~ October 1971 ~
On the train to London, I meet up with Rob and half-a-dozen of the Basingstoke crew. We get off at Waterloo, wearing our Crombie overcoats, cherry-red Dr Martens and blue-and-white scarves. We meet up with another gang from Stockwell and take the escalator down to the Underground. Before the station attendants can stop us, we vault over the ticket gates and rush onto the platform. At Euston, we try to slip through the barriers undetected. I get stopped by the Transport Police and tell them I got on at Oxford Circus. I know you can get through the gates there without a ticket.
British Rail put on special trains made up of old rolling stock with ripped seats and scratched windows, so it doesn’t matter if they get vandalised again. Me, Rob and the others sit down at tables carved up with names of football teams. A gang of seriously hard-looking London skinheads, with crops, sideburns, turned up jeans and well-worn Dr Martens come striding through the carriage, finishing off their chant, “… and we’re the Chelsea Shed boys, running after you!” My feet are sticking out into the corridor and I retract them quickly as they come past. I don’t want them to notice my boots are new, although I have scuffed them as much as possible to round off the edges.
When we arrive at Liverpool Lime Street, we are received by a welcome committee of mounted police, who try to herd us along the authorised route. Our small gang splits off from the main body of supporters and makes its way along the backstreets towards Anfield. As we approach the stadium, we start shouting, “Chelsea!” and clap our hands above our heads. Local supporters spill beer from their pint glasses as they yell abuse at us from pub doorways.
Once we are through the turnstiles, I turn up the collar of my Crombie, tucking my scarf inside, and Rob sticks his into his pocket, so the police can’t identify us, and we wander past the hotdog and doughnut stands towards the Kop end, where we meet up with other Chelsea supporters on the concrete steps of the terraces.
When the match kicks off, we get our scarves out and chant, “We are the North Stand, we are the North Stand, we are the North Stand, Stamford Bridge!” taunting the locals, who shout back in call and response. We are within spitting distance of the opposition, as each side attempts to intimidate the other.
A Liverpool supporter with a scar across his cheek, who looks like he could give me a good kicking, grimaces and gesticulates, challenging me to a one-to-one fight. Scarface slips his hand into the inside pocket of his mohair suit jacket and shouts, “I’m going to chib you, you cunt.” Then he withdraws his hand just enough to reveal the tip of a cutthroat razor. I avoid eye contact. “I’ll be waiting for you outside,” he yells. I pretend I haven’t heard him. Only the hardcore fighters engage hand-to-hand.
The crowd continues chanting, our swaying bodies massing together like a single entity, until reaching critical momentum, and I feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins as we charge into the ranks of the Liverpool supporters. As the home supporters back off, I feel brave enough to launch into the crowd. I dive into them, lashing out randomly at fleeing bodies. But when the opposition regain their footing and start kicking and punching their way towards us, I scramble to the back of the crowd.
A phalanx of police officers drives a wedge between the two bands of supporters, who shout over the top of the coppers’ helmets for the remainder of the match.
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On the way back to Lime Street station, the mounted police intervene to break up a mass brawl, as the local supporters attempt to ambush us. Safely on the train back home, I secretly heave a sigh of relief.
“Did you see that geezer with the scarred-up face? He was going to chib me,” I say.
“Nah, mate” says Rob, “I was too busy giving that big fucker with the sheepskin a good kicking.”
We regale one another with tales of bravado, until we arrive back in London. The Stockwell crew peel off at Waterloo. Rob and his mates go as far as Basingstoke, while I do the last leg of the journey to Winchester on my own.
The streets are quiet, but the pubs are full. Everyone who is going out on Saturday night is already ensconced in their favourite bar. As I walk down the hill from the station, I turn up my collar; most of the locals are Southampton supporters. I know there is no disco on at the Teenage Centre tonight, so I head down towards the Bull. It’s where the Winnall crew hang out. I’m not part of their gang, but I know there will be decent music on the juke box.
When I get to the bottom of the High Street and cross the bridge over the river that separates the City from the Water Meadows, I see two greasers walking towards me. They must be in their early twenties, five years or so older than me. Long hair and leather jackets; bikers without a bike. As they pass by me, I “screw” them, trying to stare them down. One of them grabs me around the neck, knocking my skimpy-brim trilby off my head. The greaser is bigger and stronger than me; I am tall, but skinny. He pins arms behind my back.
“Fucking skinhead,” he shouts into my ear, as his companion punches me in the stomach. It takes my breath away and I scrunch up. I straighten myself up again and kick out at the greaser, who steps back and punches me in the face. A sharp pain shoots up to my temples, rattling my brain. I wrench myself away from my captor and snatch my hat up off the pavement. “I’ll fucking get you,” I shout back at them as I run down the road with the metallic taste of blood between my teeth and cheek.
As I open the door to the pub, The Upsetters’ “Return of Django” blasts out into the street. The bar is packed with sweaty, cropped-hair boys, wearing check shirts and braces, jigging to the music. The Winnall skins may not like me, but they hate greasers even more. I tell them I have just been jumped. Being happy for any excuse to get into a fight and exact a bit of revenge, two of the older members of the gang, Eddie and Phil, leave the pub with me and we head towards the centre of town.
We spot the greasers halfway along the High Street. Trotting up behind them, Eddie shouts out, “Oi, mush!” They turn around, but Eddie keeps up the momentum, gesturing “come on” with his hands, then pulls his elbow back as though to throw a punch. The greaser registers the fist, but it is too late to block the boot that lands in his bollocks. He falls to the floor and Eddie kicks him in the stomach. The other greaser puts his hands up in surrender, but Phil ignores his pleas and punches him in the face, knocking him back into a shop doorway, where he punches him a few times more for good measure. Honour satisfied; I follow them back down to the pub.
