Free Rangers and the Famous ICF: My Life With Scotland's Most-Feared Football Hooligan Gang by Sandy Chugg Page B

was telling myself. As we got into the middle of Glasgow Cross our forty or so had became thirty: possibly one or two of the lads had the same concerns as me; possibly others had accidentally lost us; and possibly some had been carried away chasing the little pockets of Celtic we’d done. Whatever the reason our already small number of boys had been reduced by a quarter.
    As we got closer to the Barras, where Celtic pubs are everywhere, all I could see was a sea of them in front, behind us, around us, everywhere. I felt it like I’d never felt it before. The fear, the dread, the expectation that we’d struggle like fuck. We were on the enemy’s doorstep; we were about to face the bogeyman with seriously depleted numbers. I fucking loved it.
    As we got closer, Harky, Chugg and one or two others walked into the middle of the road and swaggered towards their main pub without a care in the world. That helped: being a relatively young lad I needed a display of confidence like that to reassure me. We got to within thirty yards of the front door, our pace quickening, when I saw John O’Kane, Celtic’s main lad, running down the middle of the road towards us. He had a few others behind him but it was impossible to work out how many due to the number of shoppers and scarfers who were thronging the street.
    As O’Kane got closer I noticed he was carrying a pint with some lager still in it. He poured out the beer and bent down to smash the glass on the road, but as the glass broke, bang, Harky had put him on his arse. That alarmed the rest of the Tarriers, who seemed shocked to see us on the Gallowgate. By now they were hesitant. We weren’t. The shout went up ‘ICCCF ICCCF’ as we charged forward. By now Celtic were off, not just backing off, but fully turned and running past their pubs, through the Barras market. They were in full fucking panic mode. A few of the local loons came out of Baird’s and Norma Jean’s (as it then was) well tooled up. But we had the momentum, we were unstoppable and lads who’ve been part of a firm will know the feeling. The momentum was with us.
    ‘ICCCF, ICCCF.’
    Hearing that chant as we obliterated the Gallowgate sent shivers down my spine. Then we heard that familiar sound. Sirens! As the police came flying down the Gallowgate we ran through the market and came out the other side at London Road, by which time, amidst the mayhem, our thirty had become fifteen.
    ‘Lets go back and do them again,’ somebody said.
    ‘Aye, mon, that was fucking brilliant.’
    ‘Walk down here and come out one hundred yards fae Baird’s and we’ll walk up again.’
    I was buzzing like fuck and was delighted to carry on. In fact looking back I possibly even suggested it. Fuck knows, whatever the case, we were going back into the lion’s den. We cut through one of the side streets that run from London Road onto the Gallowgate. There was a tentative peek around the corner to check for the police. Nothing. Great, we were on again, and as we walked back towards their pubs it slowly dawned on me that before the last battle the actual road was a heaving mass of people, people we could blend in with. However, now it was us, just us, fifteen-handed!
    As we got within ten yards of Baird’s they spotted us and this time they were tooled up to fuck. After a brief exchange they had us backing off, and, within seconds, I heard a commotion from behind. It was the other part of Celtic’s firm who we had chased off in dribs and drabs along Argyle Street. Fucking hell, we were in serious trouble now. Then, as we made for the safety of London Road, I heard the beautiful sound of sirens. Luckily, the market was still crammed full of shoppers – it takes more than a spot of football violence to stop a Glaswegian in search of a bargain – so we were able to blend in and get to safety, almost in one piece. By now there were only six in my group.
    ‘Naw, don’t even fucking think about going back again,’ I said with