Football/Soccer/An Expats Story From the Hooligan Years…Part 1

• Posted by tony laporta
• on June 20th, 2010

In 1982, at the age of 26 I arrived in London, England to work on The London International Financial Futures Exchange (LIFFE). It was a brand new exchange, shall we say a mini Chicago Board of Trade.  LIFFE was located in the financial area of London in what the English call “The City.”  The trading floor stood across the road from the Bank of England in the Royal Exchange.

There were only two pits to start…the Eurodollar and the British Pound.  By 1994, LIFFE traded nearly 20 different contracts.  Options pits were added.  The trading floor was relocated and LIFFE was doing more volume than the Chicago Board of Trade.  I was there on the first day and damn near the last.   

I had four good mates from the floor who were Chelsea supporters. They started taking me to football matches in 1983. By 1984, I was a season ticket holder for Chelsea Football Club. I heard all the stories about the hooligan problems. Here are a couple of my stories from 1984, written in 2005.

Getting off the beaten path, let’s talk England…let’s talk soccer (football)…let’s talk one drizzly Tuesday evening in Manchester…November 1984. The match…Chelsea vs. Manchester United…a well known London club versus a very popular club from Northern England. We rode a luxury bus to Manchester. It was a 4-hour ride. A meal was served…the alcohol flowed freely.

I arrived in London in August 1982. Deprived of American sport, my English mates quickly had me at Stamford Bridge, home of the Chelsea Football Club. Chelsea is a London based club…one of four Premiership teams from the nation’s capital. Centrally located, Stamford Bridge is a couple of miles from Buckingham Palace.

There were many rivalries…Chelsea (West End London club) vs. West Ham (East End London club)…Manchester United vs. Liverpool (both teams from Northern England). When Chelsea played away games, 5,000 Chelsea supporters would travel to attend the match.

In the 80’s, soccer hooliganism was rife. Chelsea supporters were some of the most violent. They were very organized…causing trouble…fighting with opposing supporters was their intent. Chelsea fans were feared and hated throughout the country.

On this Tuesday evening in question, there were six of us…all brokers from the floor of the London International Financial Futures Exchange. My mates loved their football…hooligans they were not, but they saw a lot of trouble in their day. Anytime we traveled, especially if we went up north…the joke was…if there is any trouble Yank (Me) you do the talking. I had an American accent…they had London accents…Londoners were not liked up north.

The game ended a 1-1 draw. To someone that has never witnessed a football match in England, you would think…BORING. This was not the case. The match itself was end-to-end action. With all the singing by opposing fans the atmosphere inside the stadium was electric. With Manchester supporters seated all around us, there were like 100 of us Chelsea supporters in seats. The other 4,900 Chelsea supporters were in the standing section behind the goal. They were caged in like animals. They were no help if any trouble broke out. I still to this day do not understand why in such a hostile environment, my mates booked seats. Numerous times during the game I asked my friend Nigel, “Why are we are not standing behind the goal with the other Chelsea supporters? Wouldn’t it be safer down there?”

With 10 minutes before the end of the match, the word was passed down the aisle…go out with the crowd. Do not talk to anyone…you know where the bus is parked. If we get split up, meet at the bus. Anxiety was high…my thoughts were…you stupid Yank…you could get hurt tonight. There was a lot of commotion many rows behind us. I could sense something was up.

The final whistle blew…we made our way into the aisle when about 50 Manchester supporters reigned down upon our little band of maybe 100 Chelsea men and women. We were not the hooligan type.  This was going to get ugly. 

In the confusion of it all, I lost track of my mates. There were some punches being thrown…I steered way clear of all the trouble…police were arriving in droves. They surrounded the remaining Chelsea supporters…I looked for my mates…they were no where to be found. They kept us locked in the stadium until the whole crowd (40,000) left. I was safe…I could not believe my mates were on their own outside the stadium.

Three hours later, we collected Nigel from the hospital. The front of his sweater, trousers and shoes were totally red with his own blood. He had 16 stitches in his forehead and 16 stitches in his finger. He was pummeled by like 5-6 guys. Using his hands to cover his face, someone hit him with a bottle. His finger saved his eye.

So the story goes, when it all kicked off, Nigel stayed in the aisle. Proceeding up the stairs with the flow of the crowd, he was joined in the aisle by a not-so-friendly Manchester nut case. The flow of the crowd has now taken these two down the stairs, which exited the stadium. This man started asking Nigel for the time. If Nigel tells him the time, his accent gives his Chelsea status away…Nigel said nothing.

I must share with you know what a Cockney is. It is generally agreed, that to be a true Cockney, a person has to be born within hearing distance of the bells of St. Mary le Bow, Cheapside, in the City of London. This traditional WORKING CLASS accent of the region is also associated with other suburbs in the eastern section of the city actually referred to as the East End. There is a very popular sit-com in England called Eastenders. People from Manchester refer to anyone from London as a Cockney. If you are a Chelsea supporter in Manchester, you are a Cockney.

To put all this into place…Nigel’s grandfather was a stock broker…his father was a stock broker. Until the futures markets opened in 1982, Nigel too was a stock broker. He was by no means a Cockney. To ever be referred to as an Cockney was an insult. Nigel was very well educated…went to all the right schools…he spoke the Queen’s English. He dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s.

So we are back on the stairs and this man is constantly asking Nigel for the time. They get to the bottom of the stairs and this guy screams out, “I got a Cockney bastard here.” That was it…the ultimate insult. Nigel knew he was going to take a beating anyhow. He was not going down without getting in the last word. In his very proper English accent Nigel said, “I beg your pardon. I am not a Cockney.” Three hours later, he had this huge bandage wrapped around his head and another wrapped around his finger.

He told us that there were two things that saved his life that evening. While he was being pummeled, he never went down. If he goes down then they boot him to death. The second thing that saved him was getting hit by the bottle. With blood spewing, they finally left him alone.

I learned a valuable lesson that evening. When traveling with Chelsea, you never go north of Watford. Watford is a small town, a one hour drive north of London. In those days, Elton John owned the Watford football club. I did travel a few times further north of Watford for football, but never ever again did I head up to the likes of Manchester or Liverpool for a match.

Next week my beaten path section remains on soccer. You see five days after Nigel took his beating; Chelsea were at home to West Ham. This London rivalry was West End vs. East End. The true East End Cockney’s were coming to Stamford Bridge where it all kicked off one sunny Saturday afternoon.

Cheers,

TLP

PS. Traveling and living abroad was an incredible education. I was very fortunate to have had the opportunity as a young man. I am forever grateful for what our industry has given me.

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