my respect as men as well that day.
Just as we thought we’d got away relatively scot-free. A huge explosion rocked the small wooden changing room. Only me and Shotgun were left getting changed as most of ours had either left in their kit or had changed in record time. Mitch had thrown an army stun grenade (not an air-bomb firework as written in the book Blades Business Crew) at the entrance door of their changing room. They all came steaming around to confront me and Shotgun who was still sat in his pants – now nearly filled with brown runny stuff – as a load of heads appeared at our door demanding to know what the fuck that was.
I got up and pointed up Concord Park towards Mitch who was by now 100 yards away and still gathering pace as he ran. A few of them laughed and the ice had finally been broken. I know them all now and we share a beer whenever we bump into each other nowadays. A few years after this event, all of them stopped running around with the Wednesday firm.
The aforementioned petrol-bomb incident had me thinking about where all this rivalry was leading to, death? Not long after the incident that saw two young Wednesday lads jailed for carrying the petrol bombs, another Testimonial had been arranged, which would be played at Hillsborough. We had no intentions of going to the game but every intension of giving it to Wednesday that night. Our numbers that night were around 60 lads. After having a couple of drinks in the Penny Black, we set off in dribs and drabs towards Hillsborough. We knew where Wednesday were drinking and our plan was to go straight to that pub after mobbing back up. We snaked our way through the quiet back streets towards the Kelvin flats where Wednesday were. On nearing the pub, we tooled up with bricks and so on. Then one of the lads went in the pub to get Wednesday out in the street. There was no OB around at all. We prepared for battle only to be disappointed in the fact that Wednesday had left the pub.
We were now in a dilemma; a lot of the lads had planned to go home after the tear-up and, as we would have to wait another two hours before the match finished, a few lads drifted off. But around 40 of us sat tight.
Then unexpectedly the OB came in the pub and had a nosy around. It was at this point I heard one of ours say, ‘If they find them, my prints will be all over the bottles.’
Another Blade said, ‘You should have worn gloves like I did.’
It transpired that two of our lot had been across to the petrol station and bought some petrol. They got four milk bottles and stuck some rags in the top. It was thankfully the last time petrol bombs were used between the two firms.
The OB made us go back into town under escort, two bombs were left and two carried under coats even though we had a 20-man police escort. Everyone mumbled that, when we reached the bottom of the flats, we would make a break for it and run into the flats. It was every man for himself until we met back up later in the Dove and Rainbow. The plan worked with most of us getting away, leaving a few still captured by the plod.
Everyone met up as planned at the rendezvous. We’d lost the plod. We knew which way Wednesday would walk back into town and roughly what time they would arrive, so we set off and holed up on a little slip road. The streetlight was smashed as we threw bricks up at it and then waited in the darkness. One of our lads waited across the street on his own then he gave us the nod: Wednesday were here.
I peeked around the corner and Wednesday were walking directly towards us with two police vans following behind them. Perfect. The trouble was one of Wednesday’s main men was walking well ahead of the rest and he spotted us and shouted. We came out of the darkness but our surprise had been rumbled and police screeched up and chased us. It was only natural to go back to the original meeting place. I was pleased when I got there that our lot used their brains and almost everyone was still together. Wednesday were by now walking up past the courts and, just as we were going to attack them, the OB sussed us and ran us again. This actually helped our cause as we ran up behind the church and came out on High Street just as Wednesday got to the bottom of it. Both mobs ran at each other. I’d forgotten about the two bombs until I saw one lit and thrown at Wednesday. Luckily, it didn’t go off but it had the desired effect as Wednesday backed off, then we ran them down the road with only Dinga standing his ground.
The following weekend, Wednesday tried to get around the back of the Lansdowne pub on London Road. They got sussed and were run back into town, with only two lads standing their ground but probably wishing they hadn’t. One of the youths who had stood was a lad called Bacon, quite appropriate for a Wednesday fan! He was getting a bad beating and then two United lads sprayed him with lighter fluid and tried to set him on fire. I jumped in and grabbed Bacon and escorted him towards town. He was understandably very shaken by the events and kept repeating that the Berties (Blades) had tried to flame him. He asked me to walk him into town as he didn’t want to be left. I ended up walking him right up to the Limit club. Incidentally, one of the twisted fire-starters who had tried to set fire to Bacon was a lad called Peachy and, in an amazing coincidence, Bacon moved next door to Peachy six months later. The first time the two met as new neighbours, they struck up an understanding that they should not bring trouble to each other’s doorstep.
As I bid Bacon farewell outside the Limit, he insisted that I came in so he could buy me a drink. This was going to go one way or the other: I’d either earn respect for what I had done or I was going to get splattered all over the gaff by the pissed-off Wednesday lads who I knew would be inside the club. Bacon told me that, if Wednesday started on me, then he would fight at my side. Touching as this was, I still headed down those stairs thinking that I was mincemeat. To be fair, a lot of Wednesday came over and chatted, and they were all right lads really. That night, I think I earned a lot of respect off Wednesday; of course, there were still a few of them lurking in the background with that ‘let’s kill him’ look on their faces but, fair play to them, I wasn’t touched.
Bacon came over with a can of Red Stripe; he had taken his top off as it stank of lighter fluid. Underneath he was wearing a T-shirt with the slogan ‘Gas the Blades’ and a cartoon-type drawing of a queue of Blades going into the Nazi gas chambers to be gassed by the guards who were in the Wednesday blue and white.
‘If I’d known you had that on, I would have let you burn, you cunt,’ I joked with Bacon.
The T-shirts were made by a Wednesday lad called Lebby, who was good mates with a Blades lad called Webby and the two of them made T-shirts that totally took the piss out of each other’s club. Some were the same with just the teams turned around, while others could only be adopted by one side; the ‘Gas the Blades’ was one such shirt.
Unfortunately, Webby was paralysed after diving into a shallow pool abroad. We had a benefit night for him with a few bands playing, one of which was a group of United lads who called their band Like Ice, Like Fire. My pal Paul Heaton also did a terrific impromptu solo set, even though I’d promised him he wouldn’t have to sing, but to be fair he made the night special for Webby.
Hundreds turned out at Bramall Lane’s executive suite, where United’s boys and the few Wednesday that had turned out put aside their differences for the night, and rightly so. A couple of grand was raised to buy Webby a computer that he could work using his head. Sadly, Webby died two years later.
Going to the Limit was always a precarious move for most Blades. I could usually go in without much of a problem as I could have a chat and a beer with most Wednesday, although obviously there were some Wednesday lads that I had no time for and no doubt they had no time for me. I only had grief in the Limit when I went in with United lads who couldn’t accept the fact that their fiercest rivals were in the same club.
One night in the late 80s, we had been up West Street on the lookout for Wednesday. The Stocksbridge Owls had given it to one of our lads the week before so we went on the hunt. After no success, we all went in the Limit. The 25 of us included a Forest lad called Boatsy; he knew GJ, who was a game United lad. They had met at