by Chugg, Sandy
*
As the 1990s dawned there was no let-up in the war between us and Celtic. One night we would be looking for revenge for an attack on our boys, on other nights they would come looking for us. It was a deadly game of tit-for-tat, one that could easily end in tragedy. That is the way Glasgow was in those years. It may sound melodramatic to say that it was like a war zone but for many guys of my age, on both sides of the fence, that’s exactly how it felt. Trouble came out of nowhere. It could happen anytime, anywhere. You had to be on your guard at all times. There was no alternative.
It was 1990. We still frequented different nightclubs; Celtic used Tin Pan Alley in Mitchell Lane, while we favoured the Hacienda, which is close to Glasgow Sheriff Court. This Friday night, no doubt enraged by another doing at the football, they came looking for us. We weren’t there that night but some of our associates were. It kicked off and the CSC got the worst of it, forcing them to butt out, chased by our pals. One of the Celtic boys, Gary McGuire, was cornered on the steps of the Sheriff Court. He had no chance. He was stabbed and left to die.
The murder of Gary McGuire had nothing to do with the ICF. I even printed a newsletter explaining that we weren’t anywhere near the Hacienda that night. Later a boy nicknamed Wee Semi was convicted of the murder and given a life sentence and he was certainly never a member of the Rangers mob. None of that cut any ice with the CSC. They blamed the ICF for what happened to Gary and after that they were hell bent on taking revenge on us. There were skirmishes almost every night, with boys on both sides getting badly beaten up. Glasgow’s streets were as dangerous as they had ever been.
As time went on however we began to get the upper hand on Celtic and by the end of the Nineties we were completely dominant, with our success mirroring what was happening on the field of play.11 In fact the CSC deteriorated to such an extent that it rarely if ever turned out, even for games at Celtic Park. We didn’t have a mob to fight so there was only one alternative open to us: attack their scarfers. That was the period when we really turned the screw on the ordinary Celtic fan. We hounded them mercilessly, especially when we went to the Piggery. I will never forget those days of glory, when we left Celtic Park with a mob of four hundred, belting out ‘The Sash’ as we celebrated yet another victory. Soon our thoughts turned to FV and we went through our full repertoire of war chants and songs:
We are the Section Red12
Celtic are dead
Or my favourite, which we sang to the tune of ‘Don’t Dilly Dally on the Way (My Old Man)’:
My old man said be a Celtic fan,
Fuck off father you’re a wank
Well take the Hibs and their casuals with it
We’ll take the Jungle and the shite that’s in it.
With hatchets and hammers,
Stanley knives and spanners
We’ll show the Fenian bastards how to fight.
So come all ye lads to the Ibrox stands
And join the Inter City,
We’re so pretty
The Inter City
The Inter City Firm
We walked proudly along London Road, went through Bridgeton Cross, past the back of the Barras and down to the Gallowgate, where all the Celtic pubs are. I have lost count of the number of times we smashed the windows in with volleys of bricks, traffic cones and metal poles. One time an undercover cop tried to stop us and was laid out by a single punch from one of our leading boys. With the windows tanned we did our level best to force our way into the boozers to get at the Great Unwashed who were lurking inside. It was always chaotic, with patrons and police coming together in an attempt to repel us.
Before some games at Parkhead we would even mingle with the Celtic scarfers, using every tool at our disposal to provoke them. One afternoon, after a drink in the Bristol, fifteen of us marched up Millerston Street, where there would be thousands of them on their way to the game. We didn’t give a fuck about being outnumbered and gave them several choruses of ‘Rule Britannia’ to announce our presence.
‘Fuck off you Orange bastards,’ they retorted, which set off several little skirmishes. A Celtic fan threw a bottle at us, which one of our boys caught on his knee and proceeded to play keepy-uppy with. That made them even angrier and as we got closer to the ground it became more and more dangerous for us. By now, in that swelling ocean of green and white, they could see how few of us there were, which I always thought was the equivalent of feeding them ‘game pills’. The police knew a bloodbath was a distinct possibility and one of their vans, a ‘heavy eight’, hove into view. The cops got out and after a great deal of pushing and shoving, managed to form a cordon around our little group. Then they herded us inside the van and took us to Parkhead Forge, which is on the route to Celtic Park traditionally used by Rangers fans.
The hatred we felt for all things green and white led us down some dark alleys of the soul. One such alley was a slashing contest between two of our main and iconic lads after an Old Firm game. The rules of the game were simple: whoever slashed the most Celtic fans would be declared the winner and inducted into the ICF hall of fame. To make sure we didn’t get detected by the coppers we took an alternative route through Duke Street and along High Street, one that would give us exposure to the maximum number of Celtic fans. The two contestants weren’t satisfied with an ordinary, common or garden knife. They attached Stanley blades to ice-lolly sticks to give then a tramline. It meant that when you were slashed it would be much harder for the doctor to stitch. Who won? It was honours even. They got ten each and we declared it a draw.
*
Although by the twenty-first century the golden days of the casuals had gone forever there was still huge potential for trouble any time we played Celtic. After one Old Firm game the ICF were drinking in the city centre when twenty of us decided to go to the Merchant City to look for them. Due to the number of police on the streets we got split up and I found myself in a group of five, made up of four Youth and me. I don’t know why but I had a sixth sense that we were going to come unstuck. We ended up in a pub in Trongate and we knew that the CSC had also been drinking in the area. So it was no great surprise that when we walked out there were twenty of them in front of us. Two of the Youth panicked and ran away. I had two bottles in my hand and I said to the two who were left, ‘No matter what happens I’m not running away.’
I knew one of the Celtic boys. I had helped him out in the past and now he was about to return the favour. He did his best to get me to leave quietly.
‘Sandy, just put down your bottles and walk away. We will let you off this time,’ he counselled.
I took his advice and calmly walked away, without panicking. I went into the pub that the two Rangers Youth had run into. I wasn’t going to leave them. Nobody owed them any favours and they would have been given a right doing if Celtic got a hold of them. In the end they bailed out the back door of the pub. Their mistake was to panic and run away. You should never do that.
That wasn’t my last encounter with Celtic. In 2005 after an Old Firm game the ICF were drinking in the Orange Lodge in Rutherglen, after which, funnily enough, we moved to a former Celtic boozer, which was then called The Edge. We had been on the phone to Celtic but as usual they were hiding in the pubs of the Gallowgate. First the Rangers Youth got in touch with them but no joy. Then I belled their top boy but he didn’t want to know either.
At eight o’clock I heard a commotion at the front door when a couple of the Youth lads left the building. When I went out to find out what the fuck was going on I saw that twenty Celtic were in a confrontation with our Youth. By this time all the main ICF boys were outside and they steamed into Celtic. I was fighting this fat lad when, all of a sudden, I was picking myself up off the pavement. I had no idea who, or what, had hit me. I tasted blood in my mouth and began to spit out bits of my teeth. I saw five Celtic boys lying on the ground and it was then I realised that I had been knocked out, because the fight had moved on up the street.
‘Sandy, Sandy,’
someone was shouting.
I looked up and saw an old pal, Scooby, a Rangers fan from Haghill. He had been driving past and had seen me on the deck. Realising how bad I looked he drove me to the Royal infirmary. When I found out it would be several hours before I would be attended to I made a few phone calls to find out what exactly had happened. While I was told that several Celtic boys had been knocked out I didn’t find out what had happened to me until later. It turned out that one of the Rangers Youth had inadvertently hit me with a traffic cone while he was attacking the CSC. He denies it to this day even though I have reassured him there are no hard feelings.
I decided not to wait for treatment but to go home and lie down on my own bed. However, when I woke up I not only had a pain in my mouth but also on my neck and, to make matters worse, I had a blinding headache. I had recently (and temporarily) split up with my wife so a pal drove me to Monklands hospital. They were too busy to see me so on we went on to the accident-and-emergency unit at Stobhill.
I was seen pretty quickly at Stobhill and they took a precautionary X-ray, after which I was put in a neck brace and strapped to a trolley. I began to panic and asked the staff what was wrong. I was told there was a serious abnormality: an injury to one of my vertebrae, and that it might have moved. The worst-case scenario was that I might need a spinal operation, although they also said it could be an undiagnosed medical condition.
For the next three hours I went through hell. All sorts of thoughts swirled around in my head. What would the effect be on my kids, my employment prospects and my already fragile marriage? And all because of a fight after the football. As usual a drunk was abusing the nurses and I said to him, ‘If I could get up I’d fucking strangle you.’
I had another X-ray, after which I was made to do some exercises with my neck. They discovered I had a congenital vertebra defect, which had gone undetected. It wasn’t as bad as they thought and when the tests were completed I was discharged. I have never been so relieved in my life. As I made my way home I weighed up what had happened. It was another lesson about the hazards of being a hooligan and I couldn’t stop thinking about the effects that a serious injury could have on my sons. I also realised that one of the reasons for my temporary split with Kerry was because of the football violence. Of course none of that put me off. I loved Rangers and I loved running with the ICF. Nothing was going to change that.
ASSAULT ON THE GALLOWGATE: MR BLUE’S STORY
It is ironic that I was raised in the Gallowgate, which is without doubt the spiritual home of the Celtic support. Their shining city on a hill. It was always thronged with Celtic fans and Republican sympathisers before and after Old Firm games and was therefore a hard place for the ICF to go. Until that is one day, sometime in the mid-to-late Eighties, when we went there and fucking annihilated anyone who got in our way.
What follows is Mr Blue’s experience of that fateful day.
Looking back, going to Celtic Park was a weird situation in the 1980s. There are three main roads into Celtic Park from the city centre and Rangers, despite being the away team, dominated two of them. London Road was always a no-go for Celtic mainly because they would have to negotiate Bridgeton Cross, which was always a bridge too far due to Bridgeton being the predominant Rangers, Protestant and Loyalist area in Glasgow. Another entry point to the Piggery was through Duke Street, which has always been known as a Rangers area, however it wasn’t unusual to find Celtic fans wandering through en route to that dump, until of course the ICF came on the scene around 1983/84. For the rest of the Eighties, Duke Street became our domain, even on days when we weren’t playing at Parkhead. From 1983 until 1989 it was defended vigorously from many Celtic invasions. Quite often Celtic’s firm would ignore their opposition that day/night and try to get through Duke Street unscathed. It also wasn’t unusual for us to ignore our game in order to defend our ‘headquarters’. Being from Glasgow we looked down on everybody else in Scotland anyway and, to many of us, only Celtic mattered – so missing some games to get one over them wasn’t a problem.
Whilst holding superiority on the streets leading to Celtic Park was great for us we didn’t quite have what the military call ‘supremacy’. Generally speaking when Celtic came to Ibrox they had to scurry up back streets as we had total dominance on the roads from the city centre to Ibrox. Whether we were at home or away we ruled supreme on the streets of Glasgow . . . with one exception.
That fly in the ointment was known as the Gallowgate!
The Gallowgate is to Celtic what Bridgeton has always been, and Duke Street became, to Rangers. It was their base, their spiritual home. They were safe there. They couldn’t be touched there. Their firm were surrounded there by many active IRA men who in turn were surrounded by hundreds – which became thousands on match days – of IRA sympathisers who drank in the Gallowgate’s many Republican pubs. Take the murderers, terrorists, hard men, Celtic’s firm and throw in the odd nutter – it’s fair to say the Gallowgate was a pretty ferocious place for anyone of a bluenose persuasion.
To the east-end lads in the Rangers firm the Gallowgate was a bit of a bogeyman. Although there had been whispers about ‘taking it’, and even some half-hearted plans about how we would achieve that feat, it remained the untouchable green fortress on the hill.
The first Old Firm game of the season always brings a unique sense of anticipation. When early August comes around you are straining at the leash to get going. I made an early start that day, meeting Jinks and a few other lads on Duke Street. Although lads from Duke Street and elsewhere in the east end often made their own way directly to Celtic Park, having their own battles, we decided to head into town to have a drink in Minstrels, our pub of choice at the time. We got to Minstrels at half twelve and there was a decent seventy or eighty lads already in there. By two o’clock our numbers had grown to one hundred and fifty or so. ‘We better make a move,’ somebody said, to be met by the usual moans and groans: ‘Fuck off you, I’ve just got a pint in,’ and ‘I canny be arsed walking, you won’t find Celtic until after the game, I’m jumping in a taxi.’
About forty of us left, walked up onto Argyle Street and began the couple of miles walk to the Piggery. We came across small pockets of Celtic’s firm, who had been dispatched to keep a close eye on us. Then, somewhere on Argyle Street, it was said.
‘Mon go up that fuckin Gallowgate and do these cunts there.’ ‘Aye mon,’ another voice said ‘they are fucking shit.’
Those fateful words had been uttered. It had been said. Now it had been said many times before but this time it was seconded. Before long it was ‘thirded’ and we were off.
I looked around at the boys with us and realised it was far from our top firm. We had maybe seven or eight top-table lads and a collection of dependable, but by no means main lads, in which category, incidentally, I included myself at that time. As we approached Glasgow Cross it was time . . . time to decide. I was thinking ‘It’s one thing chasing off fifteen of them bastards here, and twenty there, but this is the Gallowgate for fuck’s sake, they will have their main firm, backed up by a good few hundred others, who’d be delighted to murder us.’
Being 100 per cent honest I was half hoping we would choose the right-hand side of the Glasgow Cross fork and head for the safety of Bridgeton via London Road. That wasn’t because I was a shitbag – quite the contrary, I was beginning to make a decent name for myself in our firm – but because I wasn’t into suicide missions (this would change!) and this was a suicide mission and a half. As we approached the fork I knew we were heading left because after it had been said and backed up there was no fucking way we could do anything else.
‘Oh fuck,’ I thought. Again, being 100 per cent honest, it briefly crossed my mind to accidentally lose our lads in the crowd. ‘Fuck that, get a grip ya cunt,’ I was telling myself. As we got into the middle of Glasgow Cross our forty or so had became thirty: possibly one or two of the lads had the same concerns as me; possibly others had accidentally lost us; and possibly som
e had been carried away chasing the little pockets of Celtic we’d done. Whatever the reason our already small number of boys had been reduced by a quarter.
As we got closer to the Barras, where Celtic pubs are everywhere, all I could see was a sea of them in front, behind us, around us, everywhere. I felt it like I’d never felt it before. The fear, the dread, the expectation that we’d struggle like fuck. We were on the enemy’s doorstep; we were about to face the bogeyman with seriously depleted numbers. I fucking loved it.
As we got closer, Harky, Chugg and one or two others walked into the middle of the road and swaggered towards their main pub without a care in the world. That helped: being a relatively young lad I needed a display of confidence like that to reassure me. We got to within thirty yards of the front door, our pace quickening, when I saw John O’Kane, Celtic’s main lad, running down the middle of the road towards us. He had a few others behind him but it was impossible to work out how many due to the number of shoppers and scarfers who were thronging the street.
As O’Kane got closer I noticed he was carrying a pint with some lager still in it. He poured out the beer and bent down to smash the glass on the road, but as the glass broke, bang, Harky had put him on his arse. That alarmed the rest of the Tarriers, who seemed shocked to see us on the Gallowgate. By now they were hesitant. We weren’t. The shout went up ‘ICCCF ICCCF’ as we charged forward. By now Celtic were off, not just backing off, but fully turned and running past their pubs, through the Barras market. They were in full fucking panic mode. A few of the local loons came out of Baird’s and Norma Jean’s (as it then was) well tooled up. But we had the momentum, we were unstoppable and lads who’ve been part of a firm will know the feeling. The momentum was with us.