St George in My Heart : Confessions Of An England Fan [Paperback]

An England fan's account of following England's football team home and away

Terrace Banter was launched in October, 1998, as a football imprint of S.T. Publishing. Over the past decade football as a spectator sport has changed beyond all recognition, particularly for the ordinary fan. A great deal of working class culture and tradition is being cast to one side so that football can appeal to a new market, that of the "soccer fan". Through Terrace Banter we hope to put down in print the experiences of the ordinary fan before they are lost forever in a sea of plastic seats and replica strips. Unless we document our own history, it is left to outsiders and the mass media to be judge and jury. This book is primarily about following England, but it is also about growing up on the terraces. If you have an interest in football hooliganism or working class culture in general, I'm sure you'll enjoy St George In My Heart - Confessions Of An England Fan.

" . . . We ordered a beer in a bar where a few more English were drinking. By now, there was about 15 of us and we all knew that hundreds of Dutch fans had just left the station and were on the look out for England fans. We stood outside the bar, keeping our glasses, bottles, chairs and tables within easy reach, just in case.

After a few minutes, we heard a loud bang, like the sound of an explosive device being let off. This was quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of it kicking off. We could hear glasses smashing and the sound of people shouting at each other. We knew it was kicking off, but couldn't see where or what exactly was happening. It was obviously kicking off down one of the side streets leading off from the square. We tooled up and expected the worst. Our fears came true when we suddenly saw over 200 Dutch fans charging towards us from across the other side of the square. They still had about 100 yards to cover before they reached our bar, but we all knew what we were going to do.

We picked up our weapons and charged at them. We were heavily outnumbered and probably didn't stand a chance, but we were not going to run from the Dutch at all costs. It was an incredible display of loyalty because you have to remember that we had only met our brothers in arms just a few minutes earlier. We didn't even know what team they supported, but one thing we all shared in common was our loyalty and pride in England . . . "

When he's not on domestic duty with Millwall, Colin Johnson used to spend his time and money following his beloved England over land and sea. And not as part of the official travel club either. Here's his account of trips to Scotland, Italy, Ireland, Wales, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Sweden, Spain, Holland, and of course Wembley before it became populated by happy smiley people chanting "Football's coming home".

Colin Johnson is an ordinary Millwall and England fan. He's not a top boy, but at the same time is more than willing to stand his ground with fellow supporters against the constant onslaught from the media, rival fans, the police and the football authorities. He is also the author of We Fear No Foe - A Decade Of Following Millwall.

. . . My navigational skills soon paid dividends and I found myself on a bridge overlooking the Clyde. Paul and myself were chatting about our adventures in the city centre when we noticed a running battle taking place on one of the other bridges further down the river, between a mob of English and hundreds of Scots. From what I could see, the Scots charged at the English from behind, throwing bottles and other weapons. Once all their weapons had been launched, the English steamed into the Scots and chased them off the bridge back towards the city centre.

The English mob then continued walking towards Hampden. We decided to join up with this mob and so raced off the bridge, ran down the street parallel to the river.

There were about 80 boys in total, most of them were Blues, but there were a few Stockport, Preston and Plymouth boys in amongst them. We moved as one unit, keeping close together at all times.

We were now on a main street, heading towards Hampden. Everywhere you looked there were drunken Scottish fans, chanting obscenities about the English. We approached a pub, which was packed with Scottish supporters. One of the Preston lads walked up to the pub, opened the door and threw a gas canister inside. The people in the pub spilled out into the street to confront us and again bottles and glasses were thrown at the English. Punches were briefly traded before the Scots were once again chased off.

We continued our walk. Small groups of Scots would run to within 50 yards of us, before launching bottles at us. Once they had thrown the bottles they would run away before any of us could get anywhere near them. Their cowardice was both amusing and annoying. By now, all of us were so determined to hurt some Glaswegians that any Scottish fan became liable for attack. Our numbers had been swelled by a mob of about 20 lads from Rochdale who had been drinking in a pub nearby. As we turned into another street, we saw a huge mob of Scots about 200 yards in front of us. There must have been three or four hundred of them and they spotted us immediately and started moving towards us. This is it, I thought, two large mobs and no police anywhere in sight.

As the Scots moved to within bottle throwing distance, a hail of missiles was launched at us. Bottles, glasses, stones, coins and even planks of wood came flying through the sky, injuring a fair few English. I protected my eyes as I waited for the barrage of missiles to come to an end. Sure enough, the missiles stopped. We picked up what we could and steamed into the Scots. For a moment they stood, but after a few punches were thrown, they were forced to retreat. Despite having the numbers, they were being chased all over their own city.

We quickly gave up the chase and continued our summer stroll to Hampden. We found ourselves in a street full of shop keepers frantically closing and boarding up their shops. Some were too late and a few windows were smashed. The sound of police sirens grew louder and louder as the police desperately tried to reach us. Shortly before the police arrived, a group of seven or eight Asian shopkeepers, armed with knives, came out of a shop, determined to protect their business premises. They were viciously attacked by the English although they were quick to use their knives. The Strathclyde Police turned up in force as this knife battle took place. One English guy was dragged away by half a dozen police, kicking and fighting all the way. I felt sorry for him as I realised he would be spending the bank holiday weekend in Barlinnie Prison, an unpleasant though at the best of times.

Our mob was now under a heavy police escort as we slowly walked to the ground. Once again, another huge mob of Glaswegians approached. As we were walking on the pavement, they crossed to the other side of the road and threw all their bottles. This time they were not aiming directly at us. Their plan was to throw the bottles at the tenement buildings, thus ensuring the bottles would smash above our heads and shower glass on us. Their plan certainly worked and I spent the next few minutes pulling pieces of glass out of my hair.

We made a counter surge towards the Scots which sent them on their toes. They need not have turned and run since the police prevented us from breaking out of our escort by thumping anyone who moved. Hitting Englishmen must have been in their job description, and the police were obviously enjoying the day as much as we were . . .

We proceeded another half a mile or so without further incident. We were kept on the pavement by scores of mounted police, backed up by a large number of riot vans. However, as open parkland appeared on our left, our unit tried to break out of the escort and get away into the park. About 30 of us gained managed to get away before the police realised what was happening.

Overjoyed at getting one over on the old bill, Paul and myself together with the rest of our little mob walked up the hill. My heart sank though when we reached the top. All I could see were hundreds of Scots in the park, singing, drinking and heading towards Hampden. A few of them spotted us and immediately roared their disapproval. This attracted the rest of the Scots and suddenly I found myself in a living nightmare . . .