Saturday is service day - written by Cullem bell
Motherwell Saturday Service
Intro
The following introduction is lifted directly and in it's entirety from a piece submitted for a project on Scottish football hooligans and served as the catalyst to the writing of this book. 'Saturday is Service Day' was started many years before it was finally published but was shelved until the article below was requested. Following acceptance of this article, the author was encouraged to pick the up the project again and this is the end result. This book has been many years in the making but in reality was mostly written in the space of a few weeks, you may be able to tell. The original project for which this brief resume was intended has still to come to fruition so once again, The Motherwell get in there first, although the plethora of hooligan books previously published means it's well overdue. This is one Lad's recollections of events leading from his early years as a young fan being terrorised by the thugs of the 70's and the realisation that he either had to shape up or ship out, charting his subsequent voluntary involvement to his retirement from the hooligan scene around 1986.
Whilst the author's name will not immediately be recognised, many will definitely know the author by the events depicted, it is not the intent to identify any individual, where possible permission was sought to either use an individuals nickname or a pseudonym, where this was not possible the name has been changed anyway due to continued over-reaction on the part of certain sections of society to involvement in football violence. There are obviously many more tales to be told relating to the Motherwell SS, this is just one man's observations and should not be deemed the be-all and end-all of Motherwell hooliganism by any stretch of the imagination.
To properly chart the rise of Motherwell's hooligan group, the Saturday Service you would have to go back to the club's relegation from the Scottish Premier League in 1979. Their first season in the 1st Division saw thugs from their smaller opponents view Motherwell as the big noises, there to be shot down and claimed as a scalp. In reality clubs like Dunfermline could hardly be described as small compared to the Lanarkshire club but Motherwell had enjoyed relative success, being a member of the Premier League since it's inception in 1974, therefore the 1st Division looked forward to bringing them down a peg or two, just in case any superiority complex existed among Motherwell's fans. If there were any such notions they were quickly dispelled as the travelling 'Well fans consistently found themselves a target for boot boys at every ground they visited.
Age was of no concern, everyone was liable to encounter some form of violence as the season panned out and every ned in town came out for Motherwell's visit. The club were to endure 3 seasons in the lower reaches, during which time a number of their young fans, quite literally, grew up fast and began to mould themselves into a form of defence force, to protect those unable or unwilling to look after themselves. A large proportion of those youngsters formed a fearsome looking Skinhead gang, following on from the 2-Tone scene which was prevalent in the early 80's, to supplement the regular headcases among the support. This group were to become part of the initial nucleus of the new 'Casual' gangs which emerged later. In
Season 1981/82 Motherwell romped away with the 1st Division title, ensuring a long awaited return to the Premier League, but the battles on the park were small beer compared to that which took place outside the grounds. With a winning team, naturally, came an increased travelling support and the hooligans multiplied accordingly, fracas were reported as far apart as Berwick, Ayr and Perth, the Motherwell crew were merely warming up for the bigger challenges which lay ahead. A taster came in the form of a Scottish Cup Tie at home to Aberdeen, loads of trouble after the game with a lot of the travelling support enduring an uncomfortable journey home with no windows. Not advisable in the middle of January and they were not to forget in a hurry. Aberdeen's mob also came about due to frustration at the lack of protection offered at away games and some of them got together to ensure relative safety in numbers.
With their place in the top Division secured, trips to Aberdeen and Hearts, among others, were keenly anticipated both by ordinary Motherwell fans and 'Lads' alike. The first trip to Aberdeen, early in the season, was to be the one which acted as a catalyst in the formation of the Saturday Service, given that the locals still harboured thoughts of revenge for the previous season's Cup game at Fir Park. Pittodrie was probably the first to be marked down on fans' fixture list, providing the opportunity for a full day away with the boys, plenty of bevvy from early in the morning, and possibly a good rammy somewhere down the line.
The usual quota of Skins and Boot Boys made the journey, armed to the teeth with beer and cheap wine, the few normaloids who were accepted joining in the fun but, upon entry into the ground, it soon became clear that some infiltrators were among the throng. Unmistakably dressed with bleached jeans and patterned jumpers, big wedge haircuts and white training shoes, they were dismissed as 'poofs' who would run like the hammers of Hell as soon as they were challenged. Quite the opposite was true, these guys were a different breed of 'poofs'. Even when faced directly they steadfastly refused to budge, obviously with a significant Police presence due to the threatening look of a gang of Skinheads there was limited scope for a direct confrontation without being left open to arrest.
The game passed by almost without incident until Aberdeen scored the winner in the dying moments of the game, the infiltrators rose to acclaim the goal in taunting fashion, which signalled a charge by the Motherwell group. Even though they were heavily outnumbered the Home mob stood their ground, albeit there was nowhere to run as they were backed up to the side wall. The Police eventually restored order but the big wedge haircuts were soon flicked back into place and the smug looks returned, they knew they had achieved their aim, a few bruises for their troubles but they had proved they were no 'poofs'.The 'Casuals' had been well and truly noticed.
The popular tabloid perception later was that Motherwell and Aberdeen were such great rivals because both claimed to be the first with a Casual mob. In truth there was never any debate between the groups, Motherwell's Skinhead mob eventually followed suit, almost to a man along with others attracted by the image, but not because of Aberdeen's direct influence.
The formation of the SS was a gradual changeover, starting off with a few 15-16 year olds who copied the style from one of their classmates who had moved back home to Motherwell after living in Leeds, where the style had caught on a lot earlier. He was to be seen resplendent in Fila Bj tracksuit and Pringle sweaters before any of the Skinheads had even considered growing their hair, in fact most them were dead set against changing to the 'poofy' look.
One game against St Mirren was to change some of their outlooks. The 'Casual' mob numbered about half a dozen if that, all of them a bit younger than any of the known Hooligans around town. What they lacked in experience they more than made up for in attitude. The decision was taken to enter the opposing end, through a gate at the back of the segregation fence at Fir Park, which was always policed. One by one they strolled past the Copper on duty without so much as a second glance from him, but one solitary Skinhead following behind was stopped and questioned as to his motives. "Nae pies at that end" was the excuse for changing ends, "Go on then but I'll be watching you" came the Copper's response.
Whilst he was keeping a close eye on the Skin at the pie stall, the young 'Casuals' were creating merry hell amongst the Saints fans, taking on guys twice their age and weight before being thrown back into the Home end. The lads story was relayed to the rest of the gang along with the suggestion that the relative anonymity provided with a more 'normal' dress code would work wonders for the easily recognised Skinheads. One by one they came round with added proof coming from Aberdeen's mob the next time they met at Fir Park.
Before kick-off a mob appeared at the back of the North terracing, gesticulating to the Motherwell fans at the fence to 'come ahead'. A surge of shaven heads along the terracing saw the two mobs meet level with the corner flag. All hell broke loose with ordinary punters, struggling to get away from the violence, clambering over the perimeter wall and onto the pitch while the gangs stood toe-to-toe slugging it out. The Police were slow to react, caught unawares by the invasion of respectable looking youths. Aberdeen were forced back on their heels by the sheer weight of numbers, but again they stood their ground, gaining a grudging respect from their opponents.
If proof were needed that the Skins had to rethink their tactics if they wanted to progress as a mob, this was it. Over the coming months even those who steadfastly refused to consider previously the prospect of growing their hair and smartening up their dress code, came round to the glaringly obvious fact this was the way ahead.
Increasingly Pringle sweaters and bleached jeans became a familiar sight around Motherwell, the Leeds lad pointing the newcomers in the direction of the best shops in Glasgow. One early trip was to Celtic Park, where the innovative sight of partly grown in, but still obviously cropped haircuts sporting the new uniform greeted those who attended.
Over the coming months the numbers were supplemented by lads who had previously hovered around the trouble zones, without committing themselves to actually belonging to a group. The supporters buses were dropped as a means of transport in favour, as was the 'Casuals' custom, of British Rail. The first organised trip was to Tannadice on New Years Eve 1983, and an advert was placed in the local paper to inform those who wished to travel of the meeting time. A couple of Scarfers didn't quite get the gist of the advert and turned up for what they thought was going to be a fun day out at the fitba' along with about 30 of the new style mob. They weren't disappointed but it was a different kind of fun to that which they expected. They enjoyed it just the same, and one of them reappeared later that season and became a regular.
Some of the lads held an affection for Chelsea and were semi-regular travellers to London for matches, it was during one of these trips that the name was decided on. As was popular at the time, British Rail influenced the decision, with their Sunday Service timetable being tweaked to suit the purposes of the mob into the Saturday Service.
The initials SS were an aside, some lads professed an allegiance to right wing groups, swayed probably by the tendency for football fans to be classed as nazi sympathisers, but the biggest majority had little or no political persuasions, with no interest whatsoever in the faceless bureaucrats who ran, or indeed harboured ambitions to run, the country. The term 'Casuals' rankled a bit with the original lads, Aberdeen were called the 'Soccer Casuals', therefore it was a view widely held among the SS that 'Casuals' was a term only to be used when referring to ASC. The Motherwell mob preferred to be called 'Dressers'or 'Trendies', anyone using the term 'Casuals' was likely to be given short shrift, but after the media got hold of it, there was little point in taking umbrage, everyone knew the 'Casuals', so the term stuck.
It may be a bit of a surprise that a club as small as Motherwell latched on to the phenomenon quicker than most others in Scotland, indeed by the time the likes of Rangers and Celtic cottoned on both Aberdeen and Motherwell had moved on from the bleached jeans and white trainers stage to a more advanced look featuring leather jackets and coloured trainers as the Police became a bit more clued up and learned to recognise the uniform. There must have been a gap of at least a year, maybe more, before another mob appeared in Scotland to supplement the excitement.
Not that there was a lack of action with only two mobs for such a long time, not when the Rangers and Celtic scarfers fancied their inging by virtue of the size of their respective supports.
It was always a treat to play either of the Old Firm in those early days, they just didn't have a clue about organisation. They felt, as they always had done, that sheer numbers was enough to guarantee winning a fight, mostly without a punch even being thrown. Throwing bottles and bricks and hoping that was enough to scare the other group away became a thing of the past as both Motherwell and Aberdeen proved time and again by facing up to almost 10 times their number and coming out on top.
The main advantage as far as Motherwell were concerned, was the close knit group which had come together where everybody knew everybody else. The guy standing at the front knew the guy behind him would cover his back and no way would he leave a mate when the going got tough.
With a maximum of 150 lads, it was easy to know the next in line, the Old Firm never had that luxury and suffered accordingly for wondering if the next guy would stand up under fire. The SS drank together as well as fought together, there was a coming together of lads from all over the District, gang fights became a thing of the past around the town as most of the street gangs contributed members to the ranks of the SS. Just another positive side to the movement but an important one, there was no infighting among them over territory, no outstanding local disputes to be settled, the SS were Motherwell, full stop. Everything else became secondary as they faced up to bigger challenges.
The numbers were swelled by boys from all walks of life, trainee teachers and solicitors walked alongside Burroo boys, sons of Policemen ran about with known petty criminals, Welders and Office workers, even some serving in the Forces, all fighting towards a common goal, to be No.1 in Scotland.
The fashion was as important as fighting ability, no scruffs were tolerated, quite how some of those on the Dole managed it was never discussed, they did what they had to do.
Not only were Motherwell up there when it came to the action, they had some of the smartest boys on the streets, regular shopping trips to London became essential as Glasgow had limited appeal as tastes became more attuned. Overnight trains to London on Friday nights invariably saw a few of the lads occupying their seating carriage, taking in a game after the shopping was done and the return journey saw the travellers back in Centre Focus, the first pub outside Motherwell Train Station and the main base for the mob, for a couple of drinks before shutting time.
The initial look of bleached jeans, white trainers and Pringle sweaters progressed rapidly as the English mobs had already moved on before the SS were formed. To keep up with developments regular trips were required 'down South', and reports of what's new filtered through the ranks over the coming week. Italian designer tracksuits, Fila, Lacoste, Sergio Tacchini supplemented the look before the leathers and coloured trainers, dark corded jeans and Armani jumpers came in to confuse both the old Bill and the opposition (in the shape of the newer mobs who had just begun to wise up putting both Aberdeen and Motherwell one step ahead at all times). There was a great advantage to be had in continually developing the fashion, allowing the mob to continue to infiltrate opposing 'ends' virtually unnoticed by opposing fans and Old Bill, who would be on the lookout for the previously noted styles.
In England, Northern mobs had developed a scruff look as a reaction against the easily recogniseable uniform of the early 'Casuals', Motherwell had grown closer to Leeds than any London teams so the scruff look followed up here, wax Barbour jackets and flared cords brought a few unadmiring looks from Motherwell's womenfolk but it was never an intention to impress the ladies anyway.
The innovative style was to prove an inspiration in later years as every stage of the 'Casual' look's development became ensconced into mainstream fashion, one only has to look at the performance of those designer labels which the 'Casuals' adopted early on to prove that fact.
Fila, Ellesse, Diadora etc. etc. all readily available on the High Street a few years later, flares and running shoes would have been unheard of as fashion items had they not been modelled on the terrace catwalks, Armani was so exclusive anyone who acquired an item was lauded at the next game. Prices offer a guide to the exclusivity also, with a Fila Bj top fetching around £80 in 1982, almost twenty years later a similar item would cost probably £30-£40. Even original items were swapping hands for close to the purchase price a few years later as they became close to collectable material. Much searching was done to find the right gear, the need to go back home with something no-one else had was uppermost in the mind of the 'Casual' shopper.
The 'Casual' has offered much to fashion culture but only those who were there realise the significance, the contribution to terrace culture goes almost unnoticed under a barrage of criticism from would be do-gooders. When the SS were in their heyday, there could be no safer time for an ordinary fan to go about his business, they were not targets unlike when the original youngsters learned their trade. The SS prided themselves on their moral code to seek out like minded individuals for an 'off'. Might sound like bullnuts but they and Aberdeen both set out their stall in similar fashion, only those who wanted trouble found trouble, taking liberties by setting about young fans or terrorising old ladies was frowned upon, this was the new breed, something the tabloids never quite got to grips with in their search for the scandalous story which would please under pressure Editors.
As with any Youth cult, a steady stream of new blood was required to maintain the advancement of the group. Some of those younger wannabe's in the early days were refused access to the train platform on away trips because the older lads felt they weren't ready and might undermine the reputation the SS were building as a solid unit.
Some of those younger lads developed into main faces in the mob later on but first they would serve in The Tufty Club, Motherwell's version of a baby crew. A ladies crew also evolved, calling themselves the Soccer Sisters to link in with the SS title, some tasty Sister's they were too. As if that wasn't enough there developed another baby crew called the Soccer Shorties, as the lads from the Tufty Club graduated into the SS proper.
Much later an attempt was made to revive the older SS members into an elite mob going by the name, Nu-Kru. This was short lived but nasty while it lasted as you would imagine given those who made up the numbers. In the end many of the older lads went over the top and down the other side for Motherwell, and the former Tufty Club and Soccer Shorties members began to form the nucleus of the SS. It's only natural that lads would decide to move on as they had done their service, and their lives changed with children perhaps forcing a settling down period.
The effectiveness of the mob was obviously weakened as these lads dropped off but there were no 'Top Boys' who ruled so it was a gradual process of bodies being replaced, natural wastage if you like. The question was often asked "Who's your Top Boy?", but in truth there was no one person could lay claim to that title. Everything was done by mutual agreement, by committee if you like. Meetings would be held in Centre Focus every Thursday night to determine the plan of action for the weekend.
To put it another way the SS were on the piss every Thursday, the start of the weekend, and the plans for the Saturday just happened to come up in the conversation. Nothing was organised strictly, one or two guys took it upon themselves to find out train times and the best stations to get off at for a ruck, no-one was delegated to do it. Some may have thought they had more clout than others, but the others weren't slow in telling them if they got too far in front of themselves. Self rule was evident and no-one was above reproach, all the boys hated politics anyway, this way meant there was no internal strife if one individual sought to impose his will on the rest.
The SS continues to this day, although not in the same form, they can still be found if you look hard enough at Fir Park of a Saturday, or whichever day of the week the authorities wish to choose on which to play a game. You might also see many of the original SS still kicking about, looking for all the world like a current member. They might not be active participants anymore, but the dress sense survives, in fact it's kind of difficult to determine the active hooligans at times.
One or two of the original mob gave up football altogether to go and watch Rangers, they might as well have gone to Coventry, which is exactly where they were sent. Shut out completely by their own treason and rightly so. As the mob might have said at the time, "We Are Motherwell", nothing else is acceptable. The biggest majority have carried on watching the team and, should the need arise, be available to lend a hand. It's a difficult thing to give up completely, the pride in the mob will always be there, especially for those who were there at the beginning and watched it develop into arguably the best in the country, which they had absolutely no right to expect or demand. In keeping with their team, a relatively small outfit who can be a match for anyone on their day, only the days came around fairly quickly for the Saturday, Saturday, Saturday Service!!!
And we had the best name tae!!!
Those little introductions to life in the lower reaches were to serve me well in the future but I could have done without them quite so early in my travelling career. I quickly learned to watch my back and trust no-one as you never knew where the next punch was coming from.
This was aptly demonstrated a few weeks later at Muirton Park, Perth, home of St Johnstone. We had recorded our first wins over Hearts, Clyde and Dumbarton, we were again on the march with Ally’s Army. The rival fans in the Perth ground were again separated by nothing more than a stretch of no-man’s land, and only a couple of policemen standing at the back watching for trouble, but when a midget (think he was a real midget, not just a small chappie but it was a while ago) casually strolled over and punched the nearest ‘Well fan, they still stood watching. I expected the midget to get a bleaching from the Motherwell boys in close proximity to his victim but no, he was allowed to stroll back across to his mates, taunting us on the way back.
That set the scene for the rest of the game, they had a big skinhead element and our front line were subjected to frequent attacks. Again the excuses of ‘toilet’ and ‘pie stall’ were trotted out by those closest to the Saints fans until I was right in amongst it. I had begun the match about 12 bodies in from the dividing line so I thought to myself, "Bugger this" and moved behind the goal. With five minutes left of a satisfying 3-1 win I walked along the top of the terracing towards the gate, ready for a quick exit.
Suddenly I felt a sharp bang, right on me nose, it felt like it had exploded. I had taken a bang on my nose that morning, playing football for the school team. Normally it’s difficult to draw blood from me but a combination of two hits in the same day had succeeded in doing just that. My hands instinctively rose to cover my face and when I took them away they were covered in blood. I had on a trendy (at the time) white blouson jacket; it looked more like a Doctor’s coat in Casualty. I looked up and saw a few guys laughing, all of them around 21, big to me, too big to be taking liberties by skelping a 15-year-old just because I was an easy target.
I scoured the scene for help but none was forthcoming, save for an older Saints fan who helped me out of the ground, shouting back at the culprits as he led me away and down towards our buses. A couple of guys complained to the police when they saw my face, but got little sympathy so I got on the bus. I looked at them all looking at me and thought, "Where the f**k were you lot". One gave it the "Let’s get them," but not many were for backing him up.
All the way home my nose throbbed and when my Dad saw my jacket he went ballistic, threatening to curb my away days for good. I managed to convince him I hadn’t done anything to warrant a bloody nose, eventually, so it was off to Airdrie for a local derby for the next away game as usual.
The next round of the League Cup saw us paired with Dundee United, a Premier League team, again over two legs. The first game was at home and we won a great game 2-1, wearing United’s away strip for some reason, heard ours were lost in a fire or something. Two weeks later it was off to Dundee with hopes high. We arrived at their ground, Tannadice, and took up position under cover behind a goal. This was traditionally the home end but we were early and no-one was inside the ground yet. Along the steep terrace to our left a fence separated rival supporters and most of the ‘Well fans would be over there, but around 50 of us were intent on taking their end.
I was there solely because the guys I went with were there, I had no desire to take their end but I didn’t want to let the others know I was scared. I suspect many of them felt the same. So there we all were, waiting. The United fans coming from all sides but none challenged us. A couple were told to move by some of our older lads and quietly they obeyed. As kick-off drew closer and the end filled up, older, bigger United fans came in and just looked at us. They stood to our left. We were lined up against the back wall with a gap of around 10-12 feet all around us. Some United were getting closer simply because the end was nearly full apart from our space. They didn’t seem too keen being at the front, but one or two were growing visibly indignant at our presence.
All eyes were on us, very few turned to acknowledge their team taking the field. Motherwell trooped onto the park, we cheered and burst into song. Still United did nothing. One lad caught my eye, he was standing on a barrier, pointing at us. I noticed activity in the crowd in front of me. Some large boys had appeared through the throng, gesturing at us to go for it. I looked around at our boys, no-one was talking, everybody was looking at United, watching for them to make a move. This guy from our bus, wee John, appeared in front of me, "Are you ready?", he hissed through his teeth. I nodded. I was shaking, part fear, part excitement. John went round every one of us, asking the same question. He walked past me again towards the United fans on my left who were inching forward.
Suddenly he darted forward screaming "Let’s go Motherwell." He ran head first into two big United lads, wrapping his arms round them, forcing them back into the crowd. One of them connected with a barrier and let out a painful yell. The Motherwell on my left followed, swinging punches and kicks. The rest of us piled forward down the steps into the big lads in front of us. They didn’t expect this. Within seconds they were on the pitch. We backed off regrouping. I saw one of my mates, Danny, scuffling on the ground with two United fans. I stepped forward and booted one in the kidneys. He rolled down the steps into the crowd. Danny got up and kicked his victim a couple of times. One guy ran forward at him, I swung my boot and caught him in the stomach. No-one else tried anything. We stood and waited for a counter attack which didn’t come.
The Old Bill (I had stopped calling them police lately) were strangely absent through all this, but they suddenly appeared and pushed us towards the exit on our right. Once out of the Shed we went right, following a path which took us round the back of the terracing towards our own end. The path also led to the back entrance of the place we’d just vacated. The guys at the front piled through the gap to continue the assault, an action which saw a few being arrested. We continued on our way to the other side where more United were gathered. We surged forward again, fighting our way through to the side terrace. The Old Bill had left us, seemingly content in stopping the initial fracas.
When we got onto the side terrace, we realised the game had been stopped while United fans were re-housed behind the goal again. We joined the main bulk of the Motherwell support on the other side of the fence where much back slapping ensued. I was quite bewildered. The adrenaline was still pumping through my body after my first real voluntary involvement in football violence. Danny appeared and thanked me for helping him out then went on to enthuse about the chaos we had caused. I was just happy to get out of there in one piece, but during all the self congratulations I felt I belonged, I was one of the lads and that felt good. What’s more, rather than like at Ayr where they had embarrassed us, we had our pride back as we had gone to a bigger club’s ground and embarrassed them on their own patch.
It wasn’t quite over though. They were hurt and wanted revenge and had about 80 minutes to do it. I noticed their end looked rather empty, then I realised they were gathering behind us and to the left. This looked ominous, some of our lads weren’t quite so thingyy now. They were worried, I was worried, again!! We only had one busload of idiots up there, they were at home with a good few hundred angry young men. Just then some well-known faces appeared behind the goal to our left.
I had wondered why there were so few of us at the start of it all. It turned out one of the buses had been delayed and here they were, like the Cavalry. They quickly made their way round beside us and almost immediately I saw a bottle flying into the United fans who stood in the way. Everyone turned and flew at them from our end forcing them back up the terracing and out the back exit. We had triumphed again. Some more back slapping but I was still uneasy. We lost 2-1, meaning extra-time. In the first period we scored to go ahead on aggregate. We gathered behind the goal for the rest of the game. Again United came round but were headed off by the screws who threw a cordon between us. We eventually lost 5-4 on aggregate but the talk on the way home was not of the match, but our victory on the terraces.
Another trip to Aberdeen was coming up in December but I was working on the Saturday morning and wouldn’t make the bus so I became the first to travel by train, on my own. Essential carry-oot was purchased, but as I settled in to my seat the guard informed me this was a dry train, due to Celtic playing at Perth. I asked him to keep it for me and I’d get it after they all got off, there only was a few anyway, but he refused and told me I’d need to leave it in left luggage at the station and get it on the way home. What a waste as it turned out!!! After a pretty uneventful, and far too sober, journey I got off at Aberdeen to find a welcoming committee of around 20 young lads. With nowhere to go I had to go straight through them, I saw their heads turning as I approached and felt my heart beating faster and faster as I got near them. Some of them stood up from the bench they were sitting on and faced me but I didn’t flinch, I couldn’t show the slightest fear or they’d have me. Fists clenched in readiness I drew level with the first one, trying to avoid eye contact whilst keeping my head up and looking straight ahead. To my surprise none of them made a move and I was allowed to walk on by, straight into a taxi in the car park outside. I was sure I heard footsteps behind me as I exited the station but I wasn’t for turning round just in case. Inside the ground Aberdeen were in our end again, mingling in with the crowd, noising up some of our boys. One shouted me down. When I got there an Aberdeen lad asked if I was the one who came up by train, not difficult to determine given the FILA Bj and Skinhead combination. He told me not to go back as the young ‘uns would be hanging about and would probably set about me this time. f**k ‘em I wasn’t changing my plans for them wee gobnutses, anyway I had a carry-oot to collect, but as the game wore on he stressed he wasn’t trying to noise me up, just being honest. He claimed the main ASC mob would just let it go as I was on my own but some of the younger lads were a law unto themselves. This time the game finished without incident, there weren’t that many in our end and these lads had been chatting away quite the thing about clothes, other offs and our favourite subject, just how wank were the Old Firm? One thing they made clear though, we may seem like friends inside the ground, outside anything goes. This was a new development for an ex-Skinhead. Any other mob in our end would have received it, in fact no-one else would have the bottle to come in and chat away like they had with so few bodies. They were true to their word, outside the lad I’d been talking to gave a nod when we drew level with each other, next minute he was off as ASC made their move. They had followed us over the hill, trying to have a go through the line of Old Bill who were separating us. Then, suddenly, they sprinted forward as one to get in front of both us and the OB. Some punches were exchanged as some of our boys tried to make a go of it, but the screws had it more or less sussed and restored order pretty quickly. Didn’t stop them trying though and once or twice it looked as if it was going to go off, but we reached our buses without further incident. I still had to negotiate my way to the station though and began to realise just how dodgy it was going to be. The guy beside me, Cowboy, talked as much sense as the A’deen boy had. "Best to get on a bus" he said. "Aye, probably" was my reply. So I did, and all the way home I thought not only of my wasted carry-oot in Queen Street station, by the time I got back in to collect it, the charges were more than the drink cost so I left it, but more to the point, how we could be friendly with blokes who wanted to kill us five minutes later. It was a strange concept but one which was to mark both our mobs down as different from all the rest who would follow. We never quite had a relationship with any mob apart from them, couldn’t call it a relationship as such, but it was probably more an understanding which took some understanding on it’s own.
That September we were due to travel to Falkirk, when we arrived we found the station was only a short walk away from the ground, handy that. The first turnstiles we came to was the Home end, that would do us. We paid in, and waited for the full mob to come in. Couldn’t believe the Coppers were so lax that they didn’t hang about a few minutes after kick-off just in case we came in late, which we did. This wasn’t pre-planned, it just happened that way when we found ourselves unescorted. We made our way hurriedly, up the stairs to a rather full Home end. No-one paid too much attention at our sudden, en masse arrival, only when we made a speedy venture along the terracing to where their main lads would be congregated did anyone pay any attention. We caught them totally off guard and laid into the ones next to the segregation fence. Some of the cloth caps got annoyed at being jostled about as we all tried for a piece of the action but that was about the sum total of Falkirk’s resistance. The Old Bill were quickly on the scene, but even so they never caught any of us fighting. We went in, did the business and made our way back to the end of the covered section within a couple of minutes. Some of us sneaked round behind the goals as the Screws approached, I stood next to an old fella, pretending to watch the game, but he stuck me in when they rounded our mob up and threw us all out. We were in the ground roughly five minutes in total, hadn’t even seen a ball being kicked, although I did see Andy Dornan taking a throw-in before I was pushed down the stairs, but we had done some damage.
Once outside it was made clear to us that we wouldn’t be allowed in any part of the ground, although some were already at the turnstile and evaded capture. Most of us tried a few times without success to get back in, but eventually we gave up and went back to wait on a train. We had a long wait though, next train was after the game finished, but we found some local Skinhead pals to while away the hour or so. They bumped into a few of our lads who had gone for a walk up the town and brought a mob down to the station for revenge. They bricked us as we watched from the shelter, waiting for them to run out of ammo then we charged out at them. One of them stood, he was their leader. He’d come down further than the rest, showing off, but when we came out he was left all alone as his big brave mates turned and fled. He eventually joined them and was pursued through a multi-storey car park, with cries of "SS" ringing in his ears. Didn’t catch the bugger though and he appeared again a short while later, same strategy, throwing missiles then running when we came out. Good exercise I suppose.
Of course the recent history between us included their infamous ambush of our mob up there in August that year, when 47 were arrested in a carefully planned Police operation. On the train on the way up the mood was jovial until we hit Stonehaven again, when the occasion started to produce the inevitable butterflies. The train arrived in Aberdeen with ASC conspicuous by their absence. A couple of spotters were clocked but they kept their distance. Again I hung back with some of the older ones just in case an attack came from the rear. I was right at the back, eyes darting back and forth, as well as sideways. Going past the docks there were a few streets leading off to our left, at the top of which I could see some ASC tracking our progress along a parallel street. It was obvious something was going on and others had clocked it as well. I had a copper walking right beside me being rather chatty for a change, they usually took great delight in telling us we were scum and they had enough to deal with without us going up there. This one surprised me by telling me ASC’s plans. "They’re going to hit you at the top of this road, where the two streets come to a point, better get your boys ready." I looked at him, puzzled. "You lot better not nuts it, they’ll have a right team and we’re going to be outnumbered so tell your boys." I passed the word up to the front, immediately a buzz formed among our lads. We were heading up a slight incline, "This is where it’s going to happen, just at the top of the road. You ready?" asked the screw. I nodded and passed the word again, he took out his truncheon and quickened his pace. "Come on then, get ready." The ones at the front had speeded up as well, sparking a chain reaction down the ranks. Some ASC came into view at the top of the hill, prompting a few verbals. The front runners started up a narrow path towards ASC as more of them appeared at the top. "This is it." my new pal shouted, "Let’s go." and off he went, some missiles rained down on us from further up, some of our lot returned fire as they built up pace into a full sprint. We charged up the path and some ASC started down towards us but, before a punch could be thrown, more OB appeared and charged into ASC, nicking quite a few. Vans appeared from everywhere, herding the lads at the top into the side, and more charged down towards us to head us off. More ASC came into view from the other side of the road but the OB were well on top by now and any chance of an off had disappeared. They were obviously well informed as to the intentions of their mob. In all 47 were arrested, one of ours who got a bit too lippy on the way to the ground, whilst exchanging pleasantries with ASC across the road. Unfortunately for him his name and address was printed in the local paper and he received all sorts of abusive letters over the coming months. Once we reached the ground the OB escorted us round to the Main Stand as the traditional away end, the Beach End, was housing the home fans that day due to ground improvements elsewhere. Main Stand equals extra dosh, and some of the lads complained they didn’t have enough money. Load of bull of course but we banked on OB letting us in the Beach End if we all stood together, pleading poverty. They weren’t amused and put us up against the wall whilst they decided what to do with us. Some of the older lads tried to negotiate a compromise, those without the entrance money couldn’t be left outside so if they were let in at the Beach End prices we’d all go in. OB flatly refused and we decided no-one was going in at all, hoping they’d relent. Did they buggery, they marched us back to the station and sent us on a train. A spectacular failure, our attempt to call their bluff. We weren’t best pleased so some of them decided we’d get off at Dundee for a rumble. A few made for Dundee city centre when we arrived while the rest of us waited for them to bring trouble back to us. They came back eventually with news that Dundee were on their way. They’d had a bit of a ruck with a few locals and let them know we were waiting. We waited and waited, but nothing came except OB. The next train south was due shortly and we got itchy feet at the prospect of missing out again. Some of us tried to get out but were forced back into the station and down to the platform. The train arrived and still no sign of Dundee, so we reluctantly got on the train. To our disgust, just as we were boarding the train they appeared. A few tried to get off again but were bundled back on and the train doors closed. As the train pulled away Dundee eventually made it onto the platform, just in time to give it the big come-on, couldn’t be sure if they planned it that way. Good job for them anyway, there were some angry boys on our carriage.
A League Cup tie at local rivals Airdrie brought out as many top boys as I’d seen for a while. Wasn’t often we got to play them in a competitive match and the game was eagerly anticipated for the Hooligan potential as much as the footballing significance. We were led in the back way to Broomfield, through a housing scheme where the locals turned out to gape at the sight of 150 well dressed youths being frog-marched through their streets. They probably weren’t used to seeing well dressed youths but we were a major attraction. In the ground the usual slanging match took place at the fence, we had a right good support over with us to see an extra time victory in our favour.
As the final whistle drew closer we got our Lads together closer to the gates, ready for a quick exit to try and take the screws by surprise. They would be waiting to herd us back over the railway bridge and through that manky scheme again but we had other plans. As soon as the whistle blew we moved, not even waiting to cheer the victory, we raced out and turned left, away from the bridge. A couple of screws tried to point us in the right direction but we ignored them and set off towards the Main Street. The majority of the screws must still have been inside the ground as we got a free run at it, right up to the Main Street where we turned left again, towards the town centre and where we knew Airdrie would be appearing. My Grandparents' house was within vision and I wondered if they’d be watching the action which was about to unfold. The pace was quickening as we got closer to the roundabout beside the courthouse, where we reckoned they should appear. And we weren’t disappointed, we saw the first of them coming round the corner, and the ones at the front started a quick jog. As more of them came round it turned into a full sprint, as usual I was at the back, the wrong position for this battle, and had to make up a lot of ground. I wanted in on this, Airdrie were always mouthing about what they did to Motherwell, most of it untrue, and I wanted to make them pay so dearly for their lies. We had to hurt them on their own patch so that those who sat and listened to their fairy tales in the pubs and clubs in their ignorance, might learn enough for them not to be able to make up any more stories, not this time anyway. My family over there had heard them spouting their nutse on numerous occasions, and were always on the phone asking if this happened and that happened. Tonight we would prove once and for all what a bunch of wasters they were.
As they mobbed up they must have got the fright of their lives, not one of our 150 broke stride as we went into them, they immediately scattered, save for one or two mad bastards. They had a few hardy lads, I knew from experience, just not enough to take on this mob. Those who stood got a doing, and the rest....well, suffice to say we didn’t get a look at their faces to recognise them again. I saw a crutch being hoisted above the mob, then coming down on someone’s head I think, one of the boys had broken an ankle and Cowboy had commandeered one of his crutches, using it to good effect it would seem. Only thing was the screws spotted him as well and came after him, taking the crutch into custody as evidence, leaving one poor thingy to hobble home. We did manage to get him a lift back later on.
Seemed like the screws were almost ready for something like this, they just got their timing slightly out, by the time they came on the scene, Airdrie’s finest were (sorry about this) ‘Well and truly routed!!! They wouldn’t be bragging tonight as it was there for all to see. One was in his usual place in a club round the corner later that night. On his own, keeping quiet, when my cousin, who’d watched it from my Grandparents' window, happened to mention, "No’ saying much tonight" with a wide grin, he promptly finished his pint and left, without so much as saying "Thanks for the Service." (sorry again, can’t help these puns, they just flow late at night).
From that point our evening went from the sublime to the ridiculous, the Old Bill hadn't a clue what to do with us. First they lined us up on one side of the road and started marching us away from the town centre, telling us we were walking home. Suited us, we’d no doubt get a few rucks over the 12 mile course. About a mile up the road they stopped us and turned us back towards the town centre, but only for a little while before they got nervous in case there were any Section B hanging about for us to teach another lesson. After what seemed like ages they eventually led us down to the Train Station, lined us up again and went down the line telling everyone to have their money ready before we got on the train if our tickets weren’t valid for the return journey. Of course none of them were as we were informed we’d be sent through to Glasgow and then to Central for a Motherwell train. Another game of ‘Call My Bluff’ was in order and we said we didn’t have enough after paying for the original tickets. After much consternation one of the top brass gave us the big lecture and told us we had no option but to be escorted home. Again, we had little success in our bluff but what the hell, we were having a laugh at the screws' expense. Even more so round the corner when the first dozen or so hailed a few taxis so they could get last orders in at The Focus.
I jumped in one, and heard later those who walked it got into a few scrapes in some of the villages on the way, Chapelhall, Holytown, Newarthill. Nothing they couldn’t handle though, obviously the street gangs in those villages wouldn’t be prepared for a mob of 50 SS coming for a visit.
Saturday is service day
Moderatorer: EvileyeS, haavarl
-
- Tifo Trondheim
- Innlegg: 709
- Registrert: ons 18 mai, 2005 16:01