Read Online Rangers and the Famous ICF: My Life With Scotland's Most-Feared Football Hooligan Gang by Sandy Chugg - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandy Chugg
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footbridge over the M8 motorway it became clear that Celtic were as keen to get it onas we were. As they headed for the bridge both sides picked up pace and within seconds we were going hell for leather. A cry went up.
‘ICF, ICF. Let’s get into these Fenian bastards.’
The police – worried that someone would be thrown off the bridge – did their best to head us off but seventy of us managed to evade them and met Celtic head on. It was chaos on the bridge, where there was room only for three boys on each side. But despite the crush we quickly swamped them and pushed them back to the other side of the motorway.
Most of them managed to scurry back to safety. One wasn’t so lucky.
Amongst all the confusion I heard a thud and looked down to see a Celtic boy called Joey Laird lying on a patch of grass. I suppose he was lucky. If he had landed on the concrete he would have been dead, but as it was he suffered brain damage. It was no accident; it wasn’t because of the crush. Two Rangers boys had lifted him up and deliberately thrown him off.
As you might imagine the cops were outraged by the Laird incident and it was all hands to the pump to find out who did it – or, the Glasgow polis being the Glasgow polis, to stitch some poor cunt up for it. And that’s exactly what they did. After rounding up dozens of ICF and taking us for interview at the procurator fiscal’s office it became clear that they were intent on putting Barry Johnstone in the frame. Not because he did it – it was nothing to do with him – but because he was our top man and probably the most feared hooligan in Scotland. We stood firm. Every single one of us stonewalled them and no one was ever prosecuted.
How did we feel about Joey Laird? To be perfectly honest most of the boys were buzzing. They felt it was a right result. Me? I knew Joey and had mixed feelings about what happened to him.
While that was an interesting day out I had been too young to make a real contribution. Two years later, however, after another Old Firm encounter, again at Ibrox – older, bigger and stronger – I really came of age, not least in the eyes of the more experienced ICF boys. It was January 1987, which would make me fourteen. After the game, we met the CSC behind Ibrox primary school and a vicious battle broke out. There were no cops around to break things up so you had to choose whether to get into the fight or to cower on the sidelines. It was one of those situations that define you as a hooligan.
We had some Chelsea boys with us; members, it was said, of Britain’s toughest mob. Don’t make me fucking laugh. They stood and watched, paralysed with fear, as it went off. Those ‘hard men’ from London tookone look at the reality of Old Firm violence and stayed in their front-row seats. That was their choice. That was how they would be defined. 10 Meanwhile the teenage Sandy Chugg got wired in. That was my choice. That was how I would be defined. It helped cement my reputation and afterwards our older boys were full of admiration for the ‘game wee cunt’ who had gone toe-to-toe with Celtic.
*
As the 1990s dawned there was no let-up in the war between us and Celtic. One night we would be looking for revenge for an attack on our boys, on other nights they would come looking for us. It was a deadly game of tit-for-tat, one that could easily end in tragedy. That is the way Glasgow was in those years. It may sound melodramatic to say that it was like a war zone but for many guys of my age, on both sides of the fence, that’s exactly how it felt. Trouble came out of nowhere. It could happen anytime, anywhere. You had to be on your guard at all times. There was no alternative.
It was 1990. We still frequented different nightclubs; Celtic used Tin Pan Alley in Mitchell Lane, while we favoured the Hacienda, which is close to Glasgow Sheriff Court. This Friday night, no doubt enraged by another doing at the football, they came looking for us. We weren’t
‘ICF, ICF. Let’s get into these Fenian bastards.’
The police – worried that someone would be thrown off the bridge – did their best to head us off but seventy of us managed to evade them and met Celtic head on. It was chaos on the bridge, where there was room only for three boys on each side. But despite the crush we quickly swamped them and pushed them back to the other side of the motorway.
Most of them managed to scurry back to safety. One wasn’t so lucky.
Amongst all the confusion I heard a thud and looked down to see a Celtic boy called Joey Laird lying on a patch of grass. I suppose he was lucky. If he had landed on the concrete he would have been dead, but as it was he suffered brain damage. It was no accident; it wasn’t because of the crush. Two Rangers boys had lifted him up and deliberately thrown him off.
As you might imagine the cops were outraged by the Laird incident and it was all hands to the pump to find out who did it – or, the Glasgow polis being the Glasgow polis, to stitch some poor cunt up for it. And that’s exactly what they did. After rounding up dozens of ICF and taking us for interview at the procurator fiscal’s office it became clear that they were intent on putting Barry Johnstone in the frame. Not because he did it – it was nothing to do with him – but because he was our top man and probably the most feared hooligan in Scotland. We stood firm. Every single one of us stonewalled them and no one was ever prosecuted.
How did we feel about Joey Laird? To be perfectly honest most of the boys were buzzing. They felt it was a right result. Me? I knew Joey and had mixed feelings about what happened to him.
While that was an interesting day out I had been too young to make a real contribution. Two years later, however, after another Old Firm encounter, again at Ibrox – older, bigger and stronger – I really came of age, not least in the eyes of the more experienced ICF boys. It was January 1987, which would make me fourteen. After the game, we met the CSC behind Ibrox primary school and a vicious battle broke out. There were no cops around to break things up so you had to choose whether to get into the fight or to cower on the sidelines. It was one of those situations that define you as a hooligan.
We had some Chelsea boys with us; members, it was said, of Britain’s toughest mob. Don’t make me fucking laugh. They stood and watched, paralysed with fear, as it went off. Those ‘hard men’ from London tookone look at the reality of Old Firm violence and stayed in their front-row seats. That was their choice. That was how they would be defined. 10 Meanwhile the teenage Sandy Chugg got wired in. That was my choice. That was how I would be defined. It helped cement my reputation and afterwards our older boys were full of admiration for the ‘game wee cunt’ who had gone toe-to-toe with Celtic.
*
As the 1990s dawned there was no let-up in the war between us and Celtic. One night we would be looking for revenge for an attack on our boys, on other nights they would come looking for us. It was a deadly game of tit-for-tat, one that could easily end in tragedy. That is the way Glasgow was in those years. It may sound melodramatic to say that it was like a war zone but for many guys of my age, on both sides of the fence, that’s exactly how it felt. Trouble came out of nowhere. It could happen anytime, anywhere. You had to be on your guard at all times. There was no alternative.
It was 1990. We still frequented different nightclubs; Celtic used Tin Pan Alley in Mitchell Lane, while we favoured the Hacienda, which is close to Glasgow Sheriff Court. This Friday night, no doubt enraged by another doing at the football, they came looking for us. We weren’t
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