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Rated: 13+ · Essay · Biographical · #1966980
biographical account of my days as a football hooligan
Saturday's Heroes - Inside the mind of a football hooligan

The world of soccer violence became a necessary proving ground for me. Having emerged from seven years of phsyical, emotional and mental abuse. It was a toxic situation that led me to facing suicide as the only remaining backward step.

Education had set an impossible objective of acqurring a good standard of hand-writing. My unknown dyslexia was interpretated as a "lazy and obstinate attitude" which they felt should be beaten out of me.

The invasion of my psyche had been complete and very nearly total. During the final battle a death like experience occurred. The frightened kid that entered the fight effectively died and was replaced by a resistance fighter.

The normal reaction to abuse is to box it off and stick a "No-go area" sticker upon it. This was not an option for me as it would have entailed closing down 98% of my functioning mind. Leaving me a very fine ledge set before the long drop into suicidal self destruction.

So a fight began to reclaim occupied ground. My character had engaged with reversing the total introversion caused by it being the only direction for movement in face of the strong frontline that was presented by my abusers. Now I had the target of replacing the current classification with the extroverted one.

My period of being abused had caused two alterations to take place. Firstly disassociation disorders (Depersonalisation & Derealisation) were altered to be my resting position. It was a world of limbo, far removed from the real world. Begun as a defensive measure at school, as I disconnected from the here and now to mitigate the mental and emotional pain that was being inflicted upon me. As it was needed on a near daily basis it was put on permanant activation.

Secondly the "fight or flight" response mechanism was also altered to a position of instant readiness. This close to "firing" it leaks two chemical formula's one is aimed at raising levels of alertness. Which when unfocused on a predatory attack, results in a constant level of anxiety and restlessness that impacts on my sleep capability. The other switches off the hunger response.

Along with this there is now an "Emotional trigger" that jumps straight to the most extreme reaction - "Fighting to the death".

Prior to the suicide option I had been inflicting self-harm for about two years which was a product of self-hatred, frustration and anguish. Little did I know this act was to provide me with a level of tollerance to pain.


By sheer chance football hooliganism provided me with the arena to acquire extrovert reactions. In fighting I was pushing past the overwhealming influence of introversion and projecting my actions outwards.

Two factors aided me in this environment, firstly because of dissasociation I have acquired an ability to switch off emotional responses individualy if they obstructed the goal. Second I was no stranger to "pain" which meant it no longer held any mystery.

The emotion that was turned off within this realm was "fear". Its absence allowed me a clear mind and cool head in some of the most chaotic riots imaginable.

Like wise acceptance of pain was an asesst in a world where it was a regular experience. It also had a spin-off benefit.

The pain and wounds were now a badge of honor and no longer a frustration release mechanism.

This regard for the Warrior's capabilities, started the growth of a positive ego, which had been impeded by abuse up untill that point.

At the age of twelve I entered the world of soccer and was swept away by the atmosphere, energy and excitement that penertrated to the very core.

Firstly there was an apprenticeship to serve, being vocal and singing the songs of battle was the first step. This was followed by adding to the numbers, yet still not fully engaged. After which came a baptism by fire.

Being quite lanky for a twelve year old, I was easily mistaken for someone older. This led to opposing hooligans viewing me as a legitamate target. A situation that saw me collect the badges of honor in terms of cuts and bruises.

Instead of provoking a reality check, it draw me into the deepend.

At the age of 14, i collect my first scars. We had been fighting with Watford Supporters. The frontline disolved and reformed about a 100 feet back.

As I was standing in front ready to re-engage with the enemy. A guy was apparently being chased by the Watford mob. He was about 50 feet in front of them.

As he draw near I barked to him "Quick their mob's on your arse!". It was then that I discovered he was one of them. A mess of barbed wire, torn from the fences seperating supporters was whipped across my head, resulting in a furrow that bled profusely and required sixteen stitches.

From there we were on a snow-ball ride until the top-gang thought it was time to clip our wings. This turned out to be a raid on a saturday night disco at the local war memorial hall.

I was struck three times by knuckledusters as I found my feet and charged at the prime fighter time and again. His companions were putting the boot into the fallen, including me.

After this a meet was arranged between me and the guy with knuckldusters. It was explained that the attack was to bring us back in line. He seemed shocked by the fact I was then sixteen, like others he thought I was older.

With a truce in place I returned to the terraces at AFC Bournemouth''s ground. The numbers had been culled to five of us. As the majority of our gang rejected the offer.

Strange as it seems the smaller group made engaging in violence much more easier. From this the number of incidents esculated dramatically.

By 18 I was heading an amalgamated gang of around 200 skinhead hooligans. I didn't acquire that status by agreeing to be the leader. It was more a consequence of being an agent provocator who made things happen and thus attracting their attention and making sure they followed my lead.

Events are far to numerous to mention, as it was on a weekly basis. Yet some stand out...I rescued a friend from an attacking Pompey mob that had him pinned down in the tunnel leading onto the terraces.

This I did by dropping down beside him with the intent of fighting to create an escape route back onto the terraces. Yet my sudden materialisation beside him caused the Pompey lot to halt their attack and I was able to pull him out without a fight.

Another time, during a game against Swindon Town, I again dropped from a height into the same tunnel, where I found myself facing around 100 of them. As the point I had landed on was about 50-70 feet from the entrance onto the terraces. Running wasn't a viable option. So there was only one choice remaining - "Go down fighting".

I clenched a fist and beckoned them with the other, whilst snarling "Lets fucking have yer, you fucking wankers!"

Amazingly the mob froze, I think it was just too bizzarre for them to take it in. As the seconds ticked past it became a little embaressing. Thankfully one of them made his move, yet was trapped by the front rank pushing backwards. Knowing if he got free it would kick off, I stole the advantage by charging into them.

How long the fight lasted I don't know it seemed like ages. The funny thing about this situation was that less of the punches and kicks were landing on me, as hitting each other.

When I felt the edge of the first step leading down to the turnstiles. I knew that could be a danger, so I forced a U-turn and headed back fot the terraces.

Emerging from the fight and suspecting the police might be watching, I jammed my hands into my pockets and casually walked away from the battle whistling. It made such an impact on the fellow Bournemouth mob that my rep was sky-rocketing.

Later in life whilst in London I used a bit of threatening psychology on the leader of a mob of 40 skinheads who had attacked my friends from France. There was a bizzarre situation that the Cockney reggae loving, non-racist skinhead hated European skinheads with a passion. I couldn't understand their lacking a sense of unity with other skinheads.

Anyway the fight flared and died pretty quickily, with the London lot drawing back and looking menacing. I crossed the no-man's land and whispered into the leaders ear - "can we fix this?"

He replied "no"

So I countered "That's the way it CUTS then!"

I was out to press his buttons as he had been stabbed in the throat by a flick knife a friend of mine had used when attacked. I knew there was a chance this reference might steal some of his confidence.

Sure enough they stood and watched as my friends left by an emergency exit. I remained fixed where I was regarding the other mob. Once I felt sufficent time had passed for my friends to have put distance between themselves and the venue, as well as being sufficent time to impress the cockney crowd with the fact that I wasn't going to permit them to drive home another attack.

Turning to the exit doors, which were now closed, I waved my hands like an empeor indicating the doors should open - which they did and I exited with a laugh as that must have been dramatic for the on-lookers.

Later in life, I found that being a celebrated writer serviced my ego needs. Yet the fighter remains still ready to engage in combat.

This article was taken from my website, which you will find at


there is a player link to my internet website ands of features and interactive multimedia pages with vidoes to watch and music videos to play. Then if you still want more check out my yioutube channel at:

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