Death Comes Knocking: Policing Roy Grace’s Brighton

by Graham Bartlett

  Gone were the days of routinely herding home and away fans from the railway station to the ground. No more locking the away fans in after the match until the home fans had gone and there was no drinking ban in the stadium.

  The Albion warmly welcomed visiting fans on arrival at the stadium. They beamed images of their heroes around the bars adjacent to the away stands and provided local ales, specially shipped in, for their delight before and after the game.

  Grace visits the stadium in Dead Man’s Time to flush out Lucas Daly. The state-of-the-art control room he visits, together with the excellent co-operation he witnesses between club and police, are both factors why disorder has plummeted since the Albion moved to the Amex. The added bonus is, as Grace found to his advantage, the zoning of groups of like-minded people together also allows the positive traits of one group to modify the potentially extreme behaviour of another. For example, the family area is next to the away fans, to remind them that football is a game for all.

  This was a deliberate strategy. At their previous ground, the club was able to identify the rowdy fans, those who wanted just to sit and watch and those who preferred a family atmosphere. Unlike clubs in old stadiums, before the first season at the new Amex Stadium the Albion could sell season tickets in specific areas to specific groups. Rather like designing the layout of a new kitchen, they had a blank canvas on which to put sections of fans where they wanted them. Once supporters had their seat allocation, being creatures of habit, they simply re-bought the same ones each year. That, and the CCTV that was so highly calibrated it could read the time on your watch, allowed troublemakers to be spotted and their movements tracked in an instant.

  On match days, our cheery Football Liaison Officer, PC Darren Balkham, would meet and greet the opposition supporters, help them find the city’s highlights, advise them on transport and even get snapped in a few selfies. Over the previous week he would have been speaking with and welcoming them through Twitter.

  Darren polices Albion games up and down the country week in and week out. He is Brighton and Hove’s ambassador in whichever police force area the club happens to be playing. His knowledge and authority on all matters football is second to none and few senior officers are brave or stupid enough to ignore his wisdom.

  On one occasion, while I was taking part in filming the documentary with Russell Brand, Darren and I allowed my co-star to single-handedly take on fifty rowdy Birmingham City FC supporters in a chanting competition in front of hundreds of day-trippers by Brighton Pier. Given the language involved, I was relieved the cameras were not rolling at that moment.

  While most fans responded to this lighter-touch policing – their websites often commented on what a joy it was to meet Sussex Police – others still wanted to fight.

  The rivalry between the Albion and South London club Crystal Palace was as ferocious as it was irrational. A real hatred had built up over the years, the origins of which were mysterious. Some will trace it back to a minor episode of crowd baiting in the 1970s by Albion’s then manager, Alan Mullery, but most simply don’t know. In a deliberate attempt to infuriate Palace, the Albion even called themselves the Seagulls as a variation of their rival’s nickname, the Eagles. Whatever spawned it, the violence it gives rise to is sickening.

  By 2011 it had been nearly six years since the two clubs had met. Promotions and relegations had kept them apart and cup competition draws had been kind to Brighton and Hove Police. However, all good things must come to an end and in September battle was set to recommence.

  Preparations for this match started way back in June when the fixtures were published, as we knew the simmering loathing between both sets of fans was ready to boil over. Six years is a long time to bear a grudge, but hold on to it they had.

  We worked tirelessly with both football clubs, the train and bus companies, the pubs and shops, as well as our colleagues in the Metropolitan and British Transport Police. Plans were written, rehearsed and rewritten. Volumes of ‘what-ifs’ were worked through. We knew that we would only have one chance to get the policing of this match right and, as the Gold commander, I wasn’t going to allow failure on my watch.

  Once the day of the match arrived, there were early signs that this was not going to be an ordinary mid-week evening fixture. Most 7.45 p.m. kick-offs force spectators to rush home from work, throw some dinner down their throats and dash to the stadium in the nick of time.

  This was eerily different. Groups of fans had started to assemble in pubs across the county from lunchtime. All within a short travelling distance of the city centre, they had arranged to meet up out of town to drink, plot and prepare for war.

  This was clearly just the first phase; the tribal gatherings were allowing the warriors to get reacquainted, rousing each other for the long-awaited showdown with the enemy. It was just words at this stage, but we knew exactly what was to come.

  Darren and his team of spotters were racing around the towns and villages of Sussex, identifying known troublemakers holed up in these bars, trying to predict their next move. Prewarned is pre-armed, and with his knowledge of the dynamics of most groups who followed the Seagulls, supported by his Crystal Palace counterparts, we knew Darren would have the best chance of smoking out any conspiracies to start a fight.

  As the afternoon wore on, groups from both sets of supporters started to drift towards the city centre. The ground itself is four miles north of downtown Brighton. However, apart from a country inn and a pub famed for being the domain of strictly local drinkers, there aren’t many places to have a beer in that neck of the woods.

  The streets around the main Brighton railway station, on the other hand, are crammed with bars. It is bewildering how many survive such intense competition, but survive they do and on match days they transform into waiting rooms for thirsty football fans.

  Normally supporters are jovial, if a little rowdy, but on this day they were seething with animalistic tension. The normal banter had been replaced by muttering. Darren’s presence, usually welcomed by the Albion fans, became despised as drinkers went to great lengths to whisper away from his ears.

  Queens Road is the main thoroughfare from the station to the city centre. When it reaches the imposing Clock Tower it becomes West Street, the heart of Brighton’s club land.

  The Albion fans were in bars along Queens Road. The Crystal Palace fans had congregated in West Street’s Weatherspoon’s pub, just few hundred yards away. This posed a massive problem for the police.

  For the visiting supporters to reach the railway station to embark on the final leg of their journey to the stadium, they would have to pass within feet of the waiting and baying Albion fans. Other routes were available, but it was proving impossible to persuade the crowd to add another fifteen minutes onto their journey when a short walk up the hill would take them quickly to their train.

  We knew in the planning stage that we would need to move hordes of fans around the city, but the when and where would always depend on the dynamics on the day. The strength of any plan is in its flexibility.

  Had she been a smoker, Chief Inspector Jane Derrick would have used the back of a fag packet to draft her swiftly devised orders. A seasoned marathon runner, she was unlikely to have one, but the cover of her notebook served just as well.

  Jane was one of my first choice of commanders on any operation. You would pass her in a crowd but she was one of those officers who just seemed to have got better and better as she rose through the ranks. Having paused her career to bring up her two boys, she returned as an inspector to run the Hove Neighbourhood Policing Team when I was the superintendent.

  Her promotion to Chief Inspector came soon after and this quiet, assured and supremely perceptive officer topped the tree of firearms and public order leaders.

  She became a good friend; one of her sons helped my son Deaglan in his successful application to read Natural Sciences at Cambridge University, and I mentored her progress to Superintendent.

  Jane called her uni
t commanders around her and showed them the hastily scribbled map of the area, setting out how she wanted to move the visiting fans and where she needed her troops. She stressed that it was essential that no pre-warning be given to the Albion fans.

  This grated with Darren, whose reputation hinged on the trust and openness he showed the football community on match days. He understood though that extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures – the home fans would find out soon enough what was happening.

  He carried on as normal, popping into the pubs, making an effort to chat to his regulars; just being his usual genial self, setting the tone, trying to keep the mood light. His poker face gave nothing away. If they detected anything different in his manner, they would smell a rat and the result could be carnage.

  The first to realize that the opposition were being escorted in their direction were the smokers. Loitering outside the pubs they spotted a mass movement in the reflection of the shop windows down the road. Flickers of the red and blue colours of Crystal Palace flashed in the huge plate glass shop fronts flanking West Street as it became Queens Road. The mirroring effect created an illusion of an army of a thousand men marching to the top of the hill.

  Darren was in the Royal Standard when word spread that battle was about to commence. Not the largest of pubs, it is the most southerly of the ones favoured by the Albion fans who were to be at the vanguard of the defence.

  As the crowd drew nearer, a line of police officers supported by police horses formed a cordon between the pubs and the road. The human barrier was less likely to withstand a rush than its equine back-up, but it showed our intent.

  In the pub the mood started to turn ugly. The fans were fuelling each other’s anger. ‘They’re walking past our pub.’ ‘What a fucking liberty. We ain’t having that.’ ‘Come on, let’s kill ’em.’ Darren attempted to get through to them. As if reasoning with a stubborn child, he repeated their names and sought to get them to see sense.

  If they heard his words, they ignored them. A fierce, savage force had taken them over. They were ready for a fight.

  They swallowed what was left in their beer glasses. Some ordered more and downed the drinks in one gulp. Never was alcohol’s illusion of invincibility more needed than now.

  As the Palace supporters neared, their battle cries became deafening. This just spurred the Albion fans on even more. All had experienced a rush of adrenaline through their veins. They had waited six years for this.

  Once the enemy had passed by the side street that would have provided the last chance of escape, the crowd in the Royal Standard and in pubs closer to the station rushed into the road. The hostility hurled across the police lines was vitriolic. People who led perfectly respectable, often professional, everyday lives had turned into a howling pack, simply because another football club was in town.

  Bottles and glasses intended for the Palace fans rained over the brave officers. The cry of ‘Missiles’ rose from the police ranks as the officers drew their batons and attempted to push back the crowd. As this happened, the officers escorting the visiting supporters broke into a trot to encourage their charges to hasten past the hostile reception committee.

  The wail of sirens rose above the chants as more public order officers raced to support their beleaguered colleagues. Time was against them as the escort was nearing the bigger, fuller and angrier pubs directly outside the railway station. If reinforcements didn’t arrive in time, this would be a bloodbath.

  With seconds to spare, three police vans screeched to a halt in the carriageway between the Queen’s Head pub and the station concourse. Normally packed with buses, taxis and cars, this, one of the city’s most important arteries, was swamped by riot police. Quickly throwing themselves in a line across the road, they created a sterile area for the Londoners to pass through to reach their train to Falmer. The anger from both sides was growing and it was imperative to get all the Palace supporters into the railway station, where British Transport Police were waiting, and away.

  Outside the station the line of police held, while inside the visitors were guided onto a train that whisked them off to the stadium.

  With the Palace fans safely gone, the time had come for the Brighton supporters to be marched up to a separate train and away. This is the thing about football policing at its worst; so much time is spent separating opposing fans only to deliberately bring them back together later on. That said, we have more control at the Amex stadium, not least because it sits in an island flanked by a railway line, a fast road and acres of farmers’ fields.

  Once everyone had spilled out of their trains onto the tiny platforms at Falmer station, both sets of supporters were escorted on the short walk to the ground and shepherded into their respective enclosures, where the stewards took over. All trained to the highest level, the stewards were able to use their innate abilities to diffuse tensions, setting the fans clear expectations. Not far away, just in case, were pockets of police ready to rush in and help.

  This was all so unlike our normal approach to the fans but we had to show we could deal with any threat they presented.

  In the scheme of things, the game itself was reasonably uneventful in terms of crowd trouble. There were still venomous chants, threats and oaths to kill yelled between fans but the segregation arrangements were impossible to get around and any attempts to breach them would be swiftly foiled.

  As full time approached, the score was one-one. For me, it could not have been better. Both teams had seen their side score, both would come away with a point, but there were no bragging rights to claim.

  My mouth has often got me into trouble and as I heard the Silver and Bronze commanders issuing their orders for the post-match deployments, I couldn’t help basking in the ideal result.

  ‘One all,’ I gloated to anyone who would listen. ‘That’ll take the wind out of everyone’s sails. Ha, only a few minutes to go, I couldn’t have planned it better.’

  ‘Guv, Palace have just scored again. They are two-one up,’ announced a public order tactical advisor, smirking as he watched me deflate.

  ‘Shit.’

  Hurriedly the same information was relayed to all officers. Those in the ground did not need telling. If they could not see the pitch, the crowd noise told them all they needed to know.

  This was a game changer in every way, the worst possible outcome. For Crystal Palace to come to Brighton’s brand new stadium and nick a victory in the dying moments would inflame the home fans into a frenzy. They would be looking for swift and brutal revenge.

  As the officers were reorganized to the pinch points around the stadium and in the city, salt was ground into Brighton’s wounds.

  ‘Palace have sealed it. They’ve got another. They are winning three-one now, guv,’ said the same advisor.

  With just a minute or two to go, any hopes that Brighton would score twice and restore the status quo were dashed. We were going to have a battle, for sure.

  I had already made the decision that we didn’t have enough staff to hold back the away supporters until the Brighton fans had cleared, and we had been let down in our request for a special train to take the visitors off straight after the game. That meant that both sets of fans would meet on the concourses that led to Falmer railway station.

  During the construction of the stadium, the station was effectively rebuilt. Originally it was intended to cope with just the placid arrival and departure of students frequenting Sussex and Brighton Universities. Its new role, to accommodate up to 26,000 jubilant or angry football supporters, required a fundamental redesign. The designers did as well as they could but certain factors, such as the nature of the track and the proximity to the main A27 road, prevented it from becoming totally fit for purpose.

  To mitigate this, a network of sturdy bridges and spacious footpaths guided fans to where they needed to be. Normally this was fine as the good-humoured banter and the sense of occasion the club and police promoted was well established by the end of the game,
whatever the result.

  Today was different. Gloating South Londoners and vengeful Brightonians were about to have their last chance to settle old scores. The short distance from stadium to station meant that we would be decanting rival fans from the pressure cooker of the ground to the cauldron of the platforms with no cooling-off time in between.

  At the end of each game Darren, together with his British Transport Police colleagues, always adopted a position on one of the bridges. From here he had a fabulous vantage point to spot troublemakers, pick up the signs of crush and, crucially, be seen by the crowds.

  As they made their noisy way to the trains, the Palace supporters had to walk over that bridge to get to the side of the track allocated to them while the Brighton supporters went under it. Behind these bridges is a footpath that leads to the Moulsecoomb council estate. Many locals use this path to reach their cars that they have illegally left in the surrounding streets.

  As the bulge of Palace fans reached the bridge, Darren became aware of missiles being thrown from behind him. The cops on the ground were working miracles in controlling both sets of supporters, but no-one had noticed a hard-core group slip away down the footpath.

  Darren spun round and saw around twenty of his ‘usual suspects’ hurling stones, broken bricks and bottles at the Palace supporters on the bridge. This sparked a ferocious reaction and the Palace crowd turned as one to face their foe.

  As they did so, the Brighton fans below also turned and glared upwards. Darren quickly registered that some of the debris being thrown was going over the heads of the targets and landing on the home supporters below. They, in turn, assumed they were coming under attack from the opposition, not realizing that their comrades were over-throwing.

  It was obvious to Darren, and to the four officers with him, that this called for urgent action. There was no time to summon reinforcements; there probably weren’t any free anyway.