The Manchester City game might have been the most dangerous. I was wearing my new wide, ridiculously wide jeans that were fashionable here and there, only problem was they didn't appear to be fashionable in London, and after the game a group of us were followed by a Tottenham gang, who figured we were from Manchester, think they even mentioned the trousers. I do remember starting to get real scared and taking out my Tottenham Hotspur Supporters Club Membership card thingy, but that didn't cut it at all, and son of a bitch those guys were bigger than us, and way, way tougher. Someone decided to run, and off we all went, tearing down a back street and just legging out to get away, no idea where we were going. I do remember hay were after us, running seemed a confession of guilt I guess, but they must have given up, for we had time to flag down a taxi, jump gratefully in and head to the station. No-one talked about it, so I wasn't blamed, just inside I accepted it was my fault because of my new trousers, never did wear them again.
Peterborough United was the first match I was really moved by. It was an evening F.A. Cup game, and important. There were the crowds, the lights, the noise. I was standing at the London road end, where all the young men gathered to sing their songs of victory, ridicule or threat. Peterborough scoring is all I remember, and then the tumult of jumping, cheering, waving, being swept here and there by the packed crowd, and then the songs, oh the songs. It was a seriously moving experience believe it or not, the joy, the loss of self, the melting into the crowd, the transcendence of it all, and just as Nick Hornby's awakening at an Arsenal game in Fever Pitch, I was from that time on a football fan.
The village postman used to give me a ride to the games, he'd go up into his seat and I'd make for the London Road end again, to try and relive that glorious night perhaps, but the crowds were too small to come anywhere close to that moment and I ended up just hanging around on the edges of the loose-knit gang who gathered at the top of the stands.
Now Tottenham Hotspur was a different story. They are a North London team, about 60 miles or so from my hometown, and for some reason nearly all the local boys chose them to follow. An evening match against Liverpool was the first game I went to I think, huge crowds, a lost game, afterwards coppers on horses to keep the boys apart, all rearing and crashing. One memory is of a Tottenham skinhead climbing upon a railing or something to get a view of the enemy, and then off they all went, charging down the High Street. The excitement of it all just had me from then on.
There was always trouble really come to think of it, no matter where or who Tottenham played. I was such a follower by then that I started to go to away games a lot too, often on my own, though I'd of course soon join up with the Tottenham gangs, all chanting and scarf wearing. I remember at Birmingham I think it was, and now there's a dour place seeing one guy just festooned with scarves, they were all from other teams and he was displaying his trophies, the ones he's snatched or fought for, just as an Indian with his scalps really. Birmingham was also where I got my first injury of sorts, head-butted in the face as I passed though the turnstile to catch the train home, it was a cold, miserable day and the threat of violence was everywhere, we were bombard with bottles as we made our way into the ground. I left before the end, as many Tottenham boys did, hiding my scarf and trying to look local, it was not fun at all.
Usually though the violence passed me be, I was quite young really, 14/15 or so, and maybe the tough guys from the other side didn't think I was with bothering with. I remember at Derby, at home to West Ham, away to Leicester opposing fans would come running at as, I would stand my ground and watch it all, and boots and fists would be at work, and I never got touched, kinda curious, but I guess I looked not worth it to be honest. A friend was stabbed at a Manchester United match, and man that was a big one. I remember sitting at my desk at school way, way before the actual match and making a list of all the boys I knew who would going, think it was about 40/50 or so, my did we look forward to that one.
West Ham at home was probably the most violent I think, before the game a crowd of their boys came round the side of the ground, you could do that before the grounds were sectioned off, I remember it also because a really, I mean really, big black dude ending up standing amongst us all in his black crombie and with a small West Ham pin on his lapel, looking deadly serious and just daring us I suppose. No-one touched him. Oh, and Arsenal, there was usually trouble when Arsenal came. Once there was huge bust-up before the game and I heard that the Tottenham Youth had just run the Arsenal Youth, that means made them turn tail, though who knows the real truth. Rumours were common. There were the Tottenham Blacks who used karate and such, some guy called Paxton who was supposedly our leader, umbrellas which were actually sword sticks, fearsome Chelsea crowds, and funnily enough I never did see Chelsea play, maybe I stayed well away from that one. I do recall one of our local suedehead kids coming to the local pub one evening all bruised and banged-up and looking meek, word was the Chelsea had cornered him in the underground.
It was a joyous time too, like the day we beat Arsenal 6-0. Such a day, such a day, just the sheer happiness of it all, the first goal, and then another and then another, and the crowd rolling and jumping and chanting and singing, and tumbling out at the end to glory in it all. By 16 I think I'd stopped going, and when staying in London years later went to see Tottenham play at Arsenal, all the boys were there still, threatening, singing, drinking. I left at half-time, I realized that I really couldn't care who won, I just couldn't, but the times we did have, oh yes the sheer joy of it all when everything was right, you had to be there I guess.
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