that the council didn't want to spend any money on the flats because they wanted to knock them down and build decent housing. Only they couldn't afford to bring in the demolition boys either. So the flats were left to those who couldn't get away and to the problem cases the council dumped there. It was hard enough being at the bottom of the housing ladder, but when they pull the ladder away, you just don't have a chance. Welcome to Alcatraz!

  All of a sudden, Paul could hear voices from beyond the flat's front door. He sat up quickly and reached out for his baseball bat. Most nights it was the same. Druggies going up and down the stairs, trying doors in the hope of finding one unlocked. You could hear the bastards turning your handle and pushing against the lock. It scared the shit out of Paul so God knows what it did to the old people living on their own.

  Less than a year ago, an old woman of 87 had been raped and beaten by an attacker or attackers who had broken into her flat in the afternoon. In broad daylight for fuck's sake. She had been found dead two weeks later by a social worker on a routine visit. Only the lowest of the low steal from their own kind, but it took the ultimate in scum to do something like that.

  Tonight, the druggies had given Paul's door a miss and he could hear them going down the stairwell, their voices fading as they went. It soon went quiet again, but Paul still couldn't sleep. His mind was working overtime and all he could think about was Carol.

  They had been getting on so well. If only those fucking Nazis hadn't turned up it would have been a different story. Thoughts like that were doing his head in, so he tried to focus on something else by flicking through the latest copy of Hard As Nails which had arrived yesterday morning. Usually this little skinhead fanzine kept him busy for ages, but he just wasn't in the mood. Even the Foxy Chick page received only a few seconds of his time.

  He put it back under his bed, switched off the light and closed his eyes. He ended up tossing and turning for the next few minutes, but the sandman caught up with him sooner rather than later, and within a quarter of an hour the only noise breaking the night's silence was his snoring.

  Chapter 3

  BY the time Paul walked into the pub, Tony, Debbie and Carol had already had a drink, and Tony was up at the bar buying another round. "Just in time, mate. A pint of best?"

  "Yeah, cheers mate," replied Paul. "How's your face?"

  "Sore!" laughed Tony, as he turned to show Paul the neat line of stitches running down his left cheek. "I had this stupid patch thing on it until this morning, but there was no way I was going out on the drink with that covering half me face."

  Tony paid for the drinks and the two skinheads walked over to where the girls were sitting. Paul was half expecting a roasting or at least a mention of the trouble on Saturday, but after the usual greetings the conversation turned to the more important subject of crisps and people's favourite flavours.

  It was as if the dance had gone off without incident. An hour or so later, when Debbie and Carol disappeared to the toilets together, Paul asked Tony if Debbie had told him about the aggro on Saturday night.

  "Told me? You'd have thought I'd started it the way she's been going on! Carol wasn't very impressed either from what Debs was saying."

  "What was the big problem? Debbie knows the score. What were we meant to do - buy them bastards drinks all night?"

  Tony saw the girls coming back. "Fuck knows, mate. Did you hear Simon has got himself a 50 Special?"

  The girls were back at the table and Paul took it that Tony's sudden change of conversation meant that it was best to shut up about the fight while they were there.

  For the next couple of hours, the four skinheads sat at the table, talking about this and that. Carol was a really good laugh, and Paul found himself falling head over heels in love with her. She was everything he ever wanted in a girl. Perfectly turned out in shirt, mini-skirt, fishnets and loafers, a really soft feather-cut, a great figure and those piercing blue eyes. So deep and blue you could almost swim in them.

  What with talk about Hull being by the coast and Bank Holiday beanos to the seaside, Debbie had a thought. "Why don't we all go to Folkestone tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow?" asked Tony, a bit surprised. "It's all right for you lot, but some of us have to work for a living!"

  "Take the day off. Phone in sick," suggested Debbie. "I'll ring up and say you've got the 'flu."

  "What do you reckon?" Tony asked Paul.

  Paul was between jobs as they say, and the idea of a full day spent in the company of Carol was right up his street. "Yeah, I'm up for it. Should be a laugh."

  "Okay, then. I'll pick Debbie and Carol up and meet you outside your flats about half nine. Howzat?"

  "Sounds good to me. To Folkestone it is!" said Paul, lifting his glass so that the others could toast their day out. All four glasses met over the table.

  "Right, we'd better finish these and get off home for our beauty sleep," said Debbie.

  "Speak for yourself!" replied Tony, a comment that earned him a kick in the shin from his better half.

  As they left the pub, Tony put his arm around Debbie and started walking off in front. It was a lot colder now and Carol shivered as she zipped up her Harrington.

  "Do you want my jacket?" asked Paul, who still believed that girls liked a bit of chivalry. Holding doors open, flowers, and all that.

  "No, it's okay," said Carol who chose to put her arm around Paul's waist instead and snuggle up to him for warmth. Paul put his arm around her shoulder, holding her tightly as they walked off behind the other couple.

  "Have you been to Folkestone before?" Carol asked.

  "Yeah, loads of times. I used to go there quite a bit in the Summer holidays when I was still at school. It's not quite Majorca, but at least they speak English!" Paul was picking up on the stories Debbie and Carol were telling earlier on about how they had first met.

  "I'd love to be there now," said Carol dreamily. "All that sun!"

  "Would you take me with you?" Paul asked, stopping and turning to look at her face to face.

  "Yeah, I would", came the coy reply. Their eyes met and as he held her gaze, Paul leant forward and kissed her. They kissed, lips to lips, and then again, this time with Paul's to
ngue inside Carol's mouth. His hands slid down her sides, brushing past her tits and down to her waist. Her's remained around his neck.

  "Come on you two!" shouted Tony, and for the first time the lovebirds realised they had an audience. They kissed again, then hand in hand, they started to catch up with Debbie and Tony.

  "You do know he's married with two kids, don't you?" Tony said to Carol, winking as he did so.

  They all laughed and continued on their way towards Debbie's house.

  The trip down to Folkestone was uneventful. The two boys sat in the front, the two girls in the back, and The Business' Suburban Rebels album provided the backing music courtesy of a tape in the car stereo. It might have been an old Vauxhall Viva that had seen better days, but Tony certainly hadn't settled for anything less than the best in in-car entertainment systems. In fact it was the best Mercedes had to offer. Or at least, the best the Mercedes that he'd nicked it out of had to offer anyway.

  They parked up in the big pay and display car park underneath Leas Cliff, and then crossed the road to the amusements. It was a bitter cold day, and since they had come out of season, not all the rides were operating. Still, it didn't stop them having a go at the crazy golf - which saw the girls claim victory despite the often dubious efforts of the blokes to win. Then they retired to the relative warmth of the arcade that shielded them from the cold winds coming in off the English Channel.

  "Are you going to play at Nigel Mansell all day?" Debbie asked Tony as he put more money into the sit-in racing car game.

  Paul and Carol were a few machines away, playing an arcade game called Track And Field which recreated all the excitement of the Olympic games. Well, that was the idea anyway. Paul had just recorded an 80m javelin throw when he heard Debbie complain.

  "Shall we go and get something to eat?" he called over. "All this exercise has given me an appetite."