Andrew Woods - No One Like Us, We Dont Care. True Stories from Millwall, Britains Most Notorious Football Holigans

Serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence. In other words, it is war minus the shooting.

George Orwell

W e heard the chant:

Leeds Leeds Leeds

Somebody opened the doors of The Duke of Albany and ten of the Leeds Service Crew were walking past the pub. We shot out the doors and attacked. Eight of us steamed straight into them. My eyes locked on the one nearest to me. I ran at him and threw a right as hard as possible. It caught this geezer flush on the temple and he stumbled into one of his boys. So much had gone into that right that I stumbled over, too. I knew hed been caught with a good un and, as I looked up, another five Millwall boys were running across the road towards us. The fella who I hit was heavily dazed. Two more of our firm came from behind me, and one of them punched him on the top of his head. The other kicked him in the leg, trying to take him down.

The Service Crew were surrounded. Punches and kicks were raining in. The Leeds boys were covering up, with just the odd one trying to throw a punch back. They were all backed up to each other in a tight little ball. Still no one was on the floor. Fifteen people throwing punches and kicking fuck out of them. It carried on for about ten seconds. Then one Leeds fan spotted a gap and they all made a dash for their lives, back towards the Old Kent Road. They were running through the hordes and taking kicks and punches until the pack swallowed them up and they disappeared out of my sight.

And now? Now I am involved. I am pumped up. Elated. The adrenalin is rushing through my body. My heart is pumping so fast it could keep ten men going. I have just thrown my first punch at an opposing fan. I am buzzing. It had all happened so quickly. Twenty seconds from hearing the chant to watching them sprint up the road. Twenty seconds that guaranteed the path I was going to take for more than the next twenty years. Yet it had seemed like it had all happened in slow motion. Concentrate! Hit! Dont get hit! Hit and dont get hit. We strolled back into the pub. And it is official. I am a hooligan.

It was a day that would never be forgotten. By me, at any rate. It was Saturday, 8 November 1986. Me, my two uncles and five of their firm were drinking in The Albany, a pub on the Monson Road about 200 yards from The Den. This was my official introduction to fighting at football. From fighting in the playgrounds to fighting in the pubs, this was a natural progression. From that day I was hooked. Being involved with the most feared, vicious, brutal and violent hooligan firm in the country is a buzz that cannot be given to you by any amount of drink or drugs. Any hooligan in the country deep down deep down wishes that he was born a Millwall fan. Anyone who denies it is a liar!

I had been going with my dad all season. In fact, I had been going with my dad for years. Every home game we would meet all his and my uncles friends in the pub. My father totally abhorred all the violence at football. Yet the firm members were also members of his family and a lot of his friends. He was never involved in any of the fighting. For years, when the boys in the pub were leaving for some trouble, my dad would stay behind making sure I stayed with him. No words were spoken. No lectures. No, Now listen, son, I dont want you to get involved with the firm, its trouble, one day someone wont come back from one of these games! Nothing like that. Nothing. Just a look. Maybe he could see the growing sense of intrigue and fascination within me. How my ears pricked up and my eyes lit up when the chaps in the firm were talking about some recent fight or other. Without saying it, it was very clear to me that my dad did not want me to join The Firm.

He did not go that particular day. Me and my two uncles were there. My dad was working in a warehouse near the Old Kent Road. He was a storeman for a big stationery company and I knew he was going to start missing more and more games. Saturday was now overtime for him. Time-and-a-half. Sunday was double time. Times were tough. We werent rolling about in money.

I had been building up to this day for a couple of years; on the fringe without being involved. On this day, my time had come. Simple as that. No one had put any pressure on me. No one told me to get involved. For years I had been in the firms pub, drinking with them, hearing some stories. There was no recruitment process. It was now time to choose whether to just pile in with them, stay on the periphery, or back out totally. My time had come. Leeds were in town and everyone knew what that meant. A big club with a big following meant a big chance of a big ruck. We were drinking in the pub and had had a couple of pints when we first heard the chant.

Glasses hit the table and the race was on to get out. After the fight, everyone talked about it in the pub. We were laughing and joking, but only in our own little circles. No one was shouting at the top of their voices. Thats the Millwall way. You never know who could be standing next to you. This was clear to me long before I threw that first right-hand punch. No one said anything to me about my involvement. Everyone just went back to their drinks. Within a few minutes, the conversation had moved on and it was almost like it had never happened.

A couple of people came in and told us that Leeds were everywhere. Straight away, the atmosphere changed. Everyone readied themselves for the next bit of action. We started making our way to the ground. I didnt see any trouble outside the ground and I entered the Ilderton Road Stand, or The Halfway Line as it was known. Not another thought about the fight entered my head. Now it was time to concentrate on the match although its a bit hard when youre that pissed. Fighting broke out across the pitch from me in the Cold Blow Lane end but nothing major.

After the match, we headed straight back to The Albany and back on the piss. I had a couple of pints there and walked on down the Old Kent Road to The Dun Cow. We stayed there drinking until my head was swimming so much I had to go home. I had just turned 13.

The club nearly went bust following my first involvement: MILLWALL FORCED TO MAKE HOME GAMES ALL-TICKET FOLLOWING FIGHTING WITH LEEDS.

I didnt think too much about the press reports, nor about the repercussions I was too busy buzzing off my first involvement as a hooligan. But we were forced by the Football League to make all home games all-ticket. How was that going to deter hooligans? We had met a few of The Service Crew as they came past our pub shouting, Leeds Leeds Leeds.

What the fuck did it matter whether I had a ticket in my pocket or not? Millwall lost a lot of revenue. Picture the scene its half-past two on a Saturday afternoon. Two geezers finish a job early.

Fancy going football?

Cant the ticket office will be shut by the time we get there.

Oh shite forgot about that lets go for a pint in a pub near the ground and see if we can kick the fuck out of some away fans instead then, eh?

Yeah, why not?

See what I mean? All-ticket!

The average attendance went from 6,000 down to 3,200 after this piece of legislation. The average number of hooligans? Well, that just stayed the same. Everyone was still drinking in the pubs and milling around the ground on matchdays, even if they didnt go in. It was no great problem. Our tickets were always organised. One of us would go to the ticket office on Cold Blow Lane. Having to sort out a ticket is no real deterrent, is it? If anything, it just shows how slow the authorities were in dealing with the problem. For me and the chaps in our firm, it meant nothing.