Chapter 15 of "The Knock 'em Down Boys" - into the Den of The Wolves.
Rat, Sparky and the lads travel North to test themselves against the mighty Wolves.
Chapter 15 - Into the Den of The Wolves.
Wolverhampton Wanderers – Away – Saturday, December 13th
Scratch’s text was simple: Got something special planned for the Wolves – be there.
It was obvious that he didn’t intend to tell us what it was from the moment we met outside the County Hotel. I could see knowing glances passing between Ghandi, Scratch and some of the other older lads, but no clues.
We were travelling up to The Wolves in a couple of vans – plain white with no visible markings to suggest who we were.
The Wolves were the top team in the division this year. They’d been in the Premier league a few years ago, so their set up was a lot different to ours. Quality ground, plenty of fans, a tidy firm, and that huge chip on the shoulder that comes when any self-proclaimed “giant” in football finds itself flushed down the league toilet and into our division.
Everyone in our league wanted to beat The Wolves.
Going up to the Wolves was a big deal for us. They saw themselves as bigger and better than anyone else. And they were pissed off. Pissed off at the indignity of having to play among the low lives. Low lives like us. They were arrogant, and loud, and we fancied ourselves to show them up – if they turned up.
There were Police everywhere when we walked to the ground: troglodytes in uniform – and mostly on horses that seemed to have developed the ability to sniff out away fans at any distance. The coppers had been around ever since we had parked up a couple of miles from Molineux.
We had tried to hide our numbers, walking in threes and fours and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. I was walking with Sparky, El Pigface and Rook. We were keeping ourselves to ourselves when a copper on a horse appeared from a side street.
The copper manoeuvred the head of his horse right into my face.
I took a step back and the copper moved forward.
The horse was frothing at the mouth, white saliva dripping down like strings of melted mozzarella against the deep black of its almost plastic skin.
I wondered what it might be like for a horse to try and bite your face off.
Sparky tried to lead us away, conscious that the last thing that we needed was to get nicked.
“Where are you lads heading then?” said the copper, leaning down towards us as his horse continued to eye up my face.
“The match,” I said trying to avoid the horse’s spittle in my mouth as the animal smacked its lips together and stamped its hooves.
“The match?” the copper repeated, mocking us, “Not from round here, are you lads?” he said in a Brummie accent.
We didn’t say anything, knowing how dangerous the situation was.
“Right then sheep shaggers,” he shouted, straightening his back and allowing his horse to rear up a bit like it might trample us any minute, “are you lot going to be a fucking problem?”
We were used to this kind of treatment.
“No trouble from us officer,” I said.
“Show us yer fucking tickets then, sheep shagger.”
We showed him our tickets, making sure that we kept them at a distance from the copper who might just snatch them away from us and leave us in the shit.
He scrutinised our tickets from a distance, looking increasingly more pissed off as he scanned them.
Suddenly, he pulled his horse back a few feet, scanning the area as more groups of people began to filter by us wearing gold and black.
“Get down there and make sure that I don’t see yer again, or yer nicked – got it?”
We got it, and walked towards the ground, shoulders hunched and eyes on our trainers.
We all had tickets in the same end. So as not to repeat the episode with the copper, we split up again into even smaller groups, made our way to the ground, and met inside.
We had loosely organised the tickets so that we were near each other, but we wouldn’t be acting like a school trip.
Molineux is a big ground for our division. Our away following was sizeable, a decent hardcore and plenty of others hanging on because we were playing decent football and winning games. Even so, there was no way we could sell the three or four thousand ticket allocation that we had been given. That meant that we could saunter into the ground near kick-off and just pretty much choose where we wanted to stand.
The away crowd at a match was different. At home, someone used to the theatre or cinema might kick up a fuss if you sat in his seat. But away games were different, more old school, and mostly you just stood where you wanted to, and when the local stewards got the hump and tried to force you to sit down, well, then you just moved.
When we got through the turnstiles and into the ground, we pretty quickly realised that we’d been shafted by the Wolves ticket office.
The end we had been allocated ran all the way along the side of the pitch. We were only allocated the bottom tier. With home fans directly above us. The rest of the home supporters were housed either behind the goals in steep sided terraces.
Effectively this ensured that the home side were kicking towards home advantage in both halves. Obviously, the management hoped to take advantage of the old thirteenth man cliché – the crowd as the extra man sucking the ball into the net.
On the other hand, we were right next to the touchline, so if any of their lads came to take a throw in, then we’d be on top of them in a shot.
Ghandi and Scratch were already inside with some of the other lads when we arrived. We made our way over to where they were standing, moving slowly and trying not to draw attention to ourselves.
When we got close, Scratch turned with his back to the pitch and spoke to me, “What do you make of this then?”
Ghandi was looking towards the back of the stand too.
I imitated their position and looked up towards the back of the stand.
Where we had been allocated tickets was about twenty rows deep before the seats stopped at a wall. Above the wall, I could just see the tops of plastic seats on a kind of balcony, and behind these, patio doors. The same pattern was replicated all the way down the stand. Corporate hospitality boxes with, it seemed, no one inside them yet.
Above the corporate boxes was a barrier and then another tier of seating which formed the bulk of this massive stand. Home fans were filling up the top tier and I noticed some of them leaning over the barriers and checking us out.
I looked at Sparky first, and then Ghandi and Scratch.
“This isn’t good,” I said. “We’re sitting ducks. Those tossers hanging over the barrier are sussing us out and soon they’ll be ready to chuck all sorts at us when they get their confidence up. And judging by the hospitality of the local constabulary, I don’t think that we’ll be able to look to them for any protection.”
As I said it, the coppers were glaring at us from all the positions they had been stationed at. I got the feeling that they were just itching for something to kick off – and kick-start their weekend.
“What about the corporate?” said Ghandi quietly.
I thought for a few seconds, “Three possibilities as far as I see it. Firstly, typical corporate. In which case, they mightn’t even be Wolves, and they’re just here for the drink and the sandwiches. And even if they do support the club, they’re likely just to keep the patio doors shut and keep out of the riff-raff’s faces – unless they want a smoke that is.”
Ghandi nodded.
“Secondly, they might not be typical corporate, just some lads made good. They’ll probably start with the doors closed, but if our lads score, and the Wolves lads have had a drink, then maybe they’ll try to turn nasty.”
Ghandi’s eyes began to thin as he focused.
“But they won’t really know how to cope with us,” I said, “so that won’t be much to worry about.”
“And what’s the third thing?” Scratch stepped over some chairs and began staring at a couple of lads giving us wanker signs from the top tier.
“Third thing is the best,” I said confidently. “We use the corporate. If, like we think it might, it kicks off from up there, then we dive in and take cover. Any of the corporate tossers get in our way – we just do them.”
Ten minutes before kick off and we were all together.
Above us, and in the corporate boxes, the home fans were filling their seats. And as the seats began to fill up, more of them came to lean over the barrier above us as their confidence grew.
We had pre-arranged to meet the Wolves lads after the game in a subway near a pub called The Iron Horse. One of their lads had given Scratch some sat nav coordinates, and Scratch had gone to check the area out. The pub was about half a mile from the subway, and we guessed that it was somewhere the home lads used regularly – so we’d have to be careful. The Wolves would have reserves if they needed them.
“Did you check where we’ll take the Wolves on?” Sparky asked Ghandi as the players finished the final sprints of their pre-match warm ups.
“Scratch has.” Ghandi answered.
“So what’s he think?”
“He’s not sure. We’ll have to be careful. The venue’s near one of their pubs, and they want to take us on in a subway, away from prying eyes.”
Sparky grimaced.
“Don’t worry,” continued Ghandi, “I’ve no intention of taking them on in a subway. They’re known for that tactic up here. The Subway Army, or something like that, is what they call themselves.”
“Their tactics are obvious,” I interrupted. “When we arrive, there’ll be a small but noisy group at the mouth of the subway. They’ll expect us to steam forward and they’ll move back into the subway. Once we’re committed, and half-way in, lads’ll come from above and the sides, cutting us off. We’d be trapped and outnumbered. If they did it right, with plenty of numbers, we’d struggle to fight our way out of it.”
“We won’t give them the chance,” said Scratch.
“And remember, we’ve brought a surprise,” said Ghandi, his lips curling into a snarl as he looked at Scratch.
We were 2-0 up after twenty minutes and we were going mental. Nothing winds a big team up more than a smaller side taking the piss on their patch – and our boys were demolishing theirs.
And that was when it started.
Unable to contain their anger, lads and blokes pushed forward to the barriers and started shouting down at us. It began with the usual, “Who are ya?” kind of stuff, and insults. Some of our lads were giving the same kind of treatment back, spreading their arms wide and hurling abuse back up at the Wolves.
Next, they started gobbing on us.
Some of them were pointing at us too. One of them pointed at me. They were shouting some of the typical things lads at football will say in the heat of the moment, and behind the safety of barriers and the police. Things like, “You! Yeah, you, sheep shagger. I want you!” This was followed with the universal pantomime gesture of dragging a finger across the throat to suggest death and the chant, “You’re going home in a gold and black body bag. Wolves! Wolves! Wolves! Wolves!”
And this wasn’t just young lads either.
There older blokes, and there were women too.
The women looked like rabid dogs, egging their lads on to “do us”, their faces twisted and distorted with anger and excitement. All of this aggro probably turned these daft bitches on, I thought.
It was primal, but it was true – like chimps in the wild or something.
When they started gobbing on us, that was when we all sort of lost it.
I tried to attract a copper’s attention.
I didn’t want to lose control and thought that the police might deal with the dirty bastards. I mean, hurling abuse is one thing, but projectiles of phlegm and bits of whatever the idiots had been eating before the match, was too far.
Eventually, a copper came over and I moved to the front of the stand to speak to him.
“Can you do something about that?” I said, pointing up to the Wolves supporters.
“The copper shrugged his shoulders, “Get back in yer pen yer fucking animal, and shut yer fucking mouth if yer know what’s good for yer.”
There was no point arguing with a copper in this mood, so I backed off. The police obviously wouldn’t be any help.
I looked at Sparky and he knew exactly what I was thinking.
We caught El Pigface’s eye, and some of the other lads, and moved up to the wall separating the corporate from us. Standing with our backs to the corporate walls, we were shielded from the spittle and snot of the pissed off home supporters.
When our third goal went in ten minutes after half time, even the corporates went off on one. Glasses and bits of metal came over our heads from behind the corporate barriers.
Standing with our backs against the wall, we were protected against the corporates who were chucking stuff over. And we were protected from the top tier too, as we were standing underneath the lip of the stand they were sitting in.
Ghandi and the others were fully exposed.
If you think about the time, effort and money that goes into how we dress for matches then you’ll understand why the gobbing was pissing us all off so much.
What happened next was something that none of us could tolerate or accept.
Something that would cause us to hate the Wolves with a vengeance for years to come.
Lads on the top tier started throwing bottles down at us.
Our lads were dodging the bottles and looking angrily at the police.
The coppers were looking increasingly agitated too, and I thought that it would only be a matter of time before they piled into us, if only to let off steam.
And if they did, the whole day would be screwed.
A few more bottles came down from above, but they didn’t smash when they hit the back of the seats – they bounced.
They bounced and splashed out fluid onto the clothes and trainers of any lad near their landing site – a dark, yellow fluid.
It was piss.
Piss sloshing against jackets and jeans, thrown down in plastic bottles so it would bounce around and cause maximum contamination.
After a few seconds a bottle came down and hit the floor near Ghandi.
I saw some piss splash against Ghandi’s leg.
I saw him look up at the Wolves who were laughing and giving him wanker signs.
He whispered something calmly in Scratch’s ear and the rest of the lads started to move towards us and the gangways leading underneath the stands.
As we started moving towards the exits, the coppers swarmed around us. They were trying to menace us. Trying to intimidate us. In this game, the coppers hold all the cards. So if you give them the hump, the day is wrecked.
As we were heading through the exits to the area underneath the stands, we could hear the sarcastic chants of the Wolves fans, “Bye-bye, Bye-bye” and a few of our lads complained about coins chucked at their heads, while the coppers just laughed.
We grouped together outside a shut up drinks kiosk.
At 3-0 up, Swindon wouldn’t lose it now, so leaving wouldn’t bother us – we had other things on our minds.
El Pigface was the first of us to speak up, “So what now? We look like mugs don’t we?”
Ghandi shot a look at Pigface that made sure he shut up.
“We’re finished here,” said Scratch. “The police have this wrapped up tight. We need to get out of here and get organised.”
Ghandi signalled to a steward to open the gates and let us out. Faced with a group of pissed off looking lads, the steward was only too happy to oblige.
As we left the stadium, three coppers were waiting for us. We tried not to make eye contact and just shuffle past them with our heads down, but no joy.
“Where the fuck are you lot going then?” said the smallest of the three. He stood a foot in front of the other two who flanked him like bouncers.
Scratch spoke first, “Home mate. It’s over isn’t it?” We started to walk away as a group, hoping to avoid any law trouble.
The coppers let us go for a few yards before we heard the voice of the little one again.
“So, how are yer getting back to the farm then boys? We wouldn’t want any trouble, would we?”
Scratch walked over to them and talked quietly. I could see that he was trying to placate them.
When he eventually walked back over to us, a few more coppers had arrived on horseback to reinforce their mates.
“Let’s go,” said Scratch and we started up the hill towards the van.
We must have been looking a bit miserable as we trudged up the hill, because as soon as we were out of earshot of the coppers, Ghandi started moving us along more quickly.
“Pick up the pace. These bastards think they’ve got us on the run, but they’ve got no idea. We’ll be surprising them. After what they’ve just done, we owe them big style. And we’ve got a head start to get organised. So let’s move it.”
Ghandi had told us that he had a surprise for the Wolves, and when I looked at the twist of his lips, and the way his eyes widened as he was talking, I knew that his wicked smile meant business.
Serious and damaging business.
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