by Suggs
And there way up high, next to the till, in pride of place, stood the holy grail. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, if you would … The Christmas Box! It literally glowed as Mr Althroppe’s missus had dressed a cardboard box in gold flocked wallpaper and written on the side, in wonky felt pen: ‘WISHING ALL OUR CUSTOMERS A VERY MERRY XMAS’. It was already groaning with a good few quid and with every new handful of loose change, all eyes turned towards it.
Lunchtime. We had to take it in shifts and me and Andy were given the first break. I liked Andy, he was the youngest and friendliest of the lot. Nearly all his family worked in the market. One way or another he knew just about everyone and had the easy confidence of someone from a big working family. We whipped off our aprons, threw on our coats and headed out into the madness of the market. Jesus, he said, as we pushed our way through the crowds, it was rammed. We normally went to the café, but Andy struggled on past it. ‘Come on, it’s Christmas, ain’t it?,’ I just about heard him say over his shoulder, as he pushed on down the road and into the pub. Inside it was crowded, smoky, and the talk was loud. It was only 12.30 p.m., but pubs in the market were always busy and some of the stallholders had been at it since 4.30 a.m., so this was evening to them.
Not being quite the required age, I lurked at the back while Andy went to get the drinks. The continuous roar of convivial conversation and shrieks of laughter mingled with Christmas chestnuts blaring out of the jukebox. The ceiling and bar were a riot of shiny decorations and paper chains of every size and colour. In the middle of the room a large group of revellers were drunkenly hokey-cokeying in paper hats. It was Hogarthian, people falling about all over the gaff. The Christmas spirit was driving people to drink more, and faster, than ever.
I felt cold beer slop down my back. I turned to see two extremely drunk fellas, swaying backwards and forwards, eyes slowly opening and closing. ‘Oi, mind yer beer,’ slurred Number One, ‘yer wasting it.’ I brushed my shoulder and moved away. It was the only option.
Andy pushed his way back through the crowd, with two miraculously full pints over his head. ‘I needed that,’ he said, wiping his mouth, having guzzled nearly half of his in one go. ‘You here for Christmas?’
‘I dunno,’ I said truthfully. ‘We sometimes go to my aunt’s in Wales.’
‘Well, if you’re around we’re having a big do, Christmas Eve. At the Gunter.’
Drunk Number One stumbled backwards, fell into a woman behind him and they both crashed to the floor. While she was being pulled back to her feet some irate hokeyists started cokeying drunk Number One on the floor. Drunk Number Two went to launch himself into the affray, and in the process of trying to free himself from being held back, elbowed me in the nose. The star of Bethlehem twinkled and I sank to the floor.
The next thing I remember I was sitting on a bar stool clutching a damp bar towel to my nose with one hand and a huge brandy glass in the other. People were buzzing and swarming in and out the pub like a beehive hit by a stone. I downed it in one.
‘You all right?’
‘No,’ I mumbled through the towel. By the time I finished my drink the flow of blood had stopped and all the participants in the rumpus had been carted away. I stood looking at my face in the Watney’s mirror. I felt giddy, but my nose looked OK. Not broken, at least.
We went out into the crowds of oblivious shoppers and back to the shop. My legs felt a bit wobbly. When we got there the sherry bottle was empty. Mr Althroppe was half pissed and getting in everyone’s way. ‘What’s up with you? Sheen a ghost?’ My face was white.
‘Leave him alone. He got clobbered by some idiot in the pub.’
‘Shouldn’t be drinking when there’sh work to do.’
Mr A threw me a lump of braising steak, much to the amusement of Geoff. ‘Slap that on it an’ get behind here.’ I caught it smack in the middle of my hand. I suddenly felt violently ill. I stumbled out of the shop, past the queue, and started throwing up on the pavement. Andy came out.
‘Listen, you go home, mate, I’ll take care of fat-face.’
‘Ere, yzal, you haven’t dropped that bit of shteak?’
I hadn’t, but I was half way up the road before I realised I’d missed out on the effing Christmas box.
CHARLTON AWAY
On the bus I was feeling dizzy, so I stood on the platform and let the cold wind blow through me. Back at the Mansions a small crowd was gathering in the courtyard. Today’s foray was far into enemy territory. Charlton – but nobody could remember where it was. Their ground was called The Valley. Someone helpfully suggested it might be in Wales.
Chelsea had been shamefully relegated to the second division last season, 1975–6, and we were now having to find out where such exotic places as Leyton, Luton, Croydon and Charlton were. South-east, east-south or something. We’d managed a foray into deepest South London a couple of weeks earlier to Millwall, and as we got off the bus at Cold Blow Lane we were met by a Chelsea fan lying on the pavement, blood coming out of his head. Things went downhill from there. Gangs of chaps were milling about outside the ground, but we couldn’t see anyone we recognised. We walked past a group of fellas wearing donkey jackets and flat caps, who we presumed were Millwall. To get to the entrance we had to walk down a muddy track. No one was saying anything. The noise growing louder and louder, when we got to the fence it was at a crescendo.
As we made our way through the turnstiles, the people on the inside were screaming and shouting at us through the bars. Chalky took the impulsive decision to swerve left and head for the Millwall end. I followed as the others got swept towards the away section. Mad or genius? Well it didn’t seem like such a great idea when we got in there. We were definitely the only Chelsea, the whole end was roaring for Millwall and even Chelsea weren’t gonna try and take the Den. But as we took our places in the stand and looked back down the pitch at the away end there was a full-scale riot going on. I swear you could literally see bodies flying through the air, the Chelsea section was being attacked from all sides.
When the game kicked off it looked like all our players were standing in a line down the middle of the pitch. There was no way our winger Ian Britton was going anywhere near the touchline and the baying mob. Our striker Steve Finnieston didn’t come out for the second half, I didn’t blame him. Millwall scored and our end went ballistic, so we pretended to cheer. Millwall scored a second, and half-heartedly we cheered again. In the second half their striker took a long range shot which hit the crossbar, the ball bounced back and hit Peter Bonetti on the back of the head, rolling into the goal in front of us, Chalky sat down. People were starting to stare, the game was up, we left.
Anyway, today the plan was to start at King’s Cross, get to the station and try and get hold of some red and white scarves. Charlton played in red and white, and the scarves would help us gain entry to their home end, as was the form in the pecking order of this occasion. This was proving increasingly difficult in the mid-seventies football climate, with hooligans the tabloids’ top topic of the day.
Chalky strolled over.
‘Ya coming?’
‘Nah.’ I still felt ill.
He came right up to my face. ‘Jesus, what’s happened to you?’
A huge shiner was forming under my right eye. Others started to gather round. ‘Who the fuck was it?’ I gave them the details of what had happened in the pub.
‘Well, come on, you need cheering up,’ he said, having lost interest in the details now there was no definable enemy in my story. I didn’t need cheering up. This sort of match could play havoc on your nerves, and mine were shot. Even if Charlton weren’t up to much, all away games were like the Wild West. Narrow streets you didn’t know, hostile pubs, a possible ambush round every corner and Old Bill, who’d been wound into a frenzy by the tabloid hysteria, determined to restore law and order on the terraces by whatever means. A rite of passage set in the twilight zone.
I felt even sicker at the thought of it. Chalky turned and began leading the troops
out of the flats. I started to watch them go before a keen sense of loyalty, where these things were concerned, dispelled my queasiness. That, and not wanting to be seen as a bottler. I followed.
There were about eight of us from the Mansions and the first stop would be the King’s Head to meet the others. Outside the pub the overspill stood on the pavement wrapped up against the cold, chatting and trying to light fags in cupped hands. Right! We set off in that striding walk that I’ve only ever seen at football. Purposefully in the direction of an enemy as yet unseen.
I really hate the Tube. A hatred, and a fear, to be honest. King’s Cross underground station is a maze where a myriad of tube lines connect to the overground station. You can easily get lost, and on match days no one could pretend it wasn’t scary. Turning every corner in those winding tunnels could lead you into a foaming gang of hooligans criss-crossing town to get to their various games.
There are eight active teams in London, any of whose paths you could cross. Plus the thousands of northerners piling down the Tube heading east, west, north and south across town to Arsenal, Chelsea, West Ham, Tottenham, QPR, Fulham, Millwall and Charlton.
We started stalking the winding passages of King’s Cross station, in search of red and white. All the senses on full alert, we strode purposefully on, with every distant roar of a train rushing down the tiled walls a jolt, a sound, a frequency, that could easily disguise the roar of a crowd of geezers coming our way. There were four London teams playing at home that Saturday, a handy fact to know. This meant up to eight different firms, of varying size and ferocity, could be scouring the catacombs of King’s Cross, like us, in search of easy pickings.
We were getting close to the huge escalator that would take us up to ground level to the main station when there was a huge roar that could not be mistaken for a train, and as we turned the next corner we were greeted by the sight of a dark puddle, a very dark puddle. It was blood. Some of it was running down the grubby white tiles. We’d found it – red and white – but not the sort we were after.
For the first time in an hour we slowed. We stopped and peered in the puddle, as if hoping to see a glimpse of the future, until someone spat their chewing gum in it, we stepped over and strolled on. The roar was at crescendo as we turned the corner into the main hall, and the giant escalator that stretched up to the sky was swarming with hooligans. One lot was steaming upwards while the other mob was backing up the stairs, lashing out at the oncoming marauders. The whole thing was juddering and rolling slowly towards the surface like a line of battling soldier ants. At the top the silhouettes of clenched-fisted arms filled the horizon, and the noise was amplified tenfold by the cavernous space.
In all tribal activity magic and myth go a long way, and this was Millwall, who had plenty of both. And, oh yeah, they were also really hard. It was Nottingham Forest who were backing up the escalators, no mugs themselves, but given what they faced, they’d all but disappeared over the horizon.
Millwall were taking the steps two at a time. An eerie silence descended and bemused tourists hugged the walls, boggle-eyed. We tumbled out of the tunnel into the hall and stood in a semicircle, all eyes following the spots of blood across the floor and up the now empty escalator, to God only knows what.
We didn’t run up the escalator two at a time. In fact we didn’t move at all, we just stood for what seemed an age as the old wooden thing rumbled and groaned to the surface. When we reached the top the station was swarming with Old Bill, some with their hats off and puffing, kids in headlocks, some lying face-down on the floor. It was hard to take it all in – small pockets of kids skittering to and fro while wild-eyed coppers stood with truncheons drawn, prepared to pounce. Fear was in the air, but it looked like the bulk of the affray had been and gone.
A football mob has its own way of walking – it wants to be inconspicuous, but is always in a hurry. Adrenalin strolling. One mob can always spot another and we were spotted as soon as we stepped off the escalator. Amongst the now disparate carnage a largish crowd were gathered outside the station pub. Some of them were pointing and gesticulating at us. They were starting to make moves in our direction, when up went the roar, ‘CHELSEA! CHELSEA!’
We looked at each other and realised that it was our mob. We clapped along and, smiling, headed in their direction. We were greeted by a fat bloke I recognised from the Shed (that’s all he was known as, the Fat Bloke). I remember him because he had this amazing knack, when the Shed was being invaded by opposing fans, of shouting ‘Come on, let’s have ’em!’ and making to charge forward. You’d go with him, only to find yourself in the front line and him mysteriously some way behind. I think it was maybe where Michael Jackson got the moonwalk from.
‘Are you Chelsea then or what?’ said the Fat Bloke. ‘Of course we are.’ He was a bully as well as a coward, but had a good few followers. ‘Yeah, I seen this lot before,’ said one of his spotty lieutenants. What, from behind? I thought. Fatty looked disappointed. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes, really!’ He then turned and disappeared back into his mob.
Apart from the odd character being frogmarched out, we were the only mob left in the station. I grabbed a red and white scarf from a passerby, and before he had a chance to see where it had gone I disappeared past the thirty-odd coppers who had formed a cordon round the pub. Still, worse places to be stuck. I stuffed the scarf down my jacket and we got some beers in.
‘What happened to the Millwall?’ I asked the spotty one.
‘Did you not see?’
‘No, I didn’t see, that’s why I’m asking you.’
Spotty’s eyes lit up. ‘Forest tore up the escalator. There must have been at least a hundred of ’em, their top boys, tooled up and everything. Well, it turns out some idiot’s stabbed one of Millwall’s top chaps on the underground.’ The Dark Puddle.
‘So we’re stood there, bracing ourselves, expecting Millwall to come flying off the escalator any minute. Don’t get me wrong, Forest regrouped, they didn’t run, but they knew what was coming. Then, nothing, before cool as you like, the leader of the Millwall drifts up and over the top of the escalator, wearing a panama hat, bright green bowling shirt and silver-grey Oxford bags. Like he was in a movie and, get this, a black chick on either arm! Two beautiful birds on either side! Where the hell did they come from? Well, Forest took one look at that, turned and just ran!’
Magic and myth. Oh yeah, and being hard.
There were about a hundred of us in the pub now and it was obvious, given the amount of coppers, that we weren’t going anywhere but straight onto the football special that was leaving from Victoria. The specials were trains that were designated to ferry fans to and from away games without stopping, in the hope of segregating rival teams along the way. The only special thing about them was that they were the oldest stock available, cranky, rickety old things that belonged in a museum. They were falling to bits, and normally were in bits by the time they delivered their precious cargo of testosterone-filled youth back into town.
We settled on the antiquated seats as far away as we could from Fatty and his mob. The train was packed, which was a blessing in disguise as the draughty old thing would have been freezing otherwise. It was a crisp, clear winter’s afternoon and London’s grey boroughs flew past the window like a film. Looking down on all the chimney stacks and the backs of broken houses, a view you only get from a train: bricks – millions of them. The Victorians loved a brick, and I must say, so do I. Red clay, the very fundament of the city. From the bottom of the canals to the top of the chimney stacks. Earth to sky. London.
We spent the journey playing cards, drinking warm beer and trying to avoid paying taxes to various Chelsea faces walking up and down the aisle, taxes that would supposedly go towards paying fines for captured miscreants. Someone started singing some old song about Bobby Tambling and the whole compartment joined in, chanting and clapping. Jollity abounded.
The kids on the next table couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. Never mind Bobby
bleedin’ Tambling, they’d probably never heard of Peter Osgood, the king of Stamford Bridge.
The door to our compartment swung open and it was the Fat Bloke. He waddled through and everyone fell silent. He was one of football’s many self-appointed leaders. He didn’t really like anyone who wasn’t part of his subservient mob, most of whom came from out of town somewhere. Though admittedly they were impressive in numbers, we thought they were suburban divs.
Waving his sweaty flat cap, he shouted: ‘Jeff Connelly, collecting for Jeff!’
‘Who’s Jeff?’ muttered Chalky, shuffling the deck. There were faces you’d recognise but also faces you may never have seen with names you’d recognise, like the legendary Babsy, a black geezer with one arm who I’d probably only seen twice but was a whirling dervish of magic and myth. There were a lot of names which had entered the annals of hooligan history with acts of derring-do, stories of bravery beyond the call of duty in the field, tales passed into myth and legend amongst the ranks. Some faces that would one day, in the distant and unfathomable future, turn into best-selling authors and film-makers.
But the Fat Bloke wasn’t one of them, and neither was Jeff effing Connelly. ‘All right chaps, hands in yer pockets,’ he said, waving his cap under the noses of the kids on the next table whilst his spotty lieutenants peered over his shoulder. The kids looked bewildered.
‘Collecting for Jeff. Big fine. Come on, boys, put your copper away, let’s see some silver.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Chalky, still shuffling.
The Fat One turned and said, ‘Not talking to you.’
‘Leave ’em alone.’
Fatty’s crew was squeezing through the door. ‘Why, what you gonna do about it?’
Chalky stood up, but before he had a chance to say anything a huge bloke from the table behind us turned and said, ‘Yeah, leave ’em alone and fuck off.’ The whole compartment fell silent. Fatty surveyed the scene, the veins in his neck bulging. He stared daggers at our table, did his famous about-turn and left.
