80's Hooliganism - A Shithouse Standpoint

We're playing West Ham at Goodison in a couple of days. I know that the current crop of Hammers 'boys' haven't quite got the reputation of their ICF peers of the 1980's (mostly blokes now who've got mortgages and drive Mondeo's) but thinking of West Ham got me remembering a few of my scariest escapades supporting the blues through the dark days of early eighties football hooliganism.

It was about 1983 and I was standing in the terraced paddock right in the shadow of the main stand not too far from the old Park End - the days when it housed the away fans behind the goal and was about three feet wide. We were 2-0 up with about five minutes to go and I suddenly became aware that the crowd around me was dissolving. I looked around wondering WTF was going on and looked to my right. Everton had opened the gates ready for the final whistle and about half a dozen ICF had decided to have a wander into an Everton part of the ground and were steadily walking towards me, a 16 year old shithouse who was beginning to rapidly become isolated! They were doing these 'come on, let's fakkin' 'ave it!' motions with their hands and all looked ready to leave a calling card or two on the nearest Scouser. Which at this very moment was me. They started to go into a kind of pincer movement and began to speed up towards me as I suddenly thought 'Oh bollocks! Gotta go here!' - and as I turned to join the rest of the quickly retreating crowd one of them produced a blade which flashed under the floodlights. I saw my pretty boy, New Romantic looks disappearing fearing I would never look like Simon Le Bon when from nowhere three hefty coppers pounced on them and a bit of a ruck started which resulted ultimately in them being escorted from the stadium by the local constabulary.

The only other occasions I ever felt that I needed to genuinely fear for my existence happened in Manchester. Three times.

A night match at Maine Road, home of Manchester City was something to behold. A walk through the edges of Moss Side, gun and drug capital of the north-west and through a maze of little terraced streets offering a multiude of hiding places and ambush points. We got legged all over those streets after a game one night, they never caught us though the dirty Manc scumbags. Then there was a visit to Old Trafford sometime in the early nineties. We were given a police escort from the station to the ground and talk about the gauntlet of hate. They bottled us, threw piss at us, spat at us, threatened to cut our throats...and that was just the police! And then the time I was at Picadilly in Manchester after a game at Old Trafford waiting for the train on my own and got approached by three Manc lads clearly desperate to give any Everton fan at all a slap or three. They asked me who I supported and I managed to answer in a decent enough Manchester accent 'A dornt like footah' and they had a bit of a debate about whether or not to give me a kickin' and finally decided not to. I was working in Manchester at the time so had the accent down ok luckily.

I know these accounts all involve me avoiding getting me face slashed or my head kicked in and I'd love to be able to tell you all about how I led a firm of ten lads and chased Tottenham all over London - but I'd be lying wouldn't I?

Everton did have some serious players around that time though and you can read all about it in the absolute classic book 'Scally' by Andy Nicholls.