Rangers and the Famous ICF: My Life With Scotland's Most-Feared Football Hooligan Gang (20 page)

After the game forty of us mobbed up in the (now closed) Clachan pub in Paisley Road West and from there we walked to Copland Road tube station. We were desperate even for a small dose of revenge and our frustration was such that when a few Rangers scarfers, mistaking us for Man U’s mob, attacked us, we gave them a bit of a slap on the train into the city centre. We got off at St Enoch’s but were met by wall-to-wall police, which forced us to split into smaller groups. We knew United were drinking close by, in All Bar One, and although it was a suicide mission we were determined to have a go. Such was my anger at United taking liberties that I can only describe my mood as deranged. I walked towards their pub with only one thought in my mind.

I got within fifty yards of All Bar One when I was spotted by Rab Hynds and his fellow FI officers. Two of his colleagues grabbed me, and unceremoniously dragged me into a shop doorway. ‘Get yourself to fuck out of the city centre or you’ll be arrested,’ one of them growled. They knew that because of my bail situation I had no choice but to obey their instructions and my mission had to be aborted.

I was gutted but was already plotting my revenge.

For the away leg I was confident of taking a hundred boys to Manchester, despite the fact that, quite scandalously in my opinion, the city centre was in lockdown and tickets were as scarce as the proverbial hen’s teeth. I travelled down with Big Boris and Swedgers and we found superior lodgings at the five-star Midland hotel. As with the home leg we went out drinking with Boris’s Red Army pals the night before the game and who was in our party but the legend that is Fat McLeod, who was now living in Manchester where he had become a member of the United mob. It was a great night, with no animosity. The next morning we heard that Mickey Francis – legendary leader of the Manchester City Guvnors mob – had opened his pub for us, thus flouting the mass-closure policy adopted by the Manchester authorities. We jumped into a taxi and went to Mickey’s but when we got to our destination I was dejected. There were only thirty ICF in the place, a really poor show after what happened at Ibrox. To make matters worse it wasn’t long before legions of Greater Manchester Police officers arrived. The game was a bogey as far as FV was concerned and to make matters worse Rangers went down by three goals to nil.

The two Champions League games in 2003 with Manchester United marked a real low point in ICF history. We hardly laid a glove on them,
either on or off the field. Worse than that they took the piss and they haven’t stopped gloating ever since, as you will discover if you read O’Neill’s books. We did however get a small dose of revenge when we met them again in the Champions League of 2010/11. The skirmishes outside the Broomloan and Govan stands definitely went our way and that at least was something.

The Souness Revolution, which started in 1986, put Rangers back on the map not only on the domestic scene but also in European competition. In Europe there was now no comparison with the dog days of the early 1980s: we qualified every year; our runs were longer; the clubs we faced were bigger; the tournaments more prestigious. That meant there were endless opportunities for football violence with top mobs across the Continent. And we didn’t miss a trick. The ICF did more than any other firm in the country (including those in England) to show our friends in France, Italy, Holland, Spain and Germany just what British hooligans were all about.

My first experience of going abroad with Rangers was, however, a somewhat low-key affair. It was 1989. I was seventeen, an apprentice welder at Kvaerner Govan shipyard and for the first time in my life I had some disposable cash. We drew Bayern Munich in the first round of the old European Cup and although we were well beaten by three goals to one at Ibrox in the first leg I was determined to go to Germany for the return.

The ICF didn’t go abroad in great numbers in those days and I suppose I went out there as a scarfer. I was with two older boys from the Barrowfield/Bridgeton area, Spud and Hadger, and we got on the Toryglen True Blues bus that left from the Lin O’Dee pub in Rutherglen’s main street. I was well warned that if I fell asleep I would get my eyebrows cut off so I stayed awake for the whole thirty-six hour trip.

We got to Munich at five in the morning and after being told we couldn’t have a kip on the bus we slept in the main railway station, surrounded by vagrants. We got lucky though. The annual Munich beer festival was on and the atmosphere on the streets was vibrant, so different from normal away games in Scotland. The German people were in
general very welcoming, despite the war and the sea of Union Jacks all over their city. There wasn’t any trouble in the hours leading up to the game although there was one highlight. Many of us were keen shoplifters and we cleaned out a jewellers-cum-bureau-de-change of half its stock. I nabbed a men’s gold bracelet, which I sold for £100 to another Rangers fan. That little bonus paid for my entire trip, including my ticket for the game.

The game was played in the old Olympic stadium, part of a big complex that includes swimming, gymnasiums and many other sports. The football stadium was impressive and I particularly admired its spider’s-web design. There were thousands of Rangers in attendance and while there were many verbals of the ‘who won the war’ variety it was all fairly light-hearted. The Bayern supporters had a massive flag with ‘Let’s Go Bayern’ on it and I have to say it looked very impressive. Rangers had a good chance to get back in the tie when Terry Butcher found himself unmarked in the box but he couldn’t take it and although we managed a creditable goalless draw we were out of Europe at the first time of asking.

The ferry trip home was a gas. Rangers fans cleaned out the duty-free shop, which was a regular occurrence when we went abroad. In fact things got so bad that the shop had to be closed to avoid further losses. There was nothing the owners could do. With up to twenty supporters buses per ferry the staff were swamped by hordes of bluenoses eager for booty. When we got home we sold the goods we had stolen and the proceeds helped pay for our travel and match costs. Sometimes the boys kept the perfume they lifted and took it home to their wives, just to keep them sweet.

Munich had been exhilarating. I was hooked on Europe and couldn’t wait for the next trip.

1992/93 was a great season for Rangers. A domestic treble was secured, in which we won both the League Cup and Scottish Cup at Celtic Park while Hampden was being redeveloped. How sweet it was to win two cups at the ground of our oldest rivals. It was also our greatest European season for decades. In the newly created Champions League we came through two preliminary rounds, including the Battle of Britain, in which we beat English champions Leeds United home and away. A place in the
group stages of the competition beckoned, and we were bracketed with Marseille, Bruges and CSKA Moscow.

It was a great chance for the ICF to make a mark on Europe and our first stop was Bruges. In the run-up to the game, which was played in March 1993, there had been a lot of coverage in the
Daily Record
about Bruges’s well-deserved reputation for FV, including their penchant for attacking other mobs with baseball bats. Their top man was of Chinese extraction and was reputedly a fearsome street fighter. With great originality he had been given the nickname, The Chink. Going over there would be a real test but we were well up for it.

I travelled on the Shettleston Loyal bus, which was getting a great reputation for thieving, partying and fighting. Harky was there too along with several more ICF members and a contingent from the east end, while some of the other boys got a seat on the many supporters buses heading for Belgium. The drug of choice at the time was ecstasy and the bus was awash with the stuff. Not only did it make us feel good it was also brilliant for keeping you awake and alert, which, in the days before charter flights, was a necessity.

We got to Bruges on the morning of the game and despite the freezing cold we made for the main square of this historic city (think Edinburgh) where we plotted up in the midst of a healthy contingent of Rangers scarfers. Everyone was in high spirits. Rangers had played two games in the group stages, winning one and drawing the other and there was a feeling that we had a real chance of winning the group and going into the Champions League final.
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The ICF of course had other things to think about, namely the Bruges mob, of whom there was, as yet, no sign.

The drink flowed, the tabs were swallowed. Still no sign of The Chink and his firm. It was getting near to kickoff and we decided to walk the mile to the stadium. Along the way, perhaps out of frustration, one of our boys threw a bottle at the wall of a bar. Luckily for us, it was the very bar in which Bruges were ensconced. They poured out, steam coming out of their ears. We chanted ‘ICF, ICF,’ and within seconds the air was thick with flying glass and aluminium chairs. We definitely got the better of it, pushing them back into their pub as dozens of individual duels went off around the front door.

Within minutes the Belgian Old Bill had swamped the area. It was time to move on. We streamed away from the fight zone but a couple of us had to go back for one of our mates, Craig C, who was scrapping with two Belgians, oblivious to the very real risk of arrest. I noticed that one of the Bruges lads was about to attack Craig from behind so I kicked the sneaky fucker right up the arse and bundled our boy away before the cops could nab him. As for our first skirmish with Bruges we won that one on points and didn’t we let them know it.

That was our triumphant refrain as we marched to the stadium, hoping and praying that round two was just around the corner. Nothing went off during the game. We were put in a shed behind the goals and watched with some satisfaction as Rangers emerged with a creditable 1–1 draw, thanks to an equaliser from Peter Huistra. The holy grail of the European game was now a distinct possibility; with a bit of luck we could emulate the Soap Dodgers by getting to the Champions League final and winning it.

After the game Bruges came looking for it, enraged that they had been done in their backyard. There was a clash on some football pitches close to the stadium, which was made all the more dangerous and confusing because we had to fight in complete darkness. I got isolated and as I blundered around in the dark, trying to get back into the fight, a cop on horseback grabbed me by the hood of my Berghaus jacket. The hood was buttoned on and as he exerted pressure it came away, allowing me to escape from his clutches.

The cops quickly restored order and we walked back to our buses feeling that we had acquitted ourselves well. There were no other offs with Bruges but on the way home we emptied a sports shop of most of its contents in Zeebrugge and then did the same to the duty-free concession on the ferry.

Happy days.

Having beaten Bruges 2–1 in the home leg (thanks to a fluky goal from Scott Nisbet) we were now well placed to reach the final of the 1992/93
Champions League. Our away game in Marseille – by now our only serious group rivals – would be crucial. There was no way we were going to miss out on that one.

We didn’t travel as a mob of ICF. The plan was to meet up in Marseille and get down to business from there. I again went with the Shettleston Loyal and for this trip we shared a bus with Rangers fans from Renfrew. The usual boys from the east end were on board, including Big Craw from Drumchapel, Robbo and Mark Hendry. Given that we had a great chance of progressing to the final the atmosphere on the road south to Dover was electric, fuelled as usual by alcohol and drugs. Of course we liberated the duty-free shop on the ship, with Big Craw stealing enormous amounts of perfume and designer sunglasses.

In France, with a journey of almost five hundred miles ahead of us, the bus convener decided that we would stop off in Paris for a couple of hours to break the monotony. We parked up in the Palais d’Opera, a wealthy and exclusive area, where we split into small groups, eager to take in the sights. Little did we know it would be our worst pit stop of all time.

I was in a group of twenty boys and as we were exploring we found ourselves in a back street, where we were confronted by the biggest collection of pimps, prostitutes and transvestites this side of Sodom and Gomorrah. It was an amazing contrast with the elegant boulevards just yards away and after a quick drink we decided that it was too dodgy even for us. We headed back in the general direction of the bus and with forty-five minutes to spare we went into one of the many pavement cafes for a drink. The Renfrew boys were already in there having a quiet beer and at that stage there was no sign of the mayhem that was to follow.

Having paid our bar tab we strolled out of the cafe and were heading for the bus when the owner came rushing out, holding a receipt and gesticulating wildly. He claimed that some boys hadn’t paid their bill and although we insisted that everyone had squared him up he was having none of it. We couldn’t calm him down. He was in a total frenzy, and, as the argument continued, the commotion attracted dozens of onlookers, ordinary Parisians going about their everyday business. It became clear that neither side was prepared to back down and in sheer frustration the cafe owner grabbed an ICF boy and tried to drag him back inside, while shouting ‘police, police’ at the top of his voice.

Cue bedlam.

One of our guys decked the owner, sending him spinning onto the pavement. That spurred the onlookers into action and before you could
say cheese-eating-surrender-monkeys they attacked us, enraged by the assault on a fellow Parisian and perhaps also by the sight of so many Union Jacks on their streets. There were fist fights going off everywhere and, quite bizarrely, I was confronted by a portly businessman in a smart suit and overcoat. He swung his briefcase at me for all he was worth in what was one of the most surreal moments of my hooligan career.