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

by Joe Mitchell

  If Paul was to make it to Hull in double quick time, then he'd have to get involved in some of the fiddles. Tonight though, all that he found to put a smile on his dial was a couple of blokes dropping cartons of eggs on to the floor.

  "What the fuck are you two up to?" he asked.

  "Oh, some bastard hasn't been rotating the stock and so the day shift has been taking fresh eggs from the front," said the older of the two men. "These ones at the back have been out of date for weeks, and the boss wants us to get rid of them before the day manager arrives and blames us for the cock-up."

  "After all," added the other man, "accidents will happen!" And with that he sent another box containing nearly three hundred eggs crashing to the floor.

  Talking to Paul, he then said, "Tell you what. You give Arthur a hand with this and I'll go and get the mops so we can get this little lot cleaned up."

  Paul just laughed and joined in the fun. It would have been easier just shoving the boxes straight into the waste skips, but then again they had the time to kill and so might as well have some fun . . .

  That night, Paul thought that working there might be a lot better than he'd imagined, but by the following Friday he was brought back to Earth with an almighty bump. He turned up for the night shift at ten o'clock as usual, only to find that he was out of a job. The store manager had sacked half the night crew, including the union rep, and Paul's name was on the list of losers.

  Most of those sacked were young men, regardless of whether they were doing a good job or not. In fact, two of the old cows who had kept their jobs were so lazy everyone called them the walking dead. Obviously, someone had found out about all the stuff going missing and had decided to sack everyone who was a likely suspect. What's more, Paul and the others could do nothing about it. Everyone was on short-term contracts anyway and that meant zero rights.

  A couple of the blokes had young families to support and were naturally enough doing their nuts. Only a couple of security guards were standing between them and their vocalised desire to kick the store manager's fucking head in. But Paul just left them to it and walked away towards the town centre.

  It was a good three mile walk from Saveshop to the train station, and the light drizzle wasn't making it any more enjoyable as he made his way along the grass verge that ran alongside the dual carriageway. He could have hung about and got a lift off of somebody, but he had enough problems of his own without having to listen to others moaning.

  The only light came from the overhead street lamps, and the only noise from the occasional passing car, but that suited Paul fine. He had a lot of thinking to do and was glad that none of the others had decided to cut their losses and join him on his long walk.

  He might not have had a wife and kids to worry about, but things weren't exactly going too well on the domestic front for Paul either. Carol had been back in Hull for two weeks and he hadn't heard so much as a word from her.

  Every day had been the same. Home from work around seven in the morning, then a quick bite of breakfast, and then the twenty minute wait for the postman to call before getting some kip. Every morning, he'd waited to hear the sound of his letter box opening and the sound of letters coming through, and every morning he had rushed out to the hallway to be disappointed. All he ever brought back to the kitchen table was bills, more bills and junk mail. "Congratulations Mrs. West - you may have already won £50,000!" Yeah, and Deputy Dawg has been elected President of America.

  Paul had given Debbie a bell to find out if anything was wrong, but all she had heard was that Carol got back okay and that was it. He had also told Debbie that he had written to Carol, but what he didn't say was that he'd now written four times. And still no word back.

  Loads of thoughts crossed his mind. Maybe she was really busy at work and hadn't had the chance to reply. Or maybe her parents had found one or more of his letters and were giving her a hard time. Or maybe she just wasn't much of a letter writer.

  The one thing he refused to believe was that she didn't want to know to him. They might have only been together a short while, but he knew that it had meant something to her, just like it did to him.

  The sudden blare of a car's horn caused Paul to almost jump out of his skin. "Up the workers!" shouted Roland, leaning out of the passenger door window as he sped by in one of the other lad's cars. Paul just lifted his hand in recognition and watched as the car negotiated the roundabout ahead without the slightest trace of brake lights coming on.

  Paul's thoughts quickly returned to Carol. Why the fuck hasn't the stupid bitch written?

  Chapter 9

  FOR the second Saturday in a row, Paul couldn't be bothered with going to the game. Last Saturday, the Gills were away again at Bradford City, but after working a hectic shift Friday night there was no way he could face the long trip to Yorkshire, even if they were top of the table. Plus a long trip north would have meant putting no money by for Hull.

  This Saturday, Gillingham were at home to Bristol City, but what with getting the sack and still no word from Carol, he wasn't in the mood for going anywhere. He hadn't even heard from the others since Tony had left him at the hospital. In fact, since the game at Bolton, the only person he'd seen was little Simon who came to see him after school one day to see how he was doing. So much for all mates together and all that. lf that's what the Syndicate had become then he was better off out of it.

  When the doorbell rang at just after midday, Paul was still lying in his bed, half sleeping, half thinking about Carol. His Mum answered it, and he recognised Trev's voice from the hallway.

  "Paul?" called his Mum through the closed bedroom door. "It's Trevor to see you."

  "Yeah, I'll be out in a minute!" he called back, before getting out of bed and pulling on a pair of jeans that had been on a heap on the floor since the previous night.

  After taking a piss and having a quick wash, Paul found his Mum and Trev having a cup of tea in the kitchen.

  "Alright mate," Trev said when he saw his friend appear in the doorway. "Your Mum just told me you got the sack last night! I didn't even know you'd got a job!"

  "Yeah, stupid bastards! I was starting to get used to working nights as well."

  "Well, you'1l just have to see what's down the Jobcentre on Monday," said his Mum as only Mums can.

  "Yeah, me and the other three million on the scrap heap!"

  "Anyway, you coming to the game today?" Trev asked, changing the subject.

  "Yeah, might as well," Paul replied.

  It was good to see Trev again and going to the game would let him forget about his problems, for ninety minutes anyway. "Give me ten minutes and I'll be ready."

  Bristol City had been relegated to the Third Division just the season before and were really too big a club to be stuck in the backwaters of football, and their form said as much. With both them and the Gill still in the promotion hunt, it looked like being a good game and a decent sized crowd was expected.

  As Trev and Paul made their way to the Rainham End, they passed by some graffiti that had been on the stadium's wall for two seasons now. In foot high letters, Alan and Colin had painted, DEFEND YOUR MANOR - JOIN THE MSS. All it took was one look at that, and Paul was feeling good again. The adrenaline started pumping and he was looking forward to cracking a few heads if the chance arose.

  As they made their way across the terracing to where the other Gillingham skinheads were standing, they noticed a group of about thirty blokes down at the bottom, directly behind the goal. Usually, the only people who stood there were the little kids who spent the game chasing each other around, or the incredibly short-sighted, and it was pretty obvious that these boys didn't fit into either category. All were casuals in their late teens and early twenties, and any of the Rainham End regulars could have told you that they weren't local lads.

  "Alright boys," said Alan as Trev and Paul reached their mates. "That's City down there!" he added, pointing to the mob they had already been eyeing up.

  How the fuck
did they get in here?" asked Paul, wondering why the police bothered to stand outside the turnstiles if they weren't going to stop away fans getting into the home end.

  "No fucking idea," was Alan's reply, "but it saves us going looking for 'em!"

  It was still ten minutes to kick-off, and the intruders were keeping quiet, despite the Gillingham chants being bellowed out from the terracing above them. Even taunts of "You must have come on a tractor!" didn't get a response from the cider swilling yokels.

  Then, as the players ran out on to the pitch, a cry of "City!" went up and the Bristol mob turned to face the Gillingham faithful. Within seconds, the casuals were crossing the no-man's land of three steps that had opened up between the two sets of supporters, and were running towards their enemy. But almost as quickly, fifty Gillingham fans were in amongst them, stopping the invasion dead in its tracks. Blows were exchanged, but it quickly became obvious that this was one end that Bristol City wouldn't be taking this season. The City mob had not only made the big mistake of trying to run up terracing when everyone knows it's far easier coming down or along it, but they had also chosen to do it at the precise point where a group of about twenty gypsies had been standing. And when it came to fisticuffs, there was nothing these well dressed upstarts could teach the travellers.

  By the time Paul and the others had made their way to the thick of the action, the City casuals were on the retreat, and overweight bobbies were risking heart attacks by running the full length of the pitch from where they had been policing the majority of the away fans.

  As the gate in the perimeter fence opened to let the plods into the Rainham End, an uneasy truce was already in place. The City mob was back where it had started, down by the goal, with Gillingham fans calling the Bristol boys forward, and the Bristol boys mouthing back, but not risking another hiding. Soon the gap that had opened up between the two sets of supporters was filled by a dozen or so police officers who began to escort the Bristol City casuals out on to the pitch and towards the other end of the ground. Chants of "Run away! Run away! Run away!" followed their slow progress as the Rainham End celebrated victory.

  Only Swansea City and, surprisingly enough, Rotherham had tried to take Gillingham's end so far this season, but neither had enjoyed any success. Millwall had been more interested in rucking in pubs before the game, Derby had come on Boxing Day and without any mob, and the only other team likely to try their luck, Burnley, didn't play at Priestfield until the end of March. In fact, Paul couldn't remember the Rainham End falling since Spurs came and conquered back in '79 during an end of season testimonial match for long time club servant, Graham Knight. That night, Gillingham had been routed by a well organised Spurs mob of around 50 who more than lived up to their trademark "We are evil!" chant.

  Not everyone had finished with Bristol City though. One of the gypsies, a real ox of a bloke, ran forward, evaded two policemen and lashed out at one of the casuals. As he continued throwing punches, the police tried to restore order again by pulling him off. One bobby's hat went flying as the gypsy elbowed him in the face when he pulled his arm back to smack the casual yet again.

  More police arrived and with the Bristol City fans now through the gate, they decided to try to arrest the gypsy who was still swinging punches at anyone who got in his way.

  Just when it looked like the police had him pinned to the fencing and everything back under control, more gypsies decided to rescue their friend and it soon became a stand-up fight between Gillingham fans and the local constabulary. Never one to miss an opportunity like this, Trev decided to join in the fun and within seconds the gypsies were joined by half a dozen skinheads for a bit of plod bashing.

  Paul was in there too, kicking out at the thin blue line, half of whom were lashing out with their truncheons while the others acted as snatch squads - two or three officers who grabbed and arrested anyone within reach, whether they were causing trouble or not. Not that they were having any success because as soon as they had someone in their clutches, another five or so Gillingham fans joined in the battle and launched a rescue mission.

  The police soon realised they were on a hiding to nothing and, with the game already under way, they decided to retire to the safety of the other side of the fence. The last one through the perimeter gate was helped on his way by Tony's boot up his arse as "Kill the Bill!" chants echoed around the ground.

  There had been no more trouble during the game, unless you count the Bristol City fans ripping an advertising board off the top of the away end and throwing it on to the grass by the goal-line. With City winning 1-0 at half-time and adding a further two in the second half, Gillingham fans had to be content with cheering Cascarino's only goal in reply and generally taking the piss out of the away end. Any noise the City fans made in their half of the Town End was lost to the skies. At one point, the Rainham End were going, "Sssshhhhl", as if calling for quiet so that they could hear exactly what the City fans were shouting. But just as silence dawned, an almighty call of "Aaaaargh!" signalled that whatever it was, the Gillingham fans weren't impressed. Indeed for much of the game, the Rainham End had to resort to self-abuse with chants of "We're so shit it's unbelievable!" or baiting the referee who had turned up without his glasses and had been unable to see much of the action on the pitch.

  When the final whistle brought an end to the scrappy 3-1 home defeat, large numbers of disappointed Gillingham fans quickly made their way to where the away fans would soon be leaving the ground. The loss of three points to promotion rivals, coupled with the trouble in the Rainham End before kick-off, guaranteed aggro alter the game.

  Paul and the other skinheads made their way along Redfern Avenue under the watchful eye of the police who were determined to keep the two sets of fans apart. Coaches carrying City supporters were brought to the away end so that most of them would be on the motorway west again before they knew it. But it wasn't the coaches that interested the MSS. Few hooligans travelled on official supporters coaches and the chances were that any City fans looking for a rumble would be on their way to the train station.

  A shout in the distance alerted both police and skinheads alike that trouble had erupted in a nearby street. Two police vans quickly vacated their parking spaces outside the main entrance to Priestfield and headed off to dispense some law and order, which left the skinheads to make their way along one of the alleyways that criss-cross the tightly packed terraced houses in the immediate area of the football ground.

  Fifty yards ahead in the alley, Paul could see a group of four lads, but they weren't wearing any colours so it was impossible to tell if they were Gillingham or City fans. The skinheads quickened their pace and were soon right behind their potential targets.

  "Excuse me, mate," Trev said, pretending he wanted to overtake.

  Without a word, the four blokes stopped and waited for the skinheads to pass. Trevor had passed three before suddenly turning on the fourth and pushing him into the hedges that lined the alleyway. "Fucking City bastard!" he shouted as his fist smashed into the surprised bloke's face.

  Paul and the others quickly went to work too, kicking and punching out at the rival fans who were lambs to the slaughter in the tight confines of the alley. A red and white scarf fell out from under one of the .boy's jackets, confirming everyone's belief that their silence when letting the skinheads pass had been to avoid giving the game away with West Country accents.

  The bloke Paul was booting mercilessly as he crouched on the ground was screaming to be left alone. His pathetic wails made him sound like a little girl and they just encouraged Paul to find the bloke's mouth with his heavy boot in a bid to shut the cunt up.

  Alan's victim was lying still on the ground, oblivious to the kicks still reigning in on him. Even the half-brick that Colin had found failed to get a response when it was smashed against his already bloody skull.

  With all four City fans beaten to the ground, the MSS boys took their leave by running along the rest of the alleyway, before coming out on to a
residential street just a few minutes from the station. Once there, they began walking again as if nothing had happened. From the direction of the station and town centre, they could hear the sound of police sirens, so obviously it had kicked off down there too, but the skinheads had no interest in joining in. With the gavvers in attendance, anyone looking for trouble was a certainty to be lifted.

  Instead, they made their way to the Railway Bells for a few pints and to see the rest of the football results. After all, there was certainly no hurry to go home. Alan had found twenty quid in one of the bastard's pockets, not to mention a virtually brand new watch on his wrist, and the next few drinks were on him.

  Come Tuesday and it was down to the pub for the regular weekly meeting. The trouble at the Bristol City game hadn't even made the local newspapers, and that night nobody even mentioned the four blokes that had been left for dead in the alleyway. Most of the evening's talk centred around Saturday's trip to Millwall.

  Nobody had a bigger reputation in Division Three than the Lions and everyone was looking forward to what for the Gills was the nearest they got to a derby game all season. What's more, Millwall were another club looking for promotion and they had already beaten the Gills 4-l at Priestfield earlier in the season. In fact, with results like that and the embarrassing 7-l defeat at York just a month later, it was incredible that the Gills were still talking in terms of promotion.

  Ten MSS boys had said they were definites for the trip and with Paul too, that would mean eleven squeezing into Alan's old Transit van for the short journey to the Den. Not the biggest mob to turn up at Millwall, and hardly enough to keep the Junior Bushwhackers at bay, but the MSS weren't interested in suicide missions anyway. It was just important to make your presence known and then see what you could get away with without putting your name down for a week's worth of hospital food.