by John King
TOTTENHAM AWAY
Half-eleven on the dot and we’re in King’s Cross, standing at the bar in our North London local. The city’s wide awake and there’s a good mob packed into the pub. I’m sipping a pint of lager. Taking my time. Making it last. Mark’s making do with orange juice and Rod holds a bottle of light ale. Harris is by the door watching people come in. Seeing who’s who. He’s got his usual firm on hand and there’s small crews from all over West and South London. We’re exclusive. There’s no room for part-timers. The landlord must think it’s Christmas because he’s in the right place at the right time.
We usually use this pub before a game in North London, or when we’ve come back to King’s Cross from up north. It always works like that. You find somewhere in a handy location where you can get together without the owner calling the old bill. You keep using it till it gets sussed. When there’s a police van sitting across the road you know it’s time to move. We just want to be left alone. Dress sensibly and leave the army fatigues and funny haircuts for school kids and sillies. You have to be casual and blend into the background.
Tottenham away is a cracker. There’s always been a healthy hatred for Spurs. They’re yids and wear skullcaps. They wave the Star of David and wind us up. We’re Chelsea boys from the Anglo-Saxon estates of West London. Your average Chelsea fan coming up to Tottenham from Hayes and Hounslow is used to Pakis and niggers, but go up Seven Sisters Road and it’s all bagels and kebab houses. Greeks, Turks, yids, Arabs. The Spun mob like to get us going and it works both ways. Tottenham have always had a reputation for being flash. Silver Town yids. They’re the rich spivs to West Ham’s poor dockers. At least that’s how the story goes. You go through Stamford Hill and Tottenham and you wouldn’t think you’re in the same city as Hammersmith and Acton. We’ve got our Paddies down in West London, but none of these yid ghettoes. I’m no Christian myself but still Church Of Fucking England.
Tottenham sent us down to the Second Division in the mid-seventies and most of the Chelsea mob got locked out of White Hart Lane before kick-off. It went off inside and there were battles all over the pitch. Spurs had the numbers and though Chelsea put up a show they gave us a kicking. Tottenham won 2–0. Chelsea went down. They’ve been paying for it ever since. Talk to other clubs’ supporters, whether they’re from up north or London, and everyone hates Tottenham. But we’re Chelsea and proud of the fact. Harris has had the old brain ticking over since last Saturday and we’re working to a plan. Know where to find Tottenham before the match. There’ll be a good turn out for this one because Chelsea always show up in force for Tottenham away.
Black Paul is next to us at the bar. A Chelsea nigger from Battersea. He lives in a tenth floor flat looking over the river and sees the Stamford Bridge floodlights every morning when he gets out of bed. David Mellor shagging some bird in Chelsea gear’s nothing, because Black Paul knocks them off with a view of the fucking ground. You can’t get much better than that. He’s no mug, Black Paul. Built like a concrete bunker and works on a building site. None of the lads wear colours because club shirts are the mark of a wanker, but Paul always has a kit top under his sweat shirt. Gets away with it because he’s a mean cunt and nobody’s going to say anything. He must be six-foot four in his bare feet and his hands are full of scars. Building walls for the white man.
He makes up for this by shagging the white man’s women, winding us up something chronic with stories of the blonde birds flocking round his big black cock. It’s always the same kind of birds. Blonde hair stacked up on their heads listening to digital drum beats. Your typical ecstasy girls from the inner city estates. Kids who won’t touch a white bloke. They look us over like we can’t compare with Black Paul and the niggers from Shepherd’s Bush and Brixton. Like we’re not up to scratch and it can cause bad feeling. Paul gives them a dose of jungle spunk but he’s a Chelsea nigger first and foremost. Do the business for Chelsea and that’s all that counts.
I fancy a decent drink but take my time. Last night was quiet. A hard week at the warehouse. It’s a boring place to work but you’ve got to do something. Didn’t want to shag myself out with Tottenham next day so had a couple of cans and watched this film about some smooth cunt who makes a fortune buying and selling property. Knobs everything in sight, jacks up on heroin to help him cope with his millions, but gets a bit careless and shares his works and then finds he’s got AIDS. This makes him look up his old man who he’s ignored for the last five years and they become the best of mates. The bloke dies and the old boy gets the cash. Rags to riches tale. Pile of shit basically, but there was nothing else on.
The lager tastes good but there’s no point getting pissed and nicked for mouthing off along Tottenham High Road. You have to keep your wits about you when you’re looking for a ruck. Get pissed and you’re on for a kicking, not to mention a threatening behaviour charge. Assault if the old bill are around to see you in action. The cream of every club knows the score and leaves the pissheads to make lots of noise, jump up and down, and generally create a show for the TV cameras. It’s a mug’s game. Like the older chaps dressing for action. Like they’re out on parade with their boots and fatigues.
We call them sillies because it’s all about melting into the background. You can be twice as tasty without the show. Just do the business and piss off before you’re spotted. It’s all about calculation. Think before you pile in. Use your brain. Don’t rant and rave and give yourself a heart attack. Look after yourself and stay healthy. Find the opposition and batter them into the concrete. You don’t have to march in with a brass band playing. Do it on the quiet and you get the same result with none of the comeback. It’s basic politics. It’s great though, because the papers and television always miss the point. There’s no reporters down Kensington High Street when we pull scousers off the train and kick them into next week. The cunts are in the East Stand rubbing shoulders with the money men, hoping a politician will look their way. The commentators don’t sit in a block of flats with their camera crew zoomingin when we steam geordies at King’s Cross They’re editing highlights and pocketing the wage packet. Suits us fine. Who needs the hassle?