Soldier Of The Queen by Bernard O'Mahoney Read Free Book Online

floor, not moving. I picked up a metal "Paraffin Sold Here" sign and threw it on top of him. Then we ran off.
    My passion for Manchester United grew to the point where I used to live for Saturdays when I would follow the team around the country. I loved the football on the pitch, but the hooliganism off the pitch added greatly to my enjoyment. I engaged in countless running battles across the terraces or in town centres, getting high on the feelings of power and unity that came from taking part in mob violence. I remember once there were about 1,000 of us surrounded by police on Blackpool beach. We wanted to break out of the cordon: we started throwing bottles and then, as one, ran at the police. They hesitated for a moment before turning and running, pursued by us. The moment was captured by a photo on the front page of the local evening newspaper which was on sale at the train station by home-time.
    Most of my Codsall friends supported the local team, Wolverhampton Wanderers. I would go with them to what I regarded as good games, that is, ones where trouble seemed guaranteed, such as a local derby against a team like Birmingham City. We would catch an early train to avoid the crowds and police; we wouldn't wear scarves, badges or football shirts. Anyone looking at us would have thought we were just a group of young lads on a day out. Before the game we would rob sports or clothes shops by the method known as "steaming". This would involve choosing a shop with no more than two assistants; two of us would take up their attention by posing as potential customers, then the rest would steam into the shop, fanning out and grabbing whatever they could before running out. We would stash our heist in lockers at Birmingham New Street Station - not far from the site of the pub bombs - before continuing the day's recreation by hunting down rival supporters. I loved the sounds of glass smashing, people screaming, police sirens. The uncertainty of the outcome would keep me alert and pull me violently through the scale of emotions: euphoria as the hunter, panic as the hunted, but all the time a constant flow of adrenaline. Mayhem and disorder had become the sources of my joy.
    As we got older we used to carry craft knives with us - but with a vicious twist: we would put two blades in the holder, place a matchstick between them and tighten up the case. When the victim was slashed he would suffer two identical wounds only the thickness of a matchstick apart. This meant surgeons would be unable to stitch the wounds and the victim would be left with a horrible thick scar, usually across his face. On the way to a night match against Birmingham City our gang encountered a group of rival supporters and we began fighting. One of them turned to flee and was slashed across the back. The razor blades tore through his clothing, opening him up from the top of his neck through his shoulder blade to the middle of his back. He collapsed immediately, blood seeming to spurt everywhere. We ran, suddenly terrified he would bleed to death. We swapped clothing to confuse attempts to identify us and stood apart during the match. It was not the first or last time we believed we had seriously injured or even killed someone.
    Another time Stan and Hughie called at my house to see if I'd go with them to a Wolves versus Chelsea game. I didn't want to go because my shoes had fallen apart. The pittance my father gave my mother barely fed us; it certainly didn't clothe us. Indeed, the only time I ever had anything decent to wear was when I had stolen stuff. Otherwise most of the clothes I owned were like rags: they came either from jumble sales or were bought with Social Security vouchers. I asked Bill, a neighbour my age, if I could borrow a pair of his. He agreed to lend me a pair of his dad's extremely unfashionable slip-on plastic "pan shiners". Stan and Hughie mocked me as we made our way to the ground.
    We went first to the train station to see if we could catch