by Chugg, Sandy
After what seemed like five minutes – in reality it was a fraction of that – the furniture vans drew up and forty more CCS, led by Fat McLeod, poured out. That was the game changer. We were swamped. The CCS attacked us from the front and the sides and as the tide turned in their favour our boys were getting knocked over like ninepins. It was carnage, that’s the only word I can use to describe it. Even amidst a brutal fight for survival I will never forget the sight of two of our top lads going down and having the shit kicked out of them by large groups of CCS.
To increase the psychological pressure Hibs shouted ‘slash them, slash them’. On hearing this many of our younger lads, already in a state of shock, ran. It was the worst decision they could have made, because Hibs clipped them and when they were lying helpless on the road they too took a fearsome kicking. The main danger was the cosh. It looked like every Hibs boy was carrying one and many of us were coshed repeatedly around the head. One of my young Shettleston pals didn’t fare too well either: he was struck on the head by a sickening blow from a heavy glass ashtray and fell glassy eyed onto the tarmac.
The attacks from Hibs grew more and more frenzied. Each new act of violence spurred them on to even greater ferocity. It was the only time I have ever felt my life was in danger. I had to stay on my feet. If they had decked me I would have been going home in an ambulance, or even a hearse. All around me there were ICF boys lying on the pavement and on the road, many bleeding profusely, all of them in pain. Five of them would be hospitalised.
That was probably the only time in my life I was glad to see those flashing blue lights. I managed to make myself scarce and an hour later was on a train back to Glasgow, tail stuck firmly between my legs.
After Slateford our priority was revenge. A day like that could not go unpunished and from then on we obsessed about getting our own back. When Hibs were next due at Ibrox we had a huge mob out. There were one hundred and fifty of us in the Glaswegian, tooled up to fuck and itching to get at them. They told us they would front up but then said a couple of their boys had been involved in a violent incident the night before and that they had changed their mind. To me it was a feeble excuse. They knew we were raging and they didn’t fancy it.
The same thing happened the next time Rangers were at Easter Road. A coach-load of our top guys went through, armed to the teeth. I had two small coshes and a huge meat cleaver, which I hid in the toilet of John Robertson’s pub on Gorgie Road where we had plotted up for a pre-match drink. We belled Fat McLeod but he was vague about meeting us and we went back to our pints and our lines while they made a decision. All the while we could see the CCS going past in their cars, weighing us up. As the hours went by we got higher and higher and also more and more frustrated. Where the fuck were they? It was now half-seven and we had been in the pub for about eight hours, much to the disgust of the wives and girlfriends back home in Glasgow. There was nothing else for it. We would have to go and look for them and so thirty of us went into the city to track them down. Once again, they were nowhere to be seen. I realise the CCS were in the midst of a power struggle at the time – one faction led by McLeod, the other by Blance – but that was no excuse. Not fronting up on home turf is no way for a top mob to behave.
In fact it took us five years, until August 1999, to exact revenge on Hibs for Slateford. We ran a bus from the Pitz five-a-side centre in Townhead. There were fifty top hooligans out, a real hardcore, all of whom drank in Dr Brown’s in Queen Street. Guys like Jeff, Boris, Ricky C, General Jamie, Andy Mac, Big Gary, Davie, the usual suspects. I was wearing a white England rugby shirt, so bright it dazzled anyone within ten feet of me, which in hindsight made me a little too conspicuous. However, I was outdone in the dodgy-fashion stakes by Smoothy, who had an equally bright white Stone Island jacket on, which earned him the nickname Dr Death. Lager was swallowed, cocaine snorted, ecstasy popped and then we were off.
We drove straight to Edinburgh where we plotted up at the Haymarket bar. The plan was to use Edinburgh corporation buses to avoid police detection so half of us jumped on one bus while the rest got the next one that passed. We mobbed up again at Leith Walk and made straight for the CCS’s spiritual home: the Royal Nip. Fair play to them, Andy Blance and one other Hibs boy came out to face us. And despite getting a doing they gave a fair account of themselves before the Old Bill arrived and broke it up.
Half of our group went to the game but the rest, me included, went back to the Haymarket. Football wasn’t our priority, being ready for Hibs was. During the game (which Rangers won 1–0 thanks to a goal from Jonatan Johansson) Ricky was approached by one of the CCS and phone numbers were exchanged. It looked promising.
The Haymarket contingent left the bar about fifteen minutes before the final whistle and made its way through the back streets to avoid the cops. As we passed the Scottish Parliament, which was still being built, we phoned the CCS and were told they were well up for it. We hooked up with the lads who had gone to the match and marched on, desperate to get to grips with the enemy.
Then we saw them, fifty CCS, standing outside the St James centre. I felt a warm glow. It wasn’t the usual adrenalin-fuelled nervous tension. We were just so confident; we knew we were a match for anyone. I remember thinking, ‘This is our time. We are the top mob now. We are taking no shit.’
When it went off we had them on the back foot right from the off. Taylor, one of their top men, was knocked out within seconds. I was desperate to get as many of them as possible, to pay them back for Slateford. This time it was me who was shouting ‘stab them’. They had no answer to us and we managed to inflict some hospital-grade injuries before the police arrived and spoiled the party. On the bus back to Glasgow we were elated and the celebrations in Doc Brown’s went on long into the night.
Five years of hurt had been erased.
SLATEFORD: MR BLUE’S STORY
I thought it would be interesting to include other memories of Slateford. So here is Mr Blue’s story. Blue of course was with the ICF that fateful afternoon in 1994 and ended up being hospitalised. Interestingly, he puts the ICF mob at twenty-two, much smaller than I thought. I suppose that makes our efforts all the more commendable.
A week before the game at Easter Road (which was in October 1994) word got round this would be football violence with a twist. No football! The police were an important factor in our calculations. By the late 1980s they were getting the upper hand and the last time we had gone to Hibs on the train about two hundred of us got sent straight back due to having no tickets. This would be around 1989. That said we did manage to have a memorable day up there when two coach-loads of us wrong-footed the boys in blue and did the business, but, that apart, they had things nailed down.
So we had to think of a way of avoiding the Old Bill. After much thought it was decided we would leave from Central station and go the scenic route, meeting Hibs somewhere along the Edinburgh rail network. I got into the bar in Central at one o’clock expecting to find a decent-size firm. There were two! We were looking to leave around 2.15 so that left about an hour for the numbers to grow. I needn’t have worried because by that time our firm had grown . . . to an astonishing twenty-two. As we sat in the bar there wasn’t even a decision to be made. We were going, 22 or 222, it really didn’t matter. We’d arranged it, so we were going. But I’d be lying if I said I was confident. Out of our twenty-two around half were what is known these days as ‘youth’ and half were solid, experienced lads. We got on the train as planned, no police in sight. I was laughing at the thought of those smug cunts hanging around Queen Street – the normal station for Edinburgh – content in the knowledge today was going to be another peaceful day on the football front.
On the train we didn’t have a care in the world. Then we got a call from one of our lads who lived in Edinburgh.
‘How many?’
‘Twenty-two,’ we replied.
‘Stay on the train,’ he firmly advised.
After a quick discussion a consensus emerged. Ther
e was no fucking way we were staying on the train. As the announcer said ‘next stop Slateford’ I felt the butterflies. I fucking love this time, just before the battle. You know it’s coming, you don’t know what’s coming but it’s definitely something. The train stopped and in the station there was a firm of Hibs waiting.
‘Come on Rangers, there they are,’ someone shouted.
‘ICCCCF’.
There might only have been twenty-two of us but that chant makes it sound a lot more. The CCS in the station got on their toes. ‘Strange,’ I thought. I had no idea how many were in the station but I assumed that wasn’t their full firm. Unfortunately, I was right.
Faced with a much bigger mob I had one thought in mind: ‘If we keep tight, we’ll be okay.’ We got out of the station and the first thing that occurred to me was how wide a road we were on. ‘Shit,’ I thought. I had no idea how many Hibs had with them, although word had got through there would be eighty-plus. Those odds didn’t overly concern me when I was on the train. That may sound like bullshit to those who’ve never been involved in football violence but most firms have their frontline of twenty or thirty doing the business and the rest may as well not even be there. This isn’t because everybody else is a shitbag; it’s simply due to the width of a road. Hence my initial concern about Slateford Road being wide.
We left the station and to our left we noticed a firm coming round a corner. They were, from memory, about a hundred yards down the road. A couple of our lads were tooled up, not with weapons of mass destruction, but with a couple of little hammers and a chain. As our walk towards them turned into a jog they just kept walking around this corner, more and more of them. An unspoken ‘Fuck it we’ve come this far’ spread through our ranks as our jog turned into a full-blown charge.
‘ICCCF ICCCF’ and with that the lads with tools got them out. When we got to within ten yards their frontline began to back away; they weren’t running but they were definitely on the back foot. By now I realised their firm was well over a hundred, possibly 130. ‘Come on Rangers, these cunts are off,’ I shouted. I could see their main lads trying to hold them together. Shouts of ‘Fucking stand Hibs’ were clearly heard, along with ‘Stay Hibs, fucking stay’. There was a strange tone in their voice, not fear, more disbelief. That is a good indicator of how close it was at that stage.
By now almost every one of us was going at it with them and the next few seconds would decide which way this was going. After trading a few blows I felt a punch on the side of my head. Behind me, the lads in their firm who had melted away were coming back into the fight and I could see the right-hand side of our line getting backed away. On that side of the road they had the same problem as us: Hibs either side and behind them, although they may have had it even worse. There was no choice, we had to retreat. We ran about ten yards and now it was our turn to rally the troops.
‘Fucking stand Rangers,’ some of us shouted. We did stand but our left flank got completely overrun leaving Carrick, Broony and others exposed on the right. They had to fall back and as we attempted another stand a few yards up the road it was obvious the battle was lost. I had lost contact with the rest of our lads and I was running back towards the station with Hibs in front of me. I felt a click on my heels and went down. I saw Millsy about five yards ahead of me. He was my only hope.
‘Miiiilsy,’ I shouted, as I went down, taking a few kicks along the way. I expected the worst. However, within seconds I was being dragged back to my feet. Millsy – who could give Linford Christie a run for his money – could have got away unscathed, but he came back for me. However, being upright was short lived as both Millsy and I went down under a hail of blows.
‘Wake up, wake up.’
Some silly cunt was slapping my face.
‘Fuck off,’ I replied.
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Aye am outside Hampden ya fuckin’ nutcase.’
‘Lie down, you’re lucky to be here.’
‘How? It’s only two miles away fae my hoose and we always get tae Hampden.’
Next thing I knew I woke up. I could tell from the feel of the uncomfortable mattress I was lying on that this was either a jail cell or a hospital ward. When I went to look at my watch I realised two things. Firstly, I didn’t have a watch, had that peasant mob nicked it? And secondly, my wrist was at a right angle. I managed to get myself up from the bed and noticed it was half five. Half five for fuck’s sake, we got off the train at half three! I got off the bed, pulled back my curtain and had a peek in the next cubicle. This ginger nut was looking up at me. It was Millsy.
‘Look at the fucking state of you,’ I said, pissing myself laughing.
‘Have you seen yersel?’ he laughed back.
Within a minute a nurse came in. ‘Stitches or staples Mr Blue?’ she asked.
‘Whit?’
‘Stitches or staples? You’ve got a two-inch laceration on your head that needs stitches or staples.’
‘I don’t really mind to be honest but thanks for the choice. Do whatever you choose, suit yourself. I respect and admire the job you do. What time do you finish?’
Miserable cow never even raised a smile, it was only later I realised I looked like the elephant man’s ugly brother! Six stitches on my head, four butterfly stitches in my jaw, a plaster cast on my arm, eight butterfly stitches on my leg and an armful of painkillers later I signed myself out. When I got out the sister-in-law of one of the younger lads gave me a lift home, which was much appreciated as I could hardly walk.
In the days that followed I found out that of our little firm of twenty-two, eleven ended up in hospital. I had had no choice. I took a right beating and was going to hospital anyway. I got surrounded and, as speed was never my strong point, hospitalisation was inevitable. Millsy, however, the proverbial whippet, could have fucked off unharmed. He didn’t. He came back for me. I respected him before that day, as did everyone in the ICF, but I will never forget what he did at Slateford. Sadly, I’ve lost touch with him now but, if you are reading this, cheers pal.
In my opinion very few firms would have taken on those odds. We always did. Looking back it was always going to end the way it did but we gave it our best shot. We lost that battle; there is no doubt about that. Some people took the view that Hibs overstepped the mark, and a lot of them who thought that way were lads who hadn’t been active over the previous few years. Lads like me who’d been going to raves or bringing up the kids, lads with work commitments. Word about Slateford got around to those who hadn’t been involved and everyone was of one mind: what happened that terrible afternoon would be avenged.
‘Scotland’s number one’ would be knocked right off its fucking perch the next time we played them. Between Slateford and the return match our firm grew, week by week. Old faces returned and before long we were on the road again. Dundee Utd were dispatched in Dundee. We went to Aberdeen, nothing major happened but they knew we were back.
Then the day came. Hibs at Ibrox!
People think I must hate Hibs. I don’t. They did to me what I’d do (and have done) to them. Our pub by then was The Glaswegian and I got there expecting a good firm. This time I wasn’t disappointed. We had eighty solid lads. No idiots, no mates of lads, no voyeurs; this was our main firm. A bag of tools was hidden away for use later, fair enough, but it was what I heard next that sent a chill down my spine.
‘Two shotguns there, one of those bastards is getting it.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ I thought.
The CCS overstepped the mark in Edinburgh – even when we were down they still kept putting the boot in. They also used weapons. However, getting nicked on a murder charge for a spot of football violence would be ridiculous. By now things were becoming ‘pre-arranged’, with the two mobs calling each other’s pubs. The phone went. It was Hibs.
‘We’re not coming through; there’s not enough of us,’ they said.
‘How many you got?’
‘Only forty.’
�
�Only forty,’ we repeated, disbelief in our voices.
If they had come to Glasgow that day they would have been routed. I’m not one for ifs, buts and maybes but it isn’t even worth debating. They would have got smashed. Part of me would have loved to have seen them get destroyed but part of me is glad they never showed up. I genuinely feel at least one of them would have died, especially as I know who had the artillery. It would have been used, without a shadow of a doubt.
Another reason I’m glad they never came through is that it proved that, despite gaining a result a Slateford, Hibs were still wary of pushing their luck. In our world bottling out is worse than being turned over. One firm was turned over, one bottled out. Hibs, wisely for them, avoided Glasgow for a few years after Slateford. Next time they were on the scene they were kissing our arse.
In the meantime . . . Rangers were back.
10
A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE
‘Sandy, why the fuck do you do this?’ asked one of Glasgow’s top football-intelligence officers. ‘You’re giving Rangers a bad name with your antics.’
‘On the contrary,’ I countered. ‘Rangers fans have been involved in violence since time immemorial. We’re carrying on a great tradition.’
And it’s true. ‘No Surrender’ is much more than a slogan. We have a proud tradition for football violence and all the ICF are doing is keeping that tradition alive. Take 1909. After the replayed Old Firm Scottish Cup final also ended in a draw, thousands of Rangers and Celtic fans rioted. But they did not attack each other. Their target was authority in general, and the police in particular. The fans thought that extra time should have been played and suspected there had been collusion between two clubs looking for a second replay and another lucrative payday. Hampden was trashed: the stands were torched; the goalposts ripped down and burned. Dozens of police were attacked, as were the firemen and ambulancemen who had arrived to put out the flames and tend to the injured. It was only by sheer good fortune that no one was killed. The official response was decisive: the 1909 Scottish Cup was withheld and there is no winner’s name on the famous old trophy for 1909. Forget casuals. This was probably the worst outbreak of football violence in British history.