Usually, when I see a tool being drawn, I back off – but I didn’t want anyone to see me doing that. Dougal, who’s a big fucker like me, was shouting, ‘Come on! Come on!’ There were now about 30 of us so we couldn’t turn around and run, or we’d be running into ourselves. There were more of us, maybe two to one, but they were tooled up. I don’t mind taking a beating off a bat but I don’t want to get fucking stabbed!
As Lloyd and Danny ran past me, I kicked this geezer – then I backed off to the side. I did not want to get stabbed. All of a sudden, Dougal got banjo’d and I thought, Fuck this, man! Two minutes later, the police jumped in and it was: ‘Thank fuck for that!’
When I saw Dougal, he was on the floor – completely spark-out. That’s the point at which some fucking guy writes in Villa’s book, ‘The so-called famous Zulu cage fighter got knocked out.’ I said to the guy who wrote it, ‘If you think you KO’d me, come and have a square go at me then.’ Black Danny knows it wasn’t me who got knocked out.
Then the police turned up, so we picked up Dougal and went off to the match. I left the match with about 15 minutes to go and that’s when we saw Villa coming towards us. They were black lads so we shouted, ‘ZULU!’ That’s our war cry. All you could hear was ‘ZUUULUUUUU!!!’
Then they started shouting ‘C-Crew!’ It was all of the old lads. All you heard around town after that was that we got done. And yeah – we did get done.
There’s always talk of revenge but there’s bigger fish to fry now. The history is there though. Even if you don’t go to a match for five years, you still turn out for Villa/Blues. Not just for the fighting – you have to be there for the games themselves.
The trouble with derby matches is that all the guys come out of the woodwork. Blues don’t go to England matches because they’d end up fighting with their own rival firms – we’re not England, we’re just Birmingham. We want the glory to ourselves. We don’t want to say we joined up with Man U or blah-blah to beat fucking Slovakia or whatever.
I remember it was all in the news and the papers for about a week: ‘The Blues came down Rocky Lane … X amount of people were arrested … X amount of police were injured.’
If I had to rate the top five firms, I’d say they were Cardiff, West Ham, Arsenal, Tottenham and Portsmouth. But, as far as the top firms we’ve personally come across, I’d say Villa, Leeds, West Ham and Cardiff, plus we’ve had some unexpected battles with fans in places like Wigan, Tranmere and Stoke.
Our group would always contain a mix of races: we had black lads, white lads and Asian lads; we were a pretty multiracial bunch. When people go on about the Zulus being black, that’s just something that outsiders instantly think or feel. Even the name ‘Zulus’ never came about until ’82, when we played Man City and someone in our crowd shouted out, ‘ZULU!’ The name has stuck with us ever since.
With the Blues though, we do have a large black following and, when you go to certain away games, you see the team’s fans thinking, Look at them niggers down there, man! They start shitting themselves and you think, Fuck me, we’ve put the fear of God into ’em already!
It’s like when people look at me now. They judge me by appearance, but this can work to my benefit because, when I get into the ring and take my top off, the guy standing across from me thinks, Fucking hell! It’s just a look, one moment when you know you’ve beaten that guy mentally already and you only need to go and do the physical stuff. By the time I go out there and raise my hands, he’s cowering in the corner.
* * *
We’d always believed that West Ham were the top dogs, from everything we heard through the media. We’d have thought that Millwall were the worst, but we heard that West Ham gave it to them a couple of times. So everyone was teamed up to meet West Ham’s so-called ICF.
Two weeks before the match, in Edward’s Number 7 and 8 bars, all anybody would talk about was West Ham, West Ham, West Ham! ICF this and ICF that. Our firm had been together for around two to three years and we thought we were going to show that lot. We were the top dogs from the Midlands, but we wanted to be the top dogs in England.
A week before the match, we were all out shopping and getting our gear, shoplifting or breaking into a couple of shops. It didn’t matter how expensive the clothes, you wanted the best clobber, the best shirt. On the day of the match, we met up in town; I was wearing a blue Pringle jumper, some cheap fucking stretch jeans and a Sergio Tacchini tracksuit top with the two stripes across the front.
About 9am, loads of West Ham came through the train station. We were at Edward’s Number 8 bar, and as we got off the train there were around 20–30 of us mingling around town. Then we found a couple of West Ham outside a shop, so we fucking ran into them! Villa were away that day so we knew it was West Ham. They talk fucking funny anyway; you can tell them a mile off. We just fucking hammered them – there were bottles and glasses flying, girls and kids screaming and running. We all disappeared before the police turned up, back to the pub to sit down. We just chilled out for about 10 to 15 minutes, before one of the lads said, ‘Let’s make our way down to the ground.’
There were about 30 of us and we were all from different areas. As we walked down to the match, some of the West Ham fans had police escorts. We saw four or five black lads and automatically thought they were Brummies. We knew that West Ham were racist and played ‘spot the nigger’, so we went over to talk to them and found that some London teams had a few black lads running with them as well. We’d only previously heard of one black lad at West Ham, whose name was Cass Pennant.
We had a little row on the way down to the ground. Everyone was hyper, hyper, hyper! There was loads of Old Bill everywhere. We knew that West Ham would bring a firm because it was a cup match. Whoever was there were all fucking game!
We got to the match and stood behind the goals. There used to be a bit of waste ground behind the stand where we used to fight all the time. We used to call it the ‘bomb peck’ because it was full of bricks and debris. That was where we used to row with the police at the end of most matches and we had a couple of West Ham round there too, who we threw bricks at.
West Ham were at the other end, behind the other goal. We got into the ground and everyone was like, ‘All right? All right, pal!’ The place was packed, all you could see were West Ham and Blues flags, and everyone was jumping around.
A West Ham mob came running out on the pitch and we thought, Fuck this! Sitting behind the goal made it easy to get on to the pitch, we only had to climb over one advertising barrier. People jumped out from everywhere and were trying to rip up the goalposts and seats. And then, all of a sudden, West Ham and Birmingham were clashing on the pitch. Bottles and chairs were flying everywhere.
Then the police came on to the pitch on their horses. They had truncheons and were beating people left, right and centre. Guys were dropping with split heads and there was blood all over the place. Both sides retreated but soon started fighting again; the police tried separating them but I think they only made it worse. They were just going around on their horses, knocking people over. This went on for some time.
One of the Blues managers came out and asked us to get back to our seats. We weren’t going to though; we were giving it out to West Ham. I’d always wanted to fight and so here I was, but I’d never seen anything like it in my life. I was on the pitch and had my photo taken, turning up in an afternoon paper called the Sports Argos. In the picture I was holding a metal or wooden bar I’d just picked up off the floor, but I never got arrested for it.
Everyone got back in the stands now, shouting, ‘Come on, let’s get the bastards!’ All the fans were getting together and the feeling was unbelievable! My heart was pumping 10 to the dozen and I was sweating like fuck. We just wanted to get outside. They’d come down to our manor so about 30 or 40 of us went outside to get them.
We got out into the courtyard behind the main Birmingham stand. We had to walk down the side of the ground, by some derelict houses that gave up a load
of bricks. Everyone walked over to this bombsite to tool up with bricks and bottles. We grabbed slates and whatever else we could. The away fans hadn’t got out yet, but we had little pockets of firms on every corner, waiting for them.
Then a firm-and-a-half turned up. West Ham were well organised and all you could hear was ‘ICF! ICF!’ I thought, Fuck this! Everyone had their bricks and bottles ready, so we just ran into them. But West Ham had some big fuckers and they stood on. We had a good ding-dong with them for around 10 to 15 minutes but guys were getting stamped on. I was fucking shitting myself! I was getting stamped on too, while other guys had cuts to their heads. People were screaming and crying – it was fucking proper, man!
I remember at one stage that a police officer got dragged off his horse and stamped on. It was a proper riot, unbelievable! The Old Bill never wanted to arrest anyone – they just wanted to batter you themselves. I guess they couldn’t be bothered with all the paperwork, but they got a caning as well.
West Ham had a police escort so we backed off, but we always knew where it was going. We were in the backstreets, trying to pick off a few West Ham as they came past. We were throwing our bottles at them, trying to break through, but the police had them in a tight little escort. We couldn’t really get at them and they couldn’t get at us.
We went into town and had it off outside the train station again. Commuters were screaming and running, and taxis were trying to move out of the way so as not to get dented. All you could hear was ‘ICF! ICF!’ and ‘ZULUUUUUUUUUUU!’ We knew we were with the big boys – but they were all men! It was like when we had Portsmouth, you weren’t getting boys, these were big fuckers.
The police escorted West Ham through the train station. We waited for them for two or three hours, trying to pick off a few and give them a few slaps. My mate Sharky ended up taxing some London guy for a Tacchini top and a Burberry scarf. Happy days!
We went up into the Bull Ring after and had a little chat about the match, about what had happened and who’d got battered. We couldn’t really believe that something like that had happened down at the Blues. We’d had it with West Ham toe to toe. They couldn’t slag us off and we couldn’t slag them, but at least we were rated. I think we got a bit of respect from West Ham for that day. I’d never seen anything like it.
* * *
When Pompey’s 657 Crew came to town, there was just me, Todd and Rupert, the lads I was always with. We’d just landed by New Street station and we didn’t realise there was a football match on. Three fucking big lads walked up to us, asking, ‘How do you get to the football ground?’
‘That way.’
Then all you could hear was: ‘We’re Portsmouth!’
None of them were dressed like football casuals. One of them was wearing a green Harrington jacket and they all wore big working boots. Who the fuck are you? I thought. Todd went up and banged one of them and then one of them pulled a knife out. I thought, I’m on police bail here, I don’t really want to get involved. There were plenty of police around and if I got arrested I’d be remanded in custody, so I just stood aside. Rupert started throwing punches and got slashed right across his hand.
They ran off and we got Rupert to the train station. The police took him to hospital. I know Pompey have got a fucking good firm, but I never actually got to meet them.
RUPERT & TODD
Rupert: In those days, football was on a Tuesday and Wednesday, so all the fans would get a paper in the morning and I’d look and see who had to change at Birmingham. Because some of them did stop off and have a little walk around instead of changing trains, but after Man City and Everton it was like you came to Birmingham and then stayed on the other side of the barrier; if you came to our side, it meant you wanted it. So we knew Portsmouth were coming in but we didn’t know at what time. We used to have all these subways outside the train station, so we’ve seen ’em walk round the other way and intercepted them. They’re at the bottom bit and they’re all bunched up through weight of numbers; we had to back off a bit and they got one of the lads. They were saying, ‘Come get your mate!’ and they were proper geezers – the first time I’d really seen dressers, they had cowboy boots and everything on.
Todd: It was Portsmouth 657 but I remember it as just another bunch of blokes, because at that age we were constantly involved in violence and it was just another fight to me. The guys had said something about colour – ‘Paki’, ‘nigger’, whatever they were calling us – and I looked at Barrington, because I was always pretty lively myself, and I said, ‘What you saying?’ And Barrington said, ‘Nah, nah, nah, I’m on licence.’ And I said, ‘I’m not being funny, Baz, if you’re not going in, I’m not going in, simple.’ Because I knew he’d got me covered. He’s gone, ‘Fuck it!’ and just steamed in. They were blokes, we were kids and we were steaming ’em. We’ve all gone in and that day there were about seven of us fighting them on the stairs in the town gardens. They were getting knocked out like flies because all of us were active and up for it.
I’ve cracked one, and then Rupert’s cracked him. As soon as he’s done it, the blade’s come out. I remember one of ’em pulled out a knife and nearly took Rupert’s finger off, so we’ve had to take him to the hospital to get it stitched back on!
* * *
Leeds? What more can I say? A bunch of fucking racist bastards and they have been from day one! I’ve been up to Leeds a few times and it’s ‘nigger this’ and ‘nigger that’. It’s not just Leeds but Yorkshire, and it’s not just a black and white thing – they’re racist if you’re not from fucking Yorkshire!
The Leeds game was planned just like the West Ham one. All you used to hear back in those days was that Leeds had been away fighting in Europe. Most of the papers on the weekend were about Leeds, Leeds, Leeds! When we knew we had Leeds coming for a cup match, everyone was just fucking hyper, it was like we were having a party. Even a week before the match, everyone in town was talking about Leeds.
A couple of days before the match, we went out doing our dodgy stuff and earning a bit of poke. I think it was the season after the West Ham match. I was wearing a nice Burberry coat, a normal pair of jeans and probably a pair of Bjorn Borg trainers, which I used to love.
We all met up at McDonald’s at the ramp, next to the fountain by the Bull Ring. There were about 20–30 of our little rude boy posse – my little firm. We were just happy that Leeds were coming to town. Then we all split up. Some of the lads went down to the train station and, all of a sudden, a few Leeds supporters turned up – 10 lads here, 20 lads there. Fat Errol and a couple of lads were down the station and the police battered them with their truncheons. They dispersed the crowd as we just stood there watching.
We went back to Edward’s Number 7 for a drink and a chat. All the spotters were out. Leeds turned up with a firm round by Edward’s about 12.30 or 1pm. Then the police turned up and chased Leeds off. We couldn’t do much because they kept us inside the pub.
A few of the lads caught a taxi down to the football ground. Me, Rupert, Todd and Big Chest Leroy joined about a dozen others to walk down to the match. We walked all the way through the Bull Ring and paid a little visit to the train station, but nothing happened down there. We headed down St Andrew’s, which is the main street to the ground. Walking down, all you could see was a big fucking firm over the road and a police escort. Leeds were about 300-to-400-strong. So we stayed over the road as they clocked the 15–20 of us.
We were just walking normally down the street as the police came over and started whacking us with their truncheons. ‘Move on! Move on!’ We all had to split up as they were getting a bit heavy-handed. We didn’t want to get arrested, we just wanted to have a good time at the match. I’ve been to a couple of matches where they made you go into the ground late, which is what the police did with Leeds. It fucks your head up really, because you pay all that money to go to the ground and end up getting in there 15–20 minutes late.
We stayed close together and watched the Leeds firm
. There wasn’t much they could do about it because the police escort was tight. Most of the time the police were busy watching us but they had their work cut out. All of a sudden, you got one or two bottles raining over from the Blues side. The police came over with dogs and chased us off; we ran off down some little side-streets and regrouped again.
We got into the ground right behind the goal, as usual. Leeds were up in the top left-hand corner. There was a row outside the ground and I think a wall came down. Then, all of a sudden, the burger van went up in flames! Inside the ground, Leeds started coming down onto the pitch so all the Blues ran onto it as well.
They had a big firm crammed into the corner of the ground where the wall came down. I remember running on to the pitch and getting out of breath – I wasn’t very fit back then. Everyone got together like something out of Braveheart. When you stand there fighting, you get to find out who your friends are. If you’re a black lad, you know when you’re fighting a white lad; but we had a massive following of black and Asian lads at the time, and so you didn’t know who was who at the end of the day.
We had it off on the pitch as the police came towards us. Leeds retreated back to their end and the Blues continued coming forward. We were running them back and forth to their end for ages. The police managed to contain Leeds in their own half but we kept on coming. People were throwing things at the horses and trying to pull the police off them.
After the game, we heard on the radio that somebody had died after the wall collapsed. At the time we weren’t bothered though – it wasn’t a Blue, so we didn’t really care. We were probably even fighting amongst ourselves, as there was no Leeds in our end. (I remember how, when we played West Ham, there were a few of them in with our fans.)
One-Eyed Baz Page 5