Rangers and the Famous ICF: My Life With Scotland's Most-Feared Football Hooligan Gang (12 page)

‘Stay on the train,’ he firmly advised.

After a quick discussion a consensus emerged. There was no fucking way we were staying on the train. As the announcer said ‘next stop Slateford’ I felt the butterflies. I fucking love this time, just before the battle. You know it’s coming, you don’t know what’s coming but it’s definitely something. The train stopped and in the station there was a firm of Hibs waiting.

‘Come on Rangers, there they are,’ someone shouted.

‘ICCCCF’.

There might only have been twenty-two of us but that chant makes it sound a lot more. The CCS in the station got on their toes. ‘Strange,’ I thought. I had no idea how many were in the station but I assumed that wasn’t their full firm. Unfortunately, I was right.

Faced with a much bigger mob I had one thought in mind: ‘If we keep tight, we’ll be okay.’ We got out of the station and the first thing that occurred to me was how wide a road we were on. ‘Shit,’ I thought. I had no idea how many Hibs had with them, although word had got through there would be eighty-plus. Those odds didn’t overly concern me when I was on the train. That may sound like bullshit to those who’ve never been involved in football violence but most firms have their frontline of twenty or thirty doing the business and the rest may as well not even be there. This isn’t because everybody else is a shitbag; it’s simply due to the width of a road. Hence my initial concern about Slateford Road being wide.

We left the station and to our left we noticed a firm coming round a corner. They were, from memory, about a hundred yards down the road. A couple of our lads were tooled up, not with weapons of mass destruction, but with a couple of little hammers and a chain. As our walk towards them turned into a jog they just kept walking around this corner, more and more of them. An unspoken ‘Fuck it we’ve come this far’ spread through our ranks as our jog turned into a full-blown charge.

‘ICCCF ICCCF’ and with that the lads with tools got them out. When we got to within ten yards their frontline began to back away; they weren’t running but they were definitely on the back foot. By now I realised their firm was well over a hundred, possibly 130. ‘Come on Rangers, these cunts are off,’ I shouted. I could see their main lads trying to hold them together. Shouts of ‘Fucking stand Hibs’ were clearly heard, along with ‘Stay Hibs, fucking stay’. There was a
strange tone in their voice, not fear, more disbelief. That is a good indicator of how close it was at that stage.

By now almost every one of us was going at it with them and the next few seconds would decide which way this was going. After trading a few blows I felt a punch on the side of my head. Behind me, the lads in their firm who had melted away were coming back into the fight and I could see the right-hand side of our line getting backed away. On that side of the road they had the same problem as us: Hibs either side and behind them, although they may have had it even worse. There was no choice, we had to retreat. We ran about ten yards and now it was our turn to rally the troops.

‘Fucking stand Rangers,’ some of us shouted. We did stand but our left flank got completely overrun leaving Carrick, Broony and others exposed on the right. They had to fall back and as we attempted another stand a few yards up the road it was obvious the battle was lost. I had lost contact with the rest of our lads and I was running back towards the station with Hibs in front of me. I felt a click on my heels and went down. I saw Millsy about five yards ahead of me. He was my only hope.

‘Miiiilsy,’ I shouted, as I went down, taking a few kicks along the way. I expected the worst. However, within seconds I was being dragged back to my feet. Millsy – who could give Linford Christie a run for his money – could have got away unscathed, but he came back for me. However, being upright was short lived as both Millsy and I went down under a hail of blows.

‘Wake up, wake up.’

Some silly cunt was slapping my face.

‘Fuck off,’ I replied.

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘Aye am outside Hampden ya fuckin’ nutcase.’

‘Lie down, you’re lucky to be here.’

‘How? It’s only two miles away fae my hoose and we always get tae Hampden.’

Next thing I knew I woke up. I could tell from the feel of the uncomfortable mattress I was lying on that this was either a jail cell or a hospital ward. When I went to look at my watch I realised two things. Firstly, I didn’t have a watch, had that peasant mob nicked it? And secondly, my wrist was at a right angle. I managed to get myself up from the bed and noticed it was half five. Half five for fuck’s sake, we got off the train at half three! I got off the bed, pulled back my curtain and had a peek in the next cubicle. This ginger nut was looking up at me. It was Millsy.

‘Look at the fucking state of you,’ I said, pissing myself laughing.

‘Have you seen yersel?’ he laughed back.

Within a minute a nurse came in. ‘Stitches or staples Mr Blue?’ she asked.

‘Whit?’

‘Stitches or staples? You’ve got a two-inch laceration on your head that needs stitches or staples.’

‘I don’t really mind to be honest but thanks for the choice. Do whatever you choose, suit yourself. I respect and admire the job you do. What time do you finish?’

Miserable cow never even raised a smile, it was only later I realised I looked like the elephant man’s ugly brother! Six stitches on my head, four butterfly stitches in my jaw, a plaster cast on my arm, eight butterfly stitches on my leg and an armful of painkillers later I signed myself out. When I got out the sister-in-law of one of the younger lads gave me a lift home, which was much appreciated as I could hardly walk.

In the days that followed I found out that of our little firm of twenty-two, eleven ended up in hospital. I had had no choice. I took a right beating and was going to hospital anyway. I got surrounded and, as speed was never my strong point, hospitalisation was inevitable. Millsy, however, the proverbial whippet, could have fucked off unharmed. He didn’t. He came back for me. I respected him before that day, as did everyone in the ICF, but I will never forget what he did at Slateford. Sadly, I’ve lost touch with him now but, if you are reading this, cheers pal.

In my opinion very few firms would have taken on those odds. We always did. Looking back it was always going to end the way it did but we gave it our best shot. We lost that battle; there is no doubt about that. Some people took the view that Hibs overstepped the mark, and a lot of them who thought that way were lads who hadn’t been active over the previous few years. Lads like me who’d been going to raves or bringing up the kids, lads with work commitments. Word about Slateford got around to those who hadn’t been involved and everyone was of one mind: what happened that terrible afternoon would be avenged.

‘Scotland’s number one’ would be knocked right off its fucking perch the next time we played them. Between Slateford and the return match our firm grew, week by week. Old faces returned and before long we were on the road again. Dundee Utd were dispatched in Dundee. We went to Aberdeen, nothing major happened but they knew we were back.

Then the day came. Hibs at Ibrox!

People think I must hate Hibs. I don’t. They did to me what I’d do (and have done) to them. Our pub by then was The Glaswegian and I got there expecting a good firm. This time I wasn’t disappointed. We had eighty solid lads. No idiots, no mates of lads, no voyeurs; this was our main firm. A bag of tools was hidden
away for use later, fair enough, but it was what I heard next that sent a chill down my spine.

‘Two shotguns there, one of those bastards is getting it.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ I thought.

The CCS overstepped the mark in Edinburgh – even when we were down they still kept putting the boot in. They also used weapons. However, getting nicked on a murder charge for a spot of football violence would be ridiculous. By now things were becoming ‘pre-arranged’, with the two mobs calling each other’s pubs. The phone went. It was Hibs.

‘We’re not coming through; there’s not enough of us,’ they said.

‘How many you got?’

‘Only forty.’

‘Only forty,’ we repeated, disbelief in our voices.

If they had come to Glasgow that day they would have been routed. I’m not one for ifs, buts and maybes but it isn’t even worth debating. They would have got smashed. Part of me would have loved to have seen them get destroyed but part of me is glad they never showed up. I genuinely feel at least one of them would have died, especially as I know who had the artillery. It would have been used, without a shadow of a doubt.

Another reason I’m glad they never came through is that it proved that, despite gaining a result a Slateford, Hibs were still wary of pushing their luck. In our world bottling out is worse than being turned over. One firm was turned over, one bottled out. Hibs, wisely for them, avoided Glasgow for a few years after Slateford. Next time they were on the scene they were kissing our arse.

In the meantime . . . Rangers were back.

‘Sandy, why the fuck do you do this?’ asked one of Glasgow’s top football-intelligence officers. ‘You’re giving Rangers a bad name with your antics.’

‘On the contrary,’ I countered. ‘Rangers fans have been involved in violence since time immemorial. We’re carrying on a great tradition.’

And it’s true. ‘No Surrender’ is much more than a slogan. We have a proud tradition for football violence and all the ICF are doing is keeping that tradition alive. Take 1909. After the replayed Old Firm Scottish Cup final also ended in a draw, thousands of Rangers and Celtic fans rioted. But they did not attack each other. Their target was authority in general, and the police in particular. The fans thought that extra time should have been played and suspected there had been collusion between two clubs looking for a second replay and another lucrative payday. Hampden was trashed: the stands were torched; the goalposts ripped down and burned. Dozens of police were attacked, as were the firemen and ambulancemen who had arrived to put out the flames and tend to the injured. It was only by sheer good fortune that no one was killed. The official response was decisive: the 1909 Scottish Cup was withheld and there is no winner’s name on the famous old trophy for 1909. Forget casuals. This was probably the worst outbreak of football violence in British history.

That martial tradition was carried on into the Twenties and Thirties and one gang in particular stands out: the Brigton (from the Glasgow district of Bridgetown) Billy Boys, named in honour of King William of Orange. The Billy Boys, led by ‘King’ Billy Fullerton, numbered eight hundred at its peak and had an excellent flute band, the Bridgeton and Purple and Crown, which Fullerton played in. With the flute band in tow the Billy Boys were regular visitors to Belfast for the marching season and were prominent in many of the sectarian riots of the time. In Glasgow their main rivals were the Norman Conks, a local Catholic street gang, and the two mobs fought many battles in and around the east end armed
with knives, bottles and open razors. The police were slow to react to the new threat and it was only when chief constable Sir Percy Sillitoe threw all the resources at his disposal at the gangs that their power was broken. That police response would be repeated half a century later – but this time the police target was the ICF.

Although many people have compared the Billy Boys to the ICF I believe that modern football violence began with the advent of European football in the late1950s, early 1960s. Rangers regularly got to semi-finals and finals in those days and would often meet English clubs along the way. There was trouble when we played Wolves in 1960/61 and Spurs in 1962/63 and also when we met Leeds in 1967/68 – and that was despite Rangers putting up giant screens at Ibrox to beam back the away leg from Elland Road. Incidentally, that initiative attracted 43,177 to Ibrox, which I believe is a record crowd for a match televised inside a stadium. And unlike Manchester in 2008 the technology actually worked!

However, it was the semi-final of the Fairs Cup (the equivalent of the Europa League) with Newcastle United in May 1969 that really put us on the map. The first leg was at home and a crowd of 75,580 rolled up to Ibrox, which was yet another attendance record, being the biggest ever crowd for a Fairs Cup match. Although Rangers could only manage a goalless draw the demand to see the return, as you might expect, was phenomenal. When the allocation of 12,000 tickets went on sale the queues stretched for miles around Ibrox and tens of thousands were left disappointed. Although the police on both sides of the border advised fans not to travel it was obvious that Rangers fans were going to follow on to Newcastle in huge numbers.

Before considering what happened before, during and after the game we need a little historical context. Rangers had just been trounced 4–0 in the Scottish Cup final by a Celtic team that was in the middle of its nine-in-a-row run under Jock Stein and the Fairs Cup was the last chance we had to regain some pride after an awful domestic season. In addition, a week before the cup final, England had beaten Scotland 4–1 at Wembley, a result that according to the
Daily Record
the English press ‘were still sniggering about’. So losing to an English team in Europe was the last thing Rangers and their fans needed at that point.

The return leg was a huge disappointment. The light blues went two goals down and were on their way out of the competition. The Rangers fans inside St James Park (many of whom were ticketless but had got into
the ground when one of the main entrances was stormed) took it badly. In fact, as Samuel L Jackson might say, ‘they went medieval on their ass’.

With ten minutes to go thousands of bluenoses invaded the pitch and engaged in running battles with the police. As the fighting raged Rangers chairman John Lawrence came onto the pitch to make a plea for calm but such was the ferocity of the fighting that he had to be escorted off for his own safety. Despite the fact that many of the cops were in full riot gear, and had squads of dog handlers to back them up, it took a full eighteen minutes before the pitch was cleared. Nor was it just the Old Bill who felt the wrath of the Rangers fans: one paper reported that ‘some of the Rangers fans kicked the Newcastle players’ as they scurried for the dressing room. Not that Rangers fans are bad losers of course, but there is only so much you can take. The citizens of Newcastle were next in line. After the game the fans went on a rampage, as the
Evening Times
of 22 May 1969 notes, ‘smashing house and shop windows’ all over the city. A spokesman for the Newcastle police said it was, ‘the worst violence I have ever seen in the city,’ a statement backed up by local hospitals, which had to deal with dozens of walking wounded.