by Joe Mitchell
He shoved an album from his Tighten Up box set on to his turntable, and lay back on his bed, listening to Joya Landis singing Angel Of The Morning and thinking of his angel of a few nights before. The memory of her on top of him, naked, moving up and down as he handled her tits and kissed them, was enough to give him an instant erection. Christ, what he'd give to have her in his room now, or over the park, or even in the cinema in Folkestone. Even a re-run of this morning at Debbie's house would be Paul's idea of heaven.
He had arrived at about twenty past eleven to find Carol in the house alone. Debbie and her parents were out at work, and the taxi to the train station had been booked for midday. That left them half an hour alone, and as soon as he'd walked through the front door, Carol had left him in no doubt what she wanted.
They had kissed and fondled in the hall, before Carol had led him through to the front room. There, she allowed his hands to go up her skirt, feeling her arse and her fanny as they did so. She was busy herself, undoing his jeans so that she could free his dick. Then they had gone over to the settee, and with her sitting on the edge and Paul kneeling down, they had made love. Something the old settee was used to if Tony's stories about late night sessions while Debbie's parents were in bed were anything to go by.
His Mum knocking on his door interrupted his thoughts. "I'm off to bed Paul, good night."
"Yeah, night Mum!"
Getting up off his bed, he went over to his record player and turned down the music. Then moving over to his window sill, he picked up a pen and notepad. He knew he had told Carol to write first, but he couldn't wait to tell this girl how much she meant to him. And if he couldn't see her in the flesh or talk to her on the 'phone, then he would have to rely on good old Royal Mail to reach her heart.
Writing down his thoughts didn't come naturally to Paul, but he did his best to let her know how much he'd enjoyed being with her and how he was determined to get up to Hull as soon as possible. As he wrote, he had a horrible feeling in his stomach, a feeling any person will know if they've been separated from a loved one for any length of time. A sort of mixture between aching for their company and a nagging belief that they might be having the time of their lives while you were out of sight, out of mind.
He surprised himself by filling six pages and closed by telling her to write soon. As he sealed the envelope, he wondered if he'd come over too heavy, but decided he hadn't. Some people were made for each other, and he knew that was the case with him and Carol. And if he didn't tell her exactly how he felt, how the fuck would she ever know?
* * *
Tony was just getting into the bath when his brother had shouted up the stairs that Debbie was on the 'phone. Pulling a towel around his waist, he unlocked the door and went down to talk to her. "Alright, Debs."
"Yeah, I'm fine. That's Carol just phoned to say she got back okay."
"Good," he replied. He knew exactly what was coming next too.
"So are you going to tell Paul about her being engaged to be married?"
"Course I ain't! I told you before, he'll soon forget about her once some other bird comes along, you just wait and see!"
Debbie obviously wasn't so sure. Somehow she felt responsible for all of Tony's mates, making sure they all got home after a night on the tiles, that sort of thing. And she felt especially concerned for Paul because it was her who had introduced him to Carol without mentioning she was spoken for. "And that's why he was telling Billy and Alan he was thinking of moving to Hull was it?"
"Look, that's just talk. Paul wouldn't leave the Medway Towns. He had a good time with Carol and that'll be it."
"Well, just remember who he's going to blame if he gets hurt," Debbie said, pouring on the emotional pressure. "He's not going to be too pleased when he finds out his best friend wasn't looking out for him."
"Okay, okay," said Tony, giving in to his better half. "I'll have a word with him at football on Saturday and see what he says. Now, is there any chance of me having my bath now?"
"Oh, no!" screamed Debbie with mock hysteria. "Don't tell me I forgot your birthday!"
"Very funny, Debbie. Now piss off and let me have me bath in peace."
"Okay, babe. Nighty-night. And don't let the bed bugs bite!"
Tony said goodnight and put the receiver down. As he walked back up the stairs, he was thinking about Paul and Carol. And especially Carol. Tony had ended up giving her one on Debbie's settee the last time she was down from Hull for a weekend.
All three of them had spent a warm Saturday afternoon drinking, Debbie had gone upstairs to lay down because she was feeling a bit sick, and with Debbie's parents out for the day, one thing had led to another. It was all over in a matter of minutes, and had never been mentioned since. Which was just as well really, because if Debbie ever found out he'd be dead meat.
One thing was for sure. He knew exactly what Paul was missing out on now that Carol was back in Hull. Even at sixteen, inexperienced she wasn't, and less than a year on he was certain she'd have given Paul value for his money.
Rochester market was always busy. Its tightly packed stalls meant you could hardly move come eleven o'clock. Alan's father had a stall at the top end of the market, selling mainly leather jackets and coats. Paul had actually bought his first crombie off this stall before he had even met Alan. Fourteen quid it had cost him, a bargain at twice the price.
"Did you hear about Woody?" Alan said as he returned from the catering van with cups of tea for his old man, himself and Paul.
"No, I ain't seen him for ages," replied Paul.
"No wonder. He only sent photos of his bird into Knave for the readers' wives page!"
"Don't tell me they printed them," said Paul, grinning as he shook his head.
"Too right they did. Funny thing is though, the first Sally knew about it was when her old boy opened his copy and saw his daughter standing there with her tits out!"
"For fuck's sake!" Paul exclaimed. "Her Dad'll fuckin' murder Woody if he gets hold of him. And I bet Sally ain't too pleased with him either!"
By now Alan was helping a customer try on a full-length black leather coat, but it didn't stop him chatting away. "That's why we ain't seen Woody. He's gone into hiding! He was on the phone to me and all he could say was, 'Still, I got twenty quid for it'!"
"That kid's a bloody idiot," Alan's Dad said, as he went to the other end of the stall to see if he could do some business with a young lady looking at the suede jackets. "Best on the market, love!" he called out as he headed towards her.
"I better pick up a copy on my way home to see what all the fuss is about!" Paul joked, as Alan pocketed the thirty-five quid from the sale.
"Well, Sally is a big girl so you won't be disappointed!"
"Oi! Paul," Alan's Dad shouted over, "Go into the back of the van and see if we've got any black suede jackets, size 12!"
"Yeah, no problem," Paul replied, knowing that a size 14 on a coat hanger labelled size 12 would do just as well if they didn't. The trick in this game was whatever size the customer asked for was the one you had on the van.
Chapter 7
BY the time the boys had changed trains at Manchester and waited for their connection, time was getting on. They arrived at Bolton station just before three o'clock, and after getting directions off an old boy in the street outside, they made their way to the ground.
Luckily it was a 3.15pm kick-off and they arrived at the turnstiles with a few minutes to spare. In the end, and thanks to a lot of arm-twisting from Tony, eight Syndicate members had made the trip. Tony, Paul, Big Trev, Alan, Billy, Bobby, Wayne, and Simon, who had decided to go whether his father liked it or not. And they looked the part too, all dressed in jeans, green flight jackets and cherry red DM boots.
Bolton Wanderers were once one of the biggest names in English football and their big ground showed traces of their former glory. But now the club languished in the Third Division, the crowds had dwindled, and the team they now sent out on a Saturday afternoon showed lit
tle sign of bringing back the good times. In fact there was every chance that the Gills would go home with at least a point from this fixture, and probably all three like they did last season.
Gillingham fans had been allocated just a corner of the ground, which meant the latecomers had to walk the length of a deserted terrace, populated by just one or two bobbies, to reach it.
As the skinheads made their way across the terracing they were like sitting ducks to the noise merchants in the home end. Chants of "Who the fucking hell are you?" were quickly followed by "You're going home in a Lancashire ambulance!"
"Very original!" Billy shouted back at the top of his voice, but they wouldn't have heard him. The 300 or so Gillingham fans already in the cramped corner made up for it though with chants of "Wankashire! La-la-la! Wankashire! La-la-la!"
By the time the skinheads had made their way to the heart of the Gillingham support, Big Trev had started off another barrage of chanting. "Ooh-aah, ooh to be, ooh to be a Southerner!" were the words being hurled over the fence in the direction of the great unwashed of Bolton.
The first-half was pretty mediocre - not that you expected Brazilian skills in the Third. Most of the excitement had been generated on the terraces, with Bolton's fifty strong younger mob baying at the Gillingham fans through the fence and the Gills faithful hurling abuse back at them, with a favourite taunts being "Back to school, boys!" and "Have you seen a ten pound note!", accompanied by the waving of banknotes just to rub it in.
"Fancy a pie?" Paul asked Tony as the ref blew for half-time, and with a nodded reply they both made their way to the tiny stall selling out of date Wagon Wheels and the like. As it happened the pies had sold out before their turn came, which was probably just as well judging by the complaints about them being cold in the middle from those who had been unfortunate enough to pay good money for them.
Mind you, eating anything from an away end stall was dodgy to say the least. Paul knew a bloke who ritually pissed into the tea urn at a certain dog track before every meeting, so you could imagine what the likes of pasties and Bovril go through at away ends up and down the country.
As they walked back to their mates with a Mars bar each, Tony asked Paul if he was going to see Carol again.
"Yeah, if all goes to plan. I'm going to see if I can get some work up her way and see how it goes from there."
"If I was you, mate, I'd forget all about her. Get yourself a nice bit of Southern skirt."
It was said half-jokingly, but Paul sensed that Tony knew something he didn't. "Why do you say that?" he said.
"No reason really," answered Tony. "I just don't think you should throw your life away on a bird you hardly know, that's all."
The subject was dropped, but it left a nagging feeling in the back of Paul's mind that maybe Debbie had said something. Or maybe it was just Tony, not wanting to see a good mate disappear up north, never to be seen again. God knows he had enough trouble trying to hold the mob together without them disappearing at the first sign of a bit of the other.
Ten minutes into the second half and Gillingham went a goal up. Bolton managed to equalise, but minutes later the Gills were in front again thanks to a Dave Shearer header. He had only been at the club since July, but was already a firm favourite with the Gillingham fans.
It was enough to win them the game and for the last half hour the Gillingham end celebrated another three points towards promotion. Bolton's performance was well below par for a home team and their fans vented their anger and disappointment at the party animals over in the corner. Chants of "You're gonna get your fucking heads kicked in!" echoed around Burnden Park.
Come the final whistle, Gillingham's jubilant support was kept behind to allow the home fans to disperse. Or to take up their battle positions as the case may be. When the gates were finally opened, mounted policemen greeted the Gills fans, but only escorted them the length of the away end and on to the main road. Then they abandoned the Gillingham fans to find their own way home.
The MSS had joined up with about 25 other lads who were looking for a bit of aggro before heading for the train. And they didn't take long to find it either. Just three hundred yards from the ground, about 30 Bolton under-fives came out of a side street and charged the Gillingham fans.
The Gillingham mob stood its ground with ease and were soon furiously fighting away with the Wanderers fans. Running battles across the main road were interrupted only by respect for the damage the passing cars could do. Even so, one young Bolton casual got knocked over and was soon set upon by four or five Gillingham fans, including Wayne, as he lay on the road. Elsewhere fists and feet were flying, as the rival mobs fought for control of the street.
Then half a dozen motors came racing down the same side street and emptied their human contents into the thick of the action. These boys were bigger and older, and obviously Bolton's top lads. Some carried pickaxe handles, others baseball bats, as they started to turn the tide against those trespassing on their turf.
Paul, Big Trev and Alan were standing together when two of the weapon-wielding arrivals charged into them. A baseball bat caught Trevor smack in the face despite his vain attempts to stop it with his arms. If Alan hadn't backed him up at that crucial moment he would no doubt have ended up in hospital. Paul had managed to avoid the flailing half snooker cue being waved in front of him, and had even managed to force the bastard back before the sound of sirens speeding towards the battling youths ended the party.
By the time the plods had arrived it was all over. Only the odd abandoned weapon and the state of some of the Gillingham fans provided any evidence that a public order offence had been committed. One of the Gillingham fans was wandering around aimlessly, his ski-jacket ripped to shreds and his nose bleeding badly. He had obviously taken a severe kicking, but apart from Trev, the MSS had come out of the ruck relatively unharmed.
Everyone was buzzing as they made their way further down the road. Amazingly the police made no effort to provide an escort for the Gillingham rowdies and once again left them to fend for themselves.
With the adrenaline flowing, everyone wanted more action. As they walked through a bus station, Tony produced a tin of aerosol paint spray from his jacket pocket, and wrote MSS - WE ARE FUCKING EVERYWHERE! in foot high letters on the wall beneath the timetables. As he did so, a shout went up as some Gillingham fans spotted some Bolton casuals on the top deck of a stationary bus.
A dozen or more steamed on to it, much to the horror of the ordinary passengers, and charged up the stairs. There were only five casuals to be found and they took a severe hiding off the invaders. Within fifteen or twenty seconds it was all over, and as proof of their victory, one of the casuals was dragged screaming and kicking down the stairs and given another beating outside. Big Trev was straight over to put the boot in as pay back for his aching face.
Scared shoppers just looked on helplessly, as the poor kid was kicked senseless. Other Gillingham fans were now rampaging all over the bus station, looking for Bolton fans to punish. Even scarfers were getting hit for being in the wrong place at the right time.
Alan, meanwhile, had found two scruffy bastards who had obviously been selling Socialist Worker to the good people of Bolton. Judging by the number of copies they were still carrying, they hadn't found many buyers either.
"What do you mean, troops out?" demanded Alan, as he pointed to the front page headline. "Troops out of where?"
"Troops out of Ireland," came the reply.
"You people make me sick with your fucking student politics!" Alan said, giving the biggest one a slap around the head. "Socialist worker? Your sort don't know what working is, let alone socialism! Fucking middle class tosser!"
"Leave him alone you fascist bastard!" screamed the little one. From her appearance you would never have guessed it was a girl, but her voice gave the game away.
"Who you calling a fascist?" said Paul, as the rest of the MSS descended on the hapless newspaper sellers. He grabbed at the bloke's 'papers and
threw them into the air. "Who's a fucking fascist?" he screamed, his face now about an inch away from the bigger Socialist Worker.
"All skinheads are fascist. And if you're not a fascist, you shouldn't dress up as one." You had to hand it to him, the bloke had bottle. Either that or he was heavily under the influence of glue.
"Fuck you dickhead! What do you know about skinheads? What do you know about anything? Fucking textbook communists, that's all you cunts are."
"Communism isn't . . . " The wannabe revolutionary didn't have time to finish his sentence. Paul nutted him in the face, knocking him backwards.
"Don't give me any of your bullshit, you useless piece of shit!" Paul shouted as the female Socialist Worker screamed at him to leave her partner alone.
Paul turned to walk away, kicking at the 'papers now littering the floor. The other skinheads followed behind him, leaving Simon to add insult to injury. "If you had a bath love I might be interested in giving you one!"
"When your balls drop I'll let my dog know!" she shouted as she started to pick up the scattered newspapers.
A jobsworth had obviously called the police because the Medway skinheads hadn't even left the bus station when two riot vans pulled up. By now the other Gillingham fans were well away from the scene, and so the police's attention naturally focused on the strangers with shaven heads.
"What are you up to then, lads?" asked a police officer with a couple of stripes on the arm of his jacket. Big bloke he was too.
"Nothing, sir," said Big Trev with all the conviction of a choirboy. "We were looking for the train station."
"Well, you won't find it here will you," the burly officer replied. "Those big things with wheels are called buses."
The Syndicate had finally found themselves an escort out of town, and for the five minute stroll to Bolton railway station, they were accompanied by three PCs and a policewoman. Just as well really because this thin blue line was all that was keeping at bay the 50 strong Bolton mob that was hanging around the road junction that led to the station. Paul gave them a wave as he turned the corner, and that was the last they would see of Bolton for another season at least.
