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A Short Trip Away: A True Story From The Real Football Factory

It’s not long before 11am or as I like to call it bollocks early: we pick up two fellas at a local spot.

One is Suds. The other on board, well let’s not go into names, he’s a known chap, a fucking handful and that’s enough.

As we depart, I see what is still referred to as the ‘Great East End’.

Mosques and moody stalls.

The same market stalls once graced by real characters are now littered with dog shit attitudes and typically hosted by an overweight second generation Essex wannabe villain adding a cringe worthy Mockney accent and a promise of “Just like the real thing, at half the price, love!”

I’d rather top myself than listen and be entertained by that trollop!

Hurtling through the mass of congestion isn’t enough to get me a hard on.

A few lines of Columbia’s finest is just enough, though, to ensure a lively start to the morning.

Turbo charged German sports cars do a number on the streets of London, and today this little imported filly does us proud.

Broken dreams and pissed off faces pass by in a blur, but that’s not my issue today.

What is, is a little firm that think they’ve gained a bit of a reputation in the last two seasons.

Silly text messages calling it on have become tedious and annoying. That we’re gonna fix today!

Now this said firm, we’ll simply call Joey’s mob, are a scraping together of dirty northern monkey’s, who through a couple of so called results, and a wardrobe of Italy’s finest threads, feel they have gained a rep as a top firm. Not on my fucking watch, son!

One thing that has gotten my back up about these so called terrace veterans is their big mouths and constant bragging.

They’ve obviously been watching too much of that Football Factory and Green Street bollocks.

This doesn’t make you in the know and it certainly doesn’t qualify as a rite of passage.

Not only is it fucking poor quality and piss poor entertainment, it’s simply embarrassing to anyone that’s actually been there!

Now looking about and taking in my current surroundings I have to appreciate those involved in the equation. More so with my closest pal sitting behind me.

Suds is appropriately named, as this slippery fucker gets out of everything when it comes to putting his hand in his pocket. A shandy, a shave or a shag, never costing him a penny. He’s not tight, far from it in fact, but his charm and charisma seems to have had many a prince and pauper foot the bill over the years, but you couldn’t wish for a more proper man on the firm.

Now, friends, followers and those we call bruvas have gotten word through the hooligan grapevine, that this two bob lot are coming via one of London’s central stations on their way to see a firm south of the river at home, so it’s game on!

Now, let’s get one thing clear right from the start, here and now. As far as I’m concerned, all other firms are two bob, fucking two a penny wastes of space! With the lot south of the river, I know a few fellas on their firm, and unlike every other self-proclaimed top firm, a few of their boys have been not half bad at the money getting game.

One such bit of work was a joint venture not too far back, but that’s all you’re getting told on that particular score!

Anyways, enough bollocks, because today this muggy little girl scout outfit will have a taste of us and wish they’d stayed playing with both their sisters and train sets in their far off land of bleak northern shit hole England.

Through the maze of grime and grease we once called the streets of London, we do a series of hairpin turns, and Sud’s phone goes off.

“All right, son. Yeah we’re on, make sure your lot are about and be ready.”

It’s Sud’s little firm. They mainly come from Essex and it’s mostly built up of vicious little fuckers from the younger ranks, but I kid you not they are as game as beagles. We’ve now learnt that our Saturday morning punching bags arrived on the 8.45.

Suds gave a wink and a “We’re on, bruv”.

Much like a kid on Christmas morning, this loon is grinning and rubbing his hands together with the news.

With the plan in motion, it’s gonna go right off.

“Word is, son, they’re on their way to the local and havin’ a few light ones, and my lot are in place.” With the spotter’s info, this will be a simple in and out number.

Now the rest of the journey is of no real value or mention. No sense boring you with the right and left turns here and there.

We roll up in our nice imported number, a few of our firms naughtiest members jump out and they’re looking lively from the get-go. It certainly catches the attention of these silly fuckers making a spectacle of themselves. The look on their top lad’s face is a picture indeed! This shit-cunt doesn’t know what to do next; carry on with his silly swagger or make an attempt at giving it a go? Whatever thought races through his mind, it was going to be one of his last for a while and whatever it was, it’s going to be with the feeling of pain and discomfort as an added bonus.

Those years of battering’s from the old man, bullying at school and the constant torment of not being able to string a whole sentence together without being criticized by the ever so caring teachers all come out as I grab this piece of shit and start in.

In physiological terms it’s called displaced aggression.

Like a swarm of ants, our lot are all over them like white on rice, with not a fucking chance in hell.

Racing towards him I’d noticed he held the bottle of whatever it was he was drinking. I didn’t give a shit. My anger towards this mongrel far outweighs that piss poor effort of his at inflicting pain on me. It was well past time to relieve him of that pseudo confidence once and for all.

I launch a succession of punches into his head then the first chance I got I grabb this wanker by his jacket and slam him to the floor. With a combination of punches and kicks I level this cunt. I couldn’t punish him quickly enough but those efforts don’t fulfill my lust to inflict damage on this piece of shit.

Grabbing him by his greasy matted hair allows me to smash his face more and more. I like this. This course of action is doing more damage and fuels my need to go further. Then I notice he’s stopped responding. The blood I can see coming from the wounds on his face let me know that he is done.

This is my final way of closing this so called top boy out of the scene.

“Enough, enough!” I hear faintly.

How these words reach me I’ll never understand.

I’m so engulfed with thoughts of hatred I don’t want any other thoughts replacing them.

Then Suds is pulling me away.

“Fucking lovely, job, bruv!” he says, and for a moment I admire my handiwork but I feel the surge of not being satisfied.

I think on all the mouth I’ve heard this fucker has been giving, all the chat that had reached my ears about how he’d do this to us and that to us … all of it is still running through my head. Running back I give a few more kicks to this slag.

Now I’m done.

It’s my decision on when I’m done, and because I’ve stopped that doesn’t mean this is completely over.

Because if I so much as hear this laughing matter has been saying a single word about me and mine, on the hooligan scene, or anywhere else, I’ll kidnap and torture him.

As we leave these silly fuckers in what can be described as nothing less than absolute carnage, it dawns on me that what I’m doing may be a little bit outdated for a man of my age.

I then have a flash of normality.

Nah, fuck it.

To a guy like me, this is just another day in the office.

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