Rangers and the Famous ICF: My Life With Scotland's Most-Feared Football Hooligan Gang (22 page)

After being routed we regrouped outside the Rangers end. Despite being surrounded by a line of riot police the Ajax mob were undeterred. They steamed right into the police line in an attempt to get at us. This allowed the ‘gallant twenty’, and a few Rangers scarfers, to land a few punches and kicks on Ajax but it was no more than a token gesture.

I went into the game well and truly gutted. We hadn’t shown our true colours and had been humiliated. With the exception of Slateford it was the worst day of my hooligan career. The annoying thing was that everyone had been well up for it in the pub the night before, or so they said. It just goes to show how powerful an emotion fear is. The easiest thing in the world is to panic and run away, as so many of our boys did, many of them before they clapped eyes on Ajax.

To make matters worse Rangers went two down and then Gazza was sent off, with Ajax winning 4–1. We just couldn’t leave it there. A potent combination of anger and shame made our minds up: we would stay for another night and get our own back on the Dutch. So after taking Harky to the hospital the gallant twenty went back to Hooters, where fifty Rangers scarfers were also drinking. The police were taking no chances and positioned a hundred riot cops round the bar. It was a wise move because at the entrance to a lane to the right of Hooters sixty Dutch hooligans were trying to force their way through the police lines. We did our best to push through from the other side but the line of cops held firm.

The Old Bill were there all night and at one point I got into a conversation with one of the senior officers, who explained there was a mob of sixty Ajax desperate to attack us.

‘Watch out,’ he warned. ‘They might be carrying guns.’

‘Don’t worry,’ one of the boys replied, ‘We carry blades,’ which left the head cop rather bemused.

The night petered out after that, leaving us with bitter memories of defeats both on and off the field.

In July 1998 we met Shelbourne in the UEFA Cup. Any game against a club from the Republic of Ireland was likely to generate huge interest from us. For obvious reasons our antagonism towards that country knows no bounds. We were also well aware of what happened when Rangers travelled to play Bohemians of Dublin in the UEFA Cup of 1984/85: fans from Scotland and Northern Ireland were subject to sustained attack both inside and outside the stadium and that could not go unanswered, even if it was a decade and a half ago. The other reason that the Shelbourne game was so attractive was that it was Dick Advocaat’s first competitive game in charge, the dawn of what we hoped would be a glorious new era for the club.

In view of the potential for trouble the away leg of the tie was switched from Ireland to Merseyside and would be played at Prenton Park, home of Tranmere Rovers. That was a bummer. Nothing would have given us more pleasure than taking our brand of violence to the Republic and sticking it to them over there. It would have been awesome, Daniel in the lion’s den. ‘Fuck it,’ we thought, ‘we’ll just have to take them on in Birkenhead.’ But the authorities tried to close down that option as well: the Shelbourne fans were to be held in a seaside town in the north-west of England and bussed straight in to the ground. Despite all the obstacles being put in our way we were still very excited about the game. The trouble potential was high; it was too good to miss.

However, what should have been one of the most memorable days of my life turned out to be one of the most devastating. And for reasons that had nothing to do with football.

With there being no opposition fans in Liverpool city centre we spent the day getting drunk before jumping in a taxi that took us through the Mersey tunnel into Birkenhead and dropped us at a bar called the Clipper, which is close to Prenton Park. There were thirty ICF in the pub but we also noticed that a large number of ordinary Rangers fans were hanging about, hoping to bait the Shelbourne contingent before going to the stadium. Sensing the danger the police were on the case pretty quickly. They barged into the pub and told us to get out, sharpish. We gave them a quick reply – a hail of bottles and beer glasses. Within minutes they were back, this time with the riot squad. A vicious fight broke out between us and the Old Bill, in which endeavour we were ably assisted by Rangers scarfers. It got so bad that, and I kid you not, a mounted policeman, horse and all,
tried to get inside the Clipper. Eventually, the Old Bill managed to restore order and we reluctantly headed for the ground.

The early part of the game was a nightmare. Rangers were 3–0 down to what is essentially a semi-professional team playing in a Mickey Mouse league. The ICF was behind one of the goals, at the opposite end of the park from the Shelbourne fans. Amid the anger there was talk of invading the pitch to get the game abandoned, while others expressed their frustration by throwing missiles onto the pitch, including a bottle of tomato ketchup stolen from the refreshment stall. At the same time arguments broke out between us and Rangers scarfers, which culminated in a huge fist fight at the pie stall at half time. Swedgers and I were in the thick of it, rolling about on the floor with two pricks who had accused us of not getting behind the team. Even members of the ICF didn’t approve.

‘This is a disgrace. Fighting with your own fans,’ one of them shouted.

‘Fuck off. Mind your own business,’ we told them, in no uncertain terms.

Swedgers and I knew arrest was imminent so we left at half time, missing the great Rangers revival and a 5–3 win. We ran into Boris and some of the other boys, who had been involved in scuffles with Scousers and were now doing their best to avoid the many riot-squad officers on the streets. Given the distinct possibility of being arrested a decision was made to head into Liverpool city centre for a piss-up. After a few beers the other boys decided to head home to Glasgow. I had intended to go back up that day by car but Swedgers and I decided to stay on in Merseyside and go home the following day.

We had arranged to meet another mate in Birkenhead, where we were to spend the night. It was time to make a move so we got up and walked out of the pub. And what a shock we got. There right in front of us, a few feet away, were the Rangers fans we had been fighting with at Prenton Park. They were now part of a group of twenty. I turned to look at Swedgers, as if to say, ‘Oh fuck. Just our luck when the other boys have gone home.’ A fraught discussion followed, in which the earlier tussle was heatedly discussed. Then, just when Swedgers and I were ready to start throwing punches, one of the scarfers said:

‘I know Chugg well. I’ll get on the phone to him to get youse sorted out.’

We fell about laughing. We let the boy rabbit on before Swedgers put him out of his misery.

‘That’s Chugg. That’s him right there.’

I showed him a tattoo with my name on it but still he was unconvinced.

‘You must be Chugg’s brother,’ he insisted.

But he looked embarrassed, as did his pals, and to save their blushes they fucked off. What could have been a very moody situation turned out to be a right good laugh.

The next day, with hangovers Charlie Sheen could only dream about, we went to Lime Street for a train, where we met Pedro McL, a good mate, who very kindly offered us a lift back to Glasgow in his minibus. Before we set off I made a quick phone call to my mum, who gave me some shocking news.

My best pal had been shot dead.

His name was John McNair and we had been friends for years. I was shattered and what made it even worse was that I had an altercation with John over a trifling amount of money the week before. The row escalated and as I walked away my last words to him were, ‘I’m gonnae shoot you.’ How I regretted those words now.

John had been having a running feud with a young gang member from the Duke Street area, a guy who boasted to me that he had a handgun and was going to use it on my friend. I didn’t take the threats seriously but I should have done. John was enticed to Bathgate Street in Dennistoun and then fatally shot in the abdomen. It was such a waste, one young guy dead at the age of twenty-five and another in jail for his murder, all because of male bravado.

I could write a book about John McNair. He was a larger-than-life character, one of the best fighters I have ever come across and totally fearless. His killer could never have taken him without the gun and he knew it. I have never got over my friend’s death and not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. How I wish I had never uttered those last words, spoken in the heat of the moment.

John, wherever you are, I hope you can forgive me.

With our previous experience of Dutch hooligans we knew that a trip to Eindhoven in September 1999 for a Champions League fixture would be tasty. The PSV mob may not have had the same fearsome reputation as their compatriots at Ajax, Feyenoord and Den Haag but they were still formidable. At that time, in the wake of the 1998 World Cup, the ICF regularly pulled a hardcore mob of sixty, home and away. The vast
majority were pure Rangers but some were ex Hibs boys who had been with us in the Scottish National Firm.

As usual in that era it was trains, planes and automobiles for the trip to Holland. I flew out with the east-end contingent and some other boys, including Fat McLeod and Colin Bell. We plotted up in Amsterdam the night before the game and enjoyed the usual shit of beer, coke and cannabis. The next day forty of us met up in Hooters while another ten of the mob went ahead to Eindhoven to look for match tickets. With two-and-a-half hours until kickoff we walked to Amsterdam station to catch a train for the hour-long journey to Eindhoven.

On the way I took a phone call from one of our boys in Eindhoven. He had spotted a mob of two hundred PSV hooligans in a nearby pub.

‘How far away are you?’ my pal asked, knowing that he was likely to need help urgently.

‘Five minutes,’ I replied.

At that precise moment PSV attacked. Our mates were in deep shit and we couldn’t wait to get off that train and help them. When the train stopped we almost ripped the doors off and tore out of the station. It was a race to see who would get to PSV first: the ICF or the Dutch Old Bill.

In the pub it was fucking mayhem. The ten ICF and a few Rangers scarfers were just about holding their assailants at bay, ably assisted by a big half-caste boy called Jan, who turned out to be one of Feyenoord’s main faces. We got there about the same time as a huge contingent of cops and our presence allied to theirs soon had PSV on the back foot. Davie Carrick was as usual in the thick of the action and he got himself arrested for smashing a bottle off the head of a Dutch tail-ender (which would actually work in his favour later that day). After ten minutes PSV were well and truly defeated and they left the scene with a big police contingent in hot pursuit.

We were raging. Instead of scattering the back of PSV’s mob we could have been having it with two hundred of them. If we had got there a few minutes earlier it would have been mob on mob and a full-scale battle would have been on the cards. Maybe we would get a second chance. Jan – along with a German guy known for running with foreign mobs – guided us through the back streets of Eindhoven, where Feyenoord had previously had it with PSV. Unfortunately, we drew a blank and instead of meeting a group of hooligans we ran straight into a police cordon, where match tickets were being checked.

It was clear the chance of a return with PSV had passed, at least for the time being, and so our thoughts turned to the football. I had a ticket but had also promised six of our boys that I would be able to get them a corporate ticket thanks to a deal I had made in the run-up to the game. However, they thought that with the heavy police presence and the potential for more trouble the tickets might not materialise. Just as they were debating whether to go to the pub to watch the game I told them to hang fire and that I would go through the cordon and get the tickets. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes,’ I assured them.

I was allowed through the cordon and went to look for the main entrance to the stadium, where the ticket office was located. I asked a steward for directions and he said, ‘Follow me but keep quiet or you will be in great danger.’ When I got to the office I asked the clerk for my six tickets, which were in the name of William Reid. The guy couldn’t believe his eyes. Standing in front of him was a football casual, out of his face on cocaine, asking for six corporate tickets. He refused to hand them over even though I pointed out the envelope with ‘William Reid’ written on it to him.

Gutted, I phoned Big Boris, who was stuck behind police lines.

‘No joy. I can’t get the tickets,’ I told him.

‘Cool. The boys who can’t get in are going back to the pub where PSV attacked us to watch the game. The rest of us will get you at the Rangers end. There is fuck all happening here.’

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

I was escorted to the Rangers end by the same Dutch steward and after I thanked him for his help he wished me good luck. It was now twenty-five minutes to kickoff and I waited there with a couple of the other boys for Boris and his contingent. When no one showed I phoned Boris again, but this time got no reply. I was then approached by three of the PSV mob, two of whom were wearing Umbro, which to us was the dodgiest of dodgy gear. The other boy to his credit was in Stone Island and looked the part. They must have picked me out because of my clothes. I was wearing a Stone Island jacket, a Paul and Shark jumper and Hugo Boss jeans.

Pleasantries were exchanged.

‘Do you want it Scottish cunts?’

‘Fuck off you Dutch cunts. We will see you after the game. You’re big and brave with two hundred police behind me. Fuck off before you get me arrested,’ I snarled.

For some reason a chill ran down my spine. It was a premonition.

Young Rico McGill appeared. He was ashen faced. Something had gone off, that was obvious.

‘What the fuck’s happened? I can’t get hold of Big Boris on the blower.’

Rico gave me chapter and verse.

It all went off big time. You’ve just missed one hell of a fight. All the lads have been rounded up by the Old Bill. I managed to sneak away. Just after you phoned Boris to tell him you hadn’t got tickets the boys started to go through the security cordon. The place was crawling with what looked like normal PSV fans. They had surrounded us and on a pre-arranged signal we were attacked from all sides. But credit where it’s due: despite being outnumbered four-to-one, the boys kept steaming back into PSV. Our boys were in the thick of some fierce hand-to-hand fighting while some of them got hit by bottles and bricks, which cut them up badly.