We had drawn Arsenal in the Cup. Everyone was buzzing with the idea of a trip to Highbury to see what Arsenal had to offer. After some careful planning, we decided to go straight into their manor and put on a good show. We knew that their boys would be drinking in The Arsenal Tavern, one of their main pubs. We set off on the Saturday morning with a tidy firm that was no more than 30-strong. Yet everyone was a proper chap and everyone knew each other. It was better that way because, when it kicked off, there was no confusion over who was who.
We got to north London and just round the corner from The Arsenal Tavern we gathered for a team talk. Our plan was to get in the pub by going in three or four at a time. When we were all in, it would kick off. Me and two of my mates went in and started playing pool. Looking about there were most of their top boys in here. Great, because they were about to meet 30 of ours. We mingled in with all the normal fans and little pockets of us were all over the pub. You are pretending to play pool but the adrenalin is flowing and we are waiting for the shout. It soon comes. Every little group of us had our targets in site.
‘Miiilllwall … ’
Someone threw a pint glass behind the jump [bar] and we were away. The pool cues in our hands were now being used to attack a group of Arsenal standing by the pool table. I hit one across the nose and blood poured from it straight away. Someone hit him with a bottle and he collapsed in a heap. As I looked around, there were bodies everywhere and smashed glass all over the floor. There were people lying on the floor screaming while getting kicked and cut by the glass underneath them. It was like a Wild West pub fight – chairs being hit off people’s heads but not smashing like the films, just people hitting the floor from the weight of the heavy stools.
Tables were turned over by some Arsenal trying to escape out of the front door. I pulled one of them back, grabbed on to his shirt and hit him around the side of the head with a pint glass I had just picked up. He fell to the floor in a ball, not moving. He was either spark out or thought he’d play dead until it was all over. The air was filled with people moaning and screaming. Any time anyone moved, I heard the sound of breaking glass. For a split second, we all stood still and surveyed the scene before rushing out of the pub.
As we came out, I tried to move my hand but couldn’t feel my fingers. When I had glassed the fellow, the glass had sliced my hand open and my finger tips were dripping with blood. I kept walking away from the pub because I was no use to anyone with a busted hand, plus it would not take Poirot to work out I had just come from the pub with loads of Gooners cut to ribbons.
On the bus away from Arsenal, my hand was clenched tight in my pocket. By the time I got back home to Walworth, it looked like a big, fucked-up cricket ball. Fucking great fun, though. The whole plan from start to finish had worked a fucking treat. The Arsenal Tavern and all who drank in her had been smashed up good.
Monday, 10 January 1994 – we had drawn Arsenal in the FA Cup at The New Den. The season before, we had played them in the League Cup. With a sell-out crowd on a cold winter’s night, we fancied our chances. We held our own but they scored right at the end after Kasey Keller was fouled. So we were looking to get some revenge on the Arsenal fans. A small group of us made our way up Ilderton Road towards the Old Kent Road. As we turned the corner, there was a group of Arsenal hooligans being herded by the police, certainly not enough to keep us from getting at each other.
There were about ten coppers, twenty Arsenal and fifteen of us. The ones at the front, about four or five of us, ran straight at the Arsenal. They braced themselves for an attack. All those at the front got a few lefts and rights in but, before any real damage could get done, the Old Bill on horses came in and broke it up. The police numbers were now enough to control the situation. The mounted police charged into us to disperse us and we jumped over a little metal fence into a small park and made our way out the gates and off round the back streets. We had just been involved in a fight. Old Bill found us and they nicked us; they escorted Arsenal to safety.
It was almost exactly a year later when, for the third year running, we drew Arsenal again in a Cup competition. We hoped to get a result third time lucky and, after being robbed the season before, we were fired up. Once again, we provided a hostile atmosphere for our north London rivals, with Ian Wright getting some serious stick. The Arsenal chant of ‘Ian Wright-Wright-Wright’ was hijacked by Millwall and turned into ‘Ian Wank-Wank-Wank’. The abuse Wright and the other Arsenal players received throughout the game really levelled things up on the pitch. The match ended 0–0 with us having some good chances.
After the game, we went to The Jolly Gardeners on Rotherhithe New Road to try and cut off the escort. As they got near the pub, we went outside, ready to attack. However, the police had got the situation under control, keeping Arsenal back and us outside the pub. Then the sky lit up. Arsenal had fired a flare at us and it just whistled past the geezer’s head next to me. It was still burning on the floor outside the pub.
The police contained us there while they escorted Arsenal to Surrey Quays station. We did not want to leave it there and decided to go after them. Our mob of about 40 went into Southwark Park and used the dark of the park to keep hidden from the main road. We headed to Surrey Quays to make our way to Whitechapel station, thinking Arsenal would be waiting for us. On arrival, we ran off the train and up the platform – we were rushing out of the station and came under a barrage of missiles, bottles, bricks and another flare. They had managed to arm themselves with anything they could get their hands on while waiting for us. We ran towards them, all the time coming under heavy bombardment. They were being held back by the police on Whitechapel Road. They kept us apart by hitting us back with truncheons and shields while the missiles from Arsenal were still coming. The Old Bill pushed us still further back towards Whitechapel Hospital. We were getting nicked now as they had started to handcuff a few of our boys while they had us pinned to the railings of the hospital.
Some Arsenal had broken through the police lines on the opposite side of the road. The coppers holding us panicked, opening up a gap, and we saw our chance. Three of us shot through. We jumped over the railings into the road, then jumped the second set of railings to face the mob. As we landed, their mob scattered. We chased a small group of about eight down Fulbourne Street. Three of them stopped to front us and one of them came at me. As he got close, I threw a big uppercut, connecting straight on the chin. He went down like a sack of shit.
From behind me, I heard, ‘Stop! Police!’ Head down, I started sprinting. I had just slipped away from them once and there was no way they were catching me. I was gone. No idea how long the police chased me for; you do not stop and look behind you in those situations. You run. You get away, then you worry about where you are later. You don’t care about the fact that you are heading north. You get the fuck out of Dodge City. Tubes are a no-go as descriptions are probably out already. Some faces do not need describing. They are already known and mine was in this category. For all you know, there could have been serious trouble all round the ground. Police could be crawling all over the Tube stations in a mile or two radius of the ground. It was a two-mile yomp in the dark to Tower Bridge. Head down and a quick walk, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible without trying to overdo it because then you look totally conspicuous.
Cutting through the back streets I had to double back on myself to get back on the right side of the Thames. When I got to Tower Bridge, I felt safe. I did not think the Old Bill would pick me up going over the bridge. Once over the bridge you are home free, on the right side of the river, and hoping Old Bill have got their hands full where you have just come from.
It probably took over 40 minutes to get back to the pub. Better a 45-minute walk and a few pints than a one-minute Tube ride and arrest, cells, court appearances, fines and bans. Yes, give me that 45-minute walk any day of the week.
None of the boys were back in the pub before me. A couple came back later. They had it on their toes after they had a little ruck. A few got nicked and held with details taken before being released. Maybe it was a bit of cocaine paranoia, but I’d gone from flying and on top of the world to absolute sobriety, with a feeling of self-consciousness and a need to be back in a safe zone. I felt extra happy to be back in the warmth of The Gregorian for a few pints before closing.
When the Old Bill start nicking, it is every man for himself at that stage, as everyone knows it is all about getting away from them. I did it the hard way that night. All in all, though, not a bad trip across the river. Could have been better – i.e., no Old Bill stopping us getting at Arsenal. It could have been worse, though – i.e., Old Bill nicking even more of us.