by John King
—There it is, she said, spotting Bo-Bo’s halfway down the Kings Road, purple neon lights above the door, flickering white candles inside. Just drop me off anywhere. Thanks for the ride and I’ll see you tomorrow Will. Thanks for taking me. Nice to have met you David. It was fun.
—Phone me about lunch, won’t you?
—I will. See you soon.
Jennifer waved at the Volvo as it drove away and looked for the scratch but saw nothing, then she pushed herself forward through the gale, opening the door to the restaurant. She was greeted by a burst of warm air, cigarette smoke and excessively loud laughter. She immediately felt at home, the clientele class-conscious and suitably confident. Looking around for Anthony, she flushed when she thought of those toads sneaking glances at her legs. Then she was angry at the boring game she had witnessed, the loss of a good evening, and not a thug in sight. At least she was on familiar ground in Bo-Bo’s and could act normally again. The common people really were common as muck. You could give them money, but couldn’t fake breeding.
WEST HAM AT HOME
The pub’s making a racket and the old bill have pulled a van up outside. Everyone’s trying to get a view through the window and there’s a lot of movement in the street. Mark reckons they’re bringing a train straight through from East London. Don’t know how he knows this, but that’s how football works. It’s all rumour and speculation which fast becomes fact. The two blend together and in the end it doesn’t really matter where they meet. It’s logical enough though. We’ve already been down Victoria looking for them and come back with nothing. You never know with West Ham. They could turn up anywhere at any time and Victoria is a good place to meet up and sort things out. There again, they want to get into our streets and take the piss so why waste time messing about in the West End?
The tension’s been building since early this morning. Mark banging on the door at nine telling me to get up. That I’m a lazy cunt. A cup of tea and some toast and I don’t feel too bad after eight pints in the pub last night. He looks happy enough. Got his end away with some spaced-out blonde kid who couldn’t have been much over the legal limit. Looked like she knew the score well enough and Mark confirms this as I get myself a second cup. Thin legs and small tits but was on all fours in the hall with her mum and dad asleep upstairs. Says she had a cunt so tight he thought he’d got the wrong hole. Had to take a look to make sure, though she wasn’t complaining so doesn’t know why he bothered.
We walk down the station and Rod’s already there getting impatient. We catch a train to Victoria and there’s a mob hanging around looking for West Ham, taking the tube to Tower Hill, then back along the District Line. Harris doesn’t know where West Ham will turn up and we start getting worried in case they’ve gone straight down the ground. They could be turning the place over while we’re stuck on the tube. We decide to go back to the ground and stop off in Earl’s Court. There’s fuck all going on there, so we head for Fulham Broadway where we’ve got a view of the tube and are guaranteed to find them in the end. We’re on edge the whole time because West Ham’s no joyride. Not like having a go at Arsenal or Tottenham.
Now we’re out of circulation. There’s dogs barking in the street and the hollow echo of horse’s hooves on concrete. Traffic is diverted away from the run between Fulham Broadway and Stamford Bridge. There’s a pub full of needle bottled up and confined by coppers ready to steam in at the slightest provocation. There’s fuzzy police radio messages and a flashing light, Harris talking into his cellphone, scouts out and about, then we hear the West Ham anthem Bubbles coming up from the tube into the street and we’re pushing towards the door, but the old bill know what they’re about and they’re laughing, pretending they’re in control, and they are in a manner of speaking because they’ve got us locked up safe and sound.
I can see the scene through the window as West Ham pile out and the old bill have them contained well enough, but the Hammers breed lary cunts and the main faces are at the front, older blokes and nutters from Bethnal Green and Mile End, fucking headcases the lot of them, and they’ve no respect for coppers, taking the piss, trying to push past the British bobby looking towards the pub. There’s psychos in leather jackets and a kid in dungarees and flat cap. The ICF and Under Fives mean more around Upton Park than Ron and Reggie Kray. History stays around for years. But who cares about names.
West Ham are forced towards the ground and they’re letting everyone know they’ve arrived. The pub’s singing as well but we feel like a bunch of wankers locked up out of contention. West Ham keep coming out of the station trying to turn right, forced left, and they’ve come down from the East End mob-handed, strolling along taking their time, but Stamford Bridge is one of the safest grounds in the country these days and the old bill have got everything tied up. Those cameras on rooftops record the scene but most of the faces are well known. These blokes are professionals. Not your average snotty-nosed hooligan. There’s vans across the street, flashing lights through glass, horses helping the crowd along, shitting everywhere, the familiar mix of horse shit and hamburgers.
A few harder cases try to push their way back down the road towards the pub. The dogs go mental straining at their leads keeping things civilised, walking on two legs. Two legs good, four legs bad. Like they teach you in school. Lights flash and more horses come along the street. All those coppers think they’re the business. They’re keeping the lid on things and West Ham are moving reluctantly towards the ground.
Harris is near the door and we’re getting wound up locked away, freedom of expression denied for the duration, but know it’s the wrong location. Talk about civil liberties. West Ham are walking our streets, controlled it’s true, but we’re at home and it’s up to us to do the business. If they can walk in here then it’s half a result. Turn us over and we’ll never hear the last of it. East against West and it goes back decades. Something you grow up with. It’s all about territory and pride and having a laugh. They’re fast disappearing down the street and the police will shepherd them into the away section, unless some of the cunts have tickets for the West Stand and are looking to have a go inside the ground. But it’s unlikely. What’s the point?
When West Ham are out of harm’s way the old bill pile into the pub and empty the place. They’re in a stroppy mood and line up outside the door. Think they’re a firing squad except they’ve got no guns. One day that will change though and they’ll walk more cocky than ever. A fat bastard punches me in the gut as I go past and I stare straight into his face asking him what the fuck he’s doing, let’s see your number, then he’s telling his mate to put me in the van and nick me, but I get lost in the crush leaving the pub and they’re thick cunts with the attention span of a goldfish and are already into someone else. Mark gets a knee in the bollocks from a copper which doesn’t connect properly and I hate the bastards worse than West Ham and Tottenham combined.
Fucking scum the lot of them hiding behind uniforms, licking the paymaster’s arse. A van escorts us towards the ground and when we get to the West Stand we’re trying to bluff our way further down the street but only halfheartedly because there’s video cameras burning on overtime and West Ham are probably inside by now anyway. I’m well narked and have to remember Tottenham and the old bill getting a pasting just to calm things down and look on the bright side. I try and see it as a bit of justice but it doesn’t work. We’ve all seen enough of them in action to realise the score. The old bill are just another mob but they’re getting paid for their Saturday entertainment while we fork out for the privilege. They’re hiding behind some kind of fucked morals where they’re right because they’ve got a uniform and we’re wrong because we haven’t taken the oath. We’re our own bosses and they’re working for the courts. It’s enough to turn you into a fucking Trotskyist, except they’re a bunch of bent student wankers who spend all their time making placards and shafting your ordinary white bloke.
They’re all the same those kind of people. Politics is a load of shit bas
ically and you’ll find little of it around here. True, there’s a few blokes into the fascist bit, but the old men at the top would wipe us out if they got into power. Line your football hooligans up against the wall and blow their brains over the pavement. That’s their idea of law and order. But it’s a crack winding up scruffy rich kids selling Marxist papers and fuck knows what other dodgy reading matter. Give them a Nazi salute and watch the bastards boil up inside knowing they’ll do fuck all back.
We’re soon in the ground and West Ham are into another round of Bubbles. Chelsea are singing around the ground. The game kicks off but we’re watching West Ham. They’re a fair distance off and there’s little chance of it going off, but they fucking hate Chelsea. Reckon we’re mouthy bastards. They fire a rocket into the stand and it bounces off the roof. Lands a few seats back. Flares for a second and I wonder if it’s about to set the place alight. I think of Bradford and all those people burnt alive. Then of Hillsborough and the scousers killed by fences.
Thing is, the people who wanted the fences put up never admitted it was the fences responsible. Just shifted the blame onto terracing. Give us seats and we’ll all behave. Some chance. Your harder cases have been going in the seats for donkey’s years. It’s another mark of class. We’re no grubby paupers. No lippy hooligans mouthing off doing fuck all to back up the words. We’re the business. The people who run football are redundant. Clueless the lot of them. Hillsborough was one big scam from start to finish. They were all in it together. Politicians, papers and the old geezers running the show. But what can you do? Fuck all at the end of the day.
—Bunch of cunts aren’t they? Harris turns to me. We’ll have them outside if we can get hold of them. Kick them all the way back to their East End plague pits.
There’s a lot of the bastards and they’re no pushover, but you’ve got to have belief. West Ham and Millwall are always the bad ones. Must be something in the water. Some strain of infection which affects the brain cells. Rabies is alive and well and flourishing in the East End. Probably came into the docks before the area fell apart, then stayed in the bloodstream. Some people don’t fancy having a go at West Ham but if you’re in a mob you can’t afford to bottle against anyone. West Ham are hard, true, but they don’t bother me. If you can get everyone to stand firm and the odds are even you’ve got to have a good chance.
It’s all about presentation. If you’ve got a reputation then half the job’s done before you start. It’s everyday propaganda. Make yourself believe something and it’s easy to persuade everyone else. There again, you end up getting every cunt in the country wanting to have a go and prove themselves when the odds are stacked. If you get picked off and cornered and you’re on the receiving end then there’s no mercy. It’s survival of the fittest and the law applies everywhere. The weak don’t last long in this country. There’s no help for those who can’t look after themselves. It’s primitive man talking. Real Stone Age society where the biggest lump of rock wins. That’s why you have to stick together.
—East London cunts. Rod’s giving them the wanker sign. I fucking hate those bastards. Reckon they’re so fucking hard with their cockney coons and Brick Lane Nazis. Fucking cunts the lot of them. Muggers and Paki-bashers. Same fucking gene working overtime.
—Scum, that’s what they are, and Mark’s got a soft spot for West Ham, bad memories from when he was a kid seeing his old man having the piss ripped out of him outside Upton Park. A split lip for the old man and a kid’s blue and white scarf in the gutter.
The game kicks off and Chelsea cut their way through the West Ham defence at will. We’re knocking the ball around with style and it’s great watching the Blues when they play like this. A reward for all the bad performances. The rain’s hammering down and the players have trouble keeping their feet. We score twice before half-time then add a third near the end. It’s a dull day with heavy clouds and a vicious wind but we don’t care. We’re stuffing West Ham on the pitch and it’s good to see the bastards getting their noses rubbed in it. The rubbish they write about West Ham being a football academy is all in the past. More television nostalgia. They’re more Billy Bonds than Trevor Brooking. We know the truth. They’re cunts and they’ll be twice as wound up by the time the ref blows the final whistle.
We’re making the most of the score winding the Happy Hammers up and they’re not taking it well. Even from this distance I can see the expressions on their faces. Sullen and narked as fuck, the Irons are simmering under the surface. They’re like a pan of boiling water waiting to spill over and melt some cunt’s face. They’re all in there. Just like Rod says. The lads from Bethnal Green and all the other bomb sites stretching to Upton Park and on to Dagenham. But we’re stuffing them on the pitch and enjoying the chance to take the piss.
The final whistle blows and most of Stamford Bridge is celebrating a good game, cheering victory over London rivals. For the majority of people the football is everything and they don’t want to know about what’s going to kick off soon as we get the chance. I can feel the pit of my stomach getting tight. I follow Mark, Rod and the rest of the lads up the steps and West Ham are moving towards their own exit.
Behind the West Stand there’s a bit of a crush and the light covering the pitch is shut out. Floodlights bum high above but they’re pointing the other way. That’s the stage the media focuses on and once we’re out the back of the West Stand it’s just another Saturday night. There’s a few small lights burning but more shadows and the smell of piss and dirty rain water. We get to the steps and there’s a bit of singing and we can hear West Ham coming down the road already. We’re moving down the steps with Harris getting everyone together. We’ve got to keep tight and act together once it goes off.
We’re out in the street with police vans everywhere and we’re looking into where we think West Ham will be, but it’s all decent citizens and the old bill are moving Chelsea along, serving the community keeping the scum in line. There’s a tense silence and everyone’s giving everyone else the eye and we’re getting down towards the tube. It just needs a spark. There’s a few lads hanging around the flats and we start moving over as well but a couple of horses come up the steps and the old bill are moving everyone on again.
We’re getting pushed down by the tube but we don’t want to go home yet. We follow the happy supporters down into Fulham Broadway station. It’s all Chelsea in here now and the tube pulls in and we take it up to Earl’s Court, check the platform which is full of old bill, and continue to Victoria. We get off and hang around the platform, doing our best to blend in with the Saturday evening crowd. It’s all backpackers and shoppers. We’ve clocked the cameras and Harris tells a couple of kids to smash them when West Ham pull in. We’re taking a chance but acting camera shy. Just put a cross on the coupon and take your chance. No publicity and no video evidence. We’re waiting along the eastbound District Line platform knowing West Ham will come through sooner or later.
Trains pull in and we scan the carriages, taking the piss out of a few civilians with West Ham colours, but their firm is nowhere to be seen. It’s getting on for six when the tube we’ve been waiting for finally arrives. We know right away it’s West Ham and the cameras are put through with bottles and before the doors open we’re kicking the windows in. The mob on board are booting the doors trying to get out and there’s the vague sound of crying from women and kids. The doors open and the bastards are on the platform, and it’s real toe-to-toe stuff and we’ve picked a good mob here, a lot of older blokes but not too many of them, more or less equal odds and Harris kicks a squat bastard first off the tube in the bollocks, and Black John kicks another cunt in the gut. Rod kicks him in the face and the front of the train empties, a running battle now along the platform because out of nowhere the old bill have appeared.
Transport police on the platform and it’s chaos and I can’t believe they’ve got here so fast. Both sides are trying to get out of the station. Get above ground and the old bill have got no chance. There’s copp
ers piling in forcing us through tunnels and up the escalator. It’s all gone wrong somehow and then we’re in the flush of Victoria jumping over the barriers, mingling with the crowds. We’re out and about and move into the bus station waiting for West Ham to find their way. We move back as police vans arrive, doors flung open and coppers heading underground, sprinting to get stuck in. Then we see West Ham across the station and we’re running into them but the bastards just stand there laughing like fuck and it goes off again in a big way, people running everywhere and it’s a bitter punch-up this one and Black John’s getting the shit kicked out of him when he goes down on the floor. We try to get over to the bloke but a mob of West Ham are around him and he’s down for the count.
Some West Ham cunt lumbers into me, fist connecting, and I feel a numb throb through my jaw as I kick out at him, missing any decent kind of contact, then he’s back in the crowd and my head’s spinning. I focus myself and get my mind in gear, but I don’t see anything now, just hear the racket of shouting men and alarms, then mad barking as the old bill get into the battle again, dogs on the rampage, always one step behind, and we’re moving across the bus station, lobbing bottles and whatever else we can find at West Ham who are busy having a go at the old bill. I look over and Black John’s on his own on the ground and a couple of coppers are looking down at him, and we’ve got to keep moving because there’s vans and cars coming in from every angle and the last thing we want is a ride in a meat waggon. There’s a few running fights with West Ham but everyone’s getting split up and the old bill are nicking everyone they can get their hands on. I jump on a bus with Mark and Harris and a few other blokes. Rod’s got lost in the commotion. Victoria’s a no-go zone now if you’re looking for trouble and we’re on a bus heading for the West End. We’re well pissed off at the old bill turning up so quick and just sit back and go with the motion.