‘How do you want to play this?’ I asked Tony.
‘I will only have one eye on the lens,’ he explained. ‘But I won’t be able to see what’s around me.’
‘I’ll grab hold of you if I have to and pull you back if needs be,’ I reassured him.
He told me that was fine and I loved it. Just like Nick, he’d never had a back-watcher before. This is what I was trained for. Now though, I could see a whole new world of job opportunities unfolding before me. I knew I’d love to do this full-time.
For years, there hadn’t been any support: the risk they ran was part and parcel of the job. The new duty of care BBC, the Health and Safety culture, and the death of journalist John Schofield in Kosovo in 1995 had clearly begun to define a new era. You couldn’t just wander into a war zone any more with the letters B-B-C on the side of your vehicle. The rules of engagement had changed, both in terms of the enemy and of the necessary paperwork dictated by the modern era. I hoped this would be the beginning of something where I would finally get to show my value.
Passing the entrance of 10 Downing Street, we were forced against the railings by the police cordon repelling the demonstrators. They were said to be targeting McDonald’s, Gap and Starbucks. The line held firm, which surprised me, pushing the protesters further up the road towards Trafalgar Square. Being penned in really pissed me off. I’d thought that as news crew we could just wander across the line, and I told the cops so. Just as the police baton-charged the rioters, I grabbed Tony’s jacket and yanked him close to me.
‘We’re getting through,’ I shouted at one of them.
Somehow, we got pushed against the wall which Tony was filming. I noticed demonstrators climbing onto the roof of McDonald’s and pointed them out to him. A Sky cameraman with no back-watcher was knocked to the floor, but we got right into the entrance of the restaurant. And I’d just happened to have looked in that direction, as I tried to either stay one step ahead of the police or move away up the side of the road.
I was on a massive adrenalin rush, and loving the abuse of the great unwashed – mostly students lobbing burgers and beer at us with the odd punch. It was comedy violence, and using a burger as their weapon of choice defined their stupidity. I could more than handle this and I knew it would only go so far. It was nothing to some of the stuff I had seen at war. My military undercover training had taught me that nine times out of ten there was always a way out of a situation and that you should restrain yourself as long as possible. These louts were no threat to us, and within five or six minutes the police were on to them.
‘Enough?’ I turned to ask Tony.
‘Yep, we’ve got enough,’ he replied, and we retreated.
But I felt great. I had kept them safe but, more importantly, I had given them the story, and that gave me the buzz. My soldier’s instinct seemed to be exactly in synch with what the journos wanted – where there was danger I would protect them, and where that danger took us was probably the story.
‘That was brilliant.’ Tony was over the moon, thanking me for pulling him free without knocking his arm holding the camera, which was still running. Nick Witchell thanked me too.
By 21.00, my feet were killing me and the story was dead. A few protesters were out of it and there was still the odd sporadic incident but we were done. I knew I had earned my £150 as we trudged back through Parliament Square, and I really felt part of something as I carried Tony’s tripod back to the BBC. When I got home at 02.00, Sue was in bed and I was still buzzing. I knew exactly what I wanted to do and would call Chris Cobb-Smith in the morning. I couldn’t wait to get up.
I rang and rang and nobody answered. Nor did anybody from the Beeb call me to say well done. Nothing. I hadn’t realised that was how it worked. I was all up for the next job, desperate to know when it was happening, but there was no next job. It was back to the TA and pretending to check the paperwork, playing caretaker. I mostly sat at home, twiddling my thumbs.
Then it happened, out of the blue, nearly a month later. ‘I’ve got something here which I think will be right up your street.’ Chris was back on.
‘Count me in,’ I said without knowing what the job was.
There was no ‘you did a really good job last time’. The conversation was short and blunt, typically military on both sides. I needed to get to White City to meet the Panorama team immediately. They wanted me to go undercover at Euro 2000 looking for hooligans.
This was what I’d been waiting for. I was a massive football fan and had been involved in a scrap or two myself. My only concern was that I didn’t want to bump into anyone I knew. The next day I was straight into town to meet the producer, Tom Giles. On this occasion the brief was simple.
‘Can you film undercover?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ I replied.
I knew how to work a small DV camera – but even if I didn’t, I would have bullshitted. I had to get on the plane and show them what I could do. With just a conversation as short as that it was probably already a done deal, but I didn’t know that. I was heading for the Euros on the BBC. I couldn’t believe my luck.
I was assigned to work with Tom Giles. We were an unlikely couple – he was your classic BBC type, well educated and from the John Simpson school of journalism. Then there was me, a schoolboy drop-out who’d spent his life in the army. First things first, on any undercover job – what was our cover story?
Before heading out to Holland and Belgium, we decided that we had been at school together and both had military parents based in Germany. I could play that part easily and Tom would just follow suit. I knew from the old days that the key to the other you is keeping it simple. Try to over-complicate who you are, and you’re in the shit. We stuck to Craig and Tom – that made sense. I didn’t want to start calling him ‘Paul’ and then shout ‘Tom’ across a crowded bar. Our real names would do. He knew his football, too, so I wasn’t concerned on that front – even though with his bouffant hair he didn’t really look like an England fan!
Very quickly, I became comfortable wearing the undercover gear. The camera was a buttonhole in my shirt with wires leading down to a belt underneath. I had the power supply on one side and the camera on the other. A key fob went into my pocket; if I pressed it, a red light would come on and we were filming. Battery life was between one and two hours, and if I needed to change them, I would do so in the toilet behind a closed door. The temptation to keep checking we were rolling never left me.
I couldn’t let the gear dominate who I was – the need to stay in character was paramount. If I got in a fight or stood up too quickly, my shirt could show my equipment. In the absolute worst case scenario, I would come clean and say we were working for Panorama.
But I knew I could handle myself. I told myself to see it as a normal job, and that meant having full awareness going into any building. Stay close to the doors, never get stuck smack bang in the middle, and always look for exit points. Be aware and keep one eye open. A cursory glance to Tom should be enough to send a message. Mingle with the fans and drink the night away, but only down half the pint. Eye up the flashpoints and join in with the England songs, I told myself. I knew I was an easy casting for the role. Frankly, my two lives had now collided and I wondered why I hadn’t done this sooner. I was getting paid for it, I didn’t have to justify every expense with a receipt, and I was on tour with the BBC. My biggest fear was letting Tom down. I knew straightaway that this was the life I wanted. I was working undercover for Panorama – the flagship news programme on the BBC!
In all we were a team of seven, and it wasn’t hard work. Go where the England shirts took you and follow the whiff of alcohol. We did have prior intelligence, of course. You don’t need to have followed England at major tournaments to know that we were probably going to be onto a winner. Violence had never been too far away over the years. Specifically, though, we were hunting the Cardiff City Soul Crew; in particular, Annis Abraham.
We knew about Abraham from previous incidents, and we kne
w he was definitely there. Tom A had also followed over a couple of the known Cardiff and West Ham boys, Shane Weldon and Matthew Marion. Thugs with no chance or intention of getting a ticket in Charleroi had turned up for the ruck. The stadium itself housed only 30,000 – there were at least 40,000 England fans on the street, and you could hear them on every corner, moaning about the fact that they had been on the piss all day long and hadn’t got wasted. (The authorities had watered down the beer.) Equally, their musical back catalogue left a lot to be desired. ‘No surrender to the IRA’, ‘Ten German Bombers’ and ‘Two World Wars and One World Cup’ were the particular favourites.
I was soon reminded that if I hadn’t been this side of the undercover filming, I could have been on the other. My mate Wolfy – a Wolves fan, obviously – recognised me in the mêlée.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘I’m doing stuff for the BBC,’ I openly confessed without thinking about it.
I made my excuses that I had to pick up my ticket and left abruptly. Deep down, I had known I would bump into him and I trusted him. He was a former colleague from the army and no thug at all. But the chance meeting kept me in the zone and prepared mentally to stay in the role. It just planted that seed of doubt that I might run into the old school Inter City West Ham hardcore. I needed to avoid that all costs.
Either way, we had been given the story on a plate. England had been drawn against Germany in this tiny pocket-sized venue. The Panorama show was due to air in days. Despite a few minor scuffles, and the striking image of the local police firing the water cannons at drunken English fans, we knew what we were all waiting for. There was no way it wouldn’t kick off.
By the evening of the game I was paired with Sam Bagnall. We were a more natural couple. Tom had done a good job in character on the ground, mingling with the fans and singing those awful songs but Sam was a bit more Arsenal and a bit less posh – the casting was perfect. I didn’t know how Tom would handle himself in a scrap.
At our meeting to assign new roles, I asked a couple of key questions. I was still new to this and wanted to know how far I could go. I was keen to stay in the role, and if I had to throw a punch, I would. If I could chant and sing, so be it. I was told not to start anything, even if it made us look cowards in the heat of the moment. Join in – yes. Pull out – if needs be. Go with it, but don’t be the star of the show. I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long, but I had to do it the BBC way, despite my instincts to let it kick off. I’d been told that if nothing happened, nothing happened. We couldn’t engineer it. I had no doubts, though. It was England–Germany after all.
Sam and I had hit the streets around 10.30 to get established. Hooligans were predictable and territorial – they would always be attracted to a huge plaza, a water fountain and bars round a square. It was a natural magnet. Throw into the mix some Turks, clearly just there for trouble, and, as I said to Sam, it was an accident waiting to happen. Bare chests, face paint, and the Union Jack draped across the body were the style of the day in searing heat. There was no doubt that alcohol would light the blue touchpaper – regardless of what happened on the pitch.
Three-quarters of an hour before kick-off, you just knew the temperature was rising. I was keeping an eye on the police so I never saw who threw the first punch but it just went mental. The England fans were edging towards the German fans and plastic chairs and pots of beer were raining on the police. Sam and I were about half a row back from the front, war cries of ‘Come on, we’ll have you’ all around us. These weren’t the usual diehard England scum – these were the young wannabes wanting to make a name for themselves, keen to prove to the old school that they were hardcore in their first fights on England duty.
The German fans got up and started to move towards us. I was loving it, thinking, ‘Come on, let’s get the ball rolling and let’s get stuck in.’ I knew it was going to get tasty.
As the two sides came together, I couldn’t locate any of our ‘targets’. The police came tearing in and then I spotted the water cannon coming at us. I grabbed Sam and we retreated round the corner. ‘We don’t want to get hit by that,’ I warned him.
Within seconds, the police had cleared the square. I had never seen this technique used before. It was like something out of Mad Max and the police didn’t care if they ran anyone over. This was a no-nonsense approach. We made our way away as the fans tore down our street, knowing that the overt crew had the shots with the big camera from the top end of the square. We decided to walk the kilometre or so to the ground.
The fans had to make their way through mesh fencings but just tore them down, battering them with batons. Most of them didn’t have tickets. The stupidity of having such a massive game here between two teams with ‘previous’ couldn’t have been more obvious. The police’s only response was to go in heavy handed, regardless of legitimacy. Still the songs reigned – despite ‘No surrender to the IRA’ being completely out of context at an England v Germany game!
By kick off time, we were back in the square to see what was happening. The police and their vans had formed a massive cordon; we retreated to a café further down. When Alan Shearer scored the winner, the place erupted and so did we. But our work was done. The call had come in to get to Brussels. Our information was that the Cardiff boys were heading there.
The fixture list was now irrelevant. England had to play Romania to qualify, and Romania didn’t have football hooligans. All roads now led to the Belgium capital. Turkey were playing Belgium the night before England’s crunch match – that was now the new flashpoint, and Panorama was due on air hours after the final whistle of the England game.
We didn’t have a great deal to make a show that was anything different to what you had come to expect from England fans. It wasn’t really shocking because we had all grown up with it. Everything hinged on Brussels but we were making Panorama on the fly with a small amount of panic. We had some footage from Eindhoven, trouble in the square and the stadium at Charleroi, but we didn’t have the money shot. Turkey versus Belgium, a throng of England’s worst, and the Cardiff fans being spotted in Brussels was our only hope.
I had underestimated Tom and Sam’s knowledge, contacts and tip-offs. They were passionate about making the programme and exposing the England hooligans. I hadn’t been part of the intelligence about the Cardiff fans prior to the trip. Among their hooligans was actually a current player, Dai Thomas. Let’s remember, Wales hadn’t even qualified – as usual. These fans were there only to cause trouble.
Caught up in the heat of events, I had made the mistake of thinking the story was dictated by the action on the pitch.
I had a picture of Annis Abraham in my head – something I was able to do through a military technique called Kim’s Game, which is used to test your memory to develop a semi-photographic recall. After just one sighting of his picture, I knew who we were looking for. I had also learned that he was into dodgy nightclubs and young girls, and that he didn’t drink. His hangers-on would be surrounding him but he was the one I was looking for.
Buzzing at the thought of making my first show for the BBC, I considered myself an outsider, soaking up all the nervous energy, listening to the jargon but fascinated by the speculation as to whether they could make sixty minutes out of the hours of footage that we had taken. I wanted more of this.
Deep in the Grand Place area of Brussels, we had identified O’Reilly’s as the focal point. The England game was not until the next day, so there was no need to go out too early. We left it quite late before pitching up. Our overt camera team was also out filming. We were specifically hunting Abraham. In the corner, a group of England fans were doing lines of coke off the table as I entered.
‘Fuck, where’s Sam?’ I thought.
He was right behind me, filming. We weren’t there to make a drugs exposé but it certainly added to the picture. I weighed up in my head what I would do if I found myself at the same table. I decided I would go as far as I could and then withdra
w. That was the nature of working undercover.
Outside, someone shouted: ‘They’ve got knives!’ England fans were stirring it with the Turks and the Belgium nationals.
My adrenalin rush was on. I couldn’t ask Sam if I should join them – that would be too indiscreet. I was slightly reeled in and carried away with the chanting – my ears were ringing with ‘No surrender to the IRA’ and it was rammed inside. We still had nothing bar the random afternoon scuffle and the odd shot of Abraham walking the streets. I was smart enough to realise the potential of the situation we were in and the need to be patient, but at this point we didn’t have a show.
The plain-clothes coppers were standing by, ridiculously obvious in their jeans, lightweight jackets, bum bags worn at the front, cropped hair, and easily visible ear pieces. I wouldn’t have been so open myself – they made it pretty obvious who they were, despite having said that they would keep a low profile until needed. Any football hooligan would have clocked them.
All I could think about was whether Abraham was here.
A mass of England fans charged through the door, the police trying to follow them in. It was smoky; people were jumping. What followed felt like twenty seconds but probably lasted half an hour. Riot police appeared from nowhere. Sam and I tried to force our way to the door – basic instinct, remember the exits. ‘They’re attacking us,’ people were crying. I could see the riot police in body armour appear outside from nowhere. Annis Abraham was round the corner, having been picked up by the overt crew. Sam and I didn’t know this.
I shielded Sam so as not to blow our cover when he rang the producers to say it had all gone mental. We had to walk the fine line between staying in character and communicating a message to the guys on the ground. Sam knew that we needed the outside shots and I wanted him to sound as if he was ringing his mates to tell them it was all going nuts at O’Reilly’s and we needed back up. As long as he sounded like a thug, it didn’t matter, except for the fact that we didn’t have an exit strategy. The inside doors were locked and there was nowhere to turn. Tables and chairs were flying everywhere. Much as I loved it, this was the worst-case scenario. How the fuck do we get out of here? Yet the magnet of danger made me want to stay.
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