Wednesday had regrouped in the Roebuck in town but United had tasted victory and wanted to finish this Owls firm off, for one night anyhow. We went up and, as Wednesday poured out of the pub, we put them to flight again.
The following weekend, 50 of us went up West Street to search for the snorters. Wednesday were in the Saddle just up from the Limit and the pub was attacked with Wednesday getting out in the doorway only to be overpowered. A few Wednesday were assaulted later on as they stood in the queue to get in the Limit. It all got a bit silly really; it wasn’t safe to be either a Blade or Owl around this time.
The code of conduct, if ever it has existed between the two groups, was shot to pieces as it became a no-rules affair with reports of both Wednesday and United lads attacked in town while out with either non-hooligan mates or girlfriends. The tit-for-tat attacks carried on weekly, with Wednesday being run off London Road twice more. The third and final time Wednesday were run, they didn’t even stand long enough for a punch to be thrown, and I knew at this point that we had got to them mentally.
Then the following Friday we heard through the hoolie-vine that Wednesday were turning a big team out to launch an attack on our London Road territory; they were going to put us in our place once and for all, or so they said. Because there had been plenty of trouble in the previous month or so, the OB had a large presence in the area so we would have to be at our cunning best to get any action from the night. Around 100 of our firm were plotted up on London Road when I arrived.
I had made elaborate plans and I’d bandaged my leg up and carried a crutch even though I had no injury. We had been told that Wednesday would be well and truly tooled up so it was a case of meeting fire with fire. A few United lads had also taken the threat seriously as three baseball bats were hidden behind the fruit machine in the Pheasant. As always, we had people on patrol in cars. The scouts had clocked Wednesday and they had similar numbers to us. Wednesday’s plan was to come on to London Road via the back-walks and avoid coming in through town.
The OB were all over London Road like a rash and we knew that we might have to take a few arrests tonight, but business needed to be taken care of. To be honest, Wednesday had been lost off our radar. We had no idea where they had gone from the last sighting and things started to get tetchy. Then news of Wednesday’s whereabouts came from an unexpected source, a copper’s radio. Bingo, we now knew that the Wednesday firm were heading up St Mary’s Gate.
Four of us jumped into Frankie’s car to suss out their mob. Two distress flares were loaded as we drove off. Wednesday were clocked on Denby Street entering the Sportsman Inn. A distress flare was shot in their direction. The Wednesday firm cheered as the flare rose above their heads and crashed into the pub wall. Our lot were literally 300–400 yards away tucked up and waiting for news. We headed back and relayed the news. We had to get the OB away from the Pheasant, so, in a cunning plan, we sent 20 lads down London Road towards the Lansdowne.
Sure enough, the OB followed. The rest of us headed off in dribs and drabs to meet up in the Sheldon car park and then walk down towards Wednesday en masse. As we got closer, the snorts sussed us and started screaming at the top of their voices to their colleagues inside the pub. It was at this point that a few of us started to jog towards them. One of our main actors shouted for everyone to walk and keep quiet. It was a bit weird and didn’t get the old adrenaline pumping like normal as we casually walked towards Wednesday who were by now going crackers in the road.
Once within throwing distance, Wednesday threw the lot at us, it was a case of covering your face as you couldn’t see the missiles in the dark. The roar went up and our casual walk was no more as we all hurtled down at them. Later, Wednesday maintained that the OB ran them back into the pub and left us alone; in truth, Wednesday had started to do one before the OB arrived and the plod actually came from behind us and ran through, clubbing anything in their way. The police came from everywhere and I limped off as the plod steamed everyone. As I hobbled around the corner, I bumped into Sam. Then, as we made our way back to London Road via another street, 10 of Wednesday’s main boys came around the corner; they had missed the battle.
‘Run again, you mugs.’
They came at us but I just tucked the crutch under my arm and my limp became a sprint, it’s a miracle! Miracle over, as I ran around the building and straight into four Old Bill. Shit, crutch back to the floor and limp back in fashion. Sam copped a clip but I was left and told to clear off.
Later that evening, a Blade was blinded in one eye as he was hit with a glass as we attacked a pub with Wednesday inside. Ten lads had been arrested that night, eight were Blades and two were young OCS lads. The two Wednesday lads had been arrested while carrying four petrol bombs in a rucksack; I knew them both and they were obviously doing other people’s dirty work, as they didn’t even have it in them to fight at the time, never mind throw a petrol bomb. While the two of them were on remand in Hull Prison, they were attacked by a couple of Blades.
Later, they both received two years in a young offenders’ unit. The petrol bomb was a frightening and sinister new development in the war for supremacy between the rival groups. Two days after the tear-up with Wednesday, I popped in the Sportsman during my dinner break. The Shaw family had just taken over the pub and Graham the landlord showed me a bag of sharpened triangles of lead that Wednesday had left under the seats. They would have no doubt blinded someone if they had hit their target.
The trouble and arrests, and even the fact that one Blade lad had permanently lost the sight in one eye, didn’t stop the trouble continuing. Two weeks later, a group of 20 Blades attacked around 10 Wednesday in a pub on West Street and chased them into the women’s toilets. Things had got seriously out of hand.
The assault on the black lads on London Road had not gone away. I’d got fed up with the whole affair and figured if I was going to get it then so be it.
After United had visited Huddersfield Town, once back in town the 50 of us went in the Penny Black. We had a quick pint and started to drift up town to our usual haunt, Silks. I was about to go when Eyes came over and told me to fuck off as Harrison, one of the black lads who had been laid out on London Road, had just walked in the other side and was asking if I was out. I thanked Eyes and waited until everyone had gone, then got another pint and went and sat with Eyes and Harrison. I’d got to face this head on.
Eyes was looking at me, puzzled why I hadn’t gone. To cut it short, after around 10 minutes Harrison asked me my name and I told him. All 6’3” of his boxer frame stood up.
‘Fuckin’ get outside,’ he demanded.
‘Look, I know you’re here for me so I’ve stayed and come over when I could have fucked off and I’m not going outside.’
He sat back down, looking a bit perplexed by the whole affair. He asked me if I was on London Road that night and told me his mate was going to kill me. The mate he was referring to was another lad who’d been knocked unconscious that night. Unbeknown to them, my football team had drawn their team in the Cup in two weeks’ time, so I told Harrison that if they wanted me I’d be playing in that game. We ended up having a couple of pints and I think he admired my front and honesty.
On the Sunday morning of the game, I felt like a man who’d just had his last rites read to him. To make matters worse for me, I had broken my right hand during a fight in town in the previous week. I was determined to play and taped loads of cotton wool around my cast, I didn’t want to be seen as if I was bottling out and I had to be strong for the rest of my team who were nervous to say the least.
The ref passed my cast but, as we warmed up on the pitch, no opponents had arrived. Then, with five minutes to kick-off, eight cars screeched into the Concord sports centre car park. Twenty-five blokes, mainly blacks, marched up to the pitch accompanied by a few dogs straining at the leash.
I copped for a few verbals but was determined not to be intimidated and played my usual physical game. We won the game 4–0 and I was pleasantly surprised at how many of their team came and shook my hand at the end of the game. Even the lad who had been laid out on London Road came and shook my hand. The ice had been broken and, fair play to them, I was in an uncertain position but they chose to give me respect. I’d already got respect for them as I’d seen