The Football Factory Read online

  Praise for The Football Factory

  ‘Only a phenomenally talented and empathetic writer working from within his own culture can achieve the power and authenticity this book pulses with. Buy, steal or borrow a copy now, because in a short time anyone who hasn’t read it won’t be worth talking to.’

  —Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting

  ‘This is a chronicle of a lost tribe—the white, Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual who is fed up with being told he is crap. It is the story of a flight from fear by a group of Londoners who have seen the present and know it does not work…. King writes powerfully with a raw realism and clear grasp of a culture which has been denied but cannot be ignored.’

  —Hugh MacDonald, Glasgow Herald

  ‘King’s novel is not only an outstanding read, but also an important social document … This book should be compulsory reading for all those who believe in the existence, or even the attainability, of a classless society.’

  —Paul Howard, Sunday Tribune

  ‘Bleak, thought-provoking and brutal, The Football Factory has all the hallmarks of a cult novel.’

  —Dominic Bradbury, The Literary Review

  ‘The first three chapters hit hard and the honesty will disturb some sensitivities. But the subtler theme of living with alienation, articulated with less fury but similar passion when divorced from the shock of the raw, is equally powerful as the snapshot narrative unfolds.’

  —Kevin Mitchell, The Observer

  ‘Powerfully written and tells you more about the mentality of those who disrupt football matches than all the theses of the sociologist academics put together.’

  —Ian Wooldridge, The Daily Mail

  ‘In an age where pessimists assign British culture to an unmarked grave, John King offers a refreshing alternative, doing for England what Irvine Welsh did for Scotland, and doing it with equal panache.’

  —The Big Issue

  ‘John King’s achievement since his debut has been enormous: creating a modern, proletarian English literature at once genuinely modern, genuinely proletarian, genuinely literature.’

  —Charles Shaar Murray

  The Football Factory

  John King

  © John King 1996

  First published by Jonathan Cape, a division of The Random House Group Ltd

  “Come Running after You” © John King 2015

  This edition© 2015 PM Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.

  John King has asserted his right to be identified as the Author of the Work.

  ISBN: 978-1-62963-116-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015930898

  Cover design by John Yates / www.stealworks.com

  Interior design by briandesign

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PM Press

  PO Box 23912

  Oakland, CA 94623

  www.pmpress.org

  Printed in the USA by the Employee Owners of Thomson-Shore in Dexter, Michigan.

  www.thomsonshore.com

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION Come Running after You

  Coventry at Home

  Doing a Runner

  Tottenham Away

  Worker’s Dream

  Rochdale at Home

  Hooligans

  West Ham at Home

  Never Never Land

  Liverpool Away

  Sweet Jesus

  Norwich at Home

  Happy Ever After

  Newcastle Away

  Running the Bulls

  Wimbledon at Home

  Poppy Day

  Man City at Home

  Bombay Mix

  Threatening Behaviour

  Bomber Command

  Villa Away

  Ashes to Ashes

  Millwall Away

  Liquidator

  Something Special

  Derby at Home

  To Mum and Dad

  COME RUNNING AFTER YOU

  When The Football Factory was first published in 1996, the two British broadsheets that sell themselves as being open-minded reacted in ways at odds with their supposed stances, but in keeping with how they are seen by a big chunk of the population. Both took the time and space to demolish the novel. The Guardian saw it as politically incorrect, The Independent as politically correct. This obsession, which has since escalated and acts as a form of censorship, reinforces views expressed by Tommy Johnson, one of the novel’s two main characters. Our controllers may preach liberal values, yet few live by them. This hypocrisy is despised. Their contempt for the common people is never admitted, but it is clear.

  The Daily Mail, which positions itself between the broadsheets and tabloids, and is a down-market, right-wing (shunned) cousin of The Guardian, was also predictable in its reaction. The Mail actually counted the number of swear words in the book. This response was again literal, if more honest. The Observer, provincial newspapers, fanzines and especially word-of-mouth made the novel a big success, so those negative reviews were positives in a funny sort of way, but why would these powerful, establishment titles bother with a first novel by a nobody?

  The Football Factory gave them a chance to attack one of their pet hates—the ‘football hooligan’—and through this their real target, the white working-class male. This lumping together of so many souls—along racist, classist, sexist lines—is one of the few areas where abuse of a group is not only accepted but encouraged. Smeared as racist, sexist and violent, they are an easy target, with few in a position of power willing to stand up for the likes of Tommy. In reality, this section of society is seen as a threat to the ruling elite, fear of The Mob running across centuries. If these people were united they could not be stopped and within the civilian populations of Britain, and indeed Europe, football stadiums are where this male power is at its most focused.

  In his novel Nineteen Eighty-Four, author George Orwell talks about the power of the proles, about thought police and thought-crime and newspeak and doublethink. These ideas are embedded in The Football Factory. Then there is Hate Week, because we all need an enemy. It makes us feel good inside, bonds us with those who share our opinions, and this anger is more often mental, spoken and written than physical. The media feeds the craving. The creation of enemies and how they can fade once we know people as individuals is one of the major themes of The Football Factory.

  Football is the people’s game. In its modern form it belongs to the Industrial Revolution, to those who migrated to the factories and mills and formed the working class in England, and the clubs that make up the various professional leagues are still named after the towns and cities where they’re located. In the early days, teams were also often linked to places of work, though these connections fell away over time. Each one was part of a real community and, despite the effects of globalization and the targeting of football by business interests, a strong sense of identity remains.

  Football is a microcosm of society. It is a spectator sport and its worldwide popularity and the passion it stirs is unique. The game is easy to play and only needs a single ball. Poverty does not stop a youngster’s progress as it does in almost every other area of life. Despite the propaganda, neither does race or nationality. The crowds are noisy, partisan, flamboyant. They make football a spectacle. It is the theatre of the masses, ‘the working man’s ballet’ as my boyhood hero and favourite player Alan Hudson likes to say.

  The terrace culture that links to English football today probably began in the mid-1960s. The so-called football hooligan also has his origins then. Huge attendances, local rivalries and star performers already existed, but increases in income, more clear-cut youth cultures built
around styles of music and dress, the ideals these tribes embodied, greater communications and a World Cup held in England in 1966 created something new. Mods and rockers had been enjoying newspaper headlines with their Bank Holiday riots at seaside resorts, and before them Teddy Boys fought over territory in the 1950s, earlier gang warfare often related to areas of a town where it went largely unreported, but the skinheads were the first recognized football hooligans and every club had its following.

  The ends where the home supporters gathered were the focus. The aim was for visiting hooligans to take them by force. Punch-ups became common, along with running battles outside stadiums and in the surrounding streets. Pubs were smashed up and trains set alight. Thousands of youths began travelling across the country on a regular basis. The trouble that had long accompanied games between local sides went nationwide. Reputations were built and legends formed. The numbers swelled, sensationalist reports and then TV images boosting the ranks of those searching for excitement. By the mid-1970s there was chaos. While much of this was down to the exuberance of youth, there was also serious violence and the very occasional use of weapons. Generally, though, knives and similar were considered cowardly, foreign and effeminate.

  However, the small incidents journalists saw from the safety of their seats in the press box were being blown up out of all proportion to the reality, while worse things that happened beyond their vision went unreported. Stories weren’t worth much without accompanying photos either. Suspect headlines and text became routine, and this made an impression on the tens of thousands of youngsters who attended matches and saw events firsthand. If the media got these things so wrong, what other lies did they tell?

  The 1980s saw the ages of those involved rise. There was more organization, but not as much as the authorities claimed. Some major riots took place and the trouble was being transported into Europe with British supporters involved in widespread disturbances with their counterparts across the English Channel. The Heysel Disaster in Belgium, before the Liverpool-Juventus European Cup Final in 1985, saw thirty-nine people killed in a crush after fighting between fans. Hooliganism was no longer ‘a game’ and many people ended their involvement. Football hooliganism had become a major political issue, yet the politicians determined to stamp it out were seen as hypocrites.

  The thrill for those rampaging across the country can’t be overemphasised. It takes courage to fight on the streets. Fear has to be confronted. Identity and honour are two of the motivations involved. There is danger and the threat of injury and arrest, but those are prices some are willing to pay for the adrenaline rush. There is comradeship, a sense of belonging, like being in a less violent army with no orders to obey. Drinking, singing and humour are big parts of the day out. Much of the time there is little actual trouble, just the possibility, but young men want to be heroes, to be respected. Some gain this through careers and wealth, most do not. The majority have no power outside their numbers and physical strength. When you are constantly told you are rubbish and your culture is shit, your views dismissed by those in power, the anger builds up. More often than not it is turned on people similar to yourself. This is understood. Nobody says it is right. Tommy mirrors the beliefs of the wider society.

  None of this is done for financial gain, and yet drug dealers and pimps are regularly feted by the chattering classes. Men who commit gross acts of torture and murder are given more respect that a brawler. This makes sense to the upper classes as they live by the profit motive, lack the same sense of identity. Men who exploit girls and women, bully and live off prostitution, have books written about them and are treated as glamorous, lovable rogues. These double standards rankle.

  Tommy Johnson likes being part of a gang and he fights because he enjoys it, but he is also a moral man, more so than many of those who condemn his actions. In uniform he can kill and be given a medal, on his own he will be put in prison for punching another fighter in the face. He would never hit a woman and hates rapists and other sex cases, yet can talk in a sexist manner with his friends. Nor would he hurt an animal, child or old person. He sometimes uses racist language but has black friends and would never use it in their presence. These are contradictions of course, but reality is complex. Everyone wants to fit in. We all want to be loved.

  Is Tommy worse than the politician who cuts benefits to the elderly and ignores the abuse of children on the grounds of power and background/race? Is he worse than a media that targets single mothers and laughs at animal slaughter and insults the unemployed and handicapped? You don’t have to like Tommy, but he is no bully. Nor does he hide his colours. He hates those who exploit and lie, the hypocrites who sit in judgement. The truth is that he’s powerless. He is an angry young man.

  While Tommy Johnson drives The Football Factory, it is Bill Farrell who gives the novel its foundation. This is Bill’s book. He is a genuine hero, someone who served in the Second World War and took part in the Normandy landings, a young soldier who married one of the survivors of the concentration camp he helped liberate. He is a true socialist, speaks honestly, and is respected by younger generations for his actions and because he represents something special in the country’s folk memory. Those who grew up in the war, their children and many grandchildren, are incredibly proud that their nation stood firm and helped defeat Hitler.

  While The Mail promotes a patriotism it doesn’t seem to truly believe, The Guardian can barely contain its distaste for anything that hints of national pride. Both seem to find the emotions of the masses uncouth. They certainly share a hatred for the likes of Tommy, and the poison flows when there is an excuse to pound the keyboards. The media has always been a big part of the hooligan roadshow, helped to create the imagined monster. Bill Farrell knows the score and would not read either of these publications.

  The Football Factory bounces between Bill and Tommy, but it also touches on people nearby, the threads of their lives and stories. There is Bill’s pal Albert Moss; Tommy’s closest friends Rod and Mark; Doreen at the launderette worrying about her son and trying to avoid things that should not be avoided; hardmen Harris, Billy Bright and Facelift; Vince Matthews who turns his back on a destructive way of life and goes off to see the world; journalists from different classes with conflicting messages but similar agendas; Mary wandering the streets of a London blitzed by the Nazis and in the process of being demolished once again; a nurse who only wants to help. This is a world of boring work and low pay and too much money for those in easy jobs; pubs and clubs and new wars and surveillance-meets-voyeurism and churches and a collision of ages and origins and attitudes, the curry houses where men drink and fight or leave on psychedelic journeys, the flavours of beer and sex and the sound of punk and ska, singalongs and chanting and shouting and laughing.

  There is sadness in all these characters. It is there in Tommy, swinging between extremes, trying to deal with his frustrations, finally facing a choice as his life spirals out of control. Is he an individual or a cog in the machine? Can he be both? The sadness is stronger in Bill, who is coming to terms with age and loss, sees poor Mary and remembers when they were young lovers. Memories hang in dark corners. A ghost sits in the light.

  Bill is also the bravest and strongest of everyone here, and against his modest nature is persuaded to go to a Remembrance Day service wearing his medals. He is a patriot and wears his poppy with pride, but his memories focus on a German boy, and he isn’t going to allow younger men to bully people due to the colour of their skin. Despite his years he is determined and certainly no coward, believes that actions speak louder than words. But his life is also turning in on itself. Both Tommy and Bill see their culture as being under attack. Their wealth is in their sense of identity. They could almost be the same person born in different eras.

  The Football Factory shows the attraction of violence, but it is anti-violence. There is glory to be had for some, but is it really worth the pain and misery? Bill doesn’t think so and Tommy is finding out, but then the older man had no c
hoice in the matter and has seen more than Tommy can ever imagine. Life is short and precious, yet violence is attractive to human beings. It is celebrated, justified, ignored. It is right there on our TVs and dinner plates, in our music and clothes and novels. The meat industry butchers billions of terrified creatures in our slaughterhouses each year, just so people can enjoy the taste of their flesh. This relentless, needless, business-driven cruelty is challenged by a relatively small number of people, sectioned off as if it is part of a separate world.

  Many of the ideas outlined here could apply to the US. There are similar splits both socially and politically, the divides wider and the anger greater in America. The same hypocrisies and double standards exist, and Tommy and his friends would be labelled ‘white trash’ by US contemporaries of The Guardian and Daily Mail. Youths and men form gangs, connect to styles of dress and music, the violence far more brutal with the availability of guns, something unimaginable in the UK. The same need for excitement and respect and the search for heroes crosses boundaries, that hatred for politicians and bankers and the hypocrites generally international.

  In England and Britain people found expression in football and the feeling that a club represents a community has lasted into an era when localism is laughed at by waves of no-class yuppies who are allowed to buy and destroy whatever they want. And hooliganism is only a small part of the wider terrace culture which in this book is only touched on—the alternative press that took hold in the mid-eighties as fanzines expanded from punk, the magic of the Beautiful Game itself, the players and their characters part of a nonstop soap opera, the admiration of a son for his father, the dreams of children and the men they become and that open-mouthed wonder that lasts a lifetime.

  The first time I walked into Chelsea’s Stamford Bridge ground was in 1970. Chelsea were at home to Southampton. These were the days of skinhead reggae and space travel, the troubles in Northern Ireland and a war in Vietnam. As I stood outside the ground with my dad the home end—the Shed—began clapping along to Liquidator by Harry J And The All-Stars. At a certain point thousands of voices chanted ‘England’. My skin tingled. It still does. The atmosphere was electric and this was when I realized football is about much more than twenty-two grown men kicking a ball about.