by Chugg, Sandy
I was in the first group of forty ICF and as soon as the Utility saw us they shouted, ‘Let’s have it.’ They thought that was our whole mob; that it was going to be equal numbers.
They got the shock of their fucking lives.
Both mobs steamed in but we were reinforced within seconds by the larger group of ninety, who were about fifty yards behind us. It was like a knife going through butter. We battered them, despite thirty of their beer-fuelled scarfers joining in. They had a major problem. The pubs behind them were so busy they couldn’t get back inside and so they had to stand there and take their medicine.
And how bitter that pill must have been. We were picking them off with ease. I saw one of them trying to squeeze back into the Sportsman and caught him with a peach of a right hook, sending him crashing to the ground. I then grabbed a second Utility, pulled his head down and kneed him full in the face. Over at the Black Bull I could see that their scarfers, many of whom had come out to support their mob, were also getting a pasting.
It was inevitable that someone would call the cops and after a few minutes we heard the sirens. I quickly decided that the best way to avoid arrest was not to run but to act like an innocent fan out to enjoy the cup final. I walked nonchalantly over to the Black Bull, trying to look as if the fighting had nothing to do with me. By this time the street was flooded with blue uniforms and as I headed towards the pub a tall and extremely youthful Old Bill grabbed a hold of me.
‘Where the fuck are you going?’ he spat.
‘I am just walking to the game.’
‘Which team do you support?’
‘Rangers,’ I replied.
‘You are going nowhere son.’
Given his age the ‘son’ part surprised me.
‘That’s rich coming from you. What are you: a YTS?’
Along with a couple of other unlucky souls we were bundled into a van and taken to the nearest police station. I wasn’t charged at first but they told me I was going to be held for six hours under some bullshit section of a bullshit Criminal Justice Act. I was gutted to have been lifted at yet another Scottish Cup final but at least I had the consolation that I would be out within a few hours. I would also be celebrating back-to-back trebles for Rangers, the first time that feat had ever been achieved in the history of Scottish football.
After I had been in the cell for an hour a cop came in and took a Polaroid of me, which I found very strange.
‘What is going on here?’ I demanded.
‘A couple of Dundee United fans were slashed and we’re going to use the photo as part of an ID parade,’ he replied.
One thought flashed through my mind. ‘I am being fucking well stitched up here.’
After another hour the same cop came back in and told me that the Utility boy who had been slashed had confirmed it wasn’t me who had done it, but that I was a member of the group who had attacked them outside the Sportsman. I was read my rights and charged with breach of the peace and forming part of a disorderly crowd. Although I was relieved not to be charged with the slashing I was informed that enquiries were continuing and that I might be charged with it later.
I was well pissed off. I was not only missing the cup final, and a double treble, but also I was going to be held in a cell all weekend and would then be carted off to the Sheriff Court on the Monday morning. The manageress of the John Street Jam, who was the girlfriend of a childhood pal, came over to plead my case with the desk sergeant, telling him I had a family party in her pub that night. Of course I didn’t and she was given short shrift anyway. To make matters worse the turnkey on duty took great delight in telling me that Dundee United’s Craig Brewster had scored the only goal of the final – completely against the run of play, I might add – thus denying Rangers that historic back-to-back treble.
I was down for another reason. A fellow hooligan had grassed me up, which left a very bad taste in my mouth. That was the second time a Dundee boy had done that to me. But despite their grassing it was the Utility who were the most embittered about what had happened outside the Sportsman. A few weeks later I got a phone call at the John Street Jam from the boy who had been slashed. He and his twin brother both fancied themselves as hard men, so I wasn’t that surprised by what he had to say.
‘I want a straightener. How about you and me having a square go to sort things out?’ he asked.
This guy was wired to the moon. He must have been to see Fight Club at the pictures.
‘Nae problem ya bam. We’ll book Brockville and start selling tickets the noo,’ I scornfully replied.
Funnily enough that blue-collar boxing bout never did take place.
But give them their due the Utility fronted up regularly in Glasgow after that cup final. They formed a bond with Stoke City’s Naughty 40 mob, which meant that on occasion they could put a good number of boys out. They even turned up at the John Street Jam one day, and, although they were routed, it at least showed they were game. They also got a bit delusional about that one because a few days later we took another call at the JSJ.
‘We fucking did you last week,’ they crowed.
‘Where did the fight start?’ I asked.
‘In your pub,’ he replied.
‘Where did it end up?’
‘George Square.’
‘You must have fucking done us running backwards then.’
*
As I said, fair play to the Utility. They kept coming despite the many setbacks they suffered and one of their most determined efforts took place in early 1995. We were playing Dundee United in a league game at Ibrox and we discovered that they would not only be bringing a good mob with them but also that they would be hanging around in Glasgow after the game. That was all the encouragement we needed.
We managed to put together a tidy little firm of about forty, half of whom went to the game while the other half, me included, stayed in the Glaswegian, a great wee pub on the edge of the Gorbals. I had been in there from about noon, downing vodka and lager and snorting cocaine. The coke was essential if you wanted to go on what we called ‘the skite’; it enabled you to drink all day, get involved in FV and round things off with a visit to a nightclub.
When the boys who had gone to Ibrox got back to the Glaswegian they said that the Utility hadn’t been at the game but were drinking somewhere in Glasgow. A few phone calls later we discovered they were in Baird’s bar in the Gallowgate, probably the most Celtic-orientated pub in Scotland. We were over the moon. The Utility had avoided the police and were now ripe for the picking.
Baird’s was a tricky proposition. Many of its clientele were Republicans and if we attacked it head on some of them would fight alongside the Utility. We had a confab and decided that the best thing to do was confront them when they were getting onto their bus, which was parked between the Barras and Bridgeton Cross. We left the Glaswegian in groups of five and headed along Carlton Place to avoid the prying eyes of the Old Bill. We didn’t go empty handed either; in fact we were ready for war. It was obvious that the Utility would be well up for it. They had given the game a miss and had been careful to stay off the police radar. We had no doubt they would be well tooled up and we had to be prepared to fight fire with fire. Our arsenal was impressive. Some boys were carrying knives, others coshes. I had an old Samurai sword, a fearsome weapon even if it was on the blunt side.
When we got to where their bus was parked we hid in bushes in front of a housing estate and waited for them to appear. The anticipation grew. We were itching to get into the cunts and to teach them a lesson they would never forget. But as the minutes passed there was no sign of them. Then we saw someone striding towards the bus. It was the fucking driver!
He started up the bus and started driving in the direction of the Gallowgate.
‘Shit,’ we thought. ‘We need a plan B.’
A decision was made to split into two groups and catch them in a classic pincer movement when they came out of Baird’s. Half of us walked along Kent Street, the other ha
lf down Bain Street. The only problem was that as a few of the Utility were getting on their bus they spotted us. The element of surprise was gone.
There was only one thing for it. Flanked by the rest of the boys I ran at them, wildly swinging the sword. They didn’t fancy getting hit by a Samurai and backed off. By this time the rest of them had come out of Baird’s, roaring drunk and well up for it. They now had a numerical advantage and as the two groups fought toe-to-toe they began to get the upper hand and pushed us back.
Then a strange thing happened. The other half of our mob arrived and immediately attacked the Utility from the rear. This unnerved the group of ICF I was in because it gave the impression there were eighty of them ranged against us. My group fell back and I was beginning to get more and more isolated. I could also see that some of our lot were getting a really hard time and I did my best to help, whacking two Utility on the head with the sword and knocking them to the ground in the process.
It was a massive thrill. With two mobs going at it in such a confined space the violence was frenzied and bloody, with heads being coshed and faces slashed. There was no hiding place, no respite. It sorted the men from the boys.
It couldn’t last. The sirens were getting closer and closer. I knew I had to ditch the sword or I would be facing very serious charges, so I tossed it in a bin and hot-footed it out of the Gallowgate. I managed to escape arrest but several of our boys weren’t so lucky. The Utility went back inside Baird’s but the cops were wise to them and many of them got locked up for the weekend before being taken to court on the Monday morning.
Back in the Glaswegian we had our usual post-mortem. We had to acknowledge that the Utility had got the better of it. With hindsight we concluded that splitting the mob had not been one of our better ideas as it seemed to sow the seeds of confusion and, eventually, panic. On a personal level I was annoyed that they had got the better of us in my beloved east end, even if it was the Celtic-supporting, Gallowgate part of the east end. Right away my thoughts turned to revenge and the return fixture at Tannadice in a few months time.
*
After the bitter taste left in our mouths by the Gallowgate incident we were determined to get our own back at the first time of asking. We hired a bus and filled it with some of the most formidable thugs this little country of ours has ever produced. There was no way we were going to the game. That was business, this was personal. Having been in touch with the Utility’s top boy in the lead up to the game I had been assured they would be well up for it after the game.
The other decision we took was to stay well clear of the city of Dundee itself, away from the prying eyes of the new football-intelligence units that were springing up all over Scotland. I suggested to the rest of the boys that we should plot up in Broughty Ferry, a place I knew well from my time in Castle Huntly prison. Broughty Ferry is just the right distance from Dundee, not too close yet not too far, and being a wealthy seaside suburb hardly the sort of place you normally associate with FV.14 With any luck it would throw those meddling FI cunts off the trail.
We watched the game in a sports bar, our mood made even brighter by a comfortable 3–0 win for Rangers. At soon as the ref had blown for time-up I was straight on the phone to my Utility contact. He said they would be in Broughty Ferry within the hour. They got there a lot quicker than that because within half an hour our spotters were reporting that they had seen several cars full of Utility driving up and down the main street. We left the bar in small groups, wielding bottles and pieces of wood, ready for the fray and eagerly anticipating the violence to come. We waited and waited but they didn’t show. By this time it was pissing down and we were getting a right soaking.
A decision was made to go back to the sports bar where we ordered a final pint and snorted a few lines. Feeling deflated, and calling the Utility all the shitebags in the world, we finished our drinks, trudged out of the pub and got on the bus, which was parked on the main thoroughfare. Then, just as the driver pulled the lever to close the doors, we saw them. Forty Utility. Coming out of the side streets and walking at a fair old clip towards us. Game on.
‘There they are,’ one of the boys shouted, followed by cries of ‘Yes’ and ‘Ya fucking beauty’ from others. I was near the back of the bus and could only watch as the lads who had been at the front got out and immediately engaged their top boys. It should have been very tasty but for some reason the Utility didn’t fancy it. Within sixty seconds they had backed off and were running for their lives. I had by this time got off the bus but I didn’t get a chance to throw a punch because they were legging it as fast as their Trim Trabs would carry them. Some of the boys chased them down to the beach and gave the stragglers they caught a kicking but I was still soaked to the skin and thought, ‘Fuck it, I am not running after them.’
We managed to get back on the bus by the time the cops arrived. They knew fine well what had gone on but the driver saved our bacon. He told the Old Bill that we had been for a quiet drink and had been attacked by a group of locals, although he must have realised we were football hooligans. He was backed up by the staff from the sports bar who told the police that although we were boisterous we hadn’t caused them any problems. There was nothing the filth could do, apart from giving us an escort out of Broughty Ferry, blue lights flashing.
Revenge for the Gallowgate had been short, swift and decisive.
12
THE JAMBOS
I like Hearts. I like the club’s ethos, the fact that they have a pro-British ethos. I like the crest on their strips, which is based on the famous Heart of Midlothian mosaic on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. I like their strong affinity with the British Army, which goes right back to the First World War, when sixteen of the first-team players volunteered for active service. They were the first players from any British club to join up en masse and they became part of the legendary McCrae’s battalion of the 16th Royal Scots.
In terms of their mob, I have always found them to be something of an enigma. In the pre-casual days they had the most formidable hooligan gang in Scotland, the feared Gorgie Aggro, which was made up of skins and bovver boys. I remember my brother Christopher coming home from Tynecastle and telling me about fights with the Aggro. It was one of the few places Rangers were met with any resistance in those days.
It is therefore surprising that Hearts didn’t become major players when the casual scene got into full swing. They had a mob, the Capital Service Firm, but many of them went over to Hibs, their deadly rivals, and became part of the much bigger and more formidable Capital City Service. Despite their difficulties the CSF still had a reasonable mob and we had quite a few offs with them. That may surprise some people, given that Rangers and Hearts are supposedly Protestant clubs, but football is very territorial. Tynecastle has always been an unlucky ground for me and I got hurt there several times. The first incident was in 1985/86, the season that Hearts were pipped to the title by Celtic on goal difference. I was part of a group of Rangers Soccer Babes and before the game we plotted up in Gorgie Road, close to the Wheatsheaf stand. We ran into Hearts youth and after some pretty nifty fisticuffs backed them off to their own stand. It was still early, so early that there were hardly any scarfers around.
After hostilities had ended we were trooping back to Gorgie Road to meet up with the main mob when I, being a mouthy so-and-so, held back to goad the Hearts boys for running away. I was so busy giving them pelters that I didn’t notice one of the guys we had chased flanking me on my right-hand side. Before I knew it he punched me on the back of my head and knocked me to the ground. Within seconds six of his mates jumped on and started to kick fuck out of me. I remember lying on the ground trying to fend off kicks and punches and shouting for handers from the rest of our mob. The force of their blows got ever stronger and it got even scarier when one of them shouted: ‘Hold the Weegie bastard and we’ll stab him.’
I took this threat very seriously because given the rate they were going they probably would have ended up killing me usin
g just their feet and hands. Thank fuck that someone in the ICF saw what was happening and alerted the rest of the firm. They ran back to help, and not a moment too soon either because I really thought I was going to get a knife in the guts. It was two valuable lessons for the price of one: don’t take the piss, and always expect the unexpected. In the end I walked away with just cuts and bruises but thanks to my big mouth it could have been so much worse.
Later in the Eighties we were again in Gorgie Road, this time in a swing park, with about ten other ICF and RSB. We weren’t able to get match tickets so we were larking about on the swings waiting for the game to end so that we could walk back to Haymarket station with the rest of the mob. From out of nowhere we were confronted by twenty CSF and although we were well outnumbered we had nowhere to run. The only option was to stand and fight. I have to say that we gave as good as we got, despite them having twice as many boys. I was in the wars again and ended up with a really sore ear after some cunt hit me with a Millwall brick. No wonder I think of Gorgie Road as my unluckiest street.
In the Eighties the walk from Haymarket to Gorgie could be tasty but from about 1990 onwards the relationship between the two mobs became more cordial, with the two youth wings forging a particularly close friendship. The CSF have some great lads on board: the T brothers; Gags; Davie E; Young Claye and his youth firm – all of whom joined us in the Scottish National Firm. The problem for the CSF as an independent mob was that the Hearts support never embraced the casual culture in a big way and, in consequence, they were dominated by their city rivals. Much the same thing happened in Glasgow, where we have lorded it over Celtic for years.