by Chugg, Sandy
Munich had been exhilarating. I was hooked on Europe and couldn’t wait for the next trip.
Bruges
1992/93 was a great season for Rangers. A domestic treble was secured, in which we won both the League Cup and Scottish Cup at Celtic Park while Hampden was being redeveloped. How sweet it was to win two cups at the ground of our oldest rivals. It was also our greatest European season for decades. In the newly created Champions League we came through two preliminary rounds, including the Battle of Britain, in which we beat English champions Leeds United home and away. A place in the group stages of the competition beckoned, and we were bracketed with Marseille, Bruges and CSKA Moscow.
It was a great chance for the ICF to make a mark on Europe and our first stop was Bruges. In the run-up to the game, which was played in March 1993, there had been a lot of coverage in the Daily Record about Bruges’s well-deserved reputation for FV, including their penchant for attacking other mobs with baseball bats. Their top man was of Chinese extraction and was reputedly a fearsome street fighter. With great originality he had been given the nickname, The Chink. Going over there would be a real test but we were well up for it.
I travelled on the Shettleston Loyal bus, which was getting a great reputation for thieving, partying and fighting. Harky was there too along with several more ICF members and a contingent from the east end, while some of the other boys got a seat on the many supporters buses heading for Belgium. The drug of choice at the time was ecstasy and the bus was awash with the stuff. Not only did it make us feel good it was also brilliant for keeping you awake and alert, which, in the days before charter flights, was a necessity.
We got to Bruges on the morning of the game and despite the freezing cold we made for the main square of this historic city (think Edinburgh) where we plotted up in the midst of a healthy contingent of Rangers scarfers. Everyone was in high spirits. Rangers had played two games in the group stages, winning one and drawing the other and there was a feeling that we had a real chance of winning the group and going into the Champions League final.20 The ICF of course had other things to think about, namely the Bruges mob, of whom there was, as yet, no sign.
The drink flowed, the tabs were swallowed. Still no sign of The Chink and his firm. It was getting near to kickoff and we decided to walk the mile to the stadium. Along the way, perhaps out of frustration, one of our boys threw a bottle at the wall of a bar. Luckily for us, it was the very bar in which Bruges were ensconced. They poured out, steam coming out of their ears. We chanted ‘ICF, ICF,’ and within seconds the air was thick with flying glass and aluminium chairs. We definitely got the better of it, pushing them back into their pub as dozens of individual duels went off around the front door.
Within minutes the Belgian Old Bill had swamped the area. It was time to move on. We streamed away from the fight zone but a couple of us had to go back for one of our mates, Craig C, who was scrapping with two Belgians, oblivious to the very real risk of arrest. I noticed that one of the Bruges lads was about to attack Craig from behind so I kicked the sneaky fucker right up the arse and bundled our boy away before the cops could nab him. As for our first skirmish with Bruges we won that one on points and didn’t we let them know it.
Where’s your fucking Chinky now?
Where’s your Chinky
Where’s your Chinky
Where’s your fucking Chinky now?
That was our triumphant refrain as we marched to the stadium, hoping and praying that round two was just around the corner. Nothing went off during the game. We were put in a shed behind the goals and watched with some satisfaction as Rangers emerged with a creditable 1–1 draw, thanks to an equaliser from Peter Huistra. The holy grail of the European game was now a distinct possibility; with a bit of luck we could emulate the Soap Dodgers by getting to the Champions League final and winning it.
After the game Bruges came looking for it, enraged that they had been done in their backyard. There was a clash on some football pitches close to the stadium, which was made all the more dangerous and confusing because we had to fight in complete darkness. I got isolated and as I blundered around in the dark, trying to get back into the fight, a cop on horseback grabbed me by the hood of my Berghaus jacket. The hood was buttoned on and as he exerted pressure it came away, allowing me to escape from his clutches.
The cops quickly restored order and we walked back to our buses feeling that we had acquitted ourselves well. There were no other offs with Bruges but on the way home we emptied a sports shop of most of its contents in Zeebrugge and then did the same to the duty-free concession on the ferry.
Happy days.
Marseille
Having beaten Bruges 2–1 in the home leg (thanks to a fluky goal from Scott Nisbet) we were now well placed to reach the final of the 1992/93 Champions League. Our away game in Marseille – by now our only serious group rivals – would be crucial. There was no way we were going to miss out on that one.
We didn’t travel as a mob of ICF. The plan was to meet up in Marseille and get down to business from there. I again went with the Shettleston Loyal and for this trip we shared a bus with Rangers fans from Renfrew. The usual boys from the east end were on board, including Big Craw from Drumchapel, Robbo and Mark Hendry. Given that we had a great chance of progressing to the final the atmosphere on the road south to Dover was electric, fuelled as usual by alcohol and drugs. Of course we liberated the duty-free shop on the ship, with Big Craw stealing enormous amounts of perfume and designer sunglasses.
In France, with a journey of almost five hundred miles ahead of us, the bus convener decided that we would stop off in Paris for a couple of hours to break the monotony. We parked up in the Palais d’Opera, a wealthy and exclusive area, where we split into small groups, eager to take in the sights. Little did we know it would be our worst pit stop of all time.
I was in a group of twenty boys and as we were exploring we found ourselves in a back street, where we were confronted by the biggest collection of pimps, prostitutes and transvestites this side of Sodom and Gomorrah. It was an amazing contrast with the elegant boulevards just yards away and after a quick drink we decided that it was too dodgy even for us. We headed back in the general direction of the bus and with forty-five minutes to spare we went into one of the many pavement cafes for a drink. The Renfrew boys were already in there having a quiet beer and at that stage there was no sign of the mayhem that was to follow.
Having paid our bar tab we strolled out of the cafe and were heading for the bus when the owner came rushing out, holding a receipt and gesticulating wildly. He claimed that some boys hadn’t paid their bill and although we insisted that everyone had squared him up he was having none of it. We couldn’t calm him down. He was in a total frenzy, and, as the argument continued, the commotion attracted dozens of onlookers, ordinary Parisians going about their everyday business. It became clear that neither side was prepared to back down and in sheer frustration the cafe owner grabbed an ICF boy and tried to drag him back inside, while shouting ‘police, police’ at the top of his voice.
Cue bedlam.
One of our guys decked the owner, sending him spinning onto the pavement. That spurred the onlookers into action and before you could say cheese-eating-surrender-monkeys they attacked us, enraged by the assault on a fellow Parisian and perhaps also by the sight of so many Union Jacks on their streets. There were fist fights going off everywhere and, quite bizarrely, I was confronted by a portly businessman in a smart suit and overcoat. He swung his briefcase at me for all he was worth in what was one of the most surreal moments of my hooligan career.
Then a waiter decided to raise the stakes even higher. Charging out of the cafe he sprayed our faces with CS gas, which is certainly not the way to treat paying customers. Despite choking and spluttering from the gas I caught him on the side of the head with a neat punch, backing him off. It was at this point that our esteemed bus convener came on the scene. Before we got off the bus he had warned us to stay out of troub
le and I thought we would get a right bollocking from him once the dust had settled. Not a bit of it. He picked up one of the round cafe tables and threw it through the cafe’s big plate-glass window. There must have been something in the air that day.
When that window went in we realised it was time to make ourselves scarce before the French Old Bill arrived. We legged it to the bus and told the driver in no uncertain terms to drive. However, before he could make a move the coach was surrounded by locals, making it impossible for us to get away. The police weren’t far behind and they frogmarched us off the bus and into an impromptu identity parade. I was the second-last person to get off and by the time I was on the pavement the arrest count was in double figures. With my eyes still streaming from the gas I knew I would be next and when the fat businessman I had been fighting turned up and identified me, my card was well and truly marked. I was slammed against the side of the bus, handcuffed and thrown into a police van.
Fourteen of us got lifted and with our coach as part of the convoy we were driven to the nearest police station and bundled into two holding cells. There was a great deal of confusion about what would happen next. Someone said that if we met the £1,000 cost of repairing the window we would be allowed to go on our way without being charged. Given there was a possible deal on the table Harky couldn’t understand why we were still in the cells.
‘What do you think we’re getting held for?’ he asked Robbo.
‘I don’t know Harky but I think they want us to play for their five-a-side team,’ Robbo replied.
It was a light-hearted moment in the midst of a very serious situation.
After some toing and froing it was agreed that eight of the arrestees would be released but that the six main protagonists – Harky, four of the Renfrew contingent and yours truly – would face charges. It was particularly hard on two of the Renfrew lot as they had been fast asleep the whole time we had been in Paris and hadn’t even got off the bus. The bus was allowed to go onto Marseille and before it left the boys had a whip round for us in case we were short of cash.
I was gutted. We had no chance of getting to the game. And in addition the cops told us they were about to launch a full investigation, which they said could lead to us facing very serious charges including assault with a deadly weapon, criminal damage and mobbing and rioting. Welcome to France! The police held us for twenty-four hours, interviewed us and then charged us with those three offences. We were told that we would be taken to court the next day, at which time the judge would decide whether or not to go ahead with the case. To be honest we feared the worst. Why would they hold us for two nights and then turn us loose?
During our second night in detention a cop told me that we were to be taken to a bail hostel. Like a mug I believed him but then, to my horror, we were driven at high speed in a police convoy, flashing blue lights and all, to our destination. It was way over the top, as was our accommodation for the night, a huge Barlinnie-like prison. We were hustled into a holding area with a massive cell, into which we were unceremoniously deposited. The cell was packed. I would say there were forty other guys in there, all of them either blacks or Muslims. By this point we had been given our money and jewellery back, which made us think it was a set-up. Our cellmates could rob us and the police would deny all knowledge.
The French criminals and the cops on guard did their best to intimidate us. None of us could understand a word they were saying but we knew it wasn’t ‘welcome to Paris’. We let them know in no uncertain terms that we wouldn’t be fucked with and despite the language barrier from French to Glaswegian they got the message loud and clear.
After the game kicked off in Marseille the cops kept us up to date with the score and when Rangers equalised the whole cell erupted. And I mean the whole cell. The French criminals were PSG fans and they had no love for their southern compatriots. We quickly worked out the consequences of getting a draw in Marseille: going into the last round of games it meant that if we beat CSKA Moscow and Bruges beat Marseille in Belgium we would be through to the final. It brightened our mood considerably despite a lingering doubt about whether Rangers would ban us.
The police made us sweat for another twelve hours before letting us go. Of course they never had any intention of taking us to court. We had been held for forty-eight hours – the legal maximum – just to piss us off and to make sure we missed the game. We eventually got back to Glasgow on the Friday night, after an overnight stay in the London borough of Hackney, where we were given a bed for the night by relatives of one of the Renfrew boys. His niece and nephew saw the funny side of our incarceration and painted an old bed sheet with the words, ‘The Paris six are innocent’. I kept it as a souvenir until quite recently.
It was a relief to get home after the European trip from hell. To make matters worse Rangers didn’t get to the final, mainly because of some right dodgy dealings involving the Marseille chairman. So we didn’t get to emulate Celtic, although I am still hopeful . . .
Juventus
Our trip to Turin in November 1995 proved beyond all doubt that trouble has a habit of finding me, even when I am not part of an ICF mob. The consequences of that little escapade could have been life-threatening and although I can look back and laugh at what happened, it was far from a joke at the time.
As far as the football was concerned we were knackered. The Champions League draw had bracketed us in a very tough group with Steaua Bucharest, Borussia Dortmund and of course the Old Lady of Turin. This was our return with Juve, who had already trounced us 4–1 at Ibrox, and we had also lost away to the Romanian champions and then scraped a draw with Borussia at home. Even with Gazza and Laudrup in the side there were no European heroics that year.
Perhaps our non-existent prospects on the field prompted many ICF to give the trip a miss but whatever the reason we didn’t go out there as a mob. I did go, and as usual I travelled on the Shettleston Loyal bus, this time with a few of my other pals. The trip was long and wearisome, and the only highlight was being detained in the Alps by the carabiniere. When we were stopped and saw the police uniforms we immediately stashed our drugs in the luggage compartments, only for our hearts to sink when one of the cops came on with a sniffer dog. Luckily for us the stupid mutt didn’t find a thing, apart that is from one boy who had stuffed hash in his underpants. The dog went straight for him and he ended up being the only cunt who was caught. The only consolation was that after being relieved of the drugs he was allowed to go on without being charged.
In Turin most of our day was spent drinking piss-poor Italian beer in the main square. There was no trouble, mainly because many Juventus fans lived outside the city and didn’t tend to travel in for midweek games. During the game I was in the middle tier of a three-tier stand and for the purposes of segregation there were empty sections to our left and right. It was surprising but even with 42,000 in attendance – including thousands of Rangers fans – the stadium was still half empty.
Despite our dismal form in the competition the mood among the Rangers support was jolly. I wanted to get some photos of the other Shettleston boys as a souvenir and I asked one of the Rangers fans to move so that I could get a good shot. He was a mean-looking dude, with a personality to match, and he didn’t budge an inch.
‘Come on mate. Want to get out of the road. Stop taking the piss. I just want to take a photo of the boys.’
My request fell on deaf ears. He just stood there, without saying a word.
I didn’t see the punch coming. It shocked me because I thought the Immoveable Object was there on his own but in fact he was one of a group of twelve. But nor did they realise there was a healthy contingent of Shettleston around me and in a split second one of my pals caught my assailant with a perfect haymaker, bursting his nose wide open. Within seconds a full-scale fist fight had broken out and although they were no mugs our superior numbers soon told and we chased them up the steep slopes of the stadium. During the fracas I noticed that they were certainly not run-of-the-mill R
angers scarfers; they were hard-looking guys, the type you wouldn’t want to cross. In the back of my mind there was a nagging doubt, a sixth sense almost. There would, I was sure, be repercussions of some kind, either in Turin or back in Scotland.
My premonitions were spot on. It turned out that we had smashed a gang of serious criminals from Paisley, a gang prominent in the underworld. Worse than that, it was their leader whose nose had been splattered by my pal. It didn’t take long for the rumours to start flying. We would be shot when we stepped off the bus in Shettleston; a top Glasgow gangster had been approached by the Paisley mob to gather information on me; a £100,000 bounty had been put on our heads.
To be honest I didn’t give a fuck. I was young, unmarried and had few responsibilities. I took the view that what is for you won’t go by you. I wasn’t going to run and hide just because I had upset someone, major face or no major face. It turned out that the rumours were just that: rumours. Nothing came of them and life soon got back to normal. A few years later I even had a drink with the Paisley gang boss, him of the burst nose, and no mention was made of our little contretemps.
Ajax
Amsterdam away in October 1996 was always going to be a big draw for Rangers scarfers and of course for the ICF. It is a great city, easy to get to, with numerous attractions and a vibrant night life. It was also a great time to be a bluenose. With players like Gascoigne, Laudrup, Gough, McCall, Goram and McCoist prominent we were on a run of eight titles in a row and would soon equal the nine achieved by the Great Unwashed. Although we had lost our first two games in the Champions League group stages we felt capable of winning anywhere with the players we had. Ajax, we reasoned, would be the start of our revival.