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Beating the Fascists: The authorised history of Anti-Fascist Action

I think something like 10,000 Nazi and pro Vichy supporteres were sumnmarly executed by the French people after occupation ended so there may have been the odd case of mistreatment.
 
moonstomp said:
Wayward on his arse in London [2007] not the best quality footage
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FFS where were your mates, WAYWARD CHERRY? :oops:

It's one thing running off and leaving you to take a kicking - anyone can panic when attacked - but they could not even be bothered to come back for you long after your attackers have fled...and you a 30-year veteran of the anti-Red crusades. For shame. You'd think after all these years you would have learned that most of your race-warrior comrades are cowardly cunts, no?

Just how many times have you (or your equally-game mate, Lecomber) been left behind in the stampede to safety... deserted and left to your sorry fate by the Master Race? :facepalm: Were you dropped on your head as a small child? Will you never learn?

:thumbs: Happily this behaviour is typical of your political fellow-travellers and has been since, well forever really. :thumbs:
 
Don't know how true it is, but I've heard 'Clapton Ultras' are gonna be turned over big time soon bu CFC Headhunters and various other Nazis............
 
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WAYWARD CHERRY said:
Liam, I have never claimed 'the reds' took Jubilee Gardens as a victory. Yes a few of Craneys lot got a kicking, but that is their fault for being late. I have never associated with glue sniffers and they were despised by proper 'right-wing' skinheads. I'm here to discuss past confrontations in a civilised manner, nothing more or less. Surely there will be interest in this book, from right across the political spectrum, as there will for yours too I am sure.
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Like the fucking knob bully clown Wigan Mikes memoirs were...do me a favour
 
Some reviews of Wigan Mikes book:

5.0 out of 5 stars FANTASTIC NONE RACIST APROACH TO TODAYS FUNDAMENTAL SOCIETY, 12 July 2013
By
miss c - See all my reviews

Amazon Verified Purchase(What is this?)
This review is from: Wigan Mike, My Life, My story (Paperback)
Wow, what can I say, firsty may I add what a compelling addictive read this gentlemans life is. I actually stumbled across this book looking for george orwells road to wigan pier to add to ones collection, what a genuine dynamic way that this gentleman has put pen to paper and put his life story in to a gripping read. what I also love about this book is, I am not right wing nor may one add I am not left wing, but this gentleman has used his skill and written about the woes of the world and todays corrupt goverment and society in a non biast none racist true story. I found reading this book to be no derrogative terms used for races apart from they may be one instance when this gentlman was in a sistuation where both parties were guilty of this, but I can assure all you readers or would be buyers that there is no derrogative terms or promotion of racism through out this gripping read, I myself was worrid about this at first. I would also like to state that there is NO mention of the ira in the terms that this gentleman drove them out of liverpool, what utter untrue events, it never stated that he did this in the book whatsoever, please I would love to know the page number to this, as I have read this book from start to the finish, please may you back up and produce page numbers please? I see this gentleman has children and grandchildren, why would a member of the public be so disigenuious and want potential harm come to this mans familly?, even for jelousy reasons this should not be said, its disgusting. Anyway I feel that maybe a few untrue personal attacks have been brought to this gentlman to discourage you from reading this book. Ok, well to sum my whole experience in a nut shell....wigan mike you are a true gentleman, you have brought to us a truly non natzi, non racist non biast book that got me gripped from page to page, hope you write another, you have accomplished many achievements through your life and troubles and delivered a realistic view of your life growing up from strength to strength and yet you still come out on top, well done! your book will be on my bookshelf next to my growing collection of geaorge orwell, godbless to you keep going, your an inspiration.

great book well worth a read, 8 July 2013
By
manctony - See all my reviews

This review is from: Wigan Mike, My Life, My story (Paperback)
Great book one of best books I have read can't put it down I'm hooked. it the story of one boys struggle against bully's and then one mans journey to form an org and him and the other members stand up for there believes against the corrupt government and the people that deny the British people there rights

3.0 out of 5 stars Needed proof reading, 3 Sep 2013
By
Robert Heaton - See all my reviews

Amazon Verified Purchase(What is this?)
This review is from: Wigan Mike, My Life, My story (Paperback)
A good read on the whole, but woefully lacking in grammar and spelling corrections.
It needs a sequel to really put the first book into a proper perspective.
A good insight into how Wigan Mike overcame the physical abuse in his formative years, which led him along the path of right wing extremism

 
Rich

Amazon Verified Purchase(What is this?)
This review is from: Wigan Mike, My Life, My story (Paperback)
I found this book by mistake whilst searching for something else, anyway I read some of the comments and by the looks of them he has definitely ruffled a few feathers, which gave me the impression that it might be worth a read and i'm not disappointed, it may not be well written but surely that makes it more authentic, I like the style and I like his strong beliefs, I was also shocked at some of the atrocious crimes commited against white people and the medias silence, that young girl raped, murdered and turned into kebab meat? I did a web search and gotta say how appalled I am. so iI'm giving this 5 stars as this book has definitely opened my eyes, BUY IT, READ IT AND THEN WEB SEARCH and you too will see things slightly different to how they are portrayed by the media. so well done Mr Heaton. I'll definitely be on the lookout for any future books.


Rich's previous reviews:

Wagg Complete Puppy Dry Mix 12 kg
Price: £17.88
What is this?)
This review is from: Wagg Complete Puppy Dry Mix 12 kg (Misc.)
i got this for our german shepherd pup and he loves it, his poo is also firm so its easy to pick up, hes has a shiny coat and is growing well, he did have the runs for about a week when we put him on waggs but i think that was a change of food rather than anything else, i will be staying with waggs but i think a few more flavours would have been nice, they do different flavours for adult dogs, so why not puppies ?
Comment Comments (2) | Permalink | Most recent comment: Jan 2, 2013 12:55 PM GMT

Lollipop Chainsaw (PS3)
Offered by Game Trade Online
Price: £15.36
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This review is from: Lollipop Chainsaw (PS3) (Video Game)
this game is absolutely mental, i haven't played a game like this for years this is a proper game, its doesn't take itself too serious, its jammed packed full of zombies and cheesy pop songs, its biright and colourful and its fun fun fun, I got this at a bargain price and thats a bonus, I highly recommend this game if you like a good old fashioned no brainer, put your cods and bf3s away for half an hour and pop in a copy of lollipop chainsaw, you wont be disappointed.
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White Tyre Touch Up Pen
Offered by Motionperformance - Waxacar
Price: £2.57
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This review is from: White Tyre Touch Up Pen
these are good, I ve been looking for some of these pens but some are rubbish, but i took a gamble with these and they were just what i wanted, but remember that it does take about 3 coats to get a good result but after that its just a matter of touching up. ive been buying pens like this for 10 years (locally) and they are twice the price of these, so to sum it up, excellent .
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WAYWARD CHERRY said:
Lol, this is all you're getting:



It was my idea to do this gig. About a month before the Redskins were due to play at Jubilee Gardens, along with John and Paul Burnley, I was on my way to a South East London and Kent BM meeting. These were held regularly on the last Friday of every month in the room above Welling library. We had gotten off the tube at London Bridge and I see a poster advertising the gig. I was elated, this was our chance to introduce these middle class commie fake 'skinheads' to a bit of skinhead White Power! I raised the matter at the meeting with the organiser, Mick MacAndrews, now sadly dead. It was decided we would organise an 'expeditionary force' for the gig.
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So proud of his class credentials that he attacked a benefit gig for unemployed working class people...Fucking muppet.
 
This is a chapter from me book. I have had to post it in several parts. It is only an excerpt and could really do with being read in context - but that is not possible just now.


I THINK I WILL BE REMOVING THESE POSTS ON FRIDAY EVENING


Just Another Saturday Night


We got wind of another clandestine Blood & Honour gig at just a few days’ notice - too short to mobilise anything major. One or two of the Usual Suspects were happy as it afforded them a golden opportunity for a little freelance sniping. I was discussing their intention with Joe. Whilst he had no issue whatsoever with attacking Nazis on spec he was, as always, focussed on the bigger picture. The important thing was the venue, he maintained. Find it, nobble it for next time. Or better still, visit it afterwards, sus out the gaffer and try to get him or one of the staff onside. That would allow us advance notice of the next gig - and a crack at B&H while they were setting things up.


I volunteered to go along with the Usual Suspects with a specific brief to gather info on the Venue. My attendance was met with a raised eyebrow or two on the part of my comrades. They knew I had no real love of violence and would not normally seek confrontation in this particular arena. But I was welcomed nonetheless.


B&H had a re-direction point for Charing Cross tube in central London. (They could not advertise their gigs publicly, cos we would nobble the venue or attack it, so they announced ‘redirection’ points where followers could assemble en masse and then be given the destination). This particular one meant they were relatively safe from attack, somewhat cheekily using the constant police presence at the Anti-Apartheid picket around the corner at South Africa House for protection. We watched from a distance as a small knot of Boneheads grew to about 20 before they were given the destination. Keeping our distance and our eyes well peeled, we followed them down (in twos rather than a little mob) to the platform and boarded the same train. On the train without a word being spoken Matty went to one end of the carriage, Tomasso to the other where they could keep an eye on whoever got on or off, leaving two innocuous pairs sitting in the middle, but not together.


The Bones got off at Finchley Road tube. The stakes were now raised considerably as we knew there were likely to be large numbers of them nearby so Tomasso shadowed them and we followed at a distance. The Skins turned right out of the tube station. We went left and walked up two bus stops. Then we got on the next bus heading back down the road, taking care to sit near the top of the stairs, just in case. I was impressed by the quietly efficient way one lad had automatically gone across the road so he could scan the bus for opposition forces before we got on and another had stood back to scan the upper deck from our side.


Going down the road by bus gave us a number of advantages. Firstly we had a great view without drawing attention to ourselves and secondly a small group of determined people could hold the upper deck of a bus with relative ease if we were spotted and attacked.


The traffic as ever on Finchley Road was at a crawl. We scanned up and down the road looking for Skins. None could be seen. We were beginning to think that we would have to get off and follow the next group to some backstreet pub when I looked to the left and below me was a heaving sea of shaven heads inside the North Star pub. Like a lot of old London boozers it had a high ceiling and frosted/patterned glass on the windows up to a height of about 7 foot to afford the punters some privacy. The tops of the windows were clear though and our vantage point gave us a clear view into the whole front of the pub. It was absolutely rammed with them. Assuming there was a function room out the back, there had to be at least 2 or 300 of them. Ooops!
 
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Ye Olde Swiss Cottage


Nothing was said other than by our eyes - there were always casually-dressed Fash around too so we did not want to be overheard on the bus - and we knew we had to keep our wits about us. I was now happy though as the venue was identified and, as far as I was concerned, the job was safely done. All that was left was to leave the area, maybe heading back to Charing Cross and picking off a few stragglers to keep the Usual Suspects happy. So we stayed on for maybe two bus stops and got off at the Swiss Cottage pub. A quick peek into the over-sized Pool room which housed about 4 tables showed it to be Bonehead-free so in we went for a pint and a plotting session. We were stood facing the bar; CeeJay was on the corner of it and was the only one who could see through to the other room. His face dropped momentarily and then, in a ridiculously calm voice, he said ‘Move away from the bar, slowly… NOW. Ian Stuart is looking straight at me’. Oops again! Ian Stuart Donaldson was the lead singer with Skrewdriver and the poster-boy for British Neo-Nazism. CJ showed his usual balls of steel, keeping calm and feigning nonchalance as the shaven headed Stuart stared at the ‘Nigger’ in direct view.


Here we were, with the Fuhrer himself within striking distance. But we did not, could not, know whether this was a golden opportunity to launch a crushing pre-emptive strike - to chop off the serpent’s head as it were - or if we were seconds away from a bloody end ourselves. My arse was twitching now and I was cursing the fact that we were pretty much tool-less, mostly at my suggestion/insistence. I had argued that since we were headed into the middle of town it was stupid to risk getting a tug and getting nicked for carrying an offensive weapon before we even got started. At least Colin was tooled-up. He usually was. He had his favourite on him. It was the inside of a fire extinguisher, the metal cylinder that holds the gas, wrapped in Elastoplast for extra grip and to make fingerprinting impossible. We were a long way from the front door in a large room.


If they spotted us and piled in we were banjaxed. Instinctively we took up positions in a corner. Best to get your back against a wall. CJ however lands down with the drinks (having automatically changed the round from pints of lager to Light and Lagers; that way you got a half of lager in a pint glass and bottle of Light Ale to pour into it - two weapons for the price of one. He was actually disgusted that they did not sell bottles of Grolsh. A Grolsh bottle was the undisputed king of pub weaponry, thick, heavy, well-balanced and deadly. (The only other thing that came near was those dimply pint mugs with a handle that you got your whole fist into. But they were quite rare except in posh boozers which we did not usually frequent) and reassures us that he was sure Stuart did not seem at all alarmed by his presence. He added that he could not even see who Stuart was stood next to, never mind how many of them there actually were.


Seamie volunteered to go and check it out. He was just down from Manchester and his face would definitely not be known. He strolled back in and said “there’s only two of them - Stuart and some skinny cunt - they’re just sitting on two stools at the bar”. The ‘skinny cunt’ turned out to be Ken McLellan and the only skinny part of him was his waist. He was six foot odd and could and would (as we were about to find out) fight like two men and a wee boy.


We had to move fast before they were joined by their mates. It was agreed that I would hold the door to secure the escape route and the others would pile in, glass Stuart, ignore his mate and get the fuck out. No fuckin about. No fighting. No macho posturing. 10 seconds in and out. We had no idea how the rest of the punters would react. The Swiss Cottage was a strange pub. It stood in a posh business area but also has some big old council estates around it. By day it was very much the preserve of the Business classes, but at night the crowd was much more local and much more mixed. If there were off-duty coppers, a football or Rugby team, a local firm who might take umbrage to the invasion of their turf, or even just some public-spirited citizens, it could make our safe escape difficult. Too many variables. The area itself was also very exposed, lots of open space at one of the main traffic junctions in North London. The best means of escape was into and through the council estate across the road (it’s all offices now). We agreed to split into twos once we were all safely across the road and to meet up at The Globe pub at Baker Street tube.


We went outside, walked round to the other door of the pub, ran over the plan again and then it was on. As soon as I opened the door and held it open as the lads piled in, I knew our plan had king-size holes in it. Instead of a sizeable Lounge full of punters, there was just a small Snug Bar. There was just one couple in the corner and our two boneheads at the bar. But for all we knew the actual Lounge could’ve been full of them and now - with the barmaid already screaming the place down - was not the time for investigation, or indeed hesitation. We couldn’t just press a rewind button or call a Time-out. We just had to get on with it.


In the boys went and quickly closed the 5 yards to the bar. His mate had his back to the door but Stuart saw them coming. His eyes widened but he did not react. ‘Alright boys?’ said Collie as he swung his arm and brought down his weapon on Stuart’s head splitting it instantly. He fell forward into his mate who pushed him off as he jumped off his tool. Stuart went down under a flurry of blows. Pure instinct and adrenaline drove him to try and lift himself . The ‘skinny cunt’ proved a different proposition and immediately jumped up and started fighting like fuck despite shipping some heavy blows.


I had to pull myself away from spectating so I didn’t really see what happened next. I had a job to do watching the street and yet more doors into the Lounge of the pub. There followed the longest four seconds of my life because as I turned I saw a police car sailing across the junction at the traffic lights and the plod in the passenger street was looking straight at me. I did my best to look casual but I’m sure the whites of my eyes would have been visible at 100 yards. I had no idea if he could see what was happening inside the pub or if my behaviour was enough to rouse his suspicions. I was blocking most of the doorway and the angle was hard to work out in an instant. I knew the area well and that there was a big triangle of buildings/road they would have to drive around if they were coming back for a nosey. Anyway the 10 seconds was up and I began yelling “OUT. OUT. OUT. NOW!” I could see that a couple of the boys really wanted to stay and finish the job but that was not the script we had agreed. The important thing now was to get everybody safely out and away. Both Stuart and his mate were now prostrate, although McLellan was fighting to get back to his feet as the last one of ours sped past me.


We ran across the road into the Estate, grateful for the poor quality of light therein and lots of corners. As we split up we clocked some local teenagers who had seen us come onto their estate and who were immediately aware that we were not Jehovah’s Witnesses. Although they were young they could still have been a problem, but Matty just goes “Alright boys? If the Old Bill ask you ain’t seen us, alright?” Their eyes lit up now they had been made co-conspirators and one says


“No problem mate. What you done anyway?”


“Tell you another time” Matt laughs over his shoulder as he trots off.


Run for two corners. Split up. Run for two corners. Walk. No matter how much the blood is pumping. Make yourself walk. Take your hat off. Walk. I turn back towards Swiss Cottage tube. “Are you fuckin mad” asks Seamus.


“Nah. They’ll be looking for someone running… the other way” I reply.


You can access the Tube Station via subways that won’t take you within 50 yards of the pub. That’s what we did. The adrenal rush was wearing off now. The heart still pumping. Sweat trickling down your face. That’s a bit of a giveway. A quick wipe and walk. Walk slowly. Hard to do, but hard to beat. Sirens wailing and blue lights flashing as we force ourselves to stroll. Down into the Station. Onto the train. Safe.
 
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Relaxing at The Globe


Me and Seamie were already on our second pint at Baker Street when the others rolled up. Both pairs had stopped for a pint en route. This was another tactic that had developed over the years. If possible, get off the streets asap until things have calmed down. Obviously doing this mob-handed might lead to a group of agitated strangers drawing attention to themselves in the pub and get them lifted. But in ones and twos it was ideal. Even if you are pulled by the OB after leaving the pub, you can plead innocence, point out that you’ve been in there having a quiet pint and invite them to check with the barman. Most coppers would not even bother their arse to check.


The Globe was a huge pub heaving with tourists and six young men sat in agitated conversation would attract no attention. The Post-mortem immediately began with one lad demanding who was shouting “OUT. OUT” when the ultimate victory was so close. I said it was me and that was what we had agreed. He was mad that we had not stayed to ‘finish the job’. Yes, we could have stayed and done Stuart badly (or properly). But we could also be facing a 5-stretch each or have been captured by their mob. Thankfully CJ, the most bloodthirsty of us all, was also a thinker and agreed with me. Though obviously there were some regrets. Seamie had neglected to tell us explicitly that the two buckos were in a room virtually on their own. We had neglected to ask him for further details and just thought he meant they were the only two skinheads present amongst a much larger crowd. Either way we had not had the right info beforehand.


Every aspect of the operation was gone over in forensic detail. This might seem nit-picky to some, ghoulish to others but it was only by such open, honest and sometimes blunt reflection that lessons were learned. And besides if there were any harsh words to be said to anyone, this was the best time to say them - to their face. Much better this way than people go away harbouring grudges and with doubt in their minds.


There was also some discussion about the new AFA Security wing which was in its infancy, which gave me the opportunity to make a suggestion. Everyone knew it was vital to keep AFA as politically democratic and open as possible. But as the ranks swelled and more people who we did not know too well joined, it was equally important that most of the illegal stuff could be planned, discussed and carried out by those who needed to know, rather than jeopardised by including those who wanted to know. All agreed that this was vital and that loose talk could be costly. So I suggested that we should use this night as a challenge for us six. To see how tight we could keep the info. To test ourselves for loose talk. (I’d like to say that this suggestion was based on my incisive intellect but it was based purely on both political pragmatism and, in truth, my own determination to keep my own name out of dispatches - and my arse out of jail).


There was also a slightly different agenda at work too. There was something of an elephant in the room. Some senior people felt that the Usual Suspects had become a law unto themselves and that their constant freelancing - picking off badged-up bones at all times of day and night - whilst commendable also had the potential to be damaging. There were concerns on the impact on morale if they came badly unstuck one night; concerns about big jail sentences for violence that had no real political benefit; concerns about… and finally concerns about a small group of people beginning to see themselves as some kind of elite force, above everybody else and beholden to no-one. The Security wing would hopefully keep this brave, dedicated, but occasionally volatile grouping on the inside. Nobody was against them dishing out brutality, it just needed to be done in a more professional and considered way. The challenge was how to instil discipline amongst an outfit where nearly everybody was so bitterly anti-authority. Mutual respect and honest discourse was the only way but it was challenging to say the least.


As much as we appreciated the specific talents of some lads, the violent tail could not - and would not - be allowed to wag the political dog. The politics had to come first. We had seen at first-hand the devastating impact on the IRSP/INLA when a group of the very best ‘business’ people disappeared up their own arses and lost the run of themselves. Feuding and mayhem were the result (Blood & Honour would themselves fall victim to this trait in later years, with a nasty internal feud culminating in a murder for which Martin Cross and some little fat bloke called Charlie received Life sentences).


To be honest this distance between the thinkers and the doers had never been a problem for Red Action as the leaders were there because of their track record on the street and were often the first ones through the door, rather than some intellectual political elite who were above getting their hands dirty. There was no graduate fast-track option for ‘clever’ people. But as things progressed certain faces became well-known so these people could not actually engage with the type of stuff the Usual Suspects were regularly up to. This left room for some unscrupulous/delusional individuals to make ridiculous side-of-the-mouth comments questioning the ‘bottle’ of some of the leaders - the same leaders who had built the organisation from nothing.
 
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South Africa House


Anyways, the night was still young so we decided to make a move. I thought it would simply be a case of heading into safer territory and getting a lock-in for a late drink. CJ and Colin though wanted more. They, not unreasonably, reckoned that if the Fash were going to hit back tonight it would be at the 24-hour Anti-Apartheid Picket outside the South African Embassy. They said that given we were the ones who had kicked the Nazi-beehive, we owed it to the people on the picket to offer our assistance in what might prove to be their hour of need. I smiled wryly as a number of things were patently obvious to me.


a) we would not be particularly welcome at the picket


b) our well-intentioned advice would be condescendingly ignored and our presence unwanted and


c) this concern for the welfare of the pickets was really the boys being greedy and wanting another bite at the Fash before the night was out.


Nonetheless it was a plausible enough appeal and I felt duty-bound to join them.


On arrival we informed the organisers that B&H were having a rather large gig up the Finchley Road, had suffered a severe set-back, and that they should take the necessary precautions afterwards. Naturally we did not include a description of our recent actions. They smiled and assured us that they were veterans at this kind of thing and had been there for years, hail or shine, man and boy… blah blah. I stifled a chuckle as CJ looked at them fit to burst. After a while I remembered I hadn’t eaten in maybe six hours and was ravenous with hunger. I suggested a trip to McDonalds. The boys declined, deciding to stay at or near the picket, just in case.


So off I toddled with the order. Ten minutes later I landed back with two Quarterpounder with cheese meal and four Fishburger meals for our veggie comrades. It still makes me laugh when I compare many people’s stereotypical view of a Vegetarian - a weedy, yoghurt-knitter wearing sandals and a big beard - with the reality of this bunch of Desperadoes. They were now however nowhere to be seen. I assumed they had been called away on business and would return in due course. I also clocked that the picketers were not exactly falling over themselves to be associated with me. Two minutes later there was a bit of a kerfuffle a few yards away.


A small skinhead girl was screaming at the Police. She was leading her massive (and I mean six-foot-two, built-like-a-brick-shithouse massive) fella by the hand. He was covered in claret down one side of his shaved head, holding his eyes and sobbing like a child. “What happened?” asked the copper, moving back slightly to avoid the streams of Master-Race snot that was flowing readily from his nose. Between sobs - and directly in front of the same essentially harmless, mostly middle-class student picketers whom he had passed a few minutes previously, whilst Sieg-Heiling, snarling and hurling abuse and threats - he roared “Some fuckin nigger gassed me”. That’ll be CJ, I thought. I allowed myself a wry smile at his swift conversion from goose-stepping bully-boy to sobbing child as the copper enquired “Where did this happen?”

“Up there” he wailed, pointing to the more dimly-lit twilight zone between South Africa House and Leicester Square.

“What did he look like?”

“He looked like a big fuckin nigger”

“Well that’s not giving us much to go on, is it?” said the irate copper.


I chuckled to myself as I wandered off to find the boys and barely managed to stop myself from thanking my boneheaded friend for the helpful directions. I had travelled but a few yards when I was joined by two of the lads who had come back to look for me (or maybe for their grub?). They immediately questioned me as to what yer man had been saying to the Plod and did he give their descriptions? I assured CJ (who was mixed-race and light-skinned) that I reckoned he was safe enough as the Police were probably looking for Shaft. A few minutes later when the Veggie-boys were tucking into their grub I recounted the whole tale in gory detail, causing one of them to choke on his Fishburger with laughter. Another was so amused at this sight that he shot his Coke out through his nose. Of course there was no shortage of volunteers to give them a good slap on the back to help them out. Which ended up in a pantomime, and tears rolling down several faces.


We decided that discretion would be the better part of valour at this point as we had already pushed our luck and split up to head homeward. I just wanted to make sure we got the last Tube as there was a backstreet boozer run by an old family friend from Galway where I knew we would be welcome for a late one. ‘Woodpecking’ or knocking the door after closing time is generally considered a bit cheeky, but I knew we had more than enough Brownie points built up to allow it occasionally. And anyway, I really needed to unwind after the night I had had. Me, Matty Blagg and Seamie headed off together. Mattie was not much of a drinker so it was just me and Seamie for the pub, which was just off Seven Sisters road.
 
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A Quiet Journey Home


So we get on the Tube, still laughing away. At the very next stop a black-clad figure gets on and plants himself right opposite me with his grip bag on the floor between his high-leg black Doc Martens. He is wearing a White Power T-shirt under his black flight jacket - the sleeves of which are covered in Nazi badges. Even the photocopied fanzine he was immersed in was a Nazi one. I glance across and Matty has already clocked him. I casually walk over to Matty who says “That’s Martin Cross, Skrewdriver’s drummer. We HAVE to do him”.


Surely to fuck they could not be this stupid, could they? Not after Stuart and McLellan getting weighed in earlier on? I mean the guy still had to travel home but what about safety in numbers? What about at least being switched on and keeping your eyes peeled? Was it a come-on or was Cross really this dumb?


At the next station, yer man is still sat there so I get off and walk to one end of the train and Seamus goes to the other. We both get back on and as the train takes off again we are both walking back towards the middle through the adjoining doors checking out the carriages as we go for Fash or plod. There are none. I am back within a minute. Seamus cannot get back til the train stops again cos the trains actually come in two halves and there are no adjoining doors right at the middle section. You weren’t supposed to do this on tubes but people moving through these doors would by no means be an unusual sight, especially on a late night train. Provided you weren’t walking like you were John Wayne, you would attract very little attention.


Clear, we confirm. “Right, we’ll give him til Finsbury Park and if he hasn’t got off before then we’ll drag the cunt off”. Seamus and I melt away again leaving Matty alone watching our prey like a hawk. I can’t believe yer man hasn’t twigged anything. He gets up at Holloway Road. Matty is right behind him at the middle doors, all delighted with himself as not only is Cross there for the taking, it’s virtually on Matty’s doorstep so he won’t be far from home afterwards. Seamus is at one end of the carriage, me the other so that whichever way he goes he has one of us in front and one behind. Cross looks around him but neither sees nor senses danger.


As we walk amongst the thinning crowd Matty trots past both Cross and Seamus and bounds up the stairs. I know what he is at. He will go one way at the entrance, Seamus the other. Whichever way Cross chooses he is fucked and I am behind him so he can’t escape back unto the station. I can’t see him leave but as I exit the station I see Seamus going left and follow. We both follow Cross, but where the fuck is Matty? He is nowhere in sight. We look at each other and shrug. As Cross walks on there is still no sign of Matty.


Cross looks over his shoulder and sees me and Seamus. He does not bolt but he can now sense something in the air and puts his head down and quickens his pace with his radar now obviously switched on. We’ve all been there. Sensing menace behind us, listening intently for the sound of running feet, but not wanting to just leg it in case you are wrong and look like a complete cunt running away from nothing. Unfortunately for him, he is now concentrating on what is behind him. As he walks past an alleyway, a hand comes out and yanks him, comic-book style, clean off his feet and drags him into the alley. I look around and there is nobody around or at least not looking our way. Seamus joins Matty to give yer man a few digs but Matty has already put him away.


With a final boot to the head, Matty picks up Cross’ bag and strolls out of the alley. ‘Are you keeping that Matty?’ I ask.

‘Too fuckin right’ he replies.

“You better fuck off then. We’ll walk. See you back at yours?” Matty is gone in a flash. He is on his home turf and takes off down a side street. We stick to the main road cos we only have a vague idea of where we are going.


As we trot down the road to get some distance before we can start walking I look back and see Cross staggering out of the alley and sitting down on the pavement. At least he’s not dead I think, cheerfully. Within a couple of minutes we hear sirens. We keep walking as calmly as we can. Another few minutes later we look back and we see a Police car heading straight towards us. It is slowing down and clocking people as it goes by them. We keep our eyes front and force ourselves to walk really slowly. Maybe too slowly, cos the cop car glides in beside us. The one on the passenger side goes “Alright lads?” He has his hand on the handle, ready to spring it as he clocks us for signs of panic/guilt. He gets none. Instead I take a step towards him and place my hands above his window “Alright, what’s up?” I say giving him the full alcohol breath treatment and feigning drunkenness.


“Seen any dodgy characters about”


“It’s Holloway Road on a Saturday night mate… it’s full of fackin dodgy characters innit. ‘Ere, any chance of a lift?”


He laughs and says “Yeah. A slim chance and no fackin chance.” He and his mate crease themselves at his incredible wit and off they go. Seamus smiles at me as they drive off in search of some pwopah nawty geezers and shakes his head as he says ‘Nice one. You cheeky cunt’. I feel like taking a bow.


When we get back to Matty’s gaffe he already has the bag on the table. It contains a few T-shirts (including an Ulster Loyalist one which was later a prize at an AFA Raffle), drum sticks and a wah-wah peddle (which The Blaggers tried and threw away in disgust cos it was pure shite) some Nazi fanzines and personal stuff. Unfortunately the address book is practically brand new and only has a few numbers in it. He also has some anti-biotic tablets and cream and a document from a pox clinic confirming he has Chlamydia (which I have to look up later in the week at the library cos there was no Google in those days).


After reinforcing the no loose-talking rule I made my way home, happy and contented after a good night’s work. I blanked the pub of course. It’s one thing being a little bit cheeky and woodpecking a pub door. It’s entirely another making a noteworthy, after-hours entrance after being involved in a brutal assault and robbery, especially when you have no real idea of how badly hurt Cross was. One thing to take a small liberty, but another to take the fuckin piss by dragging the publican and his punters into it and possibly putting his license at risk. You don't shit where you eat and all that.


When I got home my girlfriend was sleeping like a baby. As I slipped in beside her she asked “Good night?”

I simply replied “Yeah, not bad. Just a few pints with the lads. Quiet enough like”.


That no loose-talking thing… it needs to start at home.
 
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