The Football Factory

by John King

  One o’clock we start moving. It’s a fair old walk along the Euston Road. We’re out in the open then safe underground flooding the northbound platform of the Victoria Line, clockwork soldiers moving in time. Wind rushes down the tunnel and a Walthamstow train piles in. It’s packed with Chelsea heading north. There’s small mobs, kids and decent citizens. Older geezers with lion tattoos and granddads who remember Bobby Tambling and Jimmy Greaves like it was yesterday. There’s nothing aboard to compare with us though and we get a few nervous looks. No colours. No sound. We wait for the next train a couple of minutes later, watched by London Underground lenses.

  Video cameras see everything. You have to be sharp to achieve your ends because there’s a market for Peeping Toms. Like this crime programme on the box hunting a serial killer wiping out sado-masochist queers. They took the cameras to a grubby flat in East London. Inside a bedroom with a body wrapped up on the bed. They were everywhere. Even went upstairs to talk with a granny who said she saw the victim and another bloke come home on the murder night. Said her eyesight wasn’t too hot, but if the bloke’s a nutter, which by rights he has to be, then he could well top the old girl as well.

  They fucking loved it in the studio. Letting the country get off on the forensic team checking the flat. Pointing out old condom packets and an empty tube of KY. Then a camera at Waterloo picks up the killer with another bum bandit on their way to Putney and another murder. Cameras have a lot of power, but they won’t stop anything. If you’ve got the urge to do something then it takes a special kind of strength to resist the desire. You don’t have to get caught just because London’s turning into a surveillance arcade. Not if you’re clever.

  The second train’s half full and we spread out and take over. It’s sauna conditions in the carriage with Mark and Rod pressed up against glass and Jim Barnes sweating last night’s curry, moaning about some pig he shagged. Harris is in the next carriage down. I can see the back of his head through the door. Black Paul’s against the wall, eyes to the ceiling. The train picks up speed. Curves through tunnels. There’s a few women caught on the wrong train obviously worried, but we’re Chelsea, not fucking Tottenham. We’re not interested in bothering women. True, there are wankers about who’ll get pissed up and give them a bad time, but they’re nonces who wank their days away and spend their evenings telling everyone how hard they are.

  We stop at Highbury & Islington and Finsbury Park. We check the platforms for Tottenham. If they’re out looking for us and we get them underground that’s their mistake. But the platforms are empty. Finsbury Park’s Gooner territory, but Arsenal are away today, though there’s a few memories of that particular area. The doors close and there’s reflections in the windows. The next carriage starts singing Spurs Are On Their Way To Auschwitz and our lot joins in. A gang of kids in their late teens smell of too much drink. They start pulling at a seat. Flash a knife. One of them puts his hand on the emergency lever. Rod tells him to leave it out, we don’t want the old bill fucking up our Saturday. Little hooligans showing off is okay when they do it away from us, but we don’t need that kind of behaviour. You have to have standards. Would have done the same when I was their age, but I’m not. Now is now. There’s no room for nostalgia. The kid does the sensible thing. Puts the knife away. Rod’s not a bloke to annoy.

  When we arrive at Seven Sisters the platform is all Chelsea. There’s jokes about what will be first on the menu. A launderette or kebab shop. Harris is ahead now and the rest of us filter through the crowd trying not to draw attention. Tottenham offers a bonus because the tube’s so far from the ground. It’s a long way down Tottenham High Road and the old bill can’t police all the different routes properly. Gives us the chance we’re looking for. The crowd spills through barriers into the street. There’s a kebab house opposite and a queue forms at the counter. Fair dodgers get pulled at the barriers while we move onto the main road. Keeps the old bill busy. Makes them feel needed.

  There’s traffic clogging the street and men run for buses to save their legs. Harris is on the other side of the road with Black Paul and some of the Battersea lads behind him. There’s Hammerhead, a fat cunt from Isleworth who never runs because he’s too fucking heavy. He got a bad kicking at Leeds last season and reckons he didn’t suffer permanent damage because of his weight. Sixteen stone of blubber. He’s more a mascot than anything and heads for the kebab house saying he needs a feed. He’s a funny bloke. Lot of humour about him. Not the kind of bloke who deserves a kicking. Leeds are scum doing him. Ten onto one. It’s not the odds, just Hammerhead doesn’t want to know when it comes to a fight, which is fair enough.

  Tottenham’s a dump. There’s holes in the pavements and more fumes than Hammersmith. Pensioners sit on benches looking into space and an old black woman pushes a supermarket trolley packed with flattened cardboard and empty cans. There’s a heavy smell of kebab meat and even the niggers look different. The streets are wider. Derelict flats boarded up against squatters. These are the areas kids from up north head for when they come to London. Cheap accommodation. But there’s plenty of builders looking to do them up and make a few quid. Plenty of nutters around who’ll carry out the eviction. You’ve got to look after yourself. Nothing comes free and you’ve got to do the other bloke before he does you. That’s what the pensioners on the bench don’t realise. They might be owed something but there’s nobody left to cough up. It’s a different world now. The war spirit is dead and gone, packaged and sold off to the highest bidder.

  We cross over and follow Harris, the crowd from the tube stretching along the High Road. We’re dedicated in our mission. Getting in tight behind the leader. Black Paul telling us he’s going to have a Tottenham nigger. Makes the lads laugh. His mate Black John with him. A smaller bloke with a shinehead and a way of making you nervous. His eyes are always darting around and you know his mind’s working overtime. Only turns up for big games. Usually the aways. Paul told me on the quiet John makes a packet flogging crack in South London. Five hundred quid for a couple of night’s work in Camberwell and Brixton. He’s worth having along because you know he’s always tooled-up. There’s enough full-time, would-be yardies around who don’t like him hanging out with the white man. He has to watch his step. Loves going up to Tottenham and Arsenal. Gets to deal with his North London rivals, or at least their brothers.

  There’s a few yids hanging around further down the road. Half white, half black which means they’re Spurs. They’re scouting and move away all stroppy like. Look back and we’re together now, spilling off the pavement into the road. They turn a corner and the wanker at the back disappears sharpish, as though he’s running. They’re trying to play it cool, at least till they’re out of sight, but we’re looking for their mob and they’re off to give the warning. Harris moves a bit faster now, telling some of the younger lads to hang back, take it calm, don’t spoil the party. We come to the corner and the yids have disappeared, a pub further down the street on another corner the target. We turn right and spread across the road. You can feel the tension and I’m buzzing. Been looking forward to this all week. Washes away all the boredom and slaving over hot cardboard boxes.

  Some of the lads start kicking at a broken wall, breaking away chunks of brick and masonry. Harris is trying to keep things together. Black Paul’s handing out halfbricks. A professional who knows his trade. Makes me laugh. Rod and Mark’s eyes shine. A chunk of concrete with wire sticking through the middle rests in my hand, and then we’re running down the street and there’s that noise that comes from somewhere deep down inside when you steam in. No words, just a roar like we’re back in the fucking jungle or something, and the bricks are flying through the pub windows and I can see shapes inside already heading for the door, vital seconds lost with indecision as the scouts got back and made their report. Tight cunts should try investing in a couple of mobile phones.

  My hand’s in the air and I see my lump of concrete among the bricks caving in windows, the sound of glass shattering a s
oft noise in the din of voices, and Tottenham are breaking through the doors but we’re there to meet them and Harris is leading from the front with Black Paul and a load of other blokes, pulling the first yids into the street, weight of numbers piling out of the pub so we spill everywhere, Harris copying his mate from Camberwell, nutting a big cunt between the eyes, bridge of the nose job, no copper this one, and Black Paul kicks him in the bollocks, and as he stumbles forward a few of the blokes start kicking him in the head and gut, driving him under a parked car.

  Rod’s laying into some bloke with a Tottenham shirt on, silly cunt, and we’re shoulder to shoulder, smacking a nigger in the mouth feeling the pain in my knuckles as I don’t catch him right, try to kick him in the balls, but Mark’s in first and we’re in a position by the door of the pub, more yids inside trying to force their way out, but we’ve got the strategy and I do the geezer now, he falls back against the wall, Chelsea piling in and he sinks into the pavement, feet catching him in the head and for a split second I see his eyes glaze then he’s fighting to survive, panicking in the crush, but they’re piling into the street now because someone’s lobbed tear gas into the pub, and we back off because it makes you choke and you feel like you’re going to suffocate.

  There’s a split in the road and we’re further back, those of us near the front rubbing our eyes, all the pub windows smashed, just long shards left, a pint glass flying through the air catching Mark on the side of the head sending blood down his shirt over his jeans, and the yids are getting it sorted out, a few of the cunts dazed on the pavement, others helping them away where they can half walk, half crawl, and we get ready to steam in again, the noise cranked up, car windows kicked in as the energy has to come out some way, held back by the gas, and there’s a fucking giant Irish-looking geezer with red hair and pasty white skin coming through, and he’s with a nigger with a machete and nobody’s going to tangle with that cunt, the only weapons bricks which batter him and then Paul’s saving face taking him out and the mob piles in kicking the bastard to fuck, paying him back for their fear, head on a stick, everyone reads the papers, and I’m in there feeling the sheer joy of kicking a deserving bastard in the bollocks, head, gut, anywhere we can get the cunt, in among the wrecked cars in this broken down North London slum.

  The two mobs clash again and this time it’s less frantic, trouble flaring across the street, mostly punches and kicks, a couple of blades coming out, flashing in the early afternoon sunlight, sparks of silver fear which make you pull back and everyone mob together and do the offender. Martin Howe’s in there, only got let out two weeks ago, did four months for smacking a bloke who cut him up at a set of traffic lights, and he’s bleeding from his leg, pig stuck by Spurs, and it’s slower now, picking our spot, and I’m after a mouthy cunt shouting insults and he goes for my head and misses and I do my kung-fu impression because he’s small enough and split his mouth open, Mark following through trying to do his knee like a kickboxer, Rod the man in the know using his karate to bruise his throat, sending the cunt spluttering into the crowd, choking on his words.

  The battle moves along the street, the pub empty, scared faces watching from behind net curtains. A shitty street with broken walls and small rundown gardens. Piles of rotting rubbish left uncollected. Rusted bike frames on the pavement. Place smells of curry and decaying big ends. There’s pale kids on doorsteps shitting themselves and you have to feel a bit bad for them, because when you’re young you don’t need this, not with your mum and dad at each other late into the night, but they’ll get it from somewhere and we’ve all been through that shit ourselves anyway.

  There’s sirens screaming in the distance and one by one we take them in, know where they’re heading. The sound sends us moving back towards the main road and there’s a van flashing blue murder, just one of the cunts, and a brick sails through the windscreen, back door opening and the old bill are looking for aggro. They’re tooled-up and Tottenham have scattered into the back streets. I turn round and Mark’s holding his head together okay, Rod next to him, and I’m with Harris and his mob, looking further up the road. There’s only the one van, and the old bill are sizing the situation up even as they pick on a young lad nearby and crack his head with their truncheons, one cunt with stripes smashing his head into the side of the van, another one kicking him, splitting his lip with the truncheon, screaming abuse, voice and siren together, fucking Chelsea scum. Somehow knows we’re Chelsea.

  The other coppers are lashing out and trying to nick some of the younger element, but they know they’ve fucked up and we’re mobbing together and the cunts are on for a kicking. I want to laugh and shout because this is Tottenham. A fucking shit hole and the old bill don’t put cameras down poor people’s streets. They’re only interested in protecting City wealth and the rich cunts in Hampstead and Kensington. Fuck the scum round here. There’s no cameras this distance from the ground. No fucking chance. The old bill know they haven’t got the numbers and there’s no videotape deterrent. The road’s jammed with traffic and we can see flashing lights further down the street blocked by buses. You couldn’t ask for more.

  There’s a few seconds of quiet and everyone knows the score. We run towards the van and the coppers are shitting themselves. Even the sergeant leaves the kid alone. The boy murmurs to himself on the pavement. They’ve all got their numbers covered so there’s no chance of identification and you know that any complaint you make against police brutality comes to nothing. They love football fans because they can do what they want. We’re lower than niggers because there’s no politician going to stand up for the rights of mainly white hooligans like us. And we don’t want their help. We stand on our own feet. There’s no easy place to hide. No Labour council protecting us because we’re an ethnic minority stitched up by the system. No Tory minister to support our free market right to kill or be killed. The old bill are the scum of the earth. They’re the shit of creation. Lower than niggers, Pakis, yids, whatever, because at least they don’t hide behind a uniform. You may take the piss out of the bastards occasionally but you have some hidden respect somewhere.

  But the old bill? Leave it out. We have the cunts in our sights. We pile in and the bastards don’t have a chance. The sergeant takes the worst of it because he’s all stripes and mouth and we’ve seen him batter the kid. Somehow he’s worse because he’s got a uniform and authority and we’ve been trained to respect uniforms and believe in the idea of justice. He shouts out as he sinks to the road, pulled to his feet by Black Paul, and a few of the Battersea mob take turns kicking him. His eyes are shut and bruised. Blood spews out of his nose. His head snaps back and opens up on broken glass. He’s getting his reward and we’re so frenzied we couldn’t care less if he died.

  The sirens are louder and police vans mount the pavement. We move off. Another train has arrived at Seven Sisters spilling more people onto the pavement, the vast majority of football fans who hate violence. Content to sing songs and have a few pints. We’re evil bastards in their eyes and it gives us a special position. We split up and leave the battered coppers and the old bill unload their vans and block the road, a few coppers going over to check their mates, the rest piling into the crowd fresh off the train. They tug the nearest blokes and start laying into them. We look back and they’ve got some kids under a bus stop, kicking them black and blue, and a black woman’s screaming at them to stop, that they haven’t done anything wrong. A copper turns and lays her out with a single punch. Calls her a fucking slag.

  The old bill are going mad and there’s a couple of thousand people along the road now, and they lose it and start fighting back, defending themselves, and that’s how you get a riot going. It only takes a few of you to start things off and the old bill are so fucking thick they whip everyone up. There’s a helicopter above and more coppers piling down the road. They’ve got their shields out and try to form a barricade as Chelsea move forward, covering the area, kids and older blokes joining in. It’s paradise this. A great way to spend your
Saturday afternoon. There’s a few bottles bouncing off shields and snatch squads running out to pick off young lads who look the business but are just caught up in the spectacle. We’re ahead of the main lot now, nearing the ground, trying to suss out yids among the onlookers, but doing it from habit more than anything.

  There’s people in the street watching the battle. It’s turned into a stand off with the crowd singing and smashing the odd car window. They’ve missed the nasty part and it’s turning into a show. Something to put the shit up Spurs. Mark and Rod catch up and we’re on our own approaching the ground. I feel great inside. The rush is there and my body tingles. Sounds funny but it’s true. It’s better than shafting a bird. Better than speeding. Mark’s head’s a mess but the bleeding has stopped. My knuckles are bruised and Rod’s eyes have gone a bit mental looking. We join the crush trying to get in the ground. The crowd’s already buzzing inside and we can hear the constant chant of CHELSEA. This is what life’s all about. Tottenham away. Love it.

  WORKER’S DREAM

  Sid checked his watch and wiped the sweat from his forehead, annoyed at his aching muscles. He smelt of salt, and the close atmosphere of the lorry he was unloading made him feel as though he was working with a surgical mask over his face. Tom was by the doors stacking boxes for Steve on the forklift. It was hard work, and boring, very boring, so Sid just daydreamed the morning away, imagining he was playing centre-forward for QPR in one of the finest football teams the world had ever seen.