By Andrew Woods
Meet the UK's so much infamous soccer hooligans. writer Andrew Woods has come face-to-face with Millwall's most famed enterprise and now, for the 1st time, the Bushwackers show all approximately their bloodiest battles and fiercest rivalries – of their personal phrases. yet one of the camaraderie, the battles of wits with the police and the exhilarating toe-to-toe run-ins with the competition, this publication additionally examines the heritage of hooliganism and why measures introduced in to strive against violence have failed. full of hilarious characters, surprising stories and many pleasure, no stone is left unturned during this trip into the darkish part of soccer. With tales from the Sixties to the current day – together with the notorious Luton rebel of 1985, the 'Mad Season' of 2001/02 and the continued struggle with West Ham's ICF – No-one Likes Us, we do not Care is the final word selection of stories from the terraces.
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Extra info for No One Like Us, We Don't Care. True Stories from Millwall, Britain's Most Notorious Football Holigans
I couldn’t wait. We went to the Elephant & Castle station; Tube to Paddington. Full of Millwall on the train; bottles of beer and light ale scattered all over it; the cabin full of cigarette smoke and songs all the way to Swindon. This was totally different from a home game. Fields … cows … trains … fields … fields and fields. My dad, my uncle and a couple of their mates were playing cards on the train. One of my dad’s mates got cleaned out – he was devastated. It all got a bit heated. No fighting, though.
Yet the firm members were also members of his family and a lot of his friends. He was never involved in any of the fighting. For years, when the boys in the pub were leaving for some trouble, my dad would stay behind – making sure I stayed with him. No words were spoken. No lectures. ’ Nothing like that. Nothing. Just a look. Maybe he could see the growing sense of intrigue and fascination within me. How my ears pricked up and my eyes lit up when the chaps in the firm were talking about some recent fight or other.
We got back to London Bridge and about 20 of us headed in to Garfunkel’s, a bar on the station concourse at the entrance. My first pint of the day. It tasted sweet. No one had any injuries. A couple of commuters were in there, the odd office bod with half-an-hour to kill before his train. And us. We had a couple of pints and jumped the train back to South Bermondsey. No one had left and we all piled into The Bramcote Arms on the Bonamy estate. We had a few more in there. Nothing too late; work in the morning.