Saturday's Heroes - Skinheads, Sex and Football Violence!

by Joe Mitchell

  Chapter 1

  AS Paul West left the football ground, he knew there was little chance of any trouble. The fighting before the game guaranteed that the Old Bill would be out in force once the final whistle had blown, and that's exactly what happened. What made it worse though, was the fact that Paul and his crew had managed to attract the attention of two uniformed bobbies who followed the seven skinheads all the way to the train station.

  It was amazing really. Skins hadn't ruled the terraces for a good four years, but you still couldn't go near a football ground with a crop and boots without the police fingering you as public enemy number one. Last season, at Walsall, Paul had been searched on four separate occasions going into the game, while a crew of about 50 casuals waltzed straight in without even a raised eyebrow from the plods on duty.

  It looked like being one of those days. None of Paul's crew had even been involved in the trouble before the game. Tony had to work Saturday mornings in a timber merchant's yard, Simon stacked shelves down the Co- Op, and the rest of them were down the pub as soon as it opened its doors. They hadn't left the Red Lion until five minutes before kick-off and so had missed the first ten minutes of the match as well as the aggro in the town.

  The two policemen followed them all the way down to the platform and watched the skinheads get into the very last carriage. Big Trev pulled down the window and started waving at them as if he was saying goodbye to a loved one.

  "Get in here you dopey bastard!" Paul shouted. "It's bloody freezing with that window open!"

  Big Trev slammed the window shut and took a seat opposite Paul.

  "So, are we going for a quick pint when we get home or what?" asked Bill. He was a brewery on legs that one.

  "Might as well. I'll have to wait until my Dad comes home at seven to get the van anyway", chipped in Alan.

  Alan was a tall, thin bloke who was very handy to know. Not only could he use his father's Transit van to ferry everyone around, but he also seemed to know everyone who was anyone. If you wanted anything from a washer for a tap right up to a new video recorder, Alan was your man. No questions asked, no fancy shop prices to pay.

  "Did you see that big fat bird standing behind the goal?" said Simon, trying to change the subject. He was only 15, looked even younger, and had no chance of getting served in a pub. His best hope was that the rest of them would give the pub a miss, get a few bottles from the off-licence, and drink them over the park. "I missed the last two goals because of her fat arse!"

  "You should have been watching the game instead of licking it then, you dirty little bastard!" came the quick reply from Bill.

  Everyone laughed, even Simon. He was the youngest member of the Medway Skinhead Syndicate and was the butt of more jokes than Les Dawson's mother-in-law. The rest of the mob were all in their early twenties and had all been skinheads since the late Seventies.

  The train sat in the station for what seemed like ages. Then there was the sound of a lot of people running down the stairs, a dozen or more doors opened and slammed shut, and seconds later the shabby excuse for public transport was pulling away. Final destination London Charing Cross, but before that it had to pass through Chatham and Strood as well as a dozen or more other stops between the River Medway and the Big Smoke.

  As soon as it had pulled clear of Gillingham station, the muffled choruses of football songs could be heard from the other end of the train. After a 3-1 win, it was the home fans who had most to sing about, but most of the Gillingham fans who got this train home after a game didn't even sing inside the ground. What's more, these songs seemed to be working their way slowly up towards the carriage the skinheads shared with a few old couples and a woman with a kid.

  It soon became clear that the long delay at the station was to give Reading fans a chance to catch the train, and it was them who were making all the noise. They had been kept behind for a good ten minutes after the game, but once the gates had been opened it was in the interests of the police to get them off their patch and on to the first train available. Anything for a quiet life, the Old Bill, and who could blame them.

  The chanting got nearer and nearer, until the door that separated the end carriage from the rest of the train opened. Then it was available to Paul and his mob in glorious stereo.

  "Who wants to pay up and who wants slashed?" shouted the first voice to enter the carriage.

  Paul could see the worried looks on the faces of the other passengers, but still couldn't see who was doing the mouthing. Obviously, the mouth hadn't seen the Gillingham fans either, but he soon heard them. Trev started them off with, "Gillingham! Gillingham! Gillingham!", and within three words the rest of the MSS had joined in and were banging the side of the train and stamping their boots on the dirty floor.

  Darren hadn't collected so much as a penny before being momentarily stopped in his tracks by the battle cry now echoing around the carriage. He had already passed about 30 Gillingham fans as he made his way down the train with the other Reading casuals, but they'd all been scarfers, all too willing to hand over the contents of their pockets. Either there were a few simpletons in this last carriage who were about to suffer, or he had stumbled upon an excuse for a rival mob. Both possibilities put a smile on his ugly face as he bypassed the pensioners and made his way down to where the noise was coming from.

  By the time Darren saw the shaven heads of the opposition, he had been joined by another dozen or so casuals. Most were under-fives, young kids who still hadn't graduated to the full-time ranks of Reading's best dressed elite, but Jonesy and Big Ricky had seen active service at football grounds up and down the country.

  It wasn't long before the chants of "Gillingham!" were being drowned out by "Nobody kicks the fuck out of you, like a Reading Casual Crew!", but it didn't shut the skinheads up. The casuals soon outnumbered the skins three to one, and the last thing the Gillingham lot wanted was a ruck in the confined space of the train. None of their lot were tooled up and they knew equally well that casuals loved to play the hard man with a blade. A war of words would keep the casuals at bay - at least for the time being.

  The train would arrive at Chatham station within a minute or so. It wasn't their stop, but it was a certainty that the skinheads wouldn't survive until Strood without the slanging match turning into a full-scale battle. Paul nodded to his mates sitting opposite to let them know they were getting off earlier than usual, but he soon wished he hadn't. Simon was sitting nearest the door and when his hand moved towards the handle, with the train only just pulling into the station, it was seen as a sign of weakness by Darren and his fellow tax collectors.

  "You're not leaving us already are you, boys?" asked a spotty little git in a Pringle jumper.

  "That's it. Run home to Mummy!" shouted another casual.

  As the train came to a halt, the skinheads took their leave with the taunt of "Dinosaurs!" ringing in their ears. Simon couldn't get off quick enough, but the others did their best to leave at their own pace. Sensing victory, the Reading fans turned up the volume in the abuse stakes, but apart from the odd shove it looked like the Gillingham skins would live to fight another day.

  Then, one of the younger casuals took a step forward and lashed out with a Stanley knife, catching Tony on his left cheek just as his first boot had touched down on the concrete platform. Instinctively, Tony's hand went up and caught the first drops of blood.

  "You bastard!" he shouted. He wanted to get back on the train and kick his attacker all the way back to Reading. He really wanted too, but he wouldn't have stood a chance. Spurred on by the sight of blood, the casuals were now hanging out of the carriag
e doors, giving it the big come on to the handful of Gillingham fans now crowding around Tony.

  The strange thing was he didn't feel any pain, but the look on everyone's face told Tony that he had to see the damage for himself. He made his way to the toilet, with the chant of "Nobody kicks the fuck out of you, like a Reading Casual Crew!" drowning out the station announcer's message that the train wasn't leaving until all the doors were shut.

  As Tony and the rest of the MSS entered the toilet they knew it just might be their day after all. One of the Reading casuals had left the train for a drink and was scooping water with his hands from a running tap. Before the boy could even look up, Tony had him by the hair and started to bang his scared-shitless face off the sink. The mixture of blood and running water soon turned the basin red, but still Tony didn't stop. Skin and bone were being smashed on to the cold stainless steel and Tony was loving every moment of it. This little bastard was going to pay for his slashed face and the blood stains on his fawn sheepskin.

  For the casual it must have seemed like a lifetime, but Tony had done as much damage as he was likely to do in about thirty seconds flat. There was blood everywhere. How much damage had been done was anybody's guess. There was just too much blood to see if the luckless Reading fan even still had a face.

  Still holding him by the hair, Tony dragged the screaming kid out of the toilet and threw him down on the platform, in full view of the train. And that was it. A red rag to a raging bull.

  Doors the length of the platform flew open and the train began to empty. About a hundred Reading fans wanted to make amends for their fallen comrade. By then of course, Tony and the others were half way up the stairs and heading for the station exit. They shot past the startled ticket collector, with only Paul momentarily stopping to tell the fat bastard to shut the gates.

  Nobody had time to wait and see if he would close them or not, but after five minutes of running it was obvious that they had made good their escape. By then they had reached the shopping centre and there was no way any Reading fans would risk going that far from their ride home. Not if they had a brain between them anyway.

  Despite being run, the MSS were claiming victory. Against all the odds, they'd managed to teach at least one of Reading's dressers a lesson he'd not forget in a hurry. No doubt the train to London was full of similar talk of how Gillingham had been fleeced on their own turf. The eighty odd quid they'd collected by steaming the train would certainly pay for a big celebration back home anyway.

  Now inside the Rose & Crown, Tony joined in the verbal action replays, but only after 'phoning for a taxi to take him to the hospital. He knew he'd need stitches, but at least it was a clean cut. The latest craze was to use two blades taped close to each other so that it was really difficult for doctors to repair the damage. Luckily for Tony, that was still to catch on amongst sheep shaggers like Reading.

  "Did you see the ticket collector's face when we ran by?", Trev asked with a smile on his face. "Poor bastard nearly had a heart attack!"

  "So did I when I saw that fucking train empty!" shouted Bill, who had taken up his usual residence over by the fruit machine. He fed pound after pound into its obliging slot night after night, and then had to tap off the others for drinks when he came back empty handed. He was always trying to come up with a system that would guarantee wins, but from what the others could tell he hadn't even sussed out how the nudges worked. Stupid git.

  So, we still on for tonight?" asked Alan.

  "You can count me out. My face is fucking killing me," replied Tony.

  The others were all up for it though. It wasn't every weekend that a decent dance was held within spitting distance and nobody could think of a better way to round off the day.

  Chapter 2

  IT was raining. It was always raining these days, but tonight it was really coming down. Cats and dogs didn't get a look in. This was more like elephants and hippos. Paul stood just inside the entrance to the block of flats and waited for the van to arrive. He'd been standing there for twenty minutes, but should have known that bastard Alan would be late.

  Eventually the Ford Transit came around the corner and came to a halt outside the flats. Paul turned up the collar to his crombie and started a mad dash towards the van and its empty passenger seat. Crombies might be smart and warm, but if they get wet they stink to high heaven, and Paul knew no bird would look twice at him if he smelt worse than a greaser. Except a greaser's bird of course.

  When he reached the door, Paul tried to open it, then tried it again when it failed to open. Suddenly, the whole van erupted in laughter. Obviously seeing Alan getting a soaking was some wanker's idea of a joke. Eventually a hand lent over from the back of the van, unlocked the door, and Paul was able to claim his seat in the front next to Alan.

  "Still raining is it Paul?" asked Simon from his place in the back of the van. A new round of laughter provided the answer.

  There were 12 people squeezed into the old white Transit. It had no seats in the back so nearly everyone had to make do with the cold metal floor. Apart from Simon and Colin who had a wheel arch each, only Pete did his best to crouch down instead of sprawl out - because he "didn't want to get my suit dirty". Bloody poof.

  Paul was glad not to be rattling around in the back with the others. He wasn't scared of a bit of dirt, but all the same, he did like his comfort. Plus it meant he had total control of the tape deck which was soon belting out some classic Motown tunes. Another twenty minutes and they'd be there.

  * * *

  Carol hated arriving early at dances. It was like being the first to arrive at a party - sod all to do except wait for others to turn up. Still, at least they had the pick of the tables to sit at and Debbie seemed happy enough.

  Carol and Debbie were skingirls. Both were dressed in Levi's, brogues and plain shirts, one a Brutus and the other a Permanent Press Slimfit. They had first met three years ago while on holiday in Majorca with their families, had got on like a house on fire, and had kept in touch ever since. Carol was actually from Hull, but came to visit Debbie two or three times a year. Usually, she only came for the weekend, but this time they had both arranged for a week off work and were making a holiday of it.

  Debbie had just lit her second fag of the night, when Paul and the other Medway skinheads walked through the door. By then, the room behind the pub was filling up nicely and it looked like the dance would be a success. The Joyriders Scooter Club had organised it, and by the looks of things they had attracted every skinhead, mod and scooterist within travelling distance. Not to mention the two middle aged couples who'd paid to get in and left three minutes later when they realised this wasn't quite the Saturday night out they had in mind.

  "Where's Tony?" asked Debbie as Paul approached the table.

  "He ain't coming. He got into a bit of trouble after the football and decided to stay at home." Paul could see the worried look on Debbie's face so he added, "It's nothing serious and he said you'd to give him a bell when I saw you."

  Debbie had been going out with Tony since school. She was two years younger than him and they'd got engaged a few weeks ago on her nineteenth birthday.

  "This is Carol," said Debbie, introducing her to the gang of skinheads who had descended on their table. "She's my friend from Hull so someone can buy us both a drink while I go and 'phone that idiot, Tony. Mine's a half cider and black."

  As soon as Debbie left the table and Barry had been dispatched to the bar, Paul introduced himself properly to Carol. "So what brings you down here then?" he asked, giving it the usual small talk.

  "I'm staying with Debbie for a week. Better than spending my week off work at home!"

  "So when do you go back then?"

  "Give me a chance," Carol said, smiling. "I only got here yesterday and you're trying to get rid off me!"

  Paul laughed. "No, nothing like that. There ain't enough skinhead girls around here at the best of times."

  There was something about Carol that was almost magnetic. He
r deep blue eyes had a lot to do with it. Whenever Paul looked at her, they held his glance for just a moment longer than they should have done. Almost bordering on the uncomfortable, but at the same time pulling in Paul like a fish on a line. And Paul, naturally enough, was loving it.

  They seemed to hit it off straight away. This girl certainly wasn't just a pretty face, and to think he nearly gave tonight a body swerve to stay in and watch the boxing on TV.

  Derrick Morgan's Fat Man hit the turntable and within seconds the dancefloor was full of skinheads. Paul asked Carol if she fancied a twirl and they were soon dancing away with the rest of them. After a minute or so, they were joined by Debbie who was cursing Tony upside down.

  For the next half hour or so, skinhead reggae ruled the DJ booth and the threesome never left the floor. Debbie kept saying things into Carol's ear while they both smiled in Tony's direction - making the poor sod feel more self-conscious than the owner of a two inch dick in a communal shower. Debbie was obviously letting her friend know what she was in for if she wanted to get involved with the skinhead stomping away before their eyes.

  A psychobilly tune signalled the chance for a breather, and as they walked back to the table, Carol grabbed Paul's arm and said, "Debbie and Tony are taking me out for a drink tomorrow night. Do you fancy coming along?"

  "Yeah, that would be great," said Paul, relieved that he wouldn't have to try any of his two-bit chat up lines to get to see her again. "I'll make sure they take you to a decent boozer too, and not that trendy hole they'll have you drinking in."

  More drinks were soon called for, so Paul headed for the bar. On his way he passed Big Trev, who wasn't doing too badly himself with a mod bird called Tracy. Trev had his arm around her shoulders and Paul just couldn't resist it. Coming up behind them, he lifted Trev's arm with his left hand and at the same time groped the girl's arse with his right, leaving the poor girl thinking that Trev was coming on a bit strong all of a sudden. Not that she seemed to complain mind you.