Without further ado, we set off to war.
I walked to the pub with 15 others as the rest hid in the Peace Gardens. We wanted to get Wednesday out on the street; there was no result in just attacking the pub. The plan was to get them outside by backing away as far as the end of the road and the rest would then run up and join us. We went to the doors and Titch shouted inside, ‘Come on, Wednesday, we’re here.’
Wednesday threw glasses at the door and we backed away into the street. Our hidden crew had got restless and came charging around the corner – a good plan ruined. ‘BBC, BBC,’ echoed in the dark street and the pub was smashed to bits, even the big heavy double doors were ripped from their hinges. Wednesday defended the doors by launching whatever came to hand. It went on for ages and, by the time the plod turned up, a lot of our lot had walked away. Four Blades and one Wednesday were arrested at the scene. No result could be claimed by us as we hadn’t done anything other than attack a pub.
One week later, a coach full of United lads were pulled over by the police on the Sheffield Parkway. Four lads were arrested including myself. I was locked up for six hours, questioned twice and release without charge. I’d been grassed up by one of my own.
The 1989–90 season was United’s centenary year. To celebrate, a pre-season friendly had been arranged with the old foe, Sheffield Wednesday. The game was to be played in August at Bramall Lane and would be a nice warm-up for our now very strong firm.
On the day of the game, we met as usual in the Pheasant on London Road. When I turned up at midday, there were only around 40 of our firm gathered in the pub. Wednesday were meeting at the Arbourthorne Hotel, a pub situated on a tough council estate around three miles from beautiful downtown Bramall Lane. Wednesday had been making big noises that they were turning everyone out and this new Blades firm were going to be put back in their place after taking over proceedings in Sheffield. A few telephone calls were made and I spoke to a top Wednesday lad. He told me that Wednesday had about 150 lads out and that the firm they had was the best they had turned out for many a year. I could tell by the tone in his voice that he fancied their chances but then again so did I. It was agreed that Wednesday would make their way down to the Earl of Arundel and we would head for the Sheaf; hooligan kick-off time was arranged for 2.30.
With more of our lot turning up by the minute, by one o’clock we had well over 100 lads out and, to be fair, they were all our main firm of mid-20-year-olds who were by now seasoned thugs. Our average age at this time was probably around 24, while our rival firm’s average age would have been 30 to 35. To us, it didn’t matter about the numbers or quality Wednesday had out, as we knew that we would steam into them and, when you have over 100 lads who are all of the same mind, then Wednesday were going to struggle to cope. In truth, man for man, Wednesday probably had a harder firm than us but this was football violence and it didn’t matter how handy individuals were, the firm who wanted it most were the ones who were going to come out on top.
One of our scouts pulled up in the car outside the Pheasant and told us Wednesday were on the move and also confirmed they had a massive team out. Good, no excuses then, I thought. They were keeping their end of the deal by heading to the Arundel, so we supped up and headed for our appointed destination, the Sheaf. We’d split up into twos and threes as the plod were all over London Road like a rash and we didn’t want to attract their attention by walking en masse to our destination and ruining our chances of an off.
Everyone was buzzing and well up for it outside the Sheaf, as lads went around encouraging each other and shaking hands as if to confirm the tightness of our firm. Bang on 2.30, we set off. I walked in front with Tiler. We both knew that neither of us would back off an inch, so we bounced in front of our firm whose strides were getting quicker and longer with every step.
The Sheaf was only 500 yards from the Earl but not visible until we walked around the corner. We were by now 300 yards from the Earl and Wednesday spilled out of the pub and began running up towards us. We fanned and our quick walk soon became a jog. I looked at Tiler who was running down parallel with me. ‘Don’t stop, straight in,’ I yelled but Tiler didn’t need telling. I was just getting the old adrenaline pumping through my body. Wednesday did indeed have a great mob and, to be honest, I thought we were going to have a big job on our hands to shift them along; the least I expected was a toe-to-toe battle as Wednesday had turned every face out.
‘BBC, BBC’ was shouted with an aggression I had never heard before.
Wednesday completely filled the road and pavements. Around 10 black lads were fronting for Wednesday. I knew most of them and they were respected geezers in our city, but this was football and it wasn’t about individuals, it was about who wanted it most, who was the gamest, who had the bottle.
As the two firms got within launching distance of each other, glasses, bricks and bottles filled the air. We didn’t slow in our charge. The two front rows tore into each other but Wednesday had committed the cardinal sin of stopping their charge and standing flat. Big mistake – it’s the first sign of loss of nerve.
Anyhow, Wednesday had managed to get 100 yards from the pub so perhaps the bog hiders missed the action but Wednesday started to lose nerve and backed off. I ran and hit one just as he was turning to run; he went down but was back on his feet and running in a split second. They were screaming at each other to ‘STAND’ but we’d got them on the hop and continued our assault on the disappearing Wednesday line. That sight of Wednesday’s best firm in total retreat was a buzz and a half. A game lad called Zack had stood on his own and was copping a beating from around 10 of our lot who had captured him. I ran over and pulled a few of our lot off him; fair play to him, he was the only one with the bollocks to stand his ground, and kicking him into the middle of next week was the last thing he deserved.
I escorted him to the sanctuary of the surrounding roadside trees. He shook my hand, muttering that Wednesday were shit. I ran to join up with the rest of our firm who had totally written off Wednesday’s firm. In that one 45-second brawl, we had proved we were still the top firm in Sheffield. They had turned out every face and every big gun they had but our young Casual firm were too strong and too game. A lot of their older heads seemed to disappear from their ranks after that day.
The OB got the bedraggled OCS firm together and marched them slowly to the ground. Quite a few of us waited near the top of Bramall Lane, as we wanted to mock their firm and rub the result in as much as possible. The OCS made a token effort to break from the escort as a few of us were shouting ‘runners’ and ‘shit Wednesday’. The half-hearted attempt at breaking free was greeted with a cheer from our lot; they had had the chance to dance but failed. We went in the ground but a lot of United’s lads didn’t bother. Wednesday for their part sloped off into town under the OB escort.
The game itself was a boring 0–0 draw only highlighted by that tosser Carlton Palmer getting sent off and effectively ruining his chances of playing for his country. Just how he ever pulled an England shirt on only Graham Taylor will ever know.
Around two weeks after the game, Housey, Vinny and myself were in Josie’s nightclub when in walked the whole Wednesday squad. We couldn’t resist and started giving some pig players the verbals. Palmer was my target but he successfully rebuffed my attack with the line: ‘It’s always been my ambition to play for England and I’ve probably blown my only chance to play for my country, so please leave it out, mate, I’m gutted.’
He’d shut me up with that as he looked genuinely hurt by the fact that, by being sent off, he’d been left out of the English team. He’s still a tosser, though; the one thing I really hate about some footballers is the fact that they become big-time Charlies and, in my opinion, Palmer fits that bracket with bells on.
Anyhow, after the game, we scanned the streets and went looking in town for Wednesday, but no luck, the Wednesday firm had melted but deep down we knew they would have to try and get some face back. The small groups of our firm all eventually met up in a city-centre pub called Silks, which was our usual haunt at the time. Every Saturday night between six and eight o’clock,