I went to Luton a few times and each was eventful. The least so, in terms of fisticuffs with Luton, was the infamous night in ’85. Millwall ran onto the pitch and chased the Bedfordshire police off it. The original ‘pitch invasion’ had been down to people getting crushed in the away end and had that not occurred, that game would have been infamous for different reasons. I’d got out of there earlier for fear of death. The footage you’ll find on YouTube, however, is later and pure hooliganism. If you watch for long enough I’m visible. I’m hard to miss as I’m sporting a long, white Katharine Hamnett coat. Along with a blue and white bar scarf. I’m the only one wearing either. My day job at the time incidentally, was Writer in Residence at the National Theatre…
At that point, I was only on the pitch looking for my mate. Who was an incorrigible soccer hooligan. There’s a lot of talk about other clubs being “with” Millwall that night. It’s bollocks. There may have been, for instance, a Spurs kid with his Millwall pals, but no other “firms” were involved. The belief is that there were too many for it to have been exclusively Millwall but this was a non-ticket cup tie, played thirty miles away. You don’t think half of South London and a chunk of East London would be turning up? Aside from the odd tag-a-longs, that was all Millwall, but it wasn’t restricted to Millwall’s boys. Which in truth, made them considerably more volatile. The catchment area for Millwall was almost exclusively working-class and many who didn’t go on the regs were significantly more dangerous than those who did. The same can be applied to a few other clubs. Either way, there was no organised presence of other firms at Luton. Back then, Millwall would never have suffered it. No chance.
The first Millwall game I ever attended was Luton away and while Millwall were in their end, you couldn’t say we took it as the fighting was incessant and Luton gave as good as they got. Ginger invited me (See ‘The Lampost’) he’d taken a shine to me, not only due to that evening in Euston but I’d encountered him at Stamford Bridge, in the bar at the back of The Shed. Chelsea had Man Utd. He’d asked me what I was drinking. Not knowing what else to say, I responded “A beer.” Next thing I know, I’m sipping a horrible drink from a plastic glass. I don’t know what year this is, but it’s the one before Bobby Charlton’s final game. I was in Spain but I’d like to have been there.
Post-match, Utd are on the Tube and Chelsea are running to Parsons Green… I’ve checked the map and I can’t work out why, as it’s in the opposite direction to the one Utd would be travelling. Nonetheless, that’s where we were going. Maybe it’s a shorter distance than West Brompton and the idea was to catch them at Earls Court. Chelsea loved catching people at Earls Court. There are about ten of us. Mostly Millwall but at least a couple of Chelsea. One was an interesting character by the name of “Bread-roll Eric”. BR had been at an away game and, on biting into a roll, exclaimed “This is stale.” He promptly chucked it away and was equally promptly arrested. Hence the nickname. He was a good dresser and I think he may have been a model. He was certainly tall enough. BR was also unusual in that he was (a bit) middle-class.
Another Chelsea kid present was Jimmy. He was from Bermondsey and one of the best guys I ever knew at football. So, we’re jogging through the park. There’s a tennis court and, on the far side of it, we see Chelsea’s mob. Ginger’s gleefully suggested that mistake them for United. He chuckled, and we followed him. We always did. Next thing, we’re on a path with a few hundred Chelsea running towards us. They grind to a halt and Ginger, who, as ever, is at the front, says something. I can’t recall what, but one of them took a sly step towards him and my reaction was to boot the guy in the face. I’d have booted God himself if he’d stepped towards Ginger Brixton. Hmm, there may have been a bit of hero worship going on there. That kick served as a warning.
Chelsea’s Dude B arrives and Ginger lies about our having mistaken them. Off we go to Parsons Green. We eventually catch up with United, at Euston. This is the worst-case scenario as, by then, they’re fully mobbed up. We’re on Euston Road and United charge out of the station, onto Eversholt Street. It’s here that I perform some heroics. These may have generated the Luton invite. I would not have performed them were it not for those beers earlier. The Millwall thing then, began on, not a falsehood but on beer-induced bravery. Which, when you get right down to it, is much the same thing…
Half-time, in the bar at Luton, I’m standing against the wall minding my own business, when this kid comes up and insists that I’m part of an Arsenal posse that battered him on St Pancras. I’ve zero recollection of the incident and deny it but the horrible truth is that I was up to this sort of shit every week and it was impossible to keep track of each instance. Sometimes I was on the receiving end, sometimes I wasn’t. I kept denying any involvement but the facts are that he knows I’m Arsenal and lists a few names who knock around the stations. He keeps banging on about how badly he was bashed up and how his mother couldn’t recognise him. Anyway, it transpires that he wants a straightener and, given that his older brother’s on the far side of the bar with a few pals, this is a pretty fair offer. I’m still busy denying any involvement when a bottle smashes against the wall about six inches from my face.
If his brother threw it, he had a good aim. The kid chins me and we get to it. That bottle hitting the wall broke the bar’s fragile truce as there’s an instant response from the Millwall section. The missiles launched from both sides created a massive no-man’s land in the middle. It was in that, that we had our straightener. I know for a fact that we began at the back and we ended at the front, with me banging his face into the bar’s counter and him trying to lamp me over the head with a light-ale bottle. Had he been a contortionist that might have worked but he wasn’t, so fortunately, it didn’t. How the avalanche of flying glass hit neither of us I’ll never know but it didn’t. Not during the fight nor while shaking hands after it. Ultimately, he was a really good kid.
En route back to the station, we encounter Tiny, who’d lost one of his shoes. The same ones as I had, black suede “Brothel Creepers”, out of Ravels (See ‘The Lampost’). He’d lost it during a skirmish with a few black guys. When confronted, they’d given it the old ‘Blackman no fight black men” routine but as Tiny turned away, they jumped him. Their mistake was in only being three-handed. If you think I’m joking, I can assure you, I’m certainly not. The only (football) bod, I can think of, who may have lived with him in a straigtner, would be the Arsenal one- who drove a Rolls Royce. Though, there was a Villa guy who famously held his own, in a night game up at theirs. I think he was a Greek kid. I believe they shook hands at the end of it. Fair play to both gents.
It’s difficult to explain just how bad a cat Tiny was without revealing things that ought not be so but, let me put it this way, he came out of Peckham in the seventies. Which then, had a massive Jamaican community and despite, his Cockney accent and popularity amongst Caucasians, Tiny was a respected member of that community. Respect in Peckham, back then, was earnt and, earned- the hard way. People banged on about Brixton being the Harlem of London (it wasn’t) but if it was, Peckham was the South Bronx. The big difference between Peckham and places like Harlesden or Tottenham is that they are out in the wilds, where you’d expect it to be a bit rough. Peckham’s in what is now termed ‘Zone 2’. That meant one wrong turn and you could easily find yourself in a ‘Warriors’ type scenario. Toot suite.
More digression. Right, Luton. My next trip was with Chelsea in 75 and it was equally eventful. I’d gone on my own as I was prone to doing and I’d done so, in the belief that there’d be some action. I was right. You didn’t need the brains of Loyd George though to work that one out. Anywhere Chelsea went was usually action-packed but Luton was doable, without overly impacting on my Saturday night. My only recollection of being in the ground is standing with Blond T. A kid, a good kid, from Paddington. For some reason, Chelsea invaded the pitch with T singlehandedly attempting to stop them. The reason for his doing so is unrelated to fears of a points deduction or anything of that nature. T’s concern was that Chelsea would be (they already were) branded as the United of the South. A reputation garnered by their habit of smashing things. Towns, trains, people. You name it, Chelsea would smash it. Needless to say, his efforts went unrewarded and, I think, the game was halted to the police cleared the playing area. Post-match, I’m still with T and we get into a fracas under a (I think) railway bridge. It’s about fifteen aside and fairly even, until the Bedfordshire constabulary arrive and spoil all the fun. For some reason, they grab me and insist on sending me down the same road that they’ve despatched the Luton contingent.
It’s a residential street and lining it, are considerably more than the fifteen/twenty Luton we’ve just been tussling with. To my left is a corner plot of wasteland, enclosed by fencing and corrugated iron. Some of the fencing’s torn. The Chelsea contingent is on the far side and T’s calling me, as one might an unruly, slightly stupid puppy. Eventually, I cotton on and scamper across the wasteground. The Luton mob don’t intercept me. An act I suspect, that’s more down apathy than compassion… You’ve got to bear in mind that these events took place decades ago and while the bits I recall are vivid. Other sections of the day are completely blank and have been, for years. In short, I get separated from T and co and have no recollection of how, when or why.
My next memory is of being on the train home. I’m in a compartment, by the window. Sitting opposite me is some poor fucker who’s just come from Luton Airport. I say poor fucker as, before long, I’m joined by a group of reprobates from Kilburn. Historically, Kilburn was a Chelsea stronghold. It ought to have been QPR really but the 31 bus, that crossed Kilburn High Rd, bore the word ‘Chelsea’ on the front and one Kilburnite claimed that was the main reason so many of them opted for CFC. As it meant there was no chance of getting lost en route to the ground. There may be some truth to it. What with these gentlemen being both Chelsea and Kilburn, the chances of them vandalising the train were extremely high. Were one a betting man, the wager would not be will they or won’t they- but how long it’d take them to get round to it. The answer? Not long at all. Me and the air traveller, shrug and puff on our cigarettes. Once their work was done, the Kilburnites moved on. Leaving the compartment looking much as though it’d been vandalised, by a mob of Chelsea supporters.
The other guy and I sit in silence. He’s got a vaguely liberal air about him. One that’s quite pleasant truth be told. Moments later our meditations are interrupted by the arrival of a few older Chelsea fellows. One of whom is commonly referred to as a ‘terrace legend’. One of the others is not commonly known at all but is, quite possibly, a psychopath. Oddly enough, I’d had a previous encounter with the legendary one and came out of it unscathed and quite happy with the proceedings. It wasn’t a big deal as a good Saturday back then might include half a dozen such encounters. Fortunately, he didn’t recognise me. He growled in his toughest voice You do this?” My response was a semi-belligerent “No.” Airport man pipes up “He’s the only one that didn’t.” The psycho standing the legend states “Leave it XXX, I know him.” He did too. From his Soul Import stall, at Dingwalls Market. They moved down the corridor, to no doubt, growl at other innocent parties…
Despite the legend’s anger, those Chelsea youngsters would not be denied their self-expression. This culminated in them setting the train on fire. There was certainly a ruckus that went beyond the norm as the train made an unannounced stop at some unknown country ass station, where it was raided by police. Quite a few miscreants were ejected from the train and frog-marched along the platform. No doubt, to a row of waiting meat wagons. That though, was not the last of it as, on arrival at St Pancras, a welcoming committee consisting of the Metropolitan Police and a TV news crew is present. The former’s standard, the latter unusual. On spotting the committee, I ask the airport guy if I can carry his suitcase and, while others are getting nicked, I’m bowling through that barrier without a second glance. You might argue that I didn’t do anything and if you do, you need to get out more. For a couple of centuries, folks were arrested, charged and convicted, on no more than a police officer’s say so.
The modern world has made it much harder for them to get away with all that. That’s something we can be grateful for. My escape wasn’t exclusively down to my carrying that suitcase. As, my ensemble - a racing-green bowling shirt under an unlined, green flecked fifties sports coat, Red-tags and white Sailor shoes - ensured I bore no resemblance to any thug evacuating that locomotive. I appreciate that listing my outfit comes across as wanky but I wore it, no one else did and that, folks, is “The Wonder of Me” … Not sure why that ensemble’s so vivid. Maybe it was one of the few instances, in my life, of having got it right. Anyway, all in all, Luton was a good day out and, like anywhere else, a place you could all too easily, come right unstuck….
Peace Out
