The Football Factory

by John King

  We leave it till half-six, then Harris starts moving and we’re following him out of the pub, through buses packed with silent citizens into Victoria. We’re remembering West Ham briefly but it’s in the past now filed away and we’re into the moment looking at the departure times, Harris knowing where we’re going, the plan to get a train to Peckham Rye. We want to avoid New Cross and South Bermondsey, where most of our support will arrive. If everything goes to plan we’ll be walking around Millwall without an escort while the old bill are focusing their attention elsewhere. They’ll be lined up doing their duty while we’re wandering around out of sight looking for a good night’s entertainment.

  The mob’s filled out by now and there’s a good three hundred of us. There’s a lot of muscle around, the older element, some nasty cases straining to hold back the violence. Every firm needs numbers for major games like this. You’re no good with twenty or thirty headcases, however tasty, and we’re having a laugh thinking of Pete Watts, how he got thrown through a pub window at Millwall fifteen years ago, another slice of Chelsea myth, knifed in the leg before the police pulled up and nicked him. Cost him fifty quid that one.

  We’re on the train filling the carriages knowing other passengers fear us, but we’re not interested, keeping our affections for Millwall, not wanting trouble, none of that juvenile hooliganism throwing light bulbs on the platform and touching up office girls. Millwall’s a corner of London where time stands still even if they do have a plush new ground. The streets and people remain the same and Cold Blow Lane was a wicked place full of nutters, and the New Den may look flash but it’s full of the same old faces standing in the background waiting patiently.

  Those days of everyday Millwall theatre riots are part of the past, our fun out in the streets, as it’s always been anyway, year in year out, away from reporters and photographers. What do they expect the old bill to do? Put cameras on every roof of every house in every street in every city hoping to get a recording of the latest assault? They’re not interested. It costs too much and they’re only moved to act when it gets in the public eye, a dead fly irritant washed out with a good caning and some outraged words from the tabloids.

  The doors close and we’re moving away from Victoria and the plastic Disneyland of the West End. We’re moving through London with its granite blocks full of official secrets and money managers, arms dealers and legalised drug barons. There’s glass offices reflecting light and buildings, empty of life, full of advertising strategies, the river a great sight this time of night, a harsh city London where the lights are the only thing that stop the place exploding. We gradually pick up speed, train rocking gently side to side with flashes of electricity on the tracks and the whole thing could grind to a halt at any second. The windows are full of reflected faces and soon we’re rolling through Brixton and Denmark Hill, travelling in silence. Turn the lights off in London and the whole place would go up. They’ve got to keep the fires burning no matter how much it costs. Pull out the plug for more than a few minutes and there’d be nothing left.

  Harris starts talking in his precise way, giving instructions and warnings, his reputation sound despite Newcastle, that wasn’t his fault, beyond his control, but he still has to deliver because the rush is there and we’re ready for it to go off in a big way. There’s been too much frustration over the last few weeks, the old bill sticking their noses in all the time, doing their job, messing things up. Tonight has to happen. It’s vital for confidence. Suppose we’re like junkies in a way. Clean-cut junkies looking for the kick of a punch-up. Except we don’t take the easy option sitting in our own shit jacking up, out of sight trying to impress the neighbours. We get out there and put ourselves in the firing line. It’s a natural high. Adrenalin junkies.

  The train pulls into Peckham and we pile onto the platform. Queen’s Road is nearer the ground but it means hanging around waiting for a connection and it only takes one phone call and we’d be lumbered with an escort. It’s looking good though and we don’t see any coppers. Looks like we’re in the clear until some wanker nicks the ticket collector’s small change. The man’s a Paki or something and he’s shaking a bit, obviously shitting himself. Don’t blame him really. But Harris shouts at the bloke to give the money back and the British Rail man seems happy enough, not wanting trouble, doing his best, earning a crust, Harris coming on like some kind of Robin Hood, and we’re laughing inside knowing he doesn’t give a fuck.

  We’re just keeping our noses clean for the moment. Petty theft and vandalism are the mark of a cunt, and Harris doesn’t want the ticket collector on the phone. That’s the last thing we want. We pile out of the station and are on our own, spilling into the road, geared up because we’re steaming, moving away from the station, over the street not waiting for the traffic lights to change, energy flooding our brains and we’re on their manor now strutting along and we know the bastards will be around somewhere with their scouts out, mobile phones in small fists for a quick call to the Bushwhackers switchboard.

  We look at stray males with suspicion and head towards the ground, buzzing inside the whole time. It’s going to go off in a matter of minutes rather than hours. It’s a fucking unreal feeling getting into a place like this knowing there’s another mob nearby looking to do the same thing, and the fact they’re Millwall makes the whole thing major league. This is top of the table. Millwall and West Ham. But we’re united, all together in this, and we’re telling ourselves that Millwall are mental, but we’re mental as well, like we were against West Ham at Victoria, and it’s all about pride and self respect. Traffic piles up as we cover the street, taking over, total control, a shot of power. We’re on Millwall’s manor and it’s up to them to stop us taking the piss otherwise they won’t be able to hold their heads up till the next time the two clubs meet and they get the chance to try and turn us over.

  We’re taking liberties but they’re smart cunts, it can’t be denied, like the time they mobbed together and cut a tree down blocking the Leeds coaches heading back to Yorkshire, or the two thousand a side they had against West Ham. That takes organisation. The tension rises. We’re nervous and cocky at the same time. Somehow we’ve got to control the nerves and make it work for us. It makes us more violent. More determined. When it goes off we’ll have to be brutal if we’re going to survive. We’re putting ourselves on the edge and when you’re in South East London it’s a fucking long way to the bottom if you get thrown off. It’s like we’re on the edge of the world sailing along with Christopher Columbus against the tide and you have to keep your momentum otherwise you’re fucked.

  There’s not a copper to be seen, only Peckham locals and flashing amusement arcades. Every pub holds potential as we pass, Millwall holding up somewhere trying to find us, playing the same tracking game, cat and mouse, hide and seek, through streets they know like the back of their hands. This gives them the advantage because you could get lost for days in the blocks, houses, empty yards. There’s no colour in the buildings, bricks identical and wasteland overgrown, rows of broken walls and barbed wire, smashed glass and rusted metal, dull new houses that remind me of Bethnal Green. It’s a fucking joke thinking about Millwall’s flash stadium set in among this shit. Makes you think about priorities in a dump like this. We turn right at a set of traffic lights moving with more of a swagger because we’re pumped up to breaking point, Harris shouting at a few lads to tone it down. Keep calm and hang back. We’ve got to behave ourselves for a bit longer.

  We can hear the crowd singing in the ground streets and estates away through the darkness, the station way behind us now, mist coming off the river drifting across the rubble, a white chill infecting dead homes. It’s fucking eerie this place. Full of decaying dockers in flat caps bombed and left to rot under a collapsed London. People talk about concrete jungles and that’s what this place is, a perfect description, a fucking nightmare world without any kind of life, but we know once we find Millwall that’s all going to change, that they’ll come out of the brickw
ork and then disappear into the tunnels when the job is done like they were never there in the first place. Fog drifts through blocks of flats in and out of stairs and balconies, a mugger’s paradise, the chance to earn a few bob carving up a skint granny, scum of the earth niggers. The air is cold and evil and it’s only our energy that keeps us warm. London’s a ragged place now, full of mute pensioners and sullen rappers, past and present melted down and spat into the gutter.

  We turn a corner and there they are. Millwall up ahead. There must be a good five hundred of the cunts and they’ve got the numbers and we could be on for a kicking. But there’s quite a few kids with them, though there’s a few niggers as well and they’re always carrying. They’re mobbed up in a patch of wasteland the council calls a communal garden, in among a tunnel of concrete blocks, and they start moving our way slowly, coming down from the New Den maybe, or just standing around out of sight, waiting for the right moment. Time gets lost as the clocks don’t matter any more and we’re shouting Chelsea as the bricks come raining in, bottles lobbed by kids on the balcony of some overlooking flats.

  Millwall are moving faster now, getting things going and we can feel the hate coming our way like they’re gasping for air or something they’re so fucking wound up, and you can understand the thinking of these blokes nailed into a slum like this, but we’re strong united, and we’re Chelsea, and this is what we’ve been looking for, out to settle a few scores, showing our bottle, making a point that we’re here at all, and we don’t feel Millwall’s hate any more because we’ve got enough of our own.

  We return the bricks and steam in. There’s a roar that sets heads racing and we feel the rush, the buzz of fighting shoulder to shoulder, for status and our mates, the first punches and kicks landing, both sides piling straight into each other. We’ve got the front in this slum they call Peckham, New Cross, Deptford, wherever the fuck we are, who knows where we’ve wandered, trading more kicks and punches in a madhouse, the usual gaps appearing in the street as the two sides clash, the crack of glass and a couple of men going down on the concrete, immediately set upon kicked black and blue from head to toe, and some poor bastard’s going to have a serious headache in the morning.

  There’s no time for fear as we kick out and six or seven older geezers into their forties come through the crowd at us, real old-time street fighters these ones in their donkey jackets, with scarred faces and poxed skin, uneven haircuts and dead eyes even in dim street lights, but they get bricked and hammered. One bloke’s on his own with everyone scrambling to kick him and use up some of that energy, threatening to break him in half, send him back to his family and friends in a wooden box. But Millwall act fast and he’s dragged back along the concrete unconscious by some of his mates, Millwall winding themselves up, an uncoiling spring with a sharp edge, Millwall going mental, Chelsea going mental.

  We’re holding our own, but there’s just too many of the bastards to run them right off, fights breaking out back and forwards through a kiddies’ playground, bottles smashing against the climbing frame. One day we’ll think back and see it as a bit of a laugh, if we can think straight, because there’s swings bouncing around and some kid trying to get up the slide, pulled back with his head slammed into the metal-work by a couple of older blokes taking turns, Chelsea boys battering the Millwall kid’s head trying to dent the fucking thing. It’s mental rucking in a playground, seriously funny when we think about it later, reminiscing over our Millwall trip. Childhood fucked up by grown men who should know better.

  More Millwall start appearing through the concrete like soldier ants, flooding through the precise angles and stacked piles of rubbish. Battles are kicking off towards the ground, houses and flats around us coming alive with old men hanging out of high-rise windows cheering Millwall on. Their bitter voices echo through the concrete, locked in cells with only the telly for company, taking their hatred out on West London. The roundabout in the playground is spinning with an unconscious youth bent double like something from a war photo. He could be Millwall or Chelsea. Nobody knows what side he’s on, or what he’s called. What’s the fucking difference anyway? And it’s all there, the generation gap closed, with the swings and slides and men in their prime cheered on by men ready for the grave.

  The fighting’s confused now, Chelsea and Millwall getting mixed up. The sound attracts more people coming over from the direction of the ground, but there’s still no coppers in sight. It’s a kind of heaven this, even though it looks more like hell with the low wattage lighting and dirty mist turning everything inside out. We can feel the anger and hate coming out all around us, flushing out the locals, dragging them from their caves, their kingdom under attack, moving through the age groups, women’s voices screaming from the balconies up above now as well as the old boys, the sound of fighting cats late at night, shrieking like babies, a seriously sick sound, turning the air blue with the best Queen’s English.

  Things are getting worse and we look down the street and there’s a few of the lads getting the shit kicked out of them. They’re too far gone and we’re unable to do anything to help. There’s no mercy on sale and we’re yelling at each other to stick together, loving every second of what’s going on, and Harris starts going mental with his hunting knife, a six inch blade and a dark wood handle, it sticks in my mind, time stopping for a second then speeding up again, didn’t know he was tooled-up, his arm moving forward slashing some Millwall cunt across the face, the bloke in shock, expression frozen, a thick groove across his cheek, jaw to the edge of his eye, those Millwall around him holding back as he staggers.

  There’s Millwall everywhere now. Must have been waiting mob-handed further down the street. It’s out of control and they’re coming for us desperate for blood, kicking to kill, more bricks and bottles landing on our heads though fuck knows from where unless the pensioners on the landings are dismantling their flats. We don’t know what’s going on up above because our attention is on the aggro two feet in front, ears burning with the din, the movement and dull blows, the thud of fists and kicks, an iron bar or something catching me across the side of the head.

  Suddenly I’m on my own. Isolated. Face down in the street eating dog shit. Forehead in a puddle. Grit cutting my hands. Up against a wall. The smell of crumbling brick and wet concrete. Weight of numbers forcing the main battle further along the street. Off to the football. To the Millwall-Chelsea match. A game of football. It’s only sport. Should be an attractive match between two sides who love to go forward. But I don’t reckon I’m going to make it because the kicks are coming in, a mob of blokes surrounding me, kicking to cause maximum injury, numbing my body, digging in, breaking blood vessels. I feel the kicks bouncing off my head and shoulders, along my spine, the crush to get stuck in my only protection as Millwall get in each other’s way, kicks aimed at my bollocks and I’m tight in a ball trying to protect myself best I can.

  There’s a ringing sound all around me as most people move off down the street taking that deep roar with them, individual words coming through now, just nonsense, and hatred, fucking Chelsea cunt, fucking cunt, fucking Chelsea cunt, fucking cunt, fucking cunt, fucking cunt, the kicks slowing down but better placed, evil bastards picking their spot, the numbers thinning, leaving the sicker ones to work me over, probably scrawny kids with no bollocks. Seconds turn to minutes and I have no idea to get up and run away, because I’d never make it and only open myself up, expose my balls and face, escape impossible not even considered, must take my punishment like a man, like I’m taught in school, by my mum and dad, hit them harder than they hit me, don’t cry, don’t tell tales, stand up for yourself, be a man, have a bit of pride, some self-respect, violence without a happy ending.

  There’s no way out of this and I want to shout but nothing comes out. My throat is bruised and the chords rigid. I’m scared like never before as I realise it’s me against the whole of South East London, less than ten of the cunts left now I suppose, and they’re hammering me into the concrete. Trying
to force me through the gutter into the sewer. The kicking doesn’t stop. I feel sick. Like I’m going to die. I’m shitting myself and it’s turning to panic. Sheer blind panic which grips me inside as the kicks bounce off my head, spine, even my bollocks as I roll over opening up. I taste sick in my mouth as I try to keep the ball shape. Protecting my bollocks. Hiding my head. But the blows crack against the back of my skull and along my back. I imagine myself in a wheelchair, in a coffin rolling down the chute, burning in the furnace paying for my sins, corpse melting like a waxwork puppet, strings cut one last time.

  Where the fuck are the others? Where’s the rest of the lads? Why don’t the cunts help me? I shouldn’t be left alone like this. It’s not supposed to be this bad. Football should be about running punch-ups and a few bruises. Nothing too serious. A quick ruck and some mouth. I’ve been left to fend for myself. I’m losing my grip, going into some kind of junky dream world, thoughts cracking up and drifting along, floating, and I can feel the blows but none of the pain, just numb now, like I’m pissed or something. But through it all I’ve still got my dignity, a dull voice in my head telling me that we did the business. We’ve done ourselves proud showing we’ve got the bottle to take on Millwall and we’ve held our own against superior odds. I can hold my head up high if I get out of this, but my legs have gone dead and my skull’s aching. I’ve had enough. Thank God for the sirens.