Motherwell: Saturday is Service Day

manscript extract six:

A League Cup tie at local rivals Airdrie brought out as many top boys as I’d seen for a while. Wasn’t often we got to play them in a competitive match and the game was eagerly anticipated for the Hooligan potential as much as the footballing significance. We were led in the back way to Broomfield, through a housing scheme where the locals turned out to gape at the sight of 150 well dressed youths being frog-marched through their streets. They probably weren’t used to seeing well dressed youths but we were a major attraction. In the ground the usual slanging match took place at the fence, we had a right good support over with us to see an extra time victory in our favour.

As the final whistle drew closer we got our Lads together closer to the gates, ready for a quick exit to try and take the screws by surprise. They would be waiting to herd us back over the railway bridge and through that manky scheme again but we had other plans. As soon as the whistle blew we moved, not even waiting to cheer the victory, we raced out and turned left, away from the bridge. A couple of screws tried to point us in the right direction but we ignored them and set off towards the Main Street. The majority of the screws must still have been inside the ground as we got a free run at it, right up to the Main Street where we turned left again, towards the town centre and where we knew Airdrie would be appearing. My Grandparents' house was within vision and I wondered if they’d be watching the action which was about to unfold. The pace was quickening as we got closer to the roundabout beside the courthouse, where we reckoned they should appear. And we weren’t disappointed, we saw the first of them coming round the corner, and the ones at the front started a quick jog. As more of them came round it turned into a full sprint, as usual I was at the back, the wrong position for this battle, and had to make up a lot of ground. I wanted in on this, Airdrie were always mouthing about what they did to Motherwell, most of it untrue, and I wanted to make them pay so dearly for their lies. We had to hurt them on their own patch so that those who sat and listened to their fairy tales in the pubs and clubs in their ignorance, might learn enough for them not to be able to make up any more stories, not this time anyway. My family over there had heard them spouting their shite on numerous occasions, and were always on the phone asking if this happened and that happened. Tonight we would prove once and for all what a bunch of wasters they were.

As they mobbed up they must have got the fright of their lives, not one of our 150 broke stride as we went into them, they immediately scattered, save for one or two mad bastards. They had a few hardy lads, I knew from experience, just not enough to take on this mob. Those who stood got a doing, and the rest....well, suffice to say we didn’t get a look at their faces to recognise them again. I saw a crutch being hoisted above the mob, then coming down on someone’s head I think, one of the boys had broken an ankle and Cowboy had commandeered one of his crutches, using it to good effect it would seem. Only thing was the screws spotted him as well and came after him, taking the crutch into custody as evidence, leaving one poor cunt to hobble home. We did manage to get him a lift back later on.

Seemed like the screws were almost ready for something like this, they just got their timing slightly out, by the time they came on the scene, Airdrie’s finest were (sorry about this) ‘Well and truly routed!!! They wouldn’t be bragging tonight as it was there for all to see. One was in his usual place in a club round the corner later that night. On his own, keeping quiet, when my cousin, who’d watched it from my Grandparents' window, happened to mention, "No’ saying much tonight" with a wide grin, he promptly finished his pint and left, without so much as saying "Thanks for the Service." (sorry again, can’t help these puns, they just flow late at night).

From that point our evening went from the sublime to the ridiculous, the Old Bill hadn't a clue what to do with us. First they lined us up on one side of the road and started marching us away from the town centre, telling us we were walking home. Suited us, we’d no doubt get a few rucks over the 12 mile course. About a mile up the road they stopped us and turned us back towards the town centre, but only for a little while before they got nervous in case there were any Section B hanging about for us to teach another lesson. After what seemed like ages they eventually led us down to the Train Station, lined us up again and went down the line telling everyone to have their money ready before we got on the train if our tickets weren’t valid for the return journey. Of course none of them were as we were informed we’d be sent through to Glasgow and then to Central for a Motherwell train. Another game of ‘Call My Bluff’ was in order and we said we didn’t have enough after paying for the original tickets. After much consternation one of the top brass gave us the big lecture and told us we had no option but to be escorted home. Again, we had little success in our bluff but what the hell, we were having a laugh at the screws' expense. Even more so round the corner when the first dozen or so hailed a few taxis so they could get last orders in at The Focus.

I jumped in one, and heard later those who walked it got into a few scrapes in some of the villages on the way, Chapelhall, Holytown, Newarthill. Nothing they couldn’t handle though, obviously the street gangs in those villages wouldn’t be prepared for a mob of 50 SS coming for a visit.