Read Online Rangers and the Famous ICF: My Life With Scotland's Most-Feared Football Hooligan Gang by Sandy Chugg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sandy Chugg
Ads: Link
there that night but some of our associates were. It kicked off and the CSC got the worst of it, forcing them to butt out, chased by our pals. One of the Celtic boys, Gary McGuire, was cornered on the steps of the Sheriff Court. He had no chance. He was stabbed and left to die.
The murder of Gary McGuire had nothing to do with the ICF. I even printed a newsletter explaining that we weren’t anywhere near the Hacienda that night. Later a boy nicknamed Wee Semi was convicted of the murder and given a life sentence and he was certainly never a member of the Rangers mob. None of that cut any ice with the CSC. They blamed the ICF for what happened to Gary and after that they were hell bent on taking revenge on us. There were skirmishes almost every night, with boys on both sides getting badly beaten up. Glasgow’s streets were as dangerous as they had ever been.
As time went on however we began to get the upper hand on Celtic and by the end of the Nineties we were completely dominant, with oursuccess mirroring what was happening on the field of play. 11 In fact the CSC deteriorated to such an extent that it rarely if ever turned out, even for games at Celtic Park. We didn’t have a mob to fight so there was only one alternative open to us: attack their scarfers. That was the period when we really turned the screw on the ordinary Celtic fan. We hounded them mercilessly, especially when we went to the Piggery. I will never forget those days of glory, when we left Celtic Park with a mob of four hundred, belting out ‘The Sash’ as we celebrated yet another victory. Soon our thoughts turned to FV and we went through our full repertoire of war chants and songs:
We are the Section Red 12
Celtic are dead
Or my favourite, which we sang to the tune of ‘Don’t Dilly Dally on the Way (My Old Man)’:
My old man said be a Celtic fan,
Fuck off father you’re a wank
Well take the Hibs and their casuals with it
We’ll take the Jungle and the shite that’s in it.
With hatchets and hammers,
Stanley knives and spanners
We’ll show the Fenian bastards how to fight.
So come all ye lads to the Ibrox stands
And join the Inter City,
We’re so pretty
The Inter City
The Inter City Firm
We walked proudly along London Road, went through Bridgeton Cross, past the back of the Barras and down to the Gallowgate, where all the Celtic pubs are. I have lost count of the number of times we smashed the windows in with volleys of bricks, traffic cones and metal poles. One time an undercover cop tried to stop us and was laid out by a single punch from one of our leading boys. With the windows tanned we did our level best to force our way into the boozers to get at the Great Unwashed who were lurking inside. It was always chaotic, with patrons and police coming together in an attempt to repel us.
Before some games at Parkhead we would even mingle with the Celtic scarfers, using every tool at our disposal to provoke them. One afternoon, after a drink in the Bristol, fifteen of us marched up Millerston Street, where there would be thousands of them on their way to the game. We didn’t give a fuck about being outnumbered and gave them several choruses of ‘Rule Britannia’ to announce our presence.
‘Fuck off you Orange bastards,’ they retorted, which set off several little skirmishes. A Celtic fan threw a bottle at us, which one of our boys caught on his knee and proceeded to play keepy-uppy with. That made them even angrier and as we got closer to the ground it became more and more dangerous for us. By now, in that swelling ocean of green and white, they could see how few of us there were, which I always thought was the equivalent of feeding them ‘game pills’. The police knew a bloodbath was a distinct possibility and one of their vans, a ‘heavy eight’, hove into view. The cops got out and after a great deal of pushing and shoving, managed to form a cordon around our little group. Then they herded us inside
The murder of Gary McGuire had nothing to do with the ICF. I even printed a newsletter explaining that we weren’t anywhere near the Hacienda that night. Later a boy nicknamed Wee Semi was convicted of the murder and given a life sentence and he was certainly never a member of the Rangers mob. None of that cut any ice with the CSC. They blamed the ICF for what happened to Gary and after that they were hell bent on taking revenge on us. There were skirmishes almost every night, with boys on both sides getting badly beaten up. Glasgow’s streets were as dangerous as they had ever been.
As time went on however we began to get the upper hand on Celtic and by the end of the Nineties we were completely dominant, with oursuccess mirroring what was happening on the field of play. 11 In fact the CSC deteriorated to such an extent that it rarely if ever turned out, even for games at Celtic Park. We didn’t have a mob to fight so there was only one alternative open to us: attack their scarfers. That was the period when we really turned the screw on the ordinary Celtic fan. We hounded them mercilessly, especially when we went to the Piggery. I will never forget those days of glory, when we left Celtic Park with a mob of four hundred, belting out ‘The Sash’ as we celebrated yet another victory. Soon our thoughts turned to FV and we went through our full repertoire of war chants and songs:
We are the Section Red 12
Celtic are dead
Or my favourite, which we sang to the tune of ‘Don’t Dilly Dally on the Way (My Old Man)’:
My old man said be a Celtic fan,
Fuck off father you’re a wank
Well take the Hibs and their casuals with it
We’ll take the Jungle and the shite that’s in it.
With hatchets and hammers,
Stanley knives and spanners
We’ll show the Fenian bastards how to fight.
So come all ye lads to the Ibrox stands
And join the Inter City,
We’re so pretty
The Inter City
The Inter City Firm
We walked proudly along London Road, went through Bridgeton Cross, past the back of the Barras and down to the Gallowgate, where all the Celtic pubs are. I have lost count of the number of times we smashed the windows in with volleys of bricks, traffic cones and metal poles. One time an undercover cop tried to stop us and was laid out by a single punch from one of our leading boys. With the windows tanned we did our level best to force our way into the boozers to get at the Great Unwashed who were lurking inside. It was always chaotic, with patrons and police coming together in an attempt to repel us.
Before some games at Parkhead we would even mingle with the Celtic scarfers, using every tool at our disposal to provoke them. One afternoon, after a drink in the Bristol, fifteen of us marched up Millerston Street, where there would be thousands of them on their way to the game. We didn’t give a fuck about being outnumbered and gave them several choruses of ‘Rule Britannia’ to announce our presence.
‘Fuck off you Orange bastards,’ they retorted, which set off several little skirmishes. A Celtic fan threw a bottle at us, which one of our boys caught on his knee and proceeded to play keepy-uppy with. That made them even angrier and as we got closer to the ground it became more and more dangerous for us. By now, in that swelling ocean of green and white, they could see how few of us there were, which I always thought was the equivalent of feeding them ‘game pills’. The police knew a bloodbath was a distinct possibility and one of their vans, a ‘heavy eight’, hove into view. The cops got out and after a great deal of pushing and shoving, managed to form a cordon around our little group. Then they herded us inside
Similar Books
