For three decades from the 1970s, British football hooligans terrorised the terraces at home and abroad. Young men, faces twisted and snarled with hate, were the ugly personification of the supposedly beautiful game.
To these men, commandeering city centres or pubs was (almost) more important than seeing their team take three points. The violence was on an epic, brutal scale; it led to Margaret Thatcher declaring civil war on the wrecking crews that marauded under names like ‘The South Midlands Hit Squad’, ‘Headhunters’ and ‘The Ointment’. But what became of those young men so intent on causing pain and suffering?
In three words: they grew up.
Some of English football’s most notorious, terrifying hooligans are now in their dotage. They are older. Wiser. Calmer. They are fathers. Grandfathers in some cases.
Annis Abraham Jnr, 50 and Gilroy Shaw, 47, are infamous, once known as the Top Boys of the hooligan scene. Abraham was leader of the notorious Soul Crew, the Cardiff City firm; Shaw, known as ‘Gilly’, was the commander of the Bridge Boys, the Wolverhampton Wanderers mob, latterly known as The Yam Yam Army.
So, how do they look back at the ‘casual’ scene, when a perfect day at the football involved a few pints and a few fights?
Abraham cuts an imposing figure. He has the sort of hard, chiselled face which betrays a thousand fights. But he is softly spoken and with his sing-song Welsh lilt, he has charm. Abraham doesn’t flinch when asked if he has regrets.
“Not at all,” he says. “I didn’t mug anyone, I didn’t sell drugs. Yes, it was a vice – my vice – but I only ever fought people who were like-minded.”
Abraham started going to Cardiff City away games at the age of 12, telling his parents he was visiting friends. “The first game I saw trouble was at West Ham, which was an absolutely terrifying place in those days. It was 1977. We got attacked in the ground and on our coach. I came home black and blue. I couldn’t wait to go again.”
For the next 20 years Abraham fought in the name of his beloved team. “The atmosphere was amazing, the camaraderie with your mates was unbelievable,” he says. “The worst violence I saw was at a Cardiff-Swansea game when a policeman had a dart in his head. That was crazy. Totally over the top.
"Most of the time it was two or three firms getting together, all in it for the same reason, and having a go. There were no weapons or any of that nonsense.”
He became so influential at Cardiff that when the club was owned by Sam Hammam in 2000, Abrahams claims he was consulted on potential signings. But in 2001 he vowed never to return to his hooligan brethren after the birth of his first daughter.
“When I had my first daughter and I got married I completely changed,” he says. “It was unbelievable. My family became my life. Football used to be my life but it seemed irrelevant by comparison. I go to watch Cardiff every week but that’s only because my daughters love it so much.”
Abraham takes his daughters, aged 14, nine and five, every week to matches. The irony is not lost on the man. “I couldn’t have imagined doing that back in the 80s,” he says. “It was no place for kids. But it’s changed. And of course it’s changed for the better. The atmosphere in terms of noise is not the same, but that’s just one small complaint.
“If there was still a scene would I let my daughter go? If there was danger I wouldn’t take them. Of course not. Our coach now is transformed. It used to be 50 lads all going for one reason. Now it’s families and 25 kids. It’s a different era.”
But why is it a different era? What were young men like Abraham so angry about in the 70s, 80s and 90s that they would only be sated by breaking a few heads? And why is it not happening any more?
“Look,” he says, “a lot of people have tried to intellectualise hooliganism. People have said we were railing against the Tory government, we were the forgotten generation or whatever. Rubbish. It was a group of lads, getting together, having a few drinks, a tear up and all dressing smart. You know, Fils, Armani. The fashion side of things was a big part of it.
“It doesn’t happen now because of the banning orders, passports being taken away. You used to get a ten-pound fine. Now you get brought before a judge in a civil case, you lose your job. You’ve got to be mad to be involved now.”
Gilroy Shaw, with his shaved head and penchant for baseball caps, still looks like the archetypal football hooligan. He agrees with Abraham that fashion was a big part of the 70s violent football scene – as was attracting the opposite sex. “Course it was,” he says. “The women loved it. It was all part of the scene.”
Shaw has been stabbed twice, collected almost 20 years of football banning orders, and is now suffering from kidney cancer – “I’m fifty-fifty brother,” he says in a Black Country burr. Unlike Abraham, he seems to rue his actions in the past: “I’m not going to lie to you. I loved every minute of it but I dug a grave for myself.”
“People have been fighting from day one,” he says. “What for? Money or territory or love. For us it was territory. Yes I had two kids at home but getting together with the lads, doing what we wanted, laughing and joking ... I couldn’t wait for the next one.”
A curled top lip greets a question about whether the male youth of today could spark a new wave of hooliganism. “Nah,” he says. “Too many drugs, too much TV.”
Shaw has called time on his involvement in the scene: “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a few rows but this time three years ago I had the best football row I’d had in my life. No police were there. Everybody wanted it. It was a right bing bong. There were morals there if you understand me. No one was left on the floor to be booted. I’d gone out with a bang.
“It was at Leighton Buzzard. Wolves were playing Luton. Tottenham were involved, too. A few weeks ago one of the lads who I was fighting, I went to his birthday party. The camaraderie, you see.”
For some it is hard to leave behind. Gregor, 55, is one of the surviving old firm hooligans. He refused to give his surname because he is simply known as ‘QPR Gregor’ all over the country. His reputation is greater than his size. “I’m 2ft nothing but football people think I’m 6ft 5 when they hear the stories.”
Gregor is a painter and decorator. He has five kids and has been to prison twice. “I’ve been angry since I was a little kid at school. Maybe it was because I didn’t have a dad. I’d steam into people. And I’ve been doing it ever since.
“When I was young I had a missus and a young baby and I was a silly boy then. Doing the things I did. I can’t say I regret it but that’s how I was. The buzz and the joy was just too much, I suppose.
“But now it’s not the same. There is still trouble at games. But instead of it happening every week, the firms will pick just a couple of games a season. Then it’ll be 30 or 40 people instead of hundreds like in the good old days. A few will involve QPR. I’ll be there. At the front. Just like always.”
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