Читать книгу Wednesday Rucks and Rock 'n' Roll - Anthony Cronshaw - Страница 9

This was to be the dawn of a new beginning for Tommy and his mates. The days of treading the boards with the likes of Manchester United, Liverpool and Arsenal had disappeared years ago and those teams had been replaced by much more serious opposition with the unstoppable Mansfield Town, Wrexham and Aldershot calling at Hillsborough. They marked the first match of this new season by travelling in style; a luxurious mini-bus had been booked. Tommy had again got himself tarted up in his finest match day attire and quickly met up with the rest of the lads outside the Frecheville. As he sat outside the pub waiting for the bus to arrive, he thought about the previous evening’s antics. The boys had enjoyed an evening’s entertainment at a local disco pub called The Mill, and Tommy managed to finish up in the company of a young lady who had offered to take him home because her family were away for the weekend. This really left the poor boy with a dilemma: should he enjoy the delights that were being offered to him on a plate or join the lads on that long walk home? It only took him two minutes for decision to be made; even though the offer was very tempting, the risk of oversleeping in the arms of the young lady was a risk that he was not prepared to take. Miss out on the first game of the football season because of sex? He would never live it down! What kind of man would take such a risk? Anyway they had plans to visit The Mill again on the Sunday evening and if the offer was still on, Tommy would definitely take her up it. The following day was just an ordinary working day – missing work wouldn’t kill him, but missing the match certainly would. Nevertheless, he was given some right stick for passing up the opportunity to spend the evening in some nice female company for a trip to Southend.

The bus finally turned up and it looked a right bag of shit – worse than Webbo’s transit van! It was a right rust bucket. Archie had really pushed the boat out and was receiving a torrent of verbal abuse, but his usual reply was forthcoming – ‘Someone else can sort out the arrangements next time, you moaning bastards’. Everyone on board talked about how they couldn’t believe that their famous football club was for the first time in its glorious history having to sample life in the third tier of English football. Sheffield Wednesday, who had won the League title on four occasions and lifted the FA Cup three times – who had tasted European football – were now off in the direction of Southend United. And just when the boys thought things couldn’t get any more depressing, disaster was just around the corner. The bus only made it as far as Mansfield before smoke was billowing from the engine. This was definitely not the start that they had hoped for and while most of the lads sat slumped by the motorway’s edge looking rather despondent, the driver was frantically trying to rectify the situation. He finally managed to crawl that bag of garbage off the motorway and come to a shuddering stop at a nearby garage. Tommy was now feeling really sorry for himself, wishing he’d taken that girl up on her offer instead of languishing with this motley crew in the middle of nowhere! Finally a replacement bus turned up but by now they were really pushing it to make the kick off. The new bus and driver was top notch and poor old Archie was still copping for some right stick from the lads. But with kick-off fast approaching the driver, who had rightly earned himself the nickname of Stirling, had well and truly done the business and with only five minutes to spare the bus entered the ground’s car park.

It looked has though all the blue half of Sheffield had made the effort in support of their team – the place was full to bursting in the away end. It was a glorious sunny day and after all those dismal days the previous season this was what it was all about. Their team, their mates, their football; nothing else really mattered. Tommy had already dismissed the young lady from last night – he had made the right decision. The thought of missing out on all of this was too much to bear. This was what the game they loved was all about; the camaraderie, the pride of being wanted. This was special.

The game itself passed them by far too quickly and before they knew it Wednesday had again tasted defeat, beaten 2-1. The driver commented that with a bit of luck he would have them home well before last orders; his face was a picture when he was told that the lads had actually booked the return journey for midnight. Tommy really enjoyed these away days – they were what made following your team the length and breadth of the country so great. He was now coming to realise why he had been left sobbing at home back in 1966 while his Dad and Uncle Fred and the rest of their boozy mates enjoyed that trip to Villa Park. Tommy and his mates entered a pub called the Foresters, which was jampacked with all the familiar faces they associated with on their travels in support of the Owls. A band was on stage, belting out that classic track from Jeff Beck which was soon converted to ‘Hi Ho Sheffield Wednesday’ instead of ‘Silver Lining’. The beer was now flowing faster than ever and everyone was in a party mood – the band were now fighting a losing battle and every time they tried to play anything other than ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ they were showered with beer. People were dancing on the tables and hanging from the light fittings; the place was chaotic but the tills were ringing so the management were also happy with the situation.

Tommy and Bob decided to take in some of the nice sea air and leave the manic atmosphere of the pub for a short while. It was the night of the Southend Carnival and some grumpy old man in a navy blue uniform was flinging his arms about and informing the general public that the rows upon rows of neatly-stacked deck chairs had been safely tucked away for the evening. As Southend’s answer to Adolf Hitler goose-stepped away in the distance, Tom – never one to miss out on the opportunity to make the odd shilling – soon had the situation under control. The thought of all the old folk stood on their feet for the duration was the main reason that the lads acted the way they did; it was not about the money, it was the decent thing to do. They immediately informed the grateful public that the council had changed their policy for the evening and if they passed the Queen’s silver into Bob’s outstretched hands, he in return would loan them a deckchair. In no time they had a queue of eager customers who were only too glad to part with their cash! The trade was really brisk and while the rest of the group were spending their money in the pub, this dynamic duo were totally coining it in. Unfortunately old grumpy Adolf then made a reappearance with a couple of coppers in tow, so it was exit stage left and they immediately decided to shut up shop while the going was good and let the remainder of their eager customers have a freebie. Tommy and Bob melted away into the crowds – what a result for ten minutes’ work.

As they returned to the safe haven of the Foresters, the float carrying the carnival queen was just passing. She looked splendid sat there on her throne. It must have been one of the proudest moments of her life, but unfortunately a Wednesdayite thought it would be funny to let off one of those foamy fire extinguishers in her direction. The poor girl was hysterical as she disappeared under a blanket of foam and hundreds of football fans were cheering on the demise of the beauty queen – everyone thought it was fucking hilarious. This led to the local constabulary getting a little heavy-handed and the battle lines were drawn; they were trying to contain the fans to a small section of the sea front but the boys realised this and decided to seek out beer rather than confrontation. No point in getting into trouble when they were really enjoying themselves.

With the money from the deck chairs divided up, they sought out a nice quiet pub. The previous few hours had been mental so they just wanted to chill and enjoy themselves in peace. It was now fast approaching midnight and time to go home – what a day the boys had enjoyed! Again the result hadn’t been great, but things would surely get better.

To a man they had enjoyed themselves and they couldn’t wait for the next one to be organised, even though it was nearly five in the morning when the bus finally pulled up outside their local. Tommy and Bob walked through their grey council estate, the one where old Vic Hallam had decided in his wisdom to omit the roofs and replace the good old roaring fires with a thing called central heating. OK it was nice and warm in the morning, but it did shit toast.

The topic of conversation rounded on how broke they were and how much the day had cost, but was it worth it – they both totally agreed it was worth every single penny. Tommy knew it would be a struggle to get the money together for the mid-week trip to Darlington, but if all else failed he knew that his good mate Billy would help out financially. The Southend trip had left Tommy on his knees where money was concerned so the weekend was well and truly over. No nights in the pub, it was just the old bed and work until the following Tuesday evening.

The day of the match arrived and Tommy clocked off early to meet the lads in the Claymore in the city centre, having scraped enough money together for the match, a beer and the coach ticket from the SUT. It was late afternoon when the coach pulled out of the Pond Street bus station and only Billy and Bob had managed to accompany Tom on this particular excursion to Darlington. The topic of conversation centred on the Sheffield Star’s coverage of the weekend’s events in Southend; the trouble had made the front page and Tommy admitted that his dad was none too impressed with the behaviour of the Wednesday fans. In his day you could stand rival supporters side by side and there was never a bad word spoken. The report stated that there were seven arrests but the boys knew there must have been more than that locked up on the streets of Sheffield on Saturday night.

Before they knew it the coach had pulled up outside the ground and the boys immediately went in search of a public house to enjoy a pint. Yes, just one pint was all Tommy could afford, and it had soon disappeared down his throat before they headed back towards the ground. The three mates entered the stadium and took up residence in the home section. They were vulnerable – scouring the terracing they couldn’t see any recognisable faces. Kick-off time was fast approaching and Wednesday were first to take to the field, retreating to the opposite end of the ground where the majority of Wednesdayites were situated.

But on this side it was all booing and offensive chanting, until Darlington took to the field and the atmosphere changed in favour of the home team. Just as the crescendo of noise settled down, a chant of ‘Wednesday! Wednesday!’ rang out from the top of the terrace. This was it, battle stations. How many had infiltrated the home support nobody knew – was it enough to hold their space? Fists and boots were working overtime; it was just like a herd of wildebeests being got at by a pride of lions. The concrete terrace was awash with bodies, some just scrambling to get out of the way while others sought each other out for a fight. The lads had joined in amongst it all, with Wednesday numbering no more than a hundred. Tommy had copped for a nice punch to the side of his head in the fracas that ensued and was struggling to stay upright, but luckily he had managed to regain his balance before someone stuck the boot in.

The police were now in the thick of it and a no man’s land had been created. The fighting had died down to verbal abuse, which was being exchanged at an alarming rate. The lads were trying to keep one eye on the match and the other on the opposition, just like they had done on previous occasions, but then it happened: Wednesday scored. All the hostilities were forgotten for the time being as grown men were hugging and dancing on the same terracing where only minutes beforehand people had been kicking lumps out of one another. One side was so happy they were just like six-year-olds in the playground, without a care in the world, while the other lot had got the right hump and their anger was there for all to see and hear. It wasn’t long before the peace was shattered and punches were being thrown again, but once more this was interrupted by the police and another Wednesday goal. Away from home and 2-0 up? This was Wednesday heaven! Darlington were well and truly thumped in more ways than one. The Owls had actually won, and as the lads left the ground to board the coach for the long journey home there were so many happy, smiling faces.

Back on the bus Tommy took his seat behind two men who were discussing the game. ‘What a result for the Owls!’ one said, while the other commented that it was spoilt by the violence. The first man added that the lads involved in the fighting were not true supporters – now everyone is entitled to their opinion, but when these blokes questioned Tommy’s loyalty to his club, he flipped. Who were they to fucking question his loyalty? He took the trouble to literally fight for the club. They reminded him of that fucking director at Hillsborough who wanted all those involved in the trouble when Manchester United came a-calling to be severely punished. It was alright for that old bastard sat in the directors’ box with a blanket over his knees, while Tommy and the rest of those present were fighting just to survive, against overwhelming odds. Tommy was really angry until Billy dragged him back into his seat and told him to calm down and shut up because had to be at work at four in the morning and could do with a bit of peace and quiet on the journey home.

The bus finally pulled into the local bus station and the place was deserted. It looked like being a taxi ride home – ‘I suppose I’m footing the bill’ sighed Billy; he knew that the other two were financially embarrassed but couldn’t help sticking the knife in. Again the pair alighted outside their local, but for once they were not entertaining after hours. On arriving home Tommy checked his pockets – he was penniless with another three days to pay day. On the plus side he only worked at the furniture factory in Intake so he could walk to work and didn’t have to pay for the bus.

Wednesday played two more league games in August, resulting in a 3-3 draw with Brighton and defeat at Hereford. Only Tommy and Bob went to Hereford – in the pub before the game there was a wedding reception going on upstairs and a group of Wednesdayites helped themselves to a tray of chicken legs and were throwing them out through the window to the delight of the fans below. The highlight of yet another day in the life of a Wednesdayite! By 3 September Wednesday were out of the League Cup – Darlington had won 2-0 at Hillsborough and they won the third game 5-3 on penalties after the game ended 0-0. Next up was the local visit to Chesterfield. It had been 25 years since the last visit and the boys again met up in the Claymore. They were travelling by soccer special, the cattle truck provided by those kind people at British Rail where they would cram as many people on the train as was humanly possible. Billy was not impressed after paying good money to find himself crammed in like sardines in a tin; ‘No wonder no one respects the trains after the way you get treated’, he complained. At least it wasn’t far to Chesterfield; thousands had made this short trip and the queue for the away end was unbelievable, the lads added that they were pushing it to make the kick-off. On entering the ground the away terrace was full to bursting and on the home end fights were breaking out all over. This led to a pitch invasion and the lads, along with hundreds of other Wednesdayites, ran across the pitch just like the Charge of the Light Brigade but minus the horses. Tommy was sprinting for all his worth, his heart pounding as he neared his goal. He jumped straight down into the terrace and was soon trading blows; mind you it was hard to separate who was who because everyone was in blue and white. The action was short-lived, though, because the police separated the warring factions – a gap as wide as the Wicker Arches was soon a buffer zone between the fans. Arrests were mounting up and Tommy had really enjoyed himself, so the thought of getting his collar felt was not on the menu. Not much was happening now anyway, so he relaxed and watched the Owls suffer yet another defeat. On leaving the ground the odd scuffle was breaking out but it was nothing compared to what was happening further along the road. The shops on the approach to the railway station were having their windows smashed and contents looted; anything was a target. Tommy didn’t like this behaviour – the mindless vandalism – what enjoyment did you get from throwing a brick through a window? He found it pointless and disturbing. The lads had a fight on their hands just to try and get on the train as this too was being smashed up; Tommy was just hoping no one decided it would be a good idea to pull the communication cord or they might be stuck on this train all night.

Finally when they did arrive back in Sheffield the police were out in numbers so the lads kept their heads down – well, they didn’t want to be labelled as mindless vandals. Tommy finally got home and decided to swerve the family; they would only give him grief about the match day exploits. Mum would be adding the verbals about him wasting all his money while his two younger siblings were still at school but managed to have a healthy bank balance. His mum was priceless, another good thing to happen to him in 1966. Even when she was getting grief from her parents for dating a so-called married man with kids, she didn’t cave in to the outside influences and took a chance on Dad.

The next day at work the talk, as always, centred on the football, with that lot taking the piss about the plight of their rivals. Mind you the Blades weren’t pulling any trees up either, but at least they were still in the First Division. The banter carried on throughout the day, as the workforce beavered away creating top quality furniture.

The season was now in full swing and the Owls were once again struggling to pick up points. Tommy on the other hand was looking forward to the match on Saturday; it was the infamous supporters of Millwall who would be gracing Hillsborough with their presence. On the day of the game the lads met as usual for a quick pint before moving onto Hillsborough. Their destination was the ever-popular Ozzie Owl club which was adjacent to the ground and always packed on match days. About 1.30pm someone ran into the club and shouted that Millwall had took up residence on the East Bank; everyone to a man supped up their ale and made for the exits.

This was it, time to have a crack at the F-Troop. Once everyone was through the turnstiles and onto the wide open terracing that reached up to the sky, Millwall were positioned right at the top. They didn’t have many bodies but they were in a strong position, their tight group backed up to the railings. Wednesday advanced from underneath the scoreboard, while others moved in from the opposite side. Millwall knew that they had to make a move before they were heavily outnumbered; Tommy was enjoying trading blows with one of the best outfits in the country and these boys showed no fear against overwhelming odds. Wednesday pushed them down the Kop and onto the pitch. They were beckoning the Owls to follow but the police were now out in numbers and there was no point in pushing their luck. Those boys from London took a bit of a thrashing – and so did their team as Wednesday won 4-1.

After the game the talk centred on the visit to the other lot in a couple of days’ time; a chance to do a bit of devilbashing at Bram-Hell Lane. It was only the County Cup, but it was only the trophy of note that they had a chance of winning. The lads met in the Claymore; it was a very decent turnout and too strong for the misfits to handle. These were the days before police spotters and hooligan informants, so the boys sneaked and snaked their way through the back streets. On reaching the ground everyone present pretended to be of a devilish persuasion; it worked a treat and the coppers ushered them towards the home end. They called it the ‘Whore-Ham’ and awaiting them were the Whore-Ham boot boys – up the spiral staircase our lads sprinted and out onto the wide open terrace. Most of the devils had it on their pointed hooves before the enemy could be engaged; it was far too easy. Some tried to fight their corner, but it was impossible to stop the blue and white tide engulfing the terracing. It had been just a walk in the park, a leisurely stroll, all that planning for two minutes of fun. Wednesday also won the game, and thus ending any chance of that lot getting their grubby little hands on a piece of Sheffiel-dmade silverware.

The next big game on the agenda was the visit of Gillingham on 5 November 1975, not because there would be any prospect of trouble but because Tommy would be celebrating his 20th birthday. Instead of heading for the ground looking for a fight, the lads were planning to go into town, to a place on Arundel Gate called the Hofbrauhaus. It sold beer in those massive steins and also had strippers on, so it proved a popular location. That was more like it for pre-match entertainment – watching women get their kit off instead of kicking lumps out of one another! Everyone one was in a happy mood come 3pm and this continued throughout the day because Wednesday won 1-0 thanks to Brian Joicey. After the game the celebrations continued well into the night and Tommy was in a right state come Sunday morning – so bad that he missed his dinner and the lunchtime visit to the pub.

November also saw the Owls entertain Macclesfield in the FA Cup First Round; the boys witnessed a 3-1 win before rushing to get back to their local but unfortunately that lot were also at home and they had made Pond Street their own. The boys only numbered about eight and were totally outgunned, the Blades’ boot boys acting out revenge for the previous humiliation. Tommy was being ragged about but managed to get between the buses and shelter while the boys fought back-to-back to keep the howling mob at bay. One of the boys managed to open the exit door to the bus and they scrambled on-board. They laughed their way back to the boozer – they had survived to fight another day, a bit battered and bruised perhaps but it wouldn’t put them off enjoying the remainder of the evening.

Two weeks later and again it was FA Cup time; the Owls beat Wigan 2-0 and now all the EBRA were marching into town. But yes, you’ve guessed it, that other lot were nowhere to be found. They had vacated the city in record time, slumped off home for an early tea before bed. ‘What a set of wankers’, the boys thought. It showed them for what they were – cowards of the highest order. They were OK when the numbers suited them, but the first sign of the far superior EBRA and they were off like a shot. Next up was the Boxing Day visit to Bury, and everyone was making the trip – a regular in the boozer called Webbo had a transit van and for the right money he would take them anywhere. Once the van was loaded up it was off across the Pennines, and if the van didn’t break down they would be in the pub for opening time. There must have been thousands making this short trip to Lancashire and everyone was in a festive mood, especially Tommy because he had been paid three weeks’ wages. When the teams came out they were joined on the pitch by a regular contributor to the pre-match antics; this chap just loved running onto the pitch and to enjoy a kickabout with his idols. The coppers didn’t seem to mind so Shess tried to join him, but he was that pissed he went crashing into the penalty area, when he got back to his feet he was covered in mud and his brand new sweater that he got for Christmas was going to need a good old wash, he was not happy that everyone was taking the piss but it was his own fault.

The game ended 0-0, so at least the Owls had not spoilt the day, the boys just wanted to get home and enjoy a good festive drink, mind their local didn’t know what last orders were, and there was always the chance of some after-hours drinking. As they sat around the table Billy wanted to know who was planning on going to Charlton for the FA Cup match on 3 January. The SUT were running a coach that was again stopping out until midnight and Tommy and Bob were definitely going. Clive again put his name forward, even though Gary had nearly got them wasted in Portsmouth. On the morning of their visit to Charlton the lads met in Pond Street in the café to enjoy a cup of tea and a nice greasy bacon sandwich to send them on their way. The boys hated these long journeys; it seemed to take forever but a few hours later the coach had reached the ground and it was quite apparent that the Owls had brought another fair following. Again it was destination boozer but the problem was that the beer was shite; flat as a pancake and such an acquired taste. But it was only for a day so the lads just got on with it and set about making the most of their day out. After sinking a fair few pints they made their way into the ground, this was to be a fun day out and getting involved in any trouble was put to one side.

The Wednesdayites were all packed in together behind the goal and as the teams took to the field fighting broke out to the left of Tommy. Some Wednesdayites were moving away from the situation, which Tommy couldn’t understand – Charlton did not have a reputation for causing grief. As the boys moved towards the fighting it became quite clear that those involved were not Charlton but the infamous boys from the Den. They had come along especially to have another go at the Owls, but they had not brought any significant numbers. Millwall clearly hadn’t done their homework. Wednesday always travelled in good numbers on FA Cup day; it was a traditional day out, and all the big guns were out in force. Again they left with their tails between their legs – fair play to them, they were a crack unit, but they lacked leadership.

The match ended in another defeat for the Owls and outside the ground all hell broke loose. The scenes Tommy and the boys had witnessed at Chesterfield were happening all over again. Mindless vandalism was rife, cars were being smashed and overturned and even the nearby houses were having their windows put through. Tommy thought this was well out of order and was totally pissed off. It just wasn’t what it was all about, mindless destruction of people’s property. It was all well and good enjoying the terrace warfare but the wanton destruction needed to be eliminated from the afternoon’s activities. When they finally got back to the coach, it was time to head for the bright lights of the capital and enjoy the next six hours in a trouble-free atmosphere. The boys found a nice little pub round the corner from Victoria station and tried to get used to the slop that the landlord was serving up. Again the beer had no head on it and looked disgusting, but they would have to get used it because this was how it was served throughout the capital. Just then Bob noticed two birds sat at the bar with long flowing hair and long fur coats. He really fancied his chances and decided to go and chat them up so he approached them in a cool and calculated manner while the rest of the lads laughed, thinking he’d soon get knocked back.

Bob stood chatting to them for a couple of minutes and the lads thought for a second that he’d cracked it, when suddenly he turned and marched back towards them with a face like thunder. ‘Why the sullen face?’ asked the lads. Bob quickly retorted that the so-called ladies were actually two fucking men! ‘Come on, sup up,’ he shouted, ‘this place is full of faggots!’ Tommy and the gang fell about laughing and made their way out of the pub. For the rest of the evening they moved from pub to pub, occasionally bumping into the Geordies who had also been in the capital watching Newcastle United. The atmosphere was really civilised between the two sets of northern supporters. When the lads finally got back to the coach station just around midnight, gangs of youths were roaming the streets trying to pick off those supporters who had ventured down to the capital, but the northerners were having none of it. Lads from Newcastle, Sheffield and Stoke joined as one and went on the offensive but the confrontation was short-lived as the Londoners had it away on their toes. It had been a very long day and most of the party were totally done in by the time the coach had reached the motorway. All the earlier banter had disappeared and it was so eerie, you could have heard a pin drop.

By the end of January the Owls had amassed a grand total of 19 points; only four victories had been achieved, and it was not looking good. Wednesday would have to get their act together and get organised just like the boys had done on their trip to Grimsby Town. Tommy got good old Webbo to take the lads to the game and after enjoying a pre-match drink in Cleethorpes, then cheering on the Owls to a 1-1 draw with the legendary Roger Wylde doing the business, the fun and games really began on the long walk back to the Transit. The boys only numbered about a dozen, but they had the added bonus of the man-mountain Webbo and his mate Frank; they were totally outgunned but managed to get themselves organised to face their aggressors. It was total mayhem but the boys stood together and Frank was a legend – he must have chinned a number of Grimsby fans – and Webbo was using his sledgehammer fists to great effect. The rest of them were doing OK, but taking one or two casualties, and then the police finally arrived and the Grimsby fans melted away. The boys were allowed to carry on their way amid much backslapping, and when they arrived home Huddo the landlord thought the lot of them looked a right sight. He thought that they had been to a game of football, not some urban boxing match, and the lads queued to use the toilets and made an effort to clean themselves up. There was blood everywhere and the toilet was transformed into a makeshift casualty department. Tommy finished off the evening in the boozer before heading home; he knew he would have to explain his face over the Sunday dinner table and that Dad would be giving him grief and Mum would be tut-tutting all afternoon. But that was tomorrow and in the meantime he needed some well-earned rest.

Tommy got through Sunday lunch quite unscathed and enjoyed a nice soak in the bath – after first removing a fucking hundred golf balls. You see young David along with his mate Wifter had got themselves a nice little cottage industry; they would collect discarded golf balls, give them a makeover and sell them on. This was OK, but the damn things were everywhere. Tommy loved the day of rest; his Mum’s traditional cooked breakfast, the relaxing read of the morning papers before enjoying a couple of hours in the boozer waiting for Sunday lunch to cook, then having that late-afternoon soak while the tatty transistor radio blasted out the new top 40. No doubt similar scenarios were being played out every Sunday across the country.

Like clockwork Tommy was out of the house bang on seven; it was the outdated licensing laws that were the problem. Why did the pubs have to close while everyone was enjoying themselves? He finally met up with the rest of the lads and it was party time. They had done most of their wages in during the weekend so this was called ‘bring in your own drinks’ time and the venue was the lively local disco pub, the Old Harrow. Tommy had bought himself a small bottle of Bacardi and then purchased a glass of Coke – everyone was onto a winner except the landlord. The lads only did it on a Sunday, though, so the pub was hardly likely to go bust. The whole pub seemed to be legless, yet only soft drinks had been purchased. Andy once brought in a bottle of rum that his brother had brought back from some exotic location; it was like rocket fuel and had some people sparked out in the car park.

Tommy was off to work bright and early Monday morning – no chance of a lie in as Dad was on afternoons and he dragged Tom out of bed. On clocking in, he was surprised there was no banter coming from the canteen and as he walked through the door he was met with a deadly silence. Apparently there was a notice on the canteen wall instructing them to wait in there until the boss arrived, and once he had set foot in the canteen, he told the staff that the factory was closing at the end of February. He apparently couldn’t compete with the cheap imported furniture and had decided to call it a day. It was a real blow to Tommy; he had been there for a few years. The money wasn’t great but it was enough to support his social life and the football. When he arrived home from work he had to tell his mum that in a couple of weeks’ time he would be without a job. The remainder of the month was a disaster; not only did Tommy not know what he was going to do employment-wise, but Wednesday were struggling to get away from the foot of the league. Tommy finished work for the final time at the factory on 20 February 1976; he stopped in all of the weekend and even missed the home victory over Aldershot as he knew Mum would be advising him to budget accordingly, but how could he follow the Owls on his dole money?

Monday he went to sign on for the very first time, and after filling in all the forms, a young lady showed him a list of vacancies that she thought would suit him. After scouring the list he shoved the piece of paper back in her direction; he fancied none of them, even though one looked promising, and he told her so. She insisted on ringing up to fix him up with an interview; blimey the ink wasn’t even dry on all those forms and she was trying to fix him up as though her life depended on it. Tommy kindly informed the lady that even though the job looked fine, the factory worked all day Saturday, and he preferred a Monday to Friday occupation. Once Tommy had explored every avenue she was trying to lead him down, she finally gave up on him and promptly told him to sign on every Tuesday at 10am. She probably really wanted to say every Saturday at 3pm.

Tommy headed home and broke the news to his mum that there was nothing doing down the old job centre, a ritual that would be repeated right through until the middle of March. Wednesday were still struggling to get their act together, and with the visit to Rotherham United the next match on the agenda, Tom had scrimped and saved for the jolly-up. The boys all met up in Pond Street and quickly decided to catch the bus thus avoiding the heavy police presence at the railway stations. The bus was quite full for the short trip into Rotherham and the lads decided to get off at the swimming baths, walk the remainder of the way and try their luck in the Turf Tavern. They walked down the stairs but even though the place was empty they were given the knock-back. The security staff knew they were from Sheffield and refused them entry, so they tried the Red Lion, a quiet pub full of shoppers and blokes playing cards and dominoes. The lads got served and sat themselves in a corner, keeping a watchful eye on the door. It wasn’t the greatest pre-match venue and some of the lads commented that the place was shit and lifeless. Tommy thought their comments were spot on, so after a couple more beers they went off in search of a new boozer. They found a nice lively bar in the shape of the ever popular Dickens bar. This was a big boozer that was packed seven days a week; it was quite full with fair mix of supporters and it was about an hour to kick-off. Then a small skirmish started at the far side of the boozer; the lads grouped together to protect themselves in case anyone got too close. Shess realised that it was Rotherham who were driving back a small group of Wednesdayites, so he broke ranks and charged into the melée like some kind of demented windmill. The boys quickly followed, not wanting him to grab all the glory, and they quickly gained the upper hand, unlike the encounter at Grimsby. Just then a group came from behind the lads unleashing bottles and chairs – now the roles had been reversed and the lads went on the defensive, picking up anything that was to hand, and fought their way to the exit. The Rotherham fans were mostly in the pub, except for the ones that had been dragged outside. Wednesdayites were attacking the pub with any objects to hand; Tommy didn’t class this as mindless vandalism because those inside deserved it. The police were now on the scene in good numbers, so the boys decided to complete their trio of activities for the day and go and enjoy a game of football. Some wanted more of the action and plumped for the Tivoli, while others who had just battled so gamely wanted to enjoy the match. No-one was pressured into going in amongst the opposition; it was their own personal choice.

Young Ray and Shess were off on the Tivoli, while Tommy wanted to watch the game for a change. Once in the Railway End the boys could see that there was major trouble on the Tivoli – the police were having difficulty keeping the rival factions apart. Rotherham went and spoiled what had been a good day so far by winning the game, so the lads opted for the train back to Sheffield and even though they managed to grab a carriage to themselves, the train had only just left the station when someone pulled the cord, bringing the train to a sudden stop. All manner of activities were taking place – the Wednesdayites were single-handedly ripping the train to pieces and fans were going mad smashing everything in sight. Just then a young lad burst into their compartment clutching a fire extinguisher. Bob enquired what he was going to do with it and the lad told him he was going to throw it through the window. To a man, the boys told him that if he did he would be following it, and the next minute it went out onto the track from the adjacent carriage. It was stop-start all the way back towards Sheffield and at one point the police had to retrieve the disgruntled driver who had abandoned his train and decided to walk home. It had taken an hour to reach the Tinsley viaduct and Shess was going crackers; it was over four hours since he had supped his last pint and it was now getting beyond a joke. Finally the train limped into the Midland Station and it was a right mess. The coppers were out in force, and one lad who was laughing had his collar felt.

Off the boys shot into Pond Street and got the bus to the Harrow. No illicit booze this time; it was a lively place most weekends and was very popular with the boys and girls from the surrounding areas. Young Ray walked through the door; he had decided to try his luck in Rotherham town centre and he must have been the last Owl in Toytown. He’d had one or two lucky escapes having found himself totally outnumbered, but he had enjoyed his day out and managed to swerve a visit to the casualty department. The boys were unanimous – it had been a cracking day at the football.

The rest of March saw Wednesday take only another two points, bringing the total up to 30. April was going to be crucial if the Owls were going to stay up. They really left it late to find some form – in the next six games they beat Crystal Palace, Bury and Halifax, drew with Shrewsbury and lost to Wrexham and Mansfield Town. Tommy just had to attend the final away fixture at Brighton, but with coach travel out of the question he badgered Bob into making the journey. He didn’t take much persuading so they opted for the hitchhiking option. They had arranged with Frank to scrounge a lift down to Nottingham on the Friday and while they were waiting for him to load his van, Tommy grabbed a piece of card and wrote LONDON on one side and BRIGHTON on the other. In no time they had been dropped off at the side of the motorway, and within minutes a truck had stopped. The driver asked where in London the boys wanted dropping off, and when he found out that their final destination was Brighton, he burst out laughing – he was heading home after he had finished his deliveries and lived in a place called Shoreham on the outskirts of Brighton. They spent most of the day in that cab; the driver watered and fed them and was such a good bloke. He was a diamond and the boys thanked him for his hospitality. Once he had dropped them off, they estimated they had a 22-hour wait before the game kicked off. The pair of them only had a couple of quid to between them to last all night so they wandered from street to street, only stopping briefly to enjoy a cup of tea and an hour off their feet, and latterly two halves of beer. It was all very different from the first game of the season at Southend, when the beer had been flowing and money was no object! The hours seemed to drag on forever but eventually a nice park was located, with a very inviting cricket pavilion, and that looked rather tempting to say the least. It soon got dark enough for the lads to make their move – the place was deserted and someone had played a blinder and left a window open. Bob was first in, followed by the bags, all their belongings in two small holdalls. They just had got one more chore to perform before it was time to call it a day and settle down for the night. Tommy shot off into the darkness – they had earlier on located the nearby chip shop and Tom was soon queuing for their supper. They were fucking starving, and Tommy asked for chips and a fishcake wrapped in paper with plenty of salt and vinegar. Heads turned and gazed at this creature from another planet. In no time the boy was back in the relative safety of the cricket pavilion, but they were in for a shock – the fishcake was nothing more than a soggy rissole. How they longed for the golden brown ones that Stan at their local chippy served up. Soon enough the early morning sun was shining so it was time to move on.

It was still another nine hours to kick-off and the lads needed to freshen up. Once that job was done it was cuppa time – no money for any food though – and then it was just a matter of killing time until 3pm. Then the nomadic pair heard familiar voices coming from the beach. The boys kicking the ball about on the beach were Wednesdayites and they had all come down in a Transit. The mattresses in the back of their van looked really inviting so the pair immediately cut to the chase and asked for a priceless lift home. The boys from Worksop were as much a saviour as the truck driver had been; they had played a blinder and saved the boys the trouble of hitching all the way home. Their new-found buddies found a nice watering hole not far from the ground and with a lift sorted for the journey home, the lads now had an extra quid to spend on beer.

Finally it was match time and both teams came out to a tremendous reception. Although the game wasn’t the greatest they had ever seen, the Owls earned a credible 1-1 draw. Unfortunately the pair had got separated after the game and even as the Transit’s engine had kicked into life there was no sign of Bob. Tommy was desperate for the lift home but he knew he couldn’t leave his mate behind. Their hosts were growing more impassionate by the minute, but just as they were handing Tommy his belongings, Bob appeared out of nowhere. It turned out that he had got caught up in the trouble and had finished up scrapping on the seafront. The Worksop boys had been brilliant hosts – they dropped the boys off in Aston so they only had Swallownest, Beighton and Hackenthorpe to negotiate before those lovely grab grey houses came into view.

All too soon the final game of the 1975/76 season arrived with Hillsborough playing host to Southend. It seemed like years since the boys’ trip to Essex for the first game of the season and now it was a winner-takes-all battle. Tommy and the lads joined a throng of well over 25,000 that were crammed into Hillsborough; the Temple of the Gods had seen much bigger crowds but this was one hell of a gate considering that the club were only 90 minutes away from the Fourth Division for the first time in their illustrious history. Tommy was thinking back to that time as a kid when he had witnessed Manchester City relegating the Owls from the First Division, but this time there was to be a happy ending thanks to Prendergast and Potts. Wednesday won 2-1 and escaped relegation – but what would be waiting around the corner come August when the lads would be back for yet another season?