by Chugg, Sandy
With the rest of the boys I sprinted down Mitchell Lane towards Argyle Street but Celtic caught up with me. I did my best to resist but was quickly knocked to the ground. That pack of wolves didn’t need to be asked twice. They were all over me, pushing each other aside to kick, punch and stamp all over my body. I put my hands over my head but the blows kept raining down. One well-directed kick caught me on the nose, splitting it wide open and splattering my assailant’s trainer in blood. I fell in and out of consciousness, one thought flashing through my mind.
‘I am going to die, right here in the middle of Glasgow, in my city, in my home.’
And then salvation came from the unlikeliest of sources. A passing Good Samaritan saw what was happening and shouted:
‘Enough is enough.’
He was wearing a Celtic scarf and that was probably what saved my life. It gave him a degree of moral authority with the CSB lads and they reluctantly backed off. The Celtic scarfer helped me to my feet and I was able to stagger off and rejoin my pals.
Having taken a beating like that some people might have walked away from the hooligan scene, never to return. Not me. It didn’t put me off for a second; all it did was to intensify my hatred for all things Celtic, a hatred that became even more pronounced the next time I ran into the Celtic Soccer Babes in the city centre. A few months later I was walking along the Trongate, heading for one of my many hearings at the Children’s Panel. I had stopped to look in a shop window when I felt a hand on my shoulder:
‘Excuse me mate.’
I turned round to find six CSB surrounding me. I tried to throw a punch but they set about me, leaving me with a bloodied nose and boot marks on my clothes. ‘This will make a good impression on the panel,’ I thought as I made for the nearest toilet to clean myself up.
I had by now fully embraced the casual and gang cultures, and everything that goes with that way of life. I was desperate to look the part but not having the means to buy the gear I wanted there was only one alternative: shoplifting. An early expedition came one Christmas Eve in the mid Eighties. I had had my eye on an Aquascutum shirt in Fraser’s for some time and when the shop was jam-packed with people buying presents I took my chance and stuffed it up my jacket. Although it was a woman’s shirt and the buttons went the wrong way I thought I was the coolest guy ever with that shirt on. After that stealing from shops became a way of life. That’s how I got most of my clothes and, so that Mum wouldn’t worry, I told her I had bought them from a shoplifter. I even sold her clothes I had nicked and gave her the same cock-and-bull story. Being part of a big firm helped in the shoplifting game. About forty of us would charge in, so ensuring that the security staff couldn’t lock us in, and then lift as much as possible before scarpering. We were particularly fond of our expeditions to the upmarket boutiques of Edinburgh, where there was also much less chance that we would be recognised.
Fighting was not confined either to match days or to other groups of casuals. The Rangers Soccer Babes was made up mostly of guys from the east end of Glasgow and we spawned two offshoots in that area: the East End Firm and the Duke Street Firm, both of which were largely, but not exclusively, made up of Rangers casuals. A favourite haunt was McKinlay’s nightclub in Shettleston, where we would attend the under-eighteen disco. The first time we went there was to give our pals from Shettleston a hand against a gang from Tollcross with a truly wonderful name: the Tollcross Wee Men. During the disco, one of our guys got it on with a Wee Man and the whole place went up in a full-scale, thirty-a-side rammy. I picked up a chair and brained the nearest Tollcross boy with it but in return got a blow to the head with another chair.
Although the Tollcross mob were thrown out by the bouncers the trouble spilled onto Shettleston Road and then into Pettigrew Street where, funnily enough, my aunt lived. It was a dangerous moment: two formidable gangs facing each other, thirty on each side, most of them tooled up. I have always said that your true character reveals itself when the chips are down, and the chips were well and truly down that night.
I didn’t hesitate. I picked up a ‘four by two’ (a wooden shaft used in joinery) and ran straight at the Wee Men, screaming like a banshee. Although it was one-man assault the Tollcross boys panicked, turned on their heels and ran. At the risk of blowing my own trumpet it did no end of good for my reputation. Even at the tender age of fourteen I was being recognised as a top boy.
Not that our little firms were invincible. Far from it. In the city centre our club of choice was Henry Afrika’s, where we battled inside and outside the premises with gangs from the Gorbals, Castlemilk, Possil and of course with Celtic casuals. I remember one night I was there with the East End Firm and got my head split open by a Celtic boy, who hit me with a Coke bottle. Celtic got the better of it that night and chased us all the way along Clyde Street.
Celtic were our most frequent opponents at that time and the venue for our tussles with the CSB was often the grounds of Duke Street hospital. I had a reputation for ‘sneakies’, which meant going round behind the rival mob and running straight into them. This night I set off on a sneaky and made straight for their top boy. Unfortunately, he spotted me, picked up a metal bracket and hit me full in the face with it. I went down like a sack of spuds and would have been kicked to fuck and back if the rest of the boys hadn’t steamed in and rescued me. When I got home Mum had one look at my bloodied face and took me straight to hospital, where I got ten stitches inside my mouth and fourteen on the outside.
My reputation as someone who could handle himself must have reached the right ears because just a year after I had been told to stay away from the main mob I was invited to join. I had also done some work for them as a spotter and I think they came to realise I was a handy guy to have around. Fourteen years old and a member of the best mob in Britain.
I had won my spurs.
MEET THE MOB
Fast forward to 2 January 2011.
A hundred ICF are ensconced in the Swallow hotel, a stone’s throw from Ibrox. We had just watched the traditional New Year’s Day Old Firm derby and had arranged to meet after the game. It wasn’t just for sentimental reasons, although it was as always great to see the boys. We were there to lay a wreath marking the fortieth anniversary of the Ibrox disaster in 1971, when sixty-six Rangers fans tragically lost their lives on Stairway 13 after that year’s traditional Old Firm fixture. Our floral tributes, placed carefully next to the John Greig statue outside Ibrox, were featured heavily on the television news that night. It was the right thing to do. We may be hooligans but first and foremost we are Rangers fans. We love the club as much as anyone.
We also wanted to remember our fallen comrade, Andy Curran, who had been murdered a few months earlier. What a waste of a life that was. There was a collection in Andy’s memory, which raised £1,200 for his family. I hope it helped.
As I looked around the bar that afternoon the memories came flooding back. The shared dangers, the dashes, the broken bones and burst lips, above all the laughs we had. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. There were so many great boys there, boys you could rely on when the going got tough. But as my eyes panned round the room I also realised that many of my old friends had passed away, far too many, in fact. That saddened me. I miss every one of them.
Although Strathclyde police might disagree, I am no longer involved in football violence. The torch has been passed to a new generation, the Rangers Youth. Many of the Youth were in the Swallow and I was chatting happily to them. I think they are well capable of carrying on the good work we did. Mind you they will have to go some to match the boys of the ICF. Just have a read of the eight profiles below and you will see what I mean.
I could have written about so many more people because we have had dozens of outstanding boys over the years, including Bomber, Rab Anderson, the Pedros (K and McL), Deak, Swedgers, Jeff, Scott N and Craw. I have listed them and many more besides in the Hall of Fame at the end of this book.
Barry Johnstone
Anyo
ne who was ever a member of the ICF will put Barry Johnstone in the top three Rangers boys of all time. He was outstanding in every way: a real leader, a great organiser and possessed of bottle you wouldn’t believe. Barry hailed from the Anderston area of Glasgow but he later moved to Duke Street, the epicentre of everything ICF during our heyday of the mid-to-late Eighties. He was already considered an older lad when I started going and I think he was about four years older than me.
It was easy to see why he was so respected and why people followed him. He was a big, good-looking man, very popular with the ladies and he had the personality to match. Loud and brash, you always heard Barry before you saw him. But that wouldn’t have mattered one jot if he couldn’t handle himself. And boy could he handle himself. He was as game as anyone I have ever seen in the UK or Europe and believe me I have seen my fair share.
Barry lived and breathed the ICF and FV. He was one of the first to have ‘ICF’ tattooed inside his lower lip and he would proudly display the tattoo to visiting mobs. Like most of the lads he had an almost pathological hatred of all things Celtic. He played in a couple of flute bands, The Sons of Ulster and the YCV, and he was a staunch supporter of the Loyalist cause in Northern Ireland. You may have seen him in a Panorama programme about football hooliganism, which was broadcast sometime in the 1990s.
My abiding memory of Barry stems from the first leg of the League Cup semi-final against Hibs in September 1985. We were walking back to Waverley station after the game when we were ambushed by a group of CCS who had disguised themselves in Rangers colours. It was a very dangerous situation but Barry held us together, enabling us to repel wave after wave of attacks. Then when it looked like we could lose it he played his trump card, spraying CS gas into the Hibs front line. Those cunts were choking and spluttering and cursing but their consternation was nothing compared to a police horse, which reared up on its hind legs after inhaling some of the gas. It looked fucking funny but I bet the poor old nag wasn’t laughing.
Sadly, Barry is one of many boys no longer with us. He died a few years ago, around 2006 or 2007, but had given up hooliganism a long time before that. He had been attracted to the rave scene in the early 1990s and after that he never came back to the ICF.
RIP, Barry. You are a legend.
Harky
What can I say about this man that hasn’t already been said by other mobs the length and breadth of Scotland?
He is probably the most famous Rangers hooligan of them all, more famous even than Barry. He is tall and has a blond mane that ensured he always stood out in a crowd. In the early days Harky modelled himself on Paul Weller in his Style Council years, sporting the same hairstyle and clothes.
He was from Shettleston, which I regard as my spiritual home, and when I started to get involved in the scene, Harky, who is about four years older than me, took me under his wing. I was, if you like, his protégé, not just in a football-violence sense but also on a personal level. He was an older brother and he was always there for me during my teenage years, even when I was inside thanks to a conviction for drug dealing.
Harky was totally fearless and I can still picture him steaming in, regardless of the numbers he was up against or the reputation of the opposing mob. He was the gamest boy I have ever seen.
He’ll kill me for mentioning it but he was also, like me, a childhood Celtic fan, which is ironic because two more rabid Celtic haters you will not find this side of London Road. Harky wasn’t at the Swallow that afternoon. He got out of the scene fairly early on. But I wished he could have been there to savour the great days we shared.
Walesy
Walesy, who was from Garthamlock, enjoyed cult status in the ICF, especially in the early years. He caused havoc everywhere he went. Walesy was a game wee cunt, so game that his small stature and wiry frame never put him at a disadvantage in a ruck. He was also known for his amazing ability to rob and steal when we were on our travels. But those weren’t the main reasons for him becoming a cult figure.
That was down to the number of people he slashed. In fact he was probably the main reason our boys became known – wrongly in my view – as blade merchants. He was a fucking fiend with a Stanley knife and in a tight spot would cut anyone who got in his way.
Walesy moved down south where he died, tragically young, more than a decade ago.
RIP wee man.
Davie Carrick
Like the boys I have mentioned above Davie was as game as fuck, a real front-liner. Always first into a fight, and the last to run, he would be a stick-on to be inducted into any hooligan hall of fame. Like me he wasn’t the tallest and like me he worked his way through the ranks to become one of the main faces.
It was thanks to Davie’s drive and enthusiasm that we kept the mob going through the dark days of the early Nineties when FV became very unfashionable, with people preferring raves and getting loved-up. He always ensured we pulled a mob, even if the numbers had dwindled to as little as twenty. For that reason alone he is the most-important figure in modern-day (that is post-rave-scene) hooliganism.
Davie was also instrumental in the formation of the Scottish National Firm, which, although opposed by some older Rangers boys, ensured that at least we had an outlet for FV. That helped us get the ICF up and running again after the 1998 World Cup and since then we have enjoyed something of a renaissance.
My most vivid memory of Davie is of him going into his bag and handing out claw hammers when we got off the train at Slateford, prior to facing Hibs in what turned out to be our most humiliating defeat of all time. He was of course the first to steam into Hibs, helping us to back them off for the first few minutes of that battle.
It is just a pity that the book he wrote on his ICF experiences (Rangers ICF, published in 2008) didn’t do him justice. I blame the publisher and the ghost writer for that, not Davie.
Big Boris
Boris is another close personal friend. He was a latecomer to the scene, only really getting involved after the demise of the SNF in the late 1990s. Boris is another larger-than-life character, whose six-foot-plus frame and shaved head make him instantly recognisable.
He has enjoyed a rapid rise through the modern ICF and is now one of our top boys, thanks in large part to an extrovert personality, great networking skills and superb organisational ability. Those personal qualities have also enabled him to set up and run a very successful business. Boris likes nothing better than getting the boys together for a piss up or a day out.
But don’t run away with the idea that he is just a strategy bod. Boris can more than hold his own in a fight and has served two terms in prison for football-violence-related offences.
Warren B
The biggest compliment I can pay Warren is to tell you that he was the only Rangers boy to come from Edinburgh at the onset of the casual scene. It is a testament to his strength of character that he made the trip to Glasgow week in, week out despite many threats from Hibs and Hearts. These threats were not of the idle variety and Warren got attacked by one of the CCS boys while he was in hospital. That was a disgrace but I am afraid the knuckle draggers who run with the Hobos don’t know any better.
He was of course as well known for his love of right-wing politics as he was for following Rangers. He became head of security for the British National Party in Scotland and helped to guard its leader, Nick Griffin, when he ventured north of the border.
It may surprise some people to learn that Warren is one of the friendliest, most amiable lads you could ever meet. He is just a genuinely nice guy. That doesn’t mean he can’t handle himself because he is no mean scrapper, someone you would always want alongside you in the trenches.
Alan Christie
Clydebank’s finest, another ICF stalwart, and someone who has been on the scene since the early 1980s. In his pomp he was a slim, tall, wiry boy and always in the front line, earning him the respect of the likes of Barry, Harky and Carrick. AC was another who kept going through the dark days of the early Nineties.
I will never forget him and Harky going at it with thirty hoolies from down south on Jamaica Bridge prior to a Scotland–England game in the late Eighties. I was sitting in a police heavy-eight, having just been arrested, and the way those two got stuck in despite being massively outnumbered was awe-inspiring.
Big Fin
Springburn’s answer to Shane Warne. Tall, burly, blond hair, suntanned. Fin first got involved with the ICF in its John Street Jam heyday in 1993/94. With his two pals, Davy and John, they were affectionately dubbed the ‘Christmas casuals’, a phrase used to describe budding casuals who appeared in January having got new clothes for Christmas but then disappeared off the face of the earth after a few months. Happily, Fin stuck around and became a front-liner. He had the uncanny knack – as I witnessed on many occasions – of being able to knock out an opponent with a single punch.
