Cass Page #2

- You all right, fellas?

- Yes, mate.

I don't know what

the f***ing East End's coming to, do you?

- Yeah, I know, mate.

- Hey, steady on, lads. He's just a little kid.

Gonna f***in' grow up though, ain't he?

You all right, son?

You looking forward to the match, son?

- What's the special occasion?

- Eh?

Well, why are you taking me with you,

all of a sudden?

Your mother thought

we ought to spend a bit more time together.

- Why?

- You know what your mother's like, son.

Anyway,

who's your favourite West Ham player?

- I'm not sure.

- Oh, come on.

Bobby Moore? Martin Peters? Geoff Hurst?

Don't know.

Yeah, well... Don't matter.

Just remember, stay close to me today.

Don't want you getting hurt, right, Cass?

Your mother'd kill me.

I'm forever blowing bubbles

Pretty bubbles in the air

They fly so high, they reach the sky

And like my dreams, they fade and die

Fortunes always hiding...

Upton Park was known

as the academy of football.

The Britannia was known as the heartbeat

of the hardcore West Ham following.

- Are we going in?

- Yeah, f*** it, we're half in the firm now.

You had to earn respect

to be accepted at The Britannia,

and after the Wolves fight,

we thought our time had come.

Oi! No f***ing nig-nogs allowed in this pub.

You stick with the sambo snooker club

down the road.

F*** off, you nonce.

He ain't a nig-nog, he's West Ham.

Don't just f***ing' stand there, you little

c*nts. Get in there and get me a pint.

By the time the 1980s arrived,

me, Prentice and Freeman had taken over

from Stevie Hogan's South Bank Crew,

and we were now some of the main faces

drinking in The Britannia.

Have a look. Duran Du-f***in-ran, innit?

Look who it is.

- How are you, mate?

- All right, all right.

Ray, mate.

I thought you were in the nick, mate.

Got bail, didn't I?

How much did they fix your bail at, then?

- Twenty.

- Twenty grand?

No, twenty quid.

Of course, twenty f***ing grand!

Yeah, the c*nts. They proper stitched me up

this time. No way I'm getting out of it.

- How long do you reckon you'll get, then?

- Definitely a ten, but please God, out in five.

Five? Five years? F*** that.

Anyway,

I thought I'd make the most of it while I can.

Here, you still wasting your dough chasing

them Hammers all round the country?

Too f***ing right, mate.

Slice me open and you'll see my claret

is claret and f***in' blue, mate.

F***in' right!

I just stick to the boxing now, mate.

Couldn't bear to watch them Hammers

get hammered every f***ing week.

Yeah, well, you won't have to worry

about that for a while, will you, Ray?

What do you mean by that, then, son?

Nothing, Ray. I was only joking, mate.

You taking the f***ing piss out of me?

No.

No, I'm really sorry, Ray.

I never meant nothing by it, mate.

Just as f***in' well then, innit?

F*** me, kid, you smell like you pebble

dashed that seat. What's the matter wi' you?

Pull yourself up!

F*** me, Ray.

You f***ing sh*t yourself.

- Anyway, look, good to see you, boys.

- Cheers.

Liven yourself up, you,

I'm telling you.

I need a brandy after that.

Ray was on a different level from us,

though.

When Monday arrived, we were no different

from any of the rest of Maggie's miserables.

An honest day's work

for a dishonest day's pay.

We were just another cog

in Thatcher's square wheel.

What is it with you people, eh?

Your sort are all the f***ing same.

No good, and f***ing lazy!

- Oi!

- Leave it.

Now, get a move on.

No wonder his f***ing wife left him.

What a c*nt!

Even office workers like Prentice couldn't

wait till the bell rang on a Friday afternoon,

so they could get

their weekly fix of the ultra-violence.

You had to give yourself something

to look forward to at the weekend.

Times have changed since the mid-'70s.

The football casual

had taken over the terraces,

so it was designer clothes

and designer violence.

We now called ourselves

the Inter City Firm,

the ICF.

The papers called us "les thugs nouveaux",

and West Ham's Inter City Firm, being

full of lads from East London and Essex,

were more nouveaux than anyone.

It wasn't only us Cockneys, either.

Aberdeen's Soccer Casuals,

Middlesbrough's Frontline,

Cardiff's Soul Crew

and the Portsmouth 6.67,

from the far north to the deep south,

armies of young men were battling on

the streets, in the pubs and on the terraces,

all in the name of their religion,

their football clubs.

There was always a bigger turnout when

you went up against one of your main rivals,

and they didn't come much bigger

than the Leeds Service Crew.

Come on. This is it!

The ICF were after their crown, and it was

going to take something special to get it.

F***ing kill 'em!

ICF, ICF, ICF.

Come on then, you c*nt.

When half of our mob were

drawing them out into their own back yard,

the other half were taking liberties

redecorating their boozer.

We were the famous ICF,

and humiliation

was the business we specialised in.

Oi! Wake up, you lazy c*nts.

Oi, come on, you pair of slags.

Get her!

All right, f***'s sake!

- All right?

- Morning. You cold?

No, I ain't, paperboy.

Oh, hello.

All right, you've had an eyeful.

What's all the f***ing fuss for?

- Two page twos and a page four.

- Who f***ing gave us a page four?

- Who'd you think?

- Typical. Posh c*nts!

Chelsea got front pages again.

F***ing Chelsea!

"Notorious Chelsea hooligans. "

- What a load of f***ing bollocks!

- Here, listen to this.

"Mindless thuggery

as West Ham mob attack Leeds pub. "

Mindless?

We f***ing planned that for weeks.

Where's my f***ing top, Freeman?

Renee! Renee!

My name ain't Renee. It's Tracey.

- Where is it, then?

- There you are. Oops!

- Oh, turn it in.

- Here you are, doll. Whoo!

Stop f***ing about.

Get your filthy hands off it.

- Why, you horrible little slag!

- His f***in' boyfriend, are you?

Look, this is all my fault.

Here you are. Come on, darling.

Here, bye-bye.

Don't forget to put your lead on.

- You all right, mate?

- Yeah, I'm all right.

"Chelsea tops thugs league. "

What the f***'s that about?

It's a f***ing joke.

What are you...? Look here.

Open the door, you prick.

Open the door.

Come on, you wanker.

I'm sorry. All right?

Me, too.

Now f*** off and tell that pikey c*nt

of a Millwall boyfriend of yours

that the ICF's just done his little Renee

up the 'arris again.

Ta-da.

Small cock, anyway.

- Don't worry about that slut, mate.

- I don't give a sh*t about her.

I'm pissed off with these f***ing kiddie firms

stealing all the headlines again.

Right, that's it.

Newcastle away, week on Saturday.

We'll give them c*nts

something to write about.

There.

I want revenge on those c*nts for the petrol

bomb they threw in our end last season.

I'm surprised they even have f***ing petrol.

Ain't it coal they use in motors up there?

Say what you want about them, they got f***

all style, but do they f***ing hate Cockneys!

They'll be waiting for us coming off the train,

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