Millwall's Thomas Crown Affair...
The Dude Sir, Is Cool.
As you read this, you’ll think I’m gilding the lily. If anything, I’m underplaying it…
At some point in recent history, Millwall became a parody of itself. Then again, what football mob hasn’t? The club began attracting gentlemen who, I suspect, were in love with the image—burly individuals sporting large Millwall tattoos. A telltale sign is that their tatts tend to feature the new crest. See some ancient fucker with the old one on his forearm, chances are that old man - steamed in. Where these thickset and invariably bald men came from, I’ve no idea, as I’d stopped going long before they arrived. Far be it from me to harshly judge these gentlemen; I’m sure they’re all plenty tough, but years back, that alone didn’t cut it at Millwall. I mean, it was a prerequisite that you stood your ground and all that, but to stand out, you had to have a bit more about you and, the subject of this post certainly did/has and I may add, some to spare…
As a fifteen year old Arsenal fan from North London it wasn’t just Millwall I fell in love with, but South East London as a whole. Even now, whenever I go over for Pie & Mash with my kids, I still find the people friendlier. There is though, another aspect to them and I was reminded of it a few month back, in Manzies on Tower Bridge Rd.
A guy strode in; he was in his late twenties, not particularly big, and nothing about him stood out. It was almost as though nothing was meant to stand out. He wore a short-sleeved Smedley and a vintage SubMariner. I know this because I like watches. He had short, neat hair and, as stated, an understated air. Barring that is, one thing… He perfectly encapsulated a certain lemon-ness that’s distinct to South East London. I won’t even attempt to describe it, as it’s impossible to put something like that into words. Even for me (Yeah, I said it). Ultimately, I suppose you either dig that South London vibe or don’t and I, quite obviously, do. I swear to God, though, those gents are so flash it beggars belief. Yet, they’re kind of quiet with it… How does that work?
There were a multitude of guys like this over The (old) Den. Few attended on the regs, but if Millwall had a big game, they’d be there, and some, not all, but some, were highly hazardous to your health. The majority stemmed from Bermondsey and like it or not, Bermondsey was famed for armed robbers. There’s a police quote somewhere that regrettably, I’ve been unable to locate. In it, a high-ranking Scotland Yard officer comes across as almost a fanboy on the topic. I’ll give you a couple of instances of what these gents got up to, and before anyone starts with any old bollocks, both are in the public domain. It’s said that the bulk of the Great Train Robbers and those who involved with Brinks Mat, hailed from Bermondsey. The pubs these robberies are reputed to have been planned in (though I find it doubtful anyone’s planning a major robbery in a boozer but what do I know), while separated by decades in terms of time, were separated geographically, by a few yards. I’m not a criminal, so I’ve no idea of how much of all that’s true. I do know that, years ago, kids from that vicinity seemed to view armed robbery as a trade. One quite often taught to them, by their fathers…
There was also a large contingent from The Elephant/Walworth Rd but there was a third area that featured prominently and that, was Peckham. Peckham shared all the characteristics of Bermondsey and Walworth Rd, but added an ingredient to the mix. Namely, Jamaicans. As a teenager, I was fairly bold in terms of going to new places and encountering new faces. If I couldn’t talk my way out of trouble, I could always run. Fear ensured I did so at a pace that rarely saw me caught but the only vicinity that seriously put the wind up me, on entering it, was Peckham- at night. I’d wander around Brixton at all hours without a care in the world but Peckham? Not so much. No doubt the reader, who’ll be far tougher than me, will scoff at such stuff and nonsense. Well, let me suggest that, were you there at that time, it’s possible that you might harbour a different tone and, dare I venture? A considerably more humble one.
During the 1950s Peckham became home to many of the Windrush generation. Those who settled there, were almost exclusively Jamaican and, as the race riots raged in Notting Hill, night after night, transit vans full of Jamaicans made their way, primarily from Brixton and Peckham, across the river, to West London. One old Trinidadian who lived through it all stated on a documentary “If it weren’t for those Jamaicans turning up every night, we’d have been dead.” The Jamaicans it seemed, were not to be trifled with. Nor, however, were the indigenous residents of Peckham… While it would be nice to say they learnt to live in harmony, they did learn to co-exist. If you were a mad social scientist, or say, a twisted architect- with intention of building a hostile living environment, the North Peckham Estate might have earned you a few awards.
When I was in Naughty Boys camp, there was a contingent of black kids from places called Slough and Reading. Those cats loved the weight room. A couple of them were viewed as the ‘daddies.’ At least, that was, by the divs. However, there was a black guy who held this mob in contempt and barely, if ever, spoke to them. Guess where he was from? While they were busy lifting weights, this cat was running around the football fields, in a uniform issued mac and the army boots they gave us. I didn’t get on with him, but saw no value in making an issue of it. You’ll understand why when I say he reminded me of an up-and-coming fighter by the name of Marvin Hagler. We’d argued over Tiny. Hmm, can you guess where Tiny came from? If you were a street kid in Peckham back then, you couldn’t be, to use the vernacular, a ‘Shaper’. I, for instance, would not have lasted five minutes in that environment. It was far too real for moi.
Yeah, what’s the point of all this, though, Mick?
The point is that this post revolves around a Peckham native. One who, it might begin to sound,is like a figment of my overactive imagination but no, the dude’s real. In every sense of the word. I was talking to a Millwall bod the other day when this gent’s name came up, and my mate said, “He always reminded me of Thomas Crown.” Bingo! Is there a higher accolade? I suppose if you’re of a religious persuasion, being compared to Christ or the Buddha might come close? The Thomas Crown comparison though, not only holds water, it’s bang-on. Despite his status over Millwall, this guy’s name has never appeared in a single pubic reference, related to soccer violence. I can assure you, it will not be appearing here… We’ll just refer to the gentleman, as Mr Crown.
Stop the press! As apparently, there was a (sort of) reference to him in one of those football thug films. I’ve no idea which, as I’ve never seen any and, I’m prepared to go a pound-to-a-penny, that I never will. Life’s too short. A character turns up for a game dressed from head-to-toe in tennis whites. I’m not sure if the film character wore shorts, but Mr Crown did. Lacoste shorts, Lacoste top and apparently - socks. By all accounts he looked he looked good but I’ve never seen Mr Crown appear otherwise. Standing at around six, two and sans an ounce of fat, he could have strolled through the Wimbledon Players entrance, without raising a brow. Especially, if he had a bag full of rackets tossed over his shoulder. You see, adding insult to injury, Mr Crown is/was a very handsome individual and, to put it bluntly, he pulled. The calibre of young ladies that Mr Crown attracted though, was high. In fact it was extremely high…
How High is Extremely High Mick?
At some point during the late seventies, I was in a club when I became aware of a blonde goddess nearby. Mesmerised by her beauty, I found myself transfixed. Then, somebody piped up, “Don’t bother, XXX just flew into her. Got a blank.” As I was no XXX, I thought better of pursuing what would evidently be a lost cause when low and behold, moments later, this blonde angel came into me. Out of ten? Well, if we’re forced down that awfully crass route, she was a fifty and that’s at a bare minimum.
It transpired that she’d previously been seeing Thomas Crown. Right, so there’s one absolute stunner. There are more, though. A few years later, Mr Crown was spotted outside a pub in Bethnal Green with another one. This chick was so phenomenal that the guy reporting the sighting, almost crashed his car, into a number eight. Which, for those of you from out of town, is a double-decker, and I mean, they’re hard to miss. Unless that is, your mind’s just been totally blown, by the sight of a beautiful woman…
The third and final report, comes from my mate, the subscriber. He was watching a game show telly one day- possibly during the afternoon, when his interest in the screen dramatically increased, due to a contestant. So beautiful was this woman that my mate unmuted the TV. Despite knowing he would have to hear Jimmy Tarbuck… Unsurprisingly, she won a prize and, on so doing, beckoned her husband/partner onto the screen. It was Thomas Crown, suited, booted and looking much like a movie star…
As for me and his former lady-friend. I took her out, bizarrely, to a pub in Maida Vale. The evening went swimmingly, and I was meant to phone her the following night, but I never did. I was intimidated, but not by her looks. I just got the sense of her being a ‘together girl’, and my sense with together girls was that it was only a matter of time before they cottoned on to what a dysfunctional weirdo I was. It was bad enough, me knowing, without having very attractive young ladies wandering around knowing it too. As time’s gone on, I’ve grown to understand that there’s no such thing as a together girl or boy. We’re all fucked. What I was doing, I’ve been reliably informed, was judging my inside by another’s outside. It’s a thing, you know, in AA and whatnot. I ought to explain that I didn’t consider every very attractive girl as a ‘together’ girl and I’m not exactly sure what moved a woman into that classification but… something did.
Another Crown-like aspect to this gentleman was that he was often alone. The man was about as far from being unpopular as it’s possible to get but he just didn’t seem to need anyone around him, laughing at his jokes and repeating the word ‘yes’. This lone wolf stuff applied to fisticuffs at the football and the list of his acts of derring do are endless. Not only did Mr Crown have the heart of a lion, he could hold his hands up. He performed these acts of bravery for decades yet emerged from it all, without a scratch. How did he do that? I don’t know; but then again, I’m not Thomas Crown.
Look, were you a writer who wanted to construct a prototype of a South London, working class hero, Mr Crown would be it. He’s a thoroughly decent man, with a strong moral-compass. The last time I saw him was at Tiny’s funeral, where I’d been blown away on discovering that he’d followed my career. You may beg the question, “What career?” That’s where Mr Crown is way in front of you, he understood exactly why you’re asking that question. For that, along with all else, I’ll always love, Mr Crown.