Old firm games are always special and the first one of the 1990–91 season was no exception.
Those of us living in London arranged to travel home for the first derby match to be played at Ibrox at the beginning of September. The other lads had made arrangements to stay at their parents’ for a few days. I decided not to go to my dad’s following all the hassle that I had caused him. I opted instead to stay with a girl who ran about with our mob. She cleared it with her mother, assuring her that I would be no trouble.
We arrived at Glasgow Central Station on the Friday evening, all making our way to the pub on the concourse before departing late that night, having agreed to meet up the next day for the match. I was met by said girl and we headed to Buchanan Bus Station to catch a bus to her mother’s house. I was soon put at ease by the warm welcome I received from her mother. She told me she had made a bed up for me in the spare room. I decided to retire for the night after sharing a few nightcaps with my hosts.
I awoke on the Saturday morning to be met with an enormous cooked breakfast waiting at the table for me. I again thanked her for her hospitality and made a mental note to remember to buy her a present. I left at about 10am to go and meet the rest of the Crew for the match. I was quite disappointed by the numbers who had turned out. There were only about 30–40 of us, consisting mostly of the lads who had formed the Baby Crew.
The match being at Ibrox meant it was a nightmare to get to if you were a Celtic fan who wasn’t on a supporters’ bus. We decided to board a bus and head along Paisley Road, knowing it would be teeming with Rangers fans. As we neared the Kingston Bridge, we were spotted by some ICF who were sitting in a beer garden below the bridge. The bus was caught in the traffic, thus allowing for an ever-increasing horde of Huns baying for our blood to have us in target range. They began to throw missiles at the bus, breaking most of the windows in the process. Our mob were in a bit of a panic; some were trying to get off the bus, while others were holding seats at windows to prevent more stones and bottles from hitting us. Eventually, we all managed to stumble from the bus and into the middle of a melee.
We were totally outnumbered and surrounded on all sides and taking a real beating when all of a sudden a couple of Celtic boys emerged from a car wielding baseball bats. Luckily for us, the crowd we were battling consisted mostly of scarfers and not as many ICF and they backed off.
The police arrived and escorted us through the back streets to Ibrox Stadium without further incident. We met up with more Celtic boys who had made their own way to the ground. There were about 80–100 of us now and we made arrangements to meet up after the match. Those of us with tickets went into the stadium, while those without went to a local Celtic pub.
The match itself was played at the usual frantic pace, with, if I remember correctly, Celtic sealing a 2–1 victory.
We left the match and decided to head for the junction of Paisley Road and Broomloan Road where it was already kicking off. The lads who hadn’t got into the game were involved in a running battle with Rangers lads and scarfers. Bottles and bricks were flying in all directions and the police were struggling to gain control. A boy in our Crew had a rucksack from which he produced a number of distress flares. He handed them out amongst those who were willing to let them off. Some of the flares were hand-held while others fired a bright-red fiery ball of flame. This gave Celtic the incentive and we began to chase Rangers along Paisley Road.
The police then intervened with the help of the mounted division. Our mob were rounded up and herded on to the motorway flyover at the top of Broomloan Road. The police then began to ask people where they lived before sending us off in twos and threes.
A whisper went around the Crew telling everyone to head for Bellahouston Park and meet up at the Palace of Art, which was at the top of Helen Street where all the supporters’ buses were parked. It was now over an hour since the final whistle went and we were still miles from the city centre with an ever-decreasing mob.
When we met up again, our Crew numbered about 50–60. We were heading down Helen Street when I was approached by wee M-T who was a Babe from the East End. He said he knew where a couple of flares were hidden and asked if I wanted them. I said I would take them. He was away for about five minutes before returning with two enormous marine-issue distress flares. I took them and attempted to conceal them in my waistband.
As we neared Ibrox Stadium, we saw a luxury coach at the main entrance with a small crowd of Celtic supporters at it. We headed along Edmiston Drive towards the bus just as the victorious Celtic players emerged from Ibrox. Most of the lads began to run towards the bus. This caused a commotion as the scarfers waiting didn’t know who we were because we weren’t wearing colours.
A policeman must have radioed for back-up, as within minutes we were stopped by the police and told to stand with our backs against the stadium wall. They began to search everyone and must have thought that they had struck gold when they got to me. I didn’t attempt to hide or deny my guilt. I was quickly handcuffed and taken to Govan Police Station and that was when my problems began. I gave my address in London and asked for my lawyer to be informed of my arrest.
I wasn’t in my cell for very long before I was taken by the CID for questioning. They kept asking me if I knew about a break-in at the Royal Ordnance Factory in Bishopton and how I’d come across two of the stolen items.
I quickly realised that I was in deep shit and asked for my lawyer before answering any more questions. My lawyer appeared on the Sunday and explained the gravity of my predicament. She said I would be remanded in custody because I gave my address as London. I asked if I could use my dad’s but she said that the London address provided an alibi for me to cover the night of the break-in.
The police were keen to know where I was living during my visit. I reluctantly told them about the girl’s house and assumed they would call her mother to verify my stay there. I appeared in court on the Monday and was sent to Barlinnie Prison on remand.
I tried to call the girl and her mother to explain what had happened. I dialled the number and was puzzled when I got an unattainable tone. I decided to write her a letter but got no reply. I didn’t dwell on it, thinking I’d make it up to them when I got out.
A couple of weeks into the remand I received some shocking and tragic news. I had phoned one of my friends who informed me that one of the Celtic lads had been brutally murdered. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I didn’t know Gary all that well but I did know he was a game boy who had run with the Baby Crew for a few years. I also knew he was a hardworking guy who enjoyed a drink and loved going to the football, like most lads his age. I obviously wasn’t there that night; therefore, I don’t think I’m in a position to comment on the events. However, I do know that the tragedy affected everyone who knew Gary, no matter how well.
My court appearance was soon upon me. I went to court expecting the worst and a substantial sentence, oblivious to the chaos and legal arguments that were taking place in the chambers while I sat in the holding cells.
My lawyer came downstairs to see me just as I was preparing to go into court. She told me that the charges were being dropped, explaining that the Crown had charged me under a by-law that only applies within a football stadium or surrounding area when there is a match taking place. She had argued that, as I was arrested over an hour after the game had ended, the charge was invalid. I knew that I had ridden my luck and was very fortunate to be released.
A few of my mates had come to court, along with my father, who as usual was there for me. We went to the nearest pub to talk things over and decide if I was returning to London or staying in Glasgow. I said I would rather stay in Glasgow but realised I had very little clothes with me and wondered what had happened to the bag I had left at the girl’s house.
I soon learned why she had been blanking me. Seemingly, her mother’s house had been turned upside down by the police searching for flares and the like.
The early 90s signalled the demise for most mobs in Scotland. A lot of lads had settled down with families and jobs while others had succumbed to the lure of hard drugs. Most teams still had a hardcore element but Celtic struggled to pull a decent Crew – even for the big games.
One game in particular was a trip to Tynecastle in 1991. We tried in vain to muster a good-sized Crew but had to settle for around 25 boys. We decided to get the bus through to Edinburgh and get off at Haymarket Station.
We must have been spotted coming along Corstorphine Road because, before the bus had reached the train station, a good-looking mob of Hearts were steaming towards us. The 25 or so Celtic on the bus armed themselves with beer bottles and full cans of lager that were the remnants of our carry-out and charged off the bus towards the oncoming Hearts.
We were giving as well as we got, but were struggling to get the upper hand when the police intervened and separated the two mobs. The police directed us to the train station, informing us that we had to wait until the next train from Glasgow had arrived in order for them to escort us all safely to the ground along with the fans from the train.
We didn’t mind this, especially as a good proportion of the Celtic fans travelling had at one point or another run with the Crew. The train duly arrived, carrying about 80–100 Celtic fans. The police escort consisted of about three vans and about 10 officers on foot. We made our way down Gorgie Road towards the stadium with the usual chanting and banter between both sets of supporters.
A few scarfers were overdoing it, resulting in the police escort being more concerned with them. This allowed our small mob to slip the escort two or three at a time and then make our way back towards the train station. We soon all met up and went looking for Hearts. We came across about 15–20 of them standing at a pub. We steamed in but it was mostly Babes with them and they ran into the pub. Our mob smashed a few windows, foolishly claiming a victory.
We headed towards Tynecastle singing the usual songs and goading the Hearts stragglers who, like us, were late for the match. As usual, most of us didn’t have tickets for the game so decided to get a carry-out and sit at the swing park on Gorgie Road. During the match, small pockets of Hearts came along but were easily chased off. We waited at the swing park until the crowd came out and for the rest of our boys to team up. The mob now numbered about a healthy 50. Buoyed up by our earlier exploits and also the extra numbers, we made our way back towards the train station.
Anybody who has travelled to Hearts will know that it can be an intimidating experience for away fans. The set-up of the stadium means that home fans exit on to the same road as opposing fans, creating a potential flashpoint. However, the 50 or so of us knew exactly what to expect.
The police had formed a cordon allowing the home fans to disperse before escorting the Celtic fans back to the train station. We had no chance of slipping our escort this time, so reluctantly we walked back to Haymarket with the rest of the Celtic fans.
On the way past the pub whose windows had been smashed in, a crowd of Hearts were standing at the doors. However, they were much older than the kids that had been chased. The police numbers ensured that there would be no chance of a ruck – at least for now.
We were all herded to the station and marched right on to the platform to await the train home. The 25 of us without train tickets decided to go along with the police instructions, allowing them to leave us at the platform, believing we would be boarding the train.
We waited for about 5–10 minutes after the train had left before making our way back upstairs, knowing that the police would have dispersed. Once outside the station, we argued amongst ourselves as what to do next. Some lads suggested we go along Prince’s Street to get our bus, while others wanted to go back down Gorgie Road and see if any Hearts were still about.
Against my better judgement, we decided to go to Gorgie. We walked down the middle of the road chanting, believing we were invincible. A couple of Hearts boys appeared in front of us, inviting us to chase them. Some of our lads ran towards them. This seemed to be the signal for Hearts boys who were waiting up a hill to ambush us. We soon found ourselves being attacked from all sides as more Hearts emerged from a pub behind us. We were totally outnumbered and everyone was on their toes. Somebody in our Crew shouted, ‘Get in here’, meaning the pub that we had previously smashed up.
I was across the road but tried to catch up with everyone else. I ran towards the door of the pub and was inches from safety when I felt my ankles being clipped. I could feel my legs go and see the pavement coming to meet me. I tried to regain my balance but was again battered to the ground with an assortment of weapons.
I don’t know how long I was down or how many people were attacking me. My only thought was survival. After what seemed an age, I heard sirens and the sound of a Glasgow accent asking if I was OK. I took me a while to regain my composure and assess what injuries I had incurred. I could see a pool of blood and realised it was probably mine. A policeman was crouched over me holding a towel to a gaping wound at the back of my head.
I was then placed on a stretcher and taken to hospital in an ambulance. To my amazement, my injuries were restricted to a gash at the back of my head, a sprained shoulder and a number of superficial cuts where somebody had tried to slash me. The most frightening thing was when the doctors showed me my leather jacket and the amount of slash marks and knife wounds on it. The jacket most probably saved my life.
I was allowed to leave the hospital after being stitched and cleaned. One of the Celtic girls had accompanied me in the ambulance and was waiting for me to get out. We made our way to St Andrews Bus Station where, on our way, we met two Hibs boys. They knew about the day’s events and asked me if I wanted to stay in Edinburgh with them. I told them I just wanted to get home. They said they would walk us down to the bus station to make sure we got home safely. As we entered the station, we were met by a running battle. Hibs were chasing Celtic all over the place. The Hibs boys with me shouted at their mob and, to their credit, they backed down. Seemingly, it had kicked off on Prince’s Street when Celtic chased a couple of Hibs not knowing their full mob had just come off a train. We boarded our bus home without further incident.
After the Hearts match, I decided to take a break from football and from being an active member of the CSC. A lot of the lads who had been instrumental in the early exploits of the Celtic Soccer Crew had moved on, with many of them now having commitments such as careers, mortgages and families. I was one of only a few original members still active, meaning I was attracting a lot of attention from the police and was a target for other firms.
I decided to get a job and began working as a salesman at Allied Carpets. The job involved working most weekends, which helped to keep me away from the football. There wasn’t much happening on the hooligan front anyway, which made it easier for me to stay away, which I managed to do for the entire 91–92 season. However, my shop was closed by Allied in May 1992, rendering me redundant.
The build-up to the 92–93 season presented me with the temptation to get involved again with the Crew. Celtic had agreed to play in a testimonial match for Tony Mowbray as part of the deal that took the ex-Middlesbrough captain from Teesside to Glasgow. The match was scheduled for 22 July 1992 at Ayresome Park as part of the pre-season programme for both sides. A few lads who like me hadn’t been active for a while expressed an interest in going down to Middlesbrough.
There was the usual talk about hiring a coach, but that would cost too much due to a number of lads wanting to leave on the Friday and stop over in Whitley Bay before heading to Middlesbrough the next morning for the match. About 15 lads had the sense to book train tickets well in advance to take them from Glasgow Central to Whitley Bay, while the rest of us who were planning to go had decided to hire a minibus for the weekend of the match. As usual, though, we waited until the day that we were to travel before looking for a hire company that could let us have a minibus for the weekend at a reasonable price. This proved to be harder than first thought. The guy who had agreed to do the driving had points on his licence, meaning that most companies were turning him down. We were beginning to worry as time wore on, when somebody suggested that we should attempt to hire a transit van. We got a transit without any difficulties, but now had to solve the problems of transporting 12 people in a van that only had three seats. One of the lads said that he had a couple of old mattresses in his garage that we could put down in the back of the van. We all piled into the transit and headed to the lad’s house to get the mattresses, stopping off for a carry-out on the way before we set off for Whitley Bay.
The back of the van was remarkably comfy, or so we thought anyway until we offered a hitchhiker a lift at a service station. We had headed down the M74 towards Carlisle where we planned to take the A69 across to Whitley Bay. We had pulled into the services just north of Carlisle for the traditional piss stop and pillage from the gift shops. As we were leaving the services, we noticed a hitchhiker standing in the pouring rain holding a crudely written sign on a piece of cardboard indicating that he wanted a lift to Newcastle. Somebody in the back shouted to the driver to stop and give the guy a lift. He looked pleased and relieved as he ran through the rain towards the van. His relief turned to horror when the side door slid open to reveal the nine drunken bodies laid out in the back of the transit. We were genuine about giving him a lift; one more body wouldn’t have made much of a difference. But, despite our words of reassurance, the ungrateful bastard declined our offer of a lift.
We arrived in Whitley Bay at about 8pm on the Friday night. We then split into two groups. Some lads wanted to sort out their digs, while the rest of us wanted to grab a pint. We asked the driver to drop us off at a pub in the centre of town where we said we’d wait for them to come back.
We were only in the busy bar for about half an hour when one of the lads became involved in a heated argument with a couple of locals when he was at the bar. As the argument escalated, the locals were joined by about four of their mates who had been at the pool table. More words were exchanged, prompting one of our group to headbutt one of the locals. This was a signal for the rest of us to steam in. The locals backed off and were eventually chased out of the pub. The bar staff told us to finish our drinks and leave. We naturally took our time, hoping that some of the lads who had gone to find digs would be on their way to meet us. The bar staff gave us about five minutes before they threatened to call the coppers.
We reluctantly headed towards the exit. When we opened the door and got outside, we were confronted by a mob of about 30 locals, some of them armed with golf clubs. A few bottles were thrown at us as the crowd edged forward towards us. We were forced back into the pub where we headed straight for the pool table to arm ourselves with the cues. One of our lads suggested we should try to make a break for it through the fire exit at the back of the pub. We made for the fire escape, which we burst open, taking us out of the pub and on to a lane that runs down the back of the building. We didn’t have a clue which way to run; for all we knew, we could have been heading right into the baying crowd.
We shouted to each other to make sure everyone knew the idea, which was to head for the train station. We sprinted down the cobbled lane, eventually finding our way to the train station. We now had to try to find the guesthouse or hotel that the lads had booked into. We headed out of the station and towards the area where most of the guesthouses were situated. After pounding up and down countless streets, we had a bit of luck when we spotted the transit van parked up outside a hotel. The rest were in the downstairs bar. We told them of the fight we’d been in and decided it would be better if we chose to stay in the hotel bar. I could say that it was because we didn’t want to get nicked, but, although that did play a part in our decision, the main reason was that we didn’t fancy taking on a whole town with only 12 of us.
We settled in the bar where we were joined by a group of Londoners who had been up at the races at Newcastle and Doncaster for a few days. A couple of the Londoners were sat at a table playing cards. I asked one of my mates, Big Skelly, if he fancied joining the card school with me. I told him that we could make easy money if we played as a team, as long as the others in the school didn’t suspect that we were working together. The plan was for one of us to raise the stake when it came round for a second time to indicate that he was holding a good hand. The other would stay in to prevent any of the Londoners calling the hand. The trick worked so easily that it was almost embarrassing taking the money. We sat in the bar until the early hours, only giving up the game because the hotel wanted to set the table for the residents’ breakfast. We must have left the card school with at least a couple of hundred pounds each.
After the cards, me and Skelly managed to get a couple of hours’ sleep before it was time to leave for Middlesbrough. We had met up with the lads who had travelled down by train who told us that they had a great night out in the pubs and clubs of Whitley Bay without a hint of trouble. We decided it would be a good idea if the majority of the 25 or so Crew got the train to Middlesbrough, with the driver and two passengers setting off a bit earlier so they would be at Middlesbrough Station to meet us.
When we arrived at Boro, we headed to the park close to the stadium where the vast bulk of Celtic fans had congregated. There wasn’t much trouble before the game apart from when we left the park to go to the ground. Outside a pub were a group of Boro lads who were chanting ‘No surrender to the IRA’ from behind the safety of a police cordon. Some bottles were thrown, but the police had control of the situation. We made our way into the stadium where our Crew had swelled to about 60 as we were joined by lads who had travelled down that day.
The atmosphere was pretty good-natured to begin with, but, once the game had started, it turned a bit volatile with both sets of supporters taunting one another. When the teams had left the field for half-time, a group of lads from the Celtic Soccer Crew ran on to the pitch holding aloft an Irish tricolour with ‘Parkhead Border’ – the name of a Glasgow gang – emblazoned across it. They ran towards an area of the ground where the Boro firm were situated. This provoked the Boro boys, who responded by invading the pitch to confront the Celtic lads. Before the police had time to react, several hundred people from all corners of the stadium were now on the pitch. The lads from the Celtic Soccer Crew grouped up, and with our numbers swelled by drunken Celtic scarfers we had over 200.
The Boro firm were now on the pitch and made a pathetic attempt to charge at us. However, as with most English firms, they made a lot of noise and were waving their arms wildly in the air, but their charge stopped a few yards short of the Celtic front-line when they realised we weren’t running away. When the Celtic lads charged forward, the Boro firm offered very little resistance and were easily chased from their own pitch. The police, who were slow to react, were now on the pitch in numbers. However, rather than arresting any of the Celtic mob, they seemed more content to usher us from the field of play. After the match, the Celtic fans were held in for about half an hour before being escorted to our respective modes of transport, with our crowd joining the escort back to the train station without any further trouble.