Terrace Legends - The Most Terrifying And Frightening Book Ever Written About Soccer Violence. Cass Pennant
come from? The national lottery? The Football Association? The taxpayer? Or is it supplied by the government because if it is there’s some serious money being shelled out here.
Also the press were still up to their old tricks. They ran a story in a Sunday paper about a railway clerk who they claimed was a racist thug. He was a fanatical fan of the club he loved dearly – he was just a cheerleader. But that didn’t stop him getting the sack and having his life ruined. He died recently and the effect of this episode on his life was there to see by all who knew him And the club he supported through thick and thin later named a bar inside their ground in his memory. Some hooligan.
The ’90s saw the start of the rave scene and acid house, peace and love, and all that old bollocks. Some people even went so far as to say that the rave scene killed the hooligan scene. Again, what shit. Known faces and foot soldiers alike within the hooligan gangs saw a chance to earn a pound and make a killing. Given the chance to earn a few quid or have a ruck at a football match, the choice was easy. There were vast hordes of brain-dead, E-fuelled youths driving around the M25 in cloak-and-dagger, cat-and-mouse games with the Old Bill, searching out the next rave. The money was piss easy and security was a cinch. Just employ a few of the football boys for a bit of muscle and you killed two birds with one stone.
But when the rave scene came to an end, the football violence would still be there. It was never going away. And now it had a hard-core element. The mobs were smaller but they were even more determined to have a row. The firms were now a minority. Gone were the days of thousand-strong mobs – Hillsborough and Heysel had seen to that. And, with the introduction of all-seater stadiums, the chances of away firms congregating in the same part of the ground and having a ruck were long gone. All-ticket games made that impossible, and nowadays most games are sold out to season ticket holders only, so the hard-core troublemakers have had to take the action well away from the stadiums and out on to the streets, sometimes miles away from where the game’s being played. Mobile phones were good for arranging offs.
Then came the ‘keyboard warriors’ living at home with their mum and operating from their bedrooms. They surfaced and spread the word, albeit mostly bullshit. ‘We run you’, ‘Where were you?’, ‘Meet you here’, ‘Meet you there’. These people posting messages on websites were, and are, pretty sad and some of the names they give themselves are laughable.
Even worse are certain non-scene people who have never been involved and yet set themselves up as so-called experts, claiming to offer a grim, blow-by-blow insight into the world of the football thug. ‘We can stop the disgusting violence,’ they say and in the next breath they’re asking for your stories about when so and so played, and had it with so and so. Total bollocks. How can you call yourself an expert when you’ve never been involved? I’ve been going to football for over forty years and around the boys for nearly thirty of them – but me an expert? No, never. I wouldn’t have a clue how to stop the violence and I don’t profess to know how to stop it, nor would I be vain enough to even think I had the grey matter or the answers to do such a thing. I don’t go to the media making such claims, but certain people do. They seem to like the sound of their own voices. I’ve got no time for the pricks. What’s the old saying? ‘You want to run with the fox and hunt with the hounds.’ The name ‘leeches’ springs to mind. I jokingly once said that the only way to stop football violence was to ban all males aged 15 to 75. ‘Ban alcohol and you’ll stop a lot of the problems,’ so-called experts have said. So why is there trouble at twelve o’clock kick-offs when the pubs aren’t even open? We’ll throw that theory out the window, eh? Football is a highly charged spectator sport, where feelings run high and for some people it’s more important than life and death.
The ’90s saw a return of football hooliganism. An avalanche of ‘hoolie’ books appeared on the shelves of bookstores – some good, some bad and some total bollocks – and next came the films. The Football Factory, based on John King’s top book, has just been made and Tony Rivers and Dave Jones’s Soul Crew looks like being next. Also to follow shortly will be the film of Cass’s Congratulations, You Have Just Met the I.C.F. Anyway, good luck to these films.
The ugly scenes that marred England’s Euro 2004 qualifier win over Turkey again brought hooliganism back into the public eye, but, to us in the know, it had never gone away. The firms and mobs are growing rapidly with a youth element interested in the culture, joining up with the existing dinosaurs that never died. In this book we let the real people, not just from Britain but from around Europe, describe their own lives and their own experiences. They tell stories never heard by anyone outside their circles. Some people might say we are glorifying soccer violence by writing a book like this; read it and draw your own conclusions.
As I said earlier, some of the mob members had hero status across the nation, with their names heard not only across the terraces but also in nearly every pub, club, youth club and school playground the length and breadth of the UK. Some of these people were legendary; they were, and still are, terrace legends. Some were famed for their fighting skills, some for the way they organised others (both in combat and travel), and others for the ability to make people laugh and were fun to have around. A couple were famed for taking their fanatical support of their chosen club to another level, and on their own admission never getting involved or being interested in the violent side of things. They are not hooligans, nor do they profess to be.
In their day the people in this book were bigger than some TV personalities, pop stars and film stars, and even the players themselves, and were the born leaders of a majority of fans at that time. After meeting, talking and interviewing all of them one thing comes across. They are true football fans, despite how the media likes to portray them. To me the only mindless minority were the so-called journalists that over the last forty years are no nearer the truth. Read and learn. Enjoy the book.
Cheers,
Martin King
CASS PENNANT MEETS
CLUB: WEST HAM UNITED
BILL GARDNER
THE MEET
There’s been plenty said and written about Bill. And Bill’s never been one to talk himself up. He was even very modest when he spoke about himself in the Congratulations … book. To me he is a gentleman and I class him as a real good family friend. I first came across him up at Middlesbrough in 1975 and what an eventful day that was! One thing was for sure, in the ’70s and ’80s you’d always find Bill at the front of the West Ham mob. So, besides the keyboard warriors of today, every football fan and face in the know would have heard of Bill’s name. He really needs no introduction. He’s an Upton Park legend and has been for a long, long time. Here are Bill’s experiences about his days following the Hammers.
BACKGROUND
I first started watching West Ham in 1958. My mum was from Poplar and my dad was from Bethnal Green in the East End of London. After leaving school I worked in a factory, then I became a stonemason – the job I still do to this day.
WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE TERRACE FASHION?
An orange boiler suit I wore in the early ’70s, and yer old Dr Martens. I had quite a few pairs of them over the years.
WHAT’S THE WORST FASHION YOU’VE EVER SEEN ON THE TERRACES?
That’s got to be them stripy tank tops.
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