By Andrew Woods
Meet the UK's so much infamous soccer hooligans. writer Andrew Woods has come face-to-face with Millwall's most famed company and now, for the 1st time, the Bushwackers show all approximately their bloodiest battles and fiercest rivalries – of their personal phrases. yet one of the camaraderie, the battles of wits with the police and the exhilarating toe-to-toe run-ins with the competition, this ebook additionally examines the historical past of hooliganism and why measures introduced in to wrestle violence have failed. filled with hilarious characters, stunning stories and many pleasure, no stone is left unturned during this trip into the darkish part of soccer. With tales from the Nineteen Sixties to the current day – together with the notorious Luton revolt of 1985, the 'Mad Season' of 2001/02 and the continuing struggle with West Ham's ICF – No-one Likes Us, we do not Care is the final word selection of stories from the terraces.
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Extra resources for No One Like Us, We Don't Care. True Stories from Millwall, Britain's Most Notorious Football Holigans
He threw a couple of big right haymakers. I stepped back from both of them. Concentrate … hit … don’t get hit … hit … don’t get hit. As I ducked back from the second one, I stepped back in. Bang. A big right. Caught him flush on the side of the head. He did not like that. He turned tail and ran. He was the catalyst. A few of them saw this and they ran, too, causing panic and even more to have it on their toes. Fighting was still going on around me and we easily had the upper hand. A couple of police on horseback steamed in and the Old Bill had soon restored order.
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.
I remember looking round and seeing lots of Millwall walking up. We got into the ground and on to the terrace and I was stood next to my dad. The pitch seemed massive. They had picked their spot and I went for a wander down to the front of the terrace. There were no cages – I could have jumped over and run on to the pitch. We had taken a couple of hundred, I would think. Not that many that I couldn’t have found my dad again. You don’t really notice the facilities at that age; you probably think every stadium is fantastic but, having been back since that day, I know now that it’s a shit-hole, too.