I had a stand-up comedian in the back, and a dangerous one at that, so I had better laugh at his impression of the bumbling copper. He was funny but there was a note of menace that undercut his humour. He was quite clearly letting me know his status – he was the boss and I had better not forget it.
Andy continued the parody, warming to his theme: ‘They dress in suits and go to a pub, start a bit of action and then sit back and watch it happen.’ He curled his lips to enhance the caricature. ‘They’re so highly praised by their moronic followers that all they have to do is shout the word and they steam into battle for them.’
He told us that he had read the report of a recent Police press conference on hooliganism in the Star. The headline was ‘Jetset Sickos’. Andy said his mates were still buying him drinks to celebrate on the back of this publicity.
I was feeling rather sick myself at that moment. Andy ‘Nightmare’ Frain loved the notoriety that these headlines gave him. He appeared to be unconcerned about jail, but, as he relaxed, I was hoping that he would make an admission that would send him right back there.
He boasted at length about his well-earned reputation, saying that one policeman had described him as ‘brutal’. Mimicking the policeman again, he said, ‘He can fix anything, from a bar room brawl to an international riot. This man’s ruthless and won’t stop at anything. £50,000 robberies, and all that violence.’
‘He seems to know you well,’ Jason responded, laughing.
I laughed too, for appearances. I smoked another fag and wondered if this posturing was a not-so-subtle warning to me. Andy revealed that he had spent nine of the previous 13 years in jail. Well, he was certainly sending out a message that he is not to be messed with. The conversation continued: ‘Black c**ts! Do we like niggers? No! We hate niggers. In fact we hate any c**t who ain’t British,’ Nightmare said.
‘Krauts. Like their political views, don’t like them,’ Jason chimed in, eager to please.
‘Tell you what annoys me as well: Reading [Frain’s hometown] seems to be a fucking dumping ground for all them fucking Bosnians and that. Every afternoon, they get about five or six of them out of the back of a lorry. I’ll have to get the boys out on the streets.’
Lovely. Sometimes I guessed that I was expected to nod and laugh and at other times supposed to appear disinterested. It is very difficult for a normal person to keep their mouth shut in the face of such prejudice.
We were about halfway to Leicester on the M1 and there was sweat dripping down my face. I was wiping it discretely, trying not to draw attention to myself or to my nerves.
Concentration is key in this job and I was struggling to hold it together. I had to drive with these lunatics in my car and I’m a bad driver to begin with. It took me four attempts to pass my driving test and then it was only after over 100 hours of lessons – and none of those lessons gave any hints on how to drive with dangerous hooligans in the car.
Amid the banter, Frain’s phone rang. After a quick conversation he told us that there were three coaches of Chelsea supporters on the M1, all up for action. Other Chelsea fans were already on the rampage in Hemel Hempstead.
‘We are up to full strength. The boys are swigging beer, snorting charlie and eating sandwiches!’ said Nightmare, painting a pretty picture of his friends preparing for a riot.
‘Today’s the day,’ said Jason excitedly.
‘And you’ve brought the new recruits out,’ said Nightmare, finally anointing us.
‘Maybe we’ve cracked it. Keep cool. Hold it together.’ I told myself.
Just as I was beginning to relax a little, my precarious situation was driven home to me by a story about an encounter with a police officer.
‘He had his throat proper cut,’ Jason told us with a smirk.
Nightmare took up the story: ‘We was laughing at him, we was. He [the policeman] says, “You can’t do that, I’m an off-duty policeman.” I said, “SHUT UP! It’s one o’clock in the morning. Nobody can see us.” [He made a slashing motion across his throat.] His bird ran off hysterical. We was just laughing.’
The police officer needed 68 stitches to his face and throat after the violent knife attack by Nightmare and his mates.
As he proudly told his story, I was watching him in the mirror, and the camera in the dashboard was whirring away. Normally, I cannot hear the recorder turn on, but on this occasion, I swear my senses were so acute that I could hear the cogs click into action. Nightmare’s story was like a perfect piece to camera. He might be a thug but he was also a performer in search of an audience. He didn’t know when he recounted his sick tale that he was in fact performing for an audience of eight million.
The closer we got to Leicester, the more excited they became. Phone calls were made and arrangements put in place. This is the way violence is organised: in advance, between rival firms who agree the rules of engagement and the meeting place. The Leicester boys had already agreed to organise a ruck in Narborough, a small village not far from the Leicester grounds. It had been specifically chosen to avoid Police attention. Nightmare’s hands were sweating in anticipation.
Rival firms meet by agreement to settle their differences by fist, bottle, baton and whatever they can gather by way of street furniture. We were keen to witness and film the violence, but, unless we could duck out, we would be under Nightmare’s watchful eye when the ruck broke out and would be expected to get stuck in. Besides, I can’t fight, so we hoped that there would be enough distractions for us to slip away from the violence unnoticed.
We arrived at The Narborough Arms, which was packed full with Chelsea fans. Jason was still ‘Man United excited’. I recognised a few faces and I hoped that they might recognise me and the company I was in. We were with hooligan royalty and I wanted everyone in the firm to know it and to clock us. I bought the boys drinks and then withdrew to give them room to mingle.
Within minutes, the Police raided the pub and the immediate threat of violence was quashed. The Police have informers everywhere, but gossip never got a conviction: that was my problem with how the situation was being handled. We needed evidence to put them away. I was hoping that the tapes in the car would do the job. Jason reckoned that he had it all figured out.
‘I don’t care what they say, some of our phones are tapped, man. The cops do their homework about you,’ he said, sagely.
Well yes, we had done our homework, but we weren’t the cops.
‘You’ve got to be careful, mate,’ we advised him.
The Police made it clear that they intended to escort the crowds to the game. Thankfully, Jason and his pals decided to continue their journey on the bus. ‘I don’t want to bring down the Old Bill on your car,’ Jason offered, generously. He told us that they might be staying up for the weekend, so we said goodbye, telling them that we would phone after the game.
Despite the massive Police presence, trouble broke out around the ground and dominated the airwaves in the hours after the match. The Chelsea Headhunters seemed unstoppable.
* * * * *
Nearly two years after the investigation started, Judge Charles Byers told Backfriars Crown Court that football hooligans had brought the country into disrepute, as he sentenced Andrew Frain and Jason Marriner to seven and six years respectively. The evidence we had gathered on tape proved crucial in securing the convictions. They were both banned from attending football matches for 10 years. The Judge had initially banned them for 20 but was told by the Court clerk that the maximum allowable was a 10-year ban. He said that football hooliganism was ‘one of the most horrifying and frightening spectacles of recent times’.
Frain has continued to work on the fringe of the far right, with Combat 18 and the BNP. He remains a threat to law and order. I spoke to one prison worker who said that in jail he was a lovely chap. I hope so, but I am well aware of the potential for violence that lies behind the cheeky-chappy façade. He was released in 2003 and it’s hard to believe that he will put this behaviour behind him. Having already
chalked up 35 criminal convictions, it seems unlikely that his rap sheet will stay at that.
Jason Marriner’s ban was lifted after eight years, but he has continued to associate with football hooligans. He has carved out a career of sorts, speaking about his adventures as a football hooligan on the one hand, and claiming that the BBC stitched him up on the other. I met him subsequently at the funeral of a mutual friend. ‘You fucking grass,’ he said, ready for a fight. I reminded him that we were at a funeral, but it didn’t stop him from trying to resort to fisticuffs.
Afterwards, we came close to agreeing to put the past behind us, and even considered making a documentary together, reliving some of the past, but then something happened that made that gesture unthinkable for me.
Throughout the case I had Police escorts to the Court and bodyguards at home. Safe houses and security detail became part of my daily existence after this investigation, as regular death threats were made against me. My friends were afraid to have me to dinner. TV studios put on extra security for my appearances, and sometimes would only announce me as a last-minute guest. Richard Madely and Judy Finnegan were particularly nervous on This Morning, but gave me a warm welcome on set.
But it was 10 years later, when I thought everything had settled down and I was living a normal life again, that this investigation really came back to haunt my family and me.
It had been a busy evening. I had been in Camden presenting awards to the winners of the MENCAP photography competition and had dashed off to meet Ameera and the kids for a feast of Mexican food. After that, we went home and got the kids to bed. Ameera was feeling stressed, and with good reason. She has a brain tumour and she was due to go for a scan the next morning. We were hoping for good news, but her headaches and nausea had been getting worse and there was a genuine concern that the tumour might have grown. When we got home at about 9.45 p.m. we decided that we would call the babysitter to watch the kids, and go for a quiet drink to calm Ameera’s nerves about the scan.
We went to a nearby wine bar and had just ordered two glasses of plonk and had a few sips when I noticed some trouble developing to our right. There was a party of revellers who were getting louder and drawing attention to themselves. We were a little out of the way, keeping a low profile, when one of the men came over and pointed at me.
He accused me of being a grass and a snitch and of setting up his mate, Jason Marriner, all the while pointing agressively at us.
For Ameera this got too much. She ran to the toilets in tears. I followed her but stopped to try to reason with the group of men. ‘Guys, give us a break. My wife has a brain tumour and she has a brain scan tomorrow. She is very stressed. We’re just out for a quiet drink. Give us a break.’
They continued their aggressive posturing and there seemed to be no talking to them. I escaped to the toilet to try to comfort Ameera. There were other women there, wondering what was going on. A girl who was there for her birthday approached me and said: ‘Why is she upset? Does someone want to beat you up?’
‘It appears so,’ I answered.
‘Is that because you put someone in jail?’ she asked.
‘I guess so,’ I replied.
‘Then you deserve it,’ she said.
Her friend suggested that I leave the ladies’ toilet. I went back to the bar area, where the men continued to abuse me. As soon as they saw Ameera appear from the toilets, they attacked me, and in the melée Ameera was badly assaulted and beaten up. I later collapsed unconscious while the Police were taking my statement. The brain scan was cancelled.
For the first time, my work had come to haunt my family. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to take those moments back. Ameera needed counselling to cope with the incident, which left her suffering from panic attacks and feeling vunerable and suicidal because she felt that she couldn’t protect the children. We were constantly looking over our shoulders in fear of attack. The assault on Ameera is my greatest regret. No exposé is worth that.
During the course of the investigation, I got a Chelsea tattoo to help me pass as a genuine hooligan. Ludicrously, I fainted while it was being done, but the technician continued, on the insistence of the producer: nothing would give me away more than a half-finished tattoo. After the programme went out, I had considered getting it removed and had endured one laser removal treatment, courtesy of the BBC. It didn’t bother me much then, so I never went back for more painful treatments. It bothers me now.
3
MACINTYRE OF ARABIA
I was in Oman as a guest of the Al-Amris, a Bedouin family living halfway between an ancient world and the encroaching modern civilization. They were good people who lived for the camel. I was about to die for it. The genesis of this mad adventure lay in a series I did for the Discovery Channel, where I lived with tribes around the world from Borneo to Bolivia. For me the series afforded the opportunity to get a snapshot of these societies before they changed into something unrecognisable.
This was a Boy’s Own opportunity. I had to open myself up to any and every experience, and be ready with an upbeat smile even when I was feeling like a deadbeat. For me this is the essence of the good traveller: an open heart and an open hand will open doors locked to others. As I travelled the world from culture to culture, continent to continent, I was left with the enduring impression that however differently we live our lives, we are all intrinsically the same. We have our hopes and dreams, fears and stresses, and we have a fundamental belief in family and community.
This adventure brought me to the Arabian Desert, to the ocean of sand dunes that looks like it could carry you off the edge of the earth. This was my journey with the Bedouin, which immersed me in an alien culture, a foreign land and an inhuman climate.
It hadn’t rained there in the previous six years and the temperature was regularly hitting 50°C. It’s one of the harshest environments on earth and it felt like it. The Bedouin tribes call this land their own; for a light-skinned Irishman, it’s an oven-like hell. For thousands of years the Bedouin have lived in the Arabian Desert and I had travelled 5,000 miles to live as they do, to breathe their air, eat their food and walk their land – but definitely not to race their camels.
I was in the heart of the Middle East. Over a three-week expedition, I walked the line between an ancient culture and the modern world. Despite the temperature, I felt strangely at home in this part of the world. My mother was brought up in Saudi as part of the American expatriate community working in the oil industry. The place was in her blood and she had immersed us in it with stories, art and books.
My journey to the Bedouin commenced from the Oman capital, Muscat. From there I headed south to the Sharqiyah Sands, a vast expanse of desert which was to be my unlikely home for three weeks. It’s easy to understand why man has such a slim foothold on this corner of the earth. Just 3,000 Bedouin manage to survive there. With extremely high temperatures and very little water, it’s not an environment that welcomes the novice. On the final leg of our journey, we left the modern freeways behind and ventured out onto the sea of sand. I stood in the back of the pick-up taking the breeze and held in my tummy as the cameras rolled. Vanity is a sin that doesn’t last long in this climate, though.
The Bedouin culture requires an arrival gift, so I came prepared with fruit and a goat, affectionately named ‘Number 37’, which we had bought at the local market. I tried not to get too attached to our new friend, as he was not long for this world. I was bristling with excitement at the thought of spending time in a culture so removed from my own. Traditionally, the Bedouin have lived a nomadic existence, migrating with their herds in search of what little pasture the desert provided. Their lives are defined by a strict set of rules, stressing the values of loyalty, honour, obedience and hospitality.
Finally, we arrived at the home of the Al Amri family, my hosts for my stay in the desert. It was a mixture of ramshackle wooden buildings, with some iron sheeting and carpet ceilings. From the outside, it had all the appearance of an allotment wit
h some random huts built out of mismatched materials that had been salvaged from the desert. But inside, every wall space had a traditional Arabian carpet draped on it, protecting those inside from the heat of the day and the cold of the night. There isn’t a tree for miles, just great mountains of sand on either side of a flat valley floor. Somewhere in the dunes, coarse grass grows and there is some vegetation for the goats to feed on, but none of this is visible to the Western eye. I was expecting that there might at least be some palm trees.
The first to come and greet me was the eldest son, nineteen-year-old Siad.
A traditional Bedouin greeting can take a while. You kiss on the left cheek and your host asks you: ‘Have you brought any news?’ You are not necessarily required to give all your news at that moment, but you must reply with: ‘Have you any new news?’ When you’re with a group and somebody actually has news, the procedure can go on for a bit. Siad looked at me in a geeky kind of way, said ‘No’, and went to move away from the greeting, lest I have too much news to bore him with.
There are nine in the family, with 50-year-old Salim at its head. They’re a traditional Bedouin family, with three generations living and working together. Bedouin women are reticent about meeting strangers, but eventually I was introduced to Samta, the mother of the family. In my head I had a vision of the submissive Arab woman, a second-class citizen in her own home and beholden to the patriarch. But I was soon disabused of this notion. Samta was sparky from the outset. She was the boss and playfully let me know that she was in charge.
The family keeps four camels and 40 goats, and they rely on these animals for food and income. They used to be nomadic but now the flimsy encampments are here permanently.
In Bedouin tradition, hospitality is an obligation. It’s said that any stranger, even an enemy, can approach a settlement and be guaranteed food and lodging. A family is even duty bound to slaughter their last goat to welcome a visitor. There is a custom that when a visitor arrives, all the neighbours for miles around are invited to a feast. And it didn’t take long for the enthusiastic first guests to come and welcome me. Some had travelled for days to meet the strange foreigner, others had travelled for five hours in the blistering sun that day. The food was soon bubbling and enticing smells wafted round the compound. I was given quite a welcome and an impressive feast was laid out for all the visitors and me. The high point of the meal was a goat stew, prepared in time-honoured fashion. The men ate together, while the women retreated to a back room where they ate the meal but did not partake in the group discussions. Local Islamic custom and Bedouin traditions are still strong here, and no exception would be made for our arrival.
Hitman, Gangsters, Cannibals and Me Page 3
