club started to fill up and 10 of our 25 had melted away, leaving our numbers seriously depleted. Wednesday started to come in the club and gathered in their usual place near the toilets. This made pissing a hazardous move. Our lot were convinced that Wednesday were going to launch an attack so we stood with our backs to the bar with many of our number concealing bottles in their coats. A little pep talk between ourselves confirmed that everyone was up for it if it came on top. I went for an uncomfortable piss, the type of piss where you slash all over your trainers as your head is turned as you look over your shoulder.
A mixed-race Wednesday lad I knew came in and said, ‘Steve, I think you had better get out here, quick.’
I dashed through the crowd to see that Wednesday had surrounded our lot at the bar. When I was alongside my colleagues, I turned to face Wednesday. One of their old school told me to get these cunts out. I shrugged my shoulders and told him that 10 of our lot had disappeared and that the ones left were staying. There was an ugly atmosphere but I glanced around at our little crew and their faces painted a picture that I wanted to see: we were up for it.
Arguments were breaking out all over and it was only a matter of time before the balloon went up. Then a young Wednesday lad leaned through and tried to grab a United pup called Tiler, shouting, ‘He was there last week when I got battered.’
I grabbed both of them and told them to go and sort it out. The Wednesday lad’s arse went so I told him, ‘Shut it then, all mouth and no bollocks.’
I had a quick chat with three of Wednesday’s main actors and agreed we’d leave after finishing our drinks if they moved away. Fair play to them, we were outnumbered and surrounded but ready to face anything that they had in store. We left half an hour later, so a potential flashpoint was averted and this was no mean feat, as, at the time, United and Wednesday were at each other’s throats, big time.
But another time I went in the Limit, it didn’t really work out that well … and that’s an understatement. Badger and I were in Sinatra’s one night. We were well pissed and, mainly because of this, we decided to walk the 200 yards up Calver Street and have a couple in the Limit. I think we both knew it would end in tears but there you go. Badger is a great lad; he’s game as fuck and we know we won’t leave each other’s side if it kicks off. The only trouble with Badger is he can be an obstreperous cunt when he’s had a few gargles. We’d only been in the Limit 10 minutes, and, as I chatted to a couple of lads from the Woodthorpe Estate, Badger started fighting with a Wendy lad. He was getting hammered at first but somehow got back on top. I’d got my back to the fight as I was trying to keep it one on one as there was a lot of Wednesday hovering over the fight. But, when a Wendy lad booted Badger in the face, I immediately chinned him.
The lot went up. Bouncers lobbed Badger and the other geezer out and left me to battle my way out. I was throwing punches at an alarming rate as I back-pedalled through the masses. I got dropped a couple of times but jumped back up and steamed in. The Limit had steep stairs leading down to it, so I thought, if I could get to the top, me and Badger could have a pop as Wednesday came up the stairs after me. The trouble was, as I got up there, I saw Badger curled up in the middle of West Street with three Wednesday playing football with his body. I had to think quickly and get into them. I managed to sidewind one to the floor and Badger got to his feet; then we waded into them and had them on the move until reinforcements had us on the back foot.
We were battered already so we stood and traded, until the plod pulled up and everyone scattered. Me and Badger ran down a dark alley at the back of the Dickens pub. We stood under a streetlight to survey the damage. Both of us had black eyes and our shirts were hanging from our backs, Badger was worse off than me, but he’d copped for a pair of size nines in the clock.
In the taxi home, I asked what had started it. He told me it was because of his wife’s best mate. She’d gone out with the Wednesday lad and he had hit her. Fuck me, I thought, I’ve been brawling because of a lass I hardly know. Saying that, I don’t like women beaters. I’ve never laid a finger on our Gert in all the 24 years I’ve known her, even if I might have felt like it sometimes.
Incidentally, the lass whose honour Badger was defending by the way had been on Blind Date and they showed her on the beach abroad with the bloke she’d chosen as her date. As they splashed around in the sea, she came out with this beaut: ‘Why does the water taste salty?’
Jesus, every time someone from Sheffield goes on the television, we get shown up.
Around this time I was getting a bit of grief off a couple of United lads for being quite pally with a few Wednesday. I couldn’t understand it and it got to me at times. Yes, I could have a chat with a few snorters, but, when it came to it, they and I knew that in battle there were no friendships and I’d be in the frontline for my team and mates. I think what peeved a few United lads was the fact that, if we went in a pub and there was only a few pigs in it, I’d walk straight over and talk to them to sort of show our lot that bullying a few lads was out of order. Mind you, not that Wednesday did me any favours back. I’ve had two unfriendly visits from them at football on Sunday mornings, they’ve come to my workplace and they’ve phoned my work and mobile with threats, so maybe I should have just done the same in return, but it’s simply not my nature. But being a fair lad towards Wednesday got me into a few scrapes with both sides, so I couldn’t win really.
In most firms, there’s good and bad lads, and United and Wednesday are no different.
Most Friday evenings, me and Badger would go down town with a few pals, non-hooligan lads. On this particular evening in 1989, I ended up in the cells after trying to help out a Wednesday lad. As a suited and booted Badger and me walked between bars, we bumped into an out-of-breath Wednesday lad called Tesh. He told us that he had been out on Chirpy’s (one of Wednesday’s main actors at the time) stag night and they had clashed with United’s lads. Wednesday had been chased, so we offered to walk Tesh back up to the Limit on West Street.
As we got on to West Street, we bumped straight into the Wednesday firm who were hanging around on a street corner opposite the Limit. As they all came menacingly around us, I saw a lad who had done a naughty one a few months earlier and went at him. We steamed into each other and I was then bombarded with punches as the rest of them decided it was party season. It was on top, as me and Badger fended off blows while trying to get some in ourselves. I lost my Armani jacket in the struggle, but Badger managed to get it back. We had to retreat and, to be fair, if it wasn’t for a Wednesday lad called Jester I would have had a few more injuries than the fat bloody lip I’d gained.
I thanked Jest but was on one. We headed off in a taxi for the Leadmill where we hoped we would find some of our lads.
Five of our lads were outside and told us that the rest of our lot were either inside or had gone to the Music Factory on London Road. I was in no mood to wait around and the seven of us headed up into town. Although the lads with us were good lads, I could tell they were ill at ease but all I had in my head was that I was going to run into Wednesday no matter what.
Sure enough, we walked straight into the Wednesday mob outside the Wopentake club. I stood with my arms outstretched, as Wednesday saw us and came running our way. Although we were severely outnumbered, I wasn’t shifting and I screamed at our lot to stand. To be honest, I don’t think they did but I was out in front as the first wave hit me. I windmilled in but was engulfed in a sea of knuckles and boots. My shit demi-wave perm was pulled from my skull and I blame Wednesday for my going bald later!
Then the punches stopped and I was dragged to the floor. The OB had arrived. I was thrown into a police van along with five Wednesday lads. The lad who had punched me in the first fracas sat opposite me and we looked each other up and down.
Down at Bridge Street Police Station, I was slung in a cell. On the floor curled up was none other than Mr Stag Night himself, Chirpy. He was fast asleep so I walked over to him and gave him a nudge with my foot. ‘Wake up, Chirpy, the Berties are here.’
Chirpy jumped awake and his face was a picture when he tried to focus, then refocus on me, as he realised through his drunken slumber who was standing over him.
‘Cowensy, what are you doing