Читать книгу Steel City Rivals - One City. Two Football Clubs, One Mutually Shared Hatred - Steve Cowens - Страница 17

The following weekend, Wednesday tried to get around the back of the Lansdowne pub on London Road. They got sussed and were run back into town, with only two lads standing their ground but probably wishing they hadn’t. One of the youths who had stood was a lad called Bacon, quite appropriate for a Wednesday fan! He was getting a bad beating and then two United lads sprayed him with lighter fluid and tried to set him on fire. I jumped in and grabbed Bacon and escorted him towards town. He was understandably very shaken by the events and kept repeating that the Berties (Blades) had tried to flame him. He asked me to walk him into town as he didn’t want to be left. I ended up walking him right up to the Limit club. Incidentally, one of the twisted fire-starters who had tried to set fire to Bacon was a lad called Peachy and, in an amazing coincidence, Bacon moved next door to Peachy six months later. The first time the two met as new neighbours, they struck up an understanding that they should not bring trouble to each other’s doorstep.

As I bid Bacon farewell outside the Limit, he insisted that I came in so he could buy me a drink. This was going to go one way or the other: I’d either earn respect for what I had done or I was going to get splattered all over the gaff by the pissed-off Wednesday lads who I knew would be inside the club. Bacon told me that, if Wednesday started on me, then he would fight at my side. Touching as this was, I still headed down those stairs thinking that I was mincemeat. To be fair, a lot of Wednesday came over and chatted, and they were all right lads really. That night, I think I earned a lot of respect off Wednesday; of course, there were still a few of them lurking in the background with that ‘let’s kill him’ look on their faces but, fair play to them, I wasn’t touched.

Bacon came over with a can of Red Stripe; he had taken his top off as it stank of lighter fluid. Underneath he was wearing a T-shirt with the slogan ‘Gas the Blades’ and a cartoon-type drawing of a queue of Blades going into the Nazi gas chambers to be gassed by the guards who were in the Wednesday blue and white.

‘If I’d known you had that on, I would have let you burn, you cunt,’ I joked with Bacon.

The T-shirts were made by a Wednesday lad called Lebby, who was good mates with a Blades lad called Webby and the two of them made T-shirts that totally took the piss out of each other’s club. Some were the same with just the teams turned around, while others could only be adopted by one side; the ‘Gas the Blades’ was one such shirt.

Unfortunately, Webby was paralysed after diving into a shallow pool abroad. We had a benefit night for him with a few bands playing, one of which was a group of United lads who called their band Like Ice, Like Fire. My pal Paul Heaton also did a terrific impromptu solo set, even though I’d promised him he wouldn’t have to sing, but to be fair he made the night special for Webby.

Hundreds turned out at Bramall Lane’s executive suite, where United’s boys and the few Wednesday that had turned out put aside their differences for the night, and rightly so. A couple of grand was raised to buy Webby a computer that he could work using his head. Sadly, Webby died two years later.

Going to the Limit was always a precarious move for most Blades. I could usually go in without much of a problem as I could have a chat and a beer with most Wednesday, although obviously there were some Wednesday lads that I had no time for and no doubt they had no time for me. I only had grief in the Limit when I went in with United lads who couldn’t accept the fact that their fiercest rivals were in the same club.

One night in the late 80s, we had been up West Street on the lookout for Wednesday. The Stocksbridge Owls had given it to one of our lads the week before so we went on the hunt. After no success, we all went in the Limit. The 25 of us included a Forest lad called Boatsy; he knew GJ, who was a game United lad. They had met at an England game and have been friends ever since.

The club started to fill up and 10 of our 25 had melted away, leaving our numbers seriously depleted. Wednesday started to come in the club and gathered in their usual place near the toilets. This made pissing a hazardous move. Our lot were convinced that Wednesday were going to launch an attack so we stood with our backs to the bar with many of our number concealing bottles in their coats. A little pep talk between ourselves confirmed that everyone was up for it if it came on top. I went for an uncomfortable piss, the type of piss where you slash all over your trainers as your head is turned as you look over your shoulder.

A mixed-race Wednesday lad I knew came in and said, ‘Steve, I think you had better get out here, quick.’

I dashed through the crowd to see that Wednesday had surrounded our lot at the bar. When I was alongside my colleagues, I turned to face Wednesday. One of their old school told me to get these cunts out. I shrugged my shoulders and told him that 10 of our lot had disappeared and that the ones left were staying. There was an ugly atmosphere but I glanced around at our little crew and their faces painted a picture that I wanted to see: we were up for it.

Arguments were breaking out all over and it was only a matter of time before the balloon went up. Then a young Wednesday lad leaned through and tried to grab a United pup called Tiler, shouting, ‘He was there last week when I got battered.’

I grabbed both of them and told them to go and sort it out. The Wednesday lad’s arse went so I told him, ‘Shut it then, all mouth and no bollocks.’

I had a quick chat with three of Wednesday’s main actors and agreed we’d leave after finishing our drinks if they moved away. Fair play to them, we were outnumbered and surrounded but ready to face anything that they had in store. We left half an hour later, so a potential flashpoint was averted and this was no mean feat, as, at the time, United and Wednesday were at each other’s throats, big time.

But another time I went in the Limit, it didn’t really work out that well … and that’s an understatement. Badger and I were in Sinatra’s one night. We were well pissed and, mainly because of this, we decided to walk the 200 yards up Calver Street and have a couple in the Limit. I think we both knew it would end in tears but there you go. Badger is a great lad; he’s game as fuck and we know we won’t leave each other’s side if it kicks off. The only trouble with Badger is he can be an obstreperous cunt when he’s had a few gargles. We’d only been in the Limit 10 minutes, and, as I chatted to a couple of lads from the Woodthorpe Estate, Badger started fighting with a Wendy lad. He was getting hammered at first but somehow got back on top. I’d got my back to the fight as I was trying to keep it one on one as there was a lot of Wednesday hovering over the fight. But, when a Wendy lad booted Badger in the face, I immediately chinned him.

The lot went up. Bouncers lobbed Badger and the other geezer out and left me to battle my way out. I was throwing punches at an alarming rate as I back-pedalled through the masses. I got dropped a couple of times but jumped back up and steamed in. The Limit had steep stairs leading down to it, so I thought, if I could get to the top, me and Badger could have a pop as Wednesday came up the stairs after me. The trouble was, as I got up there, I saw Badger curled up in the middle of West Street with three Wednesday playing football with his body. I had to think quickly and get into them. I managed to sidewind one to the floor and Badger got to his feet; then we waded into them and had them on the move until reinforcements had us on the back foot.

We were battered already so we stood and traded, until the plod pulled up and everyone scattered. Me and Badger ran down a dark alley at the back of the Dickens pub. We stood under a streetlight to survey the damage. Both of us had black eyes and our shirts were hanging from our backs, Badger was worse off than me, but he’d copped for a pair of size nines in the clock.

In the taxi home, I asked what had started it. He told me it was because of his wife’s best mate. She’d gone out with the Wednesday lad and he had hit her. Fuck me, I thought, I’ve been brawling because of a lass I hardly know. Saying that, I don’t like women beaters. I’ve never laid a finger on our Gert in all the 24 years I’ve known her, even if I might have felt like it sometimes.

Incidentally, the lass whose honour Badger was defending by the way had been on Blind Date and they showed her on the beach abroad with the bloke she’d chosen as her date. As they splashed around in the sea, she came out with this beaut: ‘Why does the water taste salty?’

Jesus, every time someone from Sheffield goes on the television, we get shown up.

Around this time I was getting a bit of grief off a couple of United lads for being quite pally with a few Wednesday. I couldn’t understand it and it got to me at times. Yes, I could have a chat with a few snorters, but, when it came to it, they and I knew that in battle there were no friendships and I’d be in the frontline for my team and mates. I think what peeved a few United lads was the fact that, if we went in a pub and there was only a few pigs in it, I’d walk straight over and talk to them to sort of show our lot that bullying a few lads was out of order. Mind you, not that Wednesday did me any favours back. I’ve had two unfriendly visits from them at football on Sunday mornings, they’ve come to my workplace and they’ve phoned my work and mobile with threats, so maybe I should have just done the same in return, but it’s simply not my nature. But being a fair lad towards Wednesday got me into a few scrapes with both sides, so I couldn’t win really.

In most firms, there’s good and bad lads, and United and Wednesday are no different.

Most Friday evenings, me and Badger would go down town with a few pals, non-hooligan lads. On this particular evening in 1989, I ended up in the cells after trying to help out a Wednesday lad. As a suited and booted Badger and me walked between bars, we bumped into an out-of-breath Wednesday lad called Tesh. He told us that he had been out on Chirpy’s (one of Wednesday’s main actors at the time) stag night and they had clashed with United’s lads. Wednesday had been chased, so we offered to walk Tesh back up to the Limit on West Street.

As we got on to West Street, we bumped straight into the Wednesday firm who were hanging around on a street corner opposite the Limit. As they all came menacingly around us, I saw a lad who had done a naughty one a few months earlier and went at him. We steamed into each other and I was then bombarded with punches as the rest of them decided it was party season. It was on top, as me and Badger fended off blows while trying to get some in ourselves. I lost my Armani jacket in the struggle, but Badger managed to get it back. We had to retreat and, to be fair, if it wasn’t for a Wednesday lad called Jester I would have had a few more injuries than the fat bloody lip I’d gained.

I thanked Jest but was on one. We headed off in a taxi for the Leadmill where we hoped we would find some of our lads.

Five of our lads were outside and told us that the rest of our lot were either inside or had gone to the Music Factory on London Road. I was in no mood to wait around and the seven of us headed up into town. Although the lads with us were good lads, I could tell they were ill at ease but all I had in my head was that I was going to run into Wednesday no matter what.

Sure enough, we walked straight into the Wednesday mob outside the Wopentake club. I stood with my arms outstretched, as Wednesday saw us and came running our way. Although we were severely outnumbered, I wasn’t shifting and I screamed at our lot to stand. To be honest, I don’t think they did but I was out in front as the first wave hit me. I windmilled in but was engulfed in a sea of knuckles and boots. My shit demi-wave perm was pulled from my skull and I blame Wednesday for my going bald later!

Then the punches stopped and I was dragged to the floor. The OB had arrived. I was thrown into a police van along with five Wednesday lads. The lad who had punched me in the first fracas sat opposite me and we looked each other up and down.

Down at Bridge Street Police Station, I was slung in a cell. On the floor curled up was none other than Mr Stag Night himself, Chirpy. He was fast asleep so I walked over to him and gave him a nudge with my foot. ‘Wake up, Chirpy, the Berties are here.’

Chirpy jumped awake and his face was a picture when he tried to focus, then refocus on me, as he realised through his drunken slumber who was standing over him.

‘Cowensy, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m your solicitor, what do you think? Your mates have just mullered me in town.’

It seemed that the whole of my body was aching, even my eyelashes hurt, or so it felt. I sat down beside Chirpy and we chatted. He was all right and this was the first time I’d had the chance to have a proper chat with him. He told me that Wednesday and their firm had cost him his first marriage. I reassured him that, if she couldn’t understand a man’s need to stick up for his mates and club, he was better off without her. Chirps was old school, code of conduct and all that. I shook his hand as he was released. I think we both went up in each other’s estimation that night.

The first time in court I was put in the dock with them. I shouted the usher over and said that I was not a part of this group and had actually been fighting against these cunts. A few of them laughed at the comment but I was dealt with separately. However, I did take note of the address of the lad who had been the main instigator that night. In the end I was fined 160 quid but that wasn’t the end of it.

Around a month or so later, I was driving home from training at Bramall Lane. As I drove up Frecheville, I spotted a face I recognised – the very same Wednesday lad, who was walking with another one of their boys. On instinct, I slowed but realised that Colly was in the car with me and it was nothing to do with him. He knew something was up and, after I’d explained, he told me to turn around and we would sort it. I drove past them and pulled up a side street, got out of the car and waited. They walked past oblivious. Colly walked swiftly past them and turned, as I tapped the Wednesday lad on the shoulder.

‘Not got 30 of your pals with you now, have you?’

He pushed his arms out in front of him and, to be honest, I had won the fight without throwing a punch. We actually get on pretty well now.

It wasn’t the first time I ended up in trouble trying to help Wednesday lads. On Christmas Eve 1987, I ended up in the cells again, this time because I stopped two Wednesday youngsters from getting battered.

It wasn’t unusual for United and Wednesday to get together in town on Christmas Eve for a festive tear-up. These get-togethers started in 1979 and died out some 10 years later. I never bothered turning out for a few reasons, the main one being that no one wants to be locked up on Christmas Eve. It was a time for my family and, no matter who United played on Boxing Day, I never turned out, preferring to go to the match with my family.

Anyway, on this particular Christmas Eve, I had to go to town to get my wife a present; usually I’d got it sorted early doors, but for some reason I’d left it late this year. I met up with my mate Nigel who was in Gossips, along with around 15 other United lads. After a couple of drinks, the two of us walked to Fargate, and my plan was to go to Next and buy her indoors a new suit.

As we walked down Fargate, we saw around 20 lads who we immediately recognised as a group of United lads who called themselves the Suicide Squad. The squad used to go to United games totally independent to the rest of the firm; they were no strangers to trouble and had a lot of game and handy lads. I knew most of them and, as I glanced over, I saw them rush over and it kicked off in a shop doorway with two young Wednesday lads. We jogged over and I recognised one of the lads getting roughed up. He was a game little sod called Winky, and his elder brother was a main face with Wednesday.

I jumped in to protect him, shouting, ‘Leave it out, there’s only two of them.’

The squad were all drunk as skunks and one grabbed a white cricket hat from my head; it had the United badge on one side and BBC embroidered on the other, and I was quite attached to it. To cut it short, the big lad who had snatched my hat wouldn’t give it back so I nutted him with a beauty; it was my only option because I couldn’t hit him as I had a pot on my right hand. It kicked off a bit as a couple of his mates tried steaming me. The OB came running over and apprehended me. I pleaded my innocence and explained that my hat had been nicked. The plod let me go with a warning to behave or I would be locked up.

I then saw the lad who had snatched my hat – he was stemming the flow of blood from his nose with it! I ran over, jumped up and kicked him. I was promptly arrested and thrown in the police van.

One of the officers in the van was Peter Springett. He’d played in goal for Wednesday and was now the community bobby around Bramall Lane. This was just at the start of the football intelligence officers and Peter knew most of the United lads, me included.

‘Your luck run out, Steve?’

‘Looks that way.’

(He sadly died later from cancer and I had full respect for this man.)

At the station, I was charged with being drunk and disorderly, which was a laugh as I’d only had two cokes. But I ended up going Guilty and was fined.

That wasn’t the end of it, though, as there was still the matter of the stolen hat to be sorted. At the end of that season, I was part of a big BBC mob that were walking back up to the station after a game at Huddersfield, when someone shouted, ‘Cowens.’ It was one of the squad, who informed me that his mate wanted a word. It was the lad who I had butted on Fargate four months earlier. It turned out he wanted to fight me so we arranged to meet up back in Sheffield. At the meet, we had a fight that seemed to go on for ages until the OB clocked us and we ended up shaking hands. All this because I had stuck up for a Wednesday fan!

One of Wednesday’s lads at the time was a lad called Slimey; he was the type who didn’t know how to conduct himself and the code of conduct never entered his head. He was a main actor with Wednesday and most of the lads in our firm hated him with a passion. Personally, I didn’t really have a view on the lad, until the day he turned up with his pals one Sunday morning in 1987. What got me about it was that, months earlier, me and Kav had bumped into him and another Wednesday lad on Chapel Walk in town.

‘He’s just walked down there, that Steve Cowens,’ the Wednesday lad informed Slimey just as we had walked back up.

‘Yes, I have,’ I said and Kav walked straight up to Slimey and asked him his name. Slimey denied who he was, even though we knew full well it was him. So, in a two-on-two situation, Slimey didn’t want to know but thought it was OK to turn up at one of my Sunday football games tooled up with four of his mates.

I was warming up on the pitch with four of my team-mates when I noticed five lads walking briskly towards me. One was Slimey, and the others had scarves around their faces. I knew straight away what the score was and shouted to my team-mates to watch the rest as I went to greet Slimey. Straight away, he pulled a steel cleaver out of his crombie coat. I screamed, ‘You fuckin’ divvy.’

As I squared up, Slimey and the rest of them closed in on me. I quickly noted that two had bats and one was holding a large pop bottle. I tried to boot Slimey and a Wednesday lad tried to twat me with his bat. He slipped on the wet grass and I booted him. It was on top but I was putting on a good show, despite none of my team mates coming to my aid, which shocked me, especially as two of them, Holder and Batesy, were United lads. Then they all came at me at once and I had to turn and run. At the side of the pitch, there was a cricket square that had been fenced off for the winter. I ran over and pulled a four-foot-long rustic post out of the ground. I turned and jogged towards the five lads, who stopped in their tracks. I could see they weren’t too sure now.

‘Come on, we’re all tooled up now,’ I shouted.

As I went at them, one threw the Tizer bottle at me. It smashed on my knee, but I didn’t really feel anything at the time, as the adrenaline was pumping like mad. I ran at them with the post held above my head, and they turned and ran. My team-mates who had previously frozen, then joined the chase. I just missed Slimey with the post as I tried to bring it crashing down on him; good job I missed really. The rest of our team were now walking up to the pitch and they attacked the fleeing Wednesday lads. My leg went numb and I looked down to see my leg covered in blood caused by a two-inch cut just above my knee.

The muscle had frayed and was protruding from my leg, but a few stitches in hospital had me good as new.

I was fuming, though; there was no fairer Blade than me when it came to inter-city rivalries and this was how they repaid me, I thought. I vowed to find out the names hiding behind the scarves and to get revenge.

Later that year, I was one of 40 United lads heading down to the Music Factory from town. Kav and myself were 100 yards in front of the rest when who did we bump into but Slimey. He was all suited and booted and out with his workmates. I challenged him and he pleaded that he was out with his workmates and didn’t want any trouble. I didn’t want any trouble when I was playing football, but I’d got it anyway, thanks to him and his cronies.

The rest of United’s lads came around the corner as me and Slimey were arguing.

‘I’m gonna get it here, aren’t I?’ Slimey said as he saw our lot approaching.

‘No, we’re not like you cunts, it’s me and you,’ I said.

The United lads saw Slimey and a few went for him; I mean, he really wasn’t liked at all. For some reason, I found myself holding my mates back and sticking up for Slimey. I must be mad! The thing was, I didn’t want us to lower ourselves to his level. I could just see it in the pub the following week: ‘Forty Berties did me in town while I was out with workmates, fuckin’ wankers.’

Anyhow, Tricky wanted Slimey bad and, as I tried to hold Tricky off, I knew deep down that I had to let him go or fall out with him and I wasn’t falling out with a mate over Slimey, he wasn’t worth it. Tricky bashed Slimey in a one-on-one, a situation that would never have happened if things had been the other way around.

Around two months after the attack at the Sunday-morning football, I was invited out on a Wednesday lad’s birthday. Tinny was friends with a lot of United’s lads. They had grown up together as friends on the tough Woodthorpe Estate. Tinny would often travel to United’s away games, and I’d stuck up for him at Man City once when a few United lads wanted to do him in. The lads who were a few years older than me were petty criminals and were always on the lookout for an earner; while the rest of us just wanted a fight, they would often rob sports shops and pubs. Tinny also liked an earner and came along with our sticky-fingered brigade. In 1983, in Doncaster, two United lads robbed 10 grand from the upstairs of a pub, and both got lifted a week later. One of the lads arrested was actually a professional with Rotherham United and a good mate of mine. The then manager of the Millers (George Kerr) had to go to court to put in a good word for our lad.

Tinny’s birthday left me with a problem. I was bang at it with Wednesday at the time and I’d still got the attack at the Sunday football bouncing about in my head. What didn’t help was the fact that the names of my attackers had been given to me by another Wednesday lad who I put a bit of pressure on. I knew that the same lads would be out on Tinny’s birthday. Anyhow, I turned up but was convinced I was going to get it sooner or later that night or I’d bring trouble on to myself through not being able to get the football attack out of my head. I’d put a small United pin badge on to show my colours and walked in the Blue Bell on High Street as large as life. Around 30 Wednesday were inside, and it was like one of those westerns when a stranger walks into the town saloon. I uneasily made my way to the bar. Tinny was leaning against it and shook my hand.

‘Listen, Tinny, what do you want to drink, as I’ve just popped in to show my face, mate,’ I said, checking out the mumblings of the Wednesday lads over Tinny’s shoulder.

‘Look, Steve, it’s my birthday, and if any of these start with you they can have some of this,’ he told me, pulling a lock knife from his pocket.

Titch and Migs, two of Tinny’s Blades hooligan mates, came over to me. I felt a bit more at ease with two United lads who I knew would stand by me. The night went all right but I still had the nagging doubt that, as the beer flowed, a few Wednesday would get some Dutch courage. Fair play, though, I had no trouble and actually got on well with a lot of them, and one even grassed one of the others up as one of my attackers at football.

I pulled him and he was papping it; he bought me a drink and explained that Slimey had said that it would be a one-on-one with me that day and that he only wanted a bit of back-up in case the rest of my team started.

Later that evening, I took two Wednesday lads called Shen and Dinga into the Music Factory. The Factory had a lot of United lads in who weren’t happy to see the two Wednesday lads and they wanted to do them in. I argued that it would look really bad on us that I had been out all night with them and they’d looked after me, so I had to look after them and I didn’t want to fall out with mates but that’s how it had to be. The two Wednesday went after about an hour, which, to be honest, was a relief for me, as I felt like I was babysitting and couldn’t even go for a piss without worrying what would happen.

The following week on London Road, the usual 30 or 40 of us were out. Luey told me that Pud had been slagging me by calling me a pig lover. In truth, he had a bit of a point, because most of our lot wanted nothing to do with anything blue and white. I pulled Pud and ended up chinning him, as he called me it to my face. This really upset me, as falling out with my own firm and mates was the last thing I wanted. I couldn’t get my head around the fact that I had had more grief with Wednesday than most, yet I was being slagged. I lost it for a while and vowed that I was done with all the bollocks.

A few weeks on, Pud and me made up. Pud later got arrested in Bournemouth, and who was the first one trying to get him off? Me. I managed to talk the plod out of nicking him and our friendship was thankfully back on track.