It’s 1976 and our story begins in Lyman’s, a small, nondescript (from the exterior) pub, on King & Queen St, which is off East St. Which, in turn, is off Walworth Rd. There’s a lot of shit talked about South Londoners all seeing themselves as villains. Well, truth be told, an awful lot of them were. I need to state- right off the bat, that I wasn’t. I wasn’t even an apprentice but I was matey with a few kids who were on the training programme, which led to the apprenticeship’s waiting list. From what I gather, some were accepted and those gents became quite colourful characters. I had, long before that though, taken to a life of semi-isolation that consisted, almost entirely, of smoking dope and listening endlessly to Marv’s ‘What’s Going On.’ For my part, that was a pertinent question and one I had no answer for. Furthermore, I still don’t…
Sheer and unadulterated class. From the band to the audience and, most of all, from Marvin…
Lyman’s was officially known as ‘The Gladstone’. In all likelihood, after (Lord) William Gladstone, the former Prime Minister. However, I find it doubtful that Gladstone ever popped in for a light ale and, were he to have done so, his presence would have been no stranger than my own; Little Lord Fultonroy, despite being such an odd-bod, those boys took to me and we had some laughs. Sometimes we, me and two others, would creep into the grown-up's bar and talk, in a very exaggerated and very loud fashion, out the side of our mouths, about ‘bits of work’ and accuse imaginary characters of being ‘wrong-uns’. I can’t recollect all we said but we, quite blatantly, took the piss. I’m not sure what possessed us but we found ourselves- absolutely hilarious. Taking the piss out of heavy boats became something of a lifelong pastime and one, I can assure you, that’s got me into a few sticky situations. If they could only take a joke.
It would take another few years before members of the spiv fraternity, from beyond the confines of South East London, ever ventured into Lyman’s and, when they did, they like to think they’d invented it. Much like Joy and Pain- a decade or so later…
My life has been a litany of losses and low points but I can summon a few minor and all too-fleeting memories of feeling victorious and one such, came in Lyman’s. As the crow flies, only a few miles separated Tufnell Park from Walworth Rd but culturally, they weren’t just different worlds, they were entirely different galaxies. There were these two older boys who used to go to Acland Burghley Youth Centre. They weren’t bullies, what they were though, was smug fuckers. They were forever wandering around with ‘Jazz Fusion’ albums. Talking about it being ‘avant-garde’. I suspect they may have worked in clothes shops. They had that air but you know, we’re not talking Joseph or Browns. These were acting superior, due to working Take 6 or Lord John.
Their supercilious manner towards me had gone on for a few years but it came to an abrupt halt, the night I saw them at the bar, in Lyman’s. They didn’t know anyone and I suspect, saw themselves as intrepid explorers. Venturing bravely into the depths of the South London underworld. I’ve bowled up to say hello and they’ve looked at me in abject disbelief. One enquired, quite indignantly I may add ‘What are you doing in here?’ I responded, as casually as I could muster, “Just having a drink.” As I did, some kids called ‘Hurry up Mick, we’re going to the Russell.” This was the term, at the time, for ‘party’. Those who can recall a famous chat show host will understand why. The fact that I’m holding on to this, half a century later, gives you an insight into exactly how petty, pedantic and let’s face it- sad, I truly am. Still, they did feel like right cunts!
Apropos of nothing other than him being from South London, here’s the brilliant Steve Harley;
There were similar scenes in other areas of London. Namely South Islington and parts of the East End. Though I knew nothing about either. Maybe there was a groovy scene over in West London but ‘The Wild West’ is not solely applicable to the American frontier. West London, beyond Paddington, was a vicinity that held no interest to me as a teenager. Nor, come to that, as a pensioner. As, in short, they’re all barbarians.
Anyway, four of us, there in Lyman’s decided that we were going to Hereford as Millwall playing them the following day. Moreover, we were going to leave after our next drink. As it was near closing time, we couldn’t stay too much longer anyway. Closing time in Lyman’s incidentally, did not correspond with the UK licensing laws. They closed when they felt like it and that was very rarely, before one/two AM. I only mention this, as that would have been around the time we set off on our adventure.
As a footnote, our attire that night is worth mentioning, as it was the standard of the day; a combination of frog-pocket slacks, Bally/Russell & Bromley slip-ons (one wore Crocs, which we could only dream of) and, Italian knitwear. Alright, it wasn’t the greatest look in the history of fashion but, I can tell you what it was though, it was original.
When, years later, kids started ‘dressing’ at the football. What they started dressing in, was the fashion of the day. Most of which, was sold in high streets. Now, they’re over the internet, still banging on about Pringle jumpers and, rather bizarrely, Fred Perry.
Many of these ‘dressers’ are still salivating over Lois. A decidedly average pair of jeans. Were you to find a denim nerd, prepared to make a list of good jeans, which wouldn’t be difficult as that appears to be their raison d’etre? You know where Lois would sit on that list- no? Nobody does because that nerd would run out of cyberspace before getting around to them. Look, I get it. You like them because that’s what you wore but please, don’t go kidding yourself, that you were part of some historic ‘movement’.
Furthermore, before this, we were sporting the somewhat classier forerunner, to what (eventually) become the Soul Boy Look, bowling shirts, pegs, Spectator shoes ETC. South East London in general, and Walworth Rd in particular, were so far ahead of the curve, that it’s not even a conversation. Listen, I’ll tell you what you can do with your Adidas Samba and it’s exactly what they’re meant for… go and play five-a-side in them.
Where was I…Oh, yeah;
Right, so I suspect Millwall were going for promotion. Amongst our number are two kids called Jamie and one, called something else. Plus me. Before anyone starts on about ‘naming names’. Practically every kid in South London then was named Jamie and, those that weren’t- were named Jerry. Or Gerry. I was never sure and ultimately I suppose, it matters not. One of the Jamie’s was something of a toughie. He was also, a right laugh. The other Jamie was a kid, that I’d go as far as calling a friend of mine…
Once, when Millwall were going for (another?) promotion, the club’s fate hung in the balance. Palace, who ought to have been Millwall’s local rivals but were not, had one game to play. If they won it, they’d go up and Millwall wouldn’t. The match took place on a bright May evening. Jamie and I had gone over there and stood somewhere on the side, as opposed to behind either goal. Towards the end of the game, Palace were awarded a penalty. Peter Taylor, who was their star at the time, stepped up to take it- he missed. Cue, the isolated celebration of two teenagers surrounded by Palace. That’s fair enough, those around us were just normal bods who’d gone to watch their team.
It was at the final whistle that it all got a bit shameful for their hooligan element- if they ever had one and I saw zero evidence of it- on numerous trips to Selhurst Park. I’ll tell you who did have a few boys but the operative word was ‘few’… Charlton. There’s a story that when Eusabio came over from Africa, he was meant to be signing for Sporting, Benfica however, had other ideas and it was they, who met him at the airport. What difference to Eusabio? He signed with Benfica and the rest is history. There’s a parallel there, regarding Tiny. As a kid, he began going over The Valley but on encountering a few Millwall ne’er-do-wells on the bus back, they convinced him to start coming over The Den, with them. He signed with Millwall and the rest is history.
Back to Selhurst Park…
As the ref blows for time, Jamie and I stage a spontaneous pitch invasion and, much to our surprise, so do around a hundred other Millwall fans who’d been scattered around the ground. We were all jumping about and having a high old time of it. We, sort of, congregated around the centre circle and, from there, began making our way down towards the ‘Holmsdale’. I can’t recall what happened next but I can categorically assure you, what didn’t… and that would be any form of response- from a ground full of Palace. Incidentally, this wasn’t a hundred Millwall grizzlies, these were teenagers.
Jamie and I once steamed into the back of Brighton's end and momentarily cleared the terracing around us. Until that was, they realised it was just the two of us. He and his mate pulled the same stunt in The Shed, where they were quickly apprehended by the gendarmes. I don’t know who Chelsea were playing other than, it wasn’t Millwall. Jamie, a scaffolder by trade, now resides in Kent, where he lives a fairly humdrum life, keeping himself pretty much to himself. Apart that is, from Christmas. During the Festive Season, he goes out and gets re-barred from every public house in the vicinity…
Hereford Bound…
There’s little I recall about our journey. I do know we split into twos though and that at one point, Jamie and I got a lift off a lorry driver. For some reason or another, we found ourselves outside West Brom’s ground. It was closed. Then, I recollect having breakfast in (I think) a Wimpy Bar, in Birmingham’s Bull-Ring. At some stage, we were all together again when (may be hard to believe) a fight almost broke out between us. Jamie (the toughie), calmed things down, by putting the non Jamie, firmly in his place. Order was restored and our march to Hereford was continued, in relative harmony.
My next memory is of being in the ground. There were about forty of us in their end when I saw Nigel P, a Hereford boy I knew. How I came to know him, was through having family down there. Nigel was a really good kid. Anyway, we reigned for a while but as kick-off approached, a load of Hereford grizzlies entered the fray. No doubt they’d been in the pub. I’m not saying they were all farmers as I wouldn’t want to cast aspersions but they were all chewing stalks and mumbling about Combine Harvesters.
Either way, they proceeded to kick our arses out of their end, that much I do know. The next thing I recall was standing on the side terracing, having copped for a bird. Post-match, there were these blokes in mauve or purple suits knocking about, they seemed to be acting as coppers. Not sure what all that was about but we bunked the train back to Paddington and, from there, made our way to Lyman’s. Where, within a couple of hours, we were singing along once more, to the strains of Francis Albert…