I went in, it was packed with around 250 United; don’t get me wrong, not all of these were our firm but a lot of the others were Barmys who would get stuck in if need be.
I was surprised to see Zack and around six of the black lads who had been run along with the Wednesday firm earlier standing at the bar. Zack again shook my hand but, just by having a look around, I could see that a lot of our firm were unhappy to say the least at their presence. I mentioned this to Zack; the one thing that I didn’t want to happen was our lot to smash the fuck out of seven lads. It’s a no-win situation really: you don’t give it to them and you’re mugs; you do give it to them and you’re bullies. The Wednesday lads left and it was obvious they would return with the rest of the OCS.
In situations like these, we needed a couple of lads that were leaders who could think on their feet and who had enough respect that the rest would listen, but we were all more or less equal as we had that many game lads who all tried to have a say but what we needed was a Chelsea Hickmott-type figure to sort us out. The reason I’m mentioning this is the fact that I was trying to get us to split into two groups with one group heading just down the road to the Three Cranes, which was only 100 yards away from Silks. I was trying to think on my feet as I knew the OCS would turn up soon and there was only one exit point from Silks, so, if Wednesday did appear, we would struggle to get everyone outside.
Sure enough, the 10 or so United who were stood outside came in screaming that our foe had arrived. Objects crashed against the pub windows and ‘Wednesday, Wednesday’ echoed in the street. Everyone headed for the one exit door. United lads were rammed together like sardines and the unfortunate ones nearest the door were pushed towards the Wednesday firm as they attacked the doors. What also went against us was the fact that Wednesday had tooled themselves up from roadworks just around the corner, which gave them a ready-made arsenal, but, to be fair, we would have done the same thing; never look a gift horse in the mouth.
Inside, it was bedlam as we tried to get out but the front lads were taking the brunt of Wednesday’s attack and quite a few of our lads got hospitalised. It also didn’t help our cause that Tony’s rottweiler dog was biting everyone around it, as it went into a slavering frenzy.
I managed to battle towards the front and, in a surge, around 15 of us got out; we were instantly attacked in the doorway and backed down the road. It was suicidal really, as bricks and bottles crashed into us and the steel spikes that are used for roadworks’ red and white tape were used against our little surge. To make matters worse, the Wednesday lads who had been in Silks 10 minutes earlier came up behind us with around another 10 lads in tow.
We now had to run through another attack and I managed to get through with a punch landing on my shoulder as I ducked. We turned at the bottom of the road to see another surge as Tony and his dog ran into Wednesday. I think at this point Wednesday had exhausted their ammo and were looking to get away, as the OB were closing in but my memory of Tony and his dog running into Wednesday is still vivid.
To be honest, Wednesday had backed away from the pub doors, whether it was because they had had enough of the onslaught or the fact that the OB would be here in minutes I don’t know. It wasn’t the end though, as the police screeched up. The Wednesday lads headed towards us as we jogged back up the street.
A very young Lester Divers (RIP) then dropped one with a roundhouse kick, as the 15 of us squared up to Wednesday. Lester wanted his name left in my first book and actually told me prior to a Wednesday game that he didn’t give a fuck and didn’t want his name putting in as Forest or the other disguised name I used. That moment when Lester dropped a very respected and handy lad confirmed that this man was special and he would become probably the most respected lad United’s firm has ever seen or ever will see for that matter. He’s gone now but his memory lives on.
The dog was set on a couple more Wednesday and one was badly bitten as he tried to crawl into the Mucky Duck pub. The hospital was full of wounded football thugs. It even kicked off in casualty to end a very violent day in Sheffield’s hooligan history. Wednesday argued that they had made the day a draw but in reality we had sent their firm packing and attacking a pub doorway was nowhere near enough to gloss over the fact that we had battered them in the head-to-head on the street.
The trouble with running and playing for a football team was the fact it made me an open target for Wednesday. It fucked me off no end that Wednesday could stoop as low as to come to the Sunday football for trouble; they knew I had standards and I certainly wouldn’t lower myself to visit houses or workplaces or phone people’s houses or mobiles. To me, the game we were in should have been left to the streets. I had four Wednesday lads visit me at my work saying that someone claiming to be me had been phoning their houses threatening them. They knew that was not my style and, to be fair, they said the same but wanted to know if I had any idea who might be responsible. On the flip side, one of their lads called Belly was followed home in a taxi once by three of United’s lads and was jumped outside his home, so I suppose the argument can swing both ways.
Anyhow, in 1985, my Sunday team had some great characters – Shotgun, Mitch, Nobby, Kav, Norm, Housey, Sainey and Nudge – who were all involved with United’s firm at the time and this often led to trouble.
Wednesday’s main actors had a team called the Shakespeare, who used to meet on the steps just outside the Penny Black, while we used to meet inside the pub via the back entrance. It was a recipe for disaster really. Then, one Sunday morning, outside the Penny Black, they attacked a car being driven by one of our team which was the last one to set off for our game. Bats were used and the car was badly damaged. It was unfortunate for the lad behind the bar, as he’d lent us the car because we didn’t have enough transport to get us to the ground and he wasn’t impressed when he saw the state of his car when we returned.
The following week, I told everyone to bring a bat as we were going to do Wednesday in. It was quite funny as all our lot turned up with straight arms, as everyone had a bat up their sleeve, although not half as funny as when Nobby walked in the pub carrying a six-foot boating oar.
‘It’s the only thing I could find,’ he said smiling through the gap in his teeth.
Wednesday didn’t turn up, which was lucky really, as our team would have been looking at a few reprisal attacks from their firm and, being based at the Penny Black, we were sitting ducks. They never met there again.
Three years later, our team was again targeted, although I think they had come to teach me a lesson as I was bang at it on Saturdays and had got myself a reputation, which was either good or bad depending on how you look at it. Most of the same lads mentioned earlier were still playing for us, so, when a Wednesday lad let me know that their firm were planning to attack me and the team on Sunday morning, I had to let the team know. It was a no-brainer really, as we were playing the Arbourthorne Hotel, a pub that a lot of their lads drank in.
I got asked by quite a few of our lads if I wanted them to turn out. I thanked them but said that I didn’t, first, because I didn’t want a pitched battle on my behalf and my team kicked out of the league, and, second, if it did kick off, then we would be targeted even more. I believed it was totally out of order.
The Sunday morning came along and our team were not their usual jovial selves as we walked into the changing rooms at Arbourthorne playing fields, which was not surprising really. Because I’d punched an opponent a few weeks earlier, I was suspended for the game and had to stand on the sidelines.
My team talk went along the lines of winning the game and letting me worry about the off-the-pitch activities. I wasn’t exactly carefree but I’ve always had a ‘what will be will be’ attitude. If I was going to get it, then someone was going with me, as I had placed an insurance policy in our medical bag.
We quickly took a three-goal lead as Arbourthorne concentrated on legs rather than the ball, and it was obvious that some of their players were in on what was about to go off. One of the Wednesday lads called Gossip had been down earlier on a recon exercise accompanied by his Doberman. I’d walked straight up