This is a post from another forum from a Man Utd fan entitled 'The Legend'.
Very long but worth reading. I thought it might interest especially the older fans like fredthered.
I remember arriving from Paddington (see we had plenty of ****ney followers in those crap Div.2 days.) I was just a schoolboy and although I'd been to plenty of games at Old Trafford with my old fella I'd only been to a few tame aways at the time.
The Cardiff game was unlike anything I think I have ever seen before or
since. We expected an 'interesting' day to say the least but nothing
prepared 2 spotty kids for an afternoon of absolute mayhem, the likes of which, (I'm sure anyone who was there will heartily agree) has never been seen since, with perhaps the exception of Luton v Millwall or other such ground-breaking occasions.
United fans were largely untouchable in those days, sheer weight of numbers plus a ferocious bravado that wouldn't allow them to back down from any resistance, even the southern counterparts - Chelsea, West Ham and to some extent Millwall were still lagging behind in both exploits and organisation.
So it was with that air of self confidence we alighted the station.
"Manchester la la la" rang out all around as we sauntered and swaggered our way towards Ninian Park, our Summer Holiday homework problems left aside as we strutted our stuff with the big boys, the exhiliration of being surrounded by 100 or so ' grown men' of 18!
There we spotted a group of about 100 lads. A cheer went up, these were
more of our own we assumed. To this day I'll never forget the scene. A
handful of our 'comrades' from across the road ambled over, a reuniting
embrace was no doubt to follow as these old friends joined the throng.
Suddenly I noticed the crazed grin on the face of the approaching stranger and even with my limited knowledge of Football away trips, I had a feeling. all was not well.
Our mate with the mental mug simply smashed his fist into the face of one of our lads. "Bloody hell, they're Cardiff *******s" came the cry. The lone assailant then began wading in to at least ten of the United group, bodies were going down all around. His 99 or so mates did very little to assist this lone kamikaze mission - either they were terrified of the situation or maybe knew his capabilities. Maybe this was Frank the Legend from the newspaper stories on this board - perhaps Bluebirds on here will enlighten me.
Finally, the two groups snapped out of their frozen apathy and charged into each other with a manic relish. Now when people say 200 fans were fighting 'toe-to-toe' they usually mean half a dozen at most, with the rest milling about looking stupid, but this was as it sounded, with scenes reminiscent of a gargantuan scale WWF tag match.
My friend and I stood there dumbstruck. It was over 25 years ago and I would love to have been able to recall how I joined in the scene of carnage, downing all-comers, but as a young boy I was horror-stricken and frozen with terror. I remember one Policeman ambling by and peering round the corner to see what all the noise was. He took one look at the scene and carried on walking.Classic!
By this time most of our group had been split into small factions and the walk to the ground was quite simply a journey into some apocyliptic
nightmare. It was as if my mate and I had just emerged from the Tardis into some post-nuclear wasteland.Yet there was no Jon Pertwee to close those bloody Police-Box doors and I guess most of the Coppers would have been in there hiding if he could have!
On every street corner the sight were the same, people scurrying around in all directions, I saw one outlandish figure - a United fan in a white boiler-suit and black bowler hat giving out instructions looking like an extra from A Clockwork Orange. All around were cries of "here they are" "don't run" "I've got one". A whirl of confusion, a tidal wave of thundering red Doctor Marten boots and tartan scarves.
We arrived outside the ground and met up again with some faces from the
train. Some looked dazed and confused, others bloodied but belligerent. "See this", said one half-caste Londoner with a bloody nose. "The next Taff I see, I'm going to give him three of these." We all laughed loudly at the ridiculous statement, though from some of the characters I had seen at the Station encounter, a guy with three noses was highly likely.
With about an hour to go before kick-off we decided to opt for some
sustainance to re-fuel our adrenalin loss. A pink, undercooked 'Spamburger' did the trick for 30p. We started queing at the rather oddly named 'Bob-Bank' whatever that was. Suddenly a group of Reds walked past us, full of contempt that we were planning to go into our own end. "Not in here you ****holes, it's all down "The Grange". Intimidated by their ridicule we followed our heroes and paid in at the "Grange".
As we prepared to pay our (70p was it) I noticed some of the lads around us were tying their scarves around their waists out of sight. I now realised that occupying the home end was more of a military operation than a consumer choice.
We gathered "inconspicuosly" at a point close to the fence which had a huge no-man's land separating the rival fans. Insults were traded for half an hour, a few blood curdling screams of bravado followed by a couple of half-hearted charges by either side at the fence. A fat Cardiff fan with a scarf round his wrist, and tomato sauce stains around his chin, shouted something indistinguishable and launced a wooden stake, like a mini telegraph pole into the baying United mob.
A few cheers rang out as it hit an unseen target. Instantly a piece of
concrete was hurled into the Cardiff boys to my right and I could see a
small group of people huddled round a fallen comrade. The reality that
someone really could die here today (possibly even me) hit home, and I
wondered how my parent's would react if they knew that I wasn't actually on the 'day trip to Barry Island' that I was supposed to be on with my mate's 'caring Dad'.
As if it wasn't bad enough, things were about to take a turn for the worse. A small group of Bluebirds began to take an unhealthy interest in the dozen or so lads to their left (us). One hideous freak with a severely scarred face wandered over. "Not singing boys? We all sing in here, you're all a bit quiet today. You are all 'Care-diff ' I hope". My heart sank. Rumbled, and we knew they weren't going to go away now their suspicions were aroused.
The scout ambled back to the main group to report his findings. After a
brief chin-wag amongst themselves, three or four more came over for an
'interview'. The "Head of Personnel" was none other than the fearsome
one-man war machine we had seen in action near the station. I wanted to cry and explain that I had a note from my Mum that said on no account was I to have my head kicked in as I had a cold.
I guess that a rat, when cornered, will strike out and I found that I was surrounded by a few heavy-duty rodents. "You want a song do you?" piped up a ginger-haired Northerner. "Yooooh-niiiiii-ted" he bellowed in a slow ponderous scream like Hitler adressing the Nuremberg Rally.
That was the signal for all out attack. The dozen or so infiltrators charged upwards at the massed ranks of blue-scarved savages in a suicidal attack. Fists flew and a sea parted between the fans as the visitors gained some amazing ground. I cowered behind a mouth-foaming long-haired Red with the most enormous baggy trousers I have ever seen, confidant that they wouldn't see me behind the expanse of bottle green material. The very trousers that must have inspired Suggs' Madness hit some years later.
Suddenly the 'Red Sea' in front of me became just a pond, as the Cardiff boys realised the small numbers involved in the kamikaze charge. Then it dried up like a Midsummer's day in the Serengetti as the United boys were now charging back down the same stairs that they had scaled so heroically a few moments earlier.
I just wanted the concrete to open up and swallow me, yet most of the
concrete in Ninian Park was of the airborne variety. It was now clear that we were in serious trouble and we seized the chance to make for a gap in the faltering fencing, weakened by numerous charges. We raced towards the safety of our fellow fans, who, to our horror, on seeing the onrushing mob charged into us, and a number of fists flew before our identity was established.
We were then welcomed like a band of soldiers returning from a daring
mission behind enemy lines, which I guess it had been. I was by now feeling almost traumatised, as huge lumps of brick, concrete and wood were flying over from both sides, the Police were desparately trying to contain the two fearsome mobs who charged continually at the horror-stricken thin blue line and at several points it looked as though the fence would give way.
As a veteran of away trips at home and abroad throughout the 70's, 80's and to a lesser extent the 21st Century, I can honestly say I couldn't imagine the carnage that would have taken place had that wilting police line given way on that day.
Mercifully it held, and despite sickening chants of "Munich" and
occasionally even "Aberfan" and about enough flying ballast to build a
high-rise block, the body count was surprisingly low. People were being
carried out from both side on stretchers, many with horrifying head wounds, struggling yobs were being plucked from both ranks by those Policemen plucky enough to try. Others were met with a volley of missiles and feet.
Every so often a small group of United fans would emerge in the home section and the same scenario would be played out - a suicidal charge followed by submersion beneath a frenzy of kicks, stamps and punches.
Very long but worth reading. I thought it might interest especially the older fans like fredthered.
I remember arriving from Paddington (see we had plenty of ****ney followers in those crap Div.2 days.) I was just a schoolboy and although I'd been to plenty of games at Old Trafford with my old fella I'd only been to a few tame aways at the time.
The Cardiff game was unlike anything I think I have ever seen before or
since. We expected an 'interesting' day to say the least but nothing
prepared 2 spotty kids for an afternoon of absolute mayhem, the likes of which, (I'm sure anyone who was there will heartily agree) has never been seen since, with perhaps the exception of Luton v Millwall or other such ground-breaking occasions.
United fans were largely untouchable in those days, sheer weight of numbers plus a ferocious bravado that wouldn't allow them to back down from any resistance, even the southern counterparts - Chelsea, West Ham and to some extent Millwall were still lagging behind in both exploits and organisation.
So it was with that air of self confidence we alighted the station.
"Manchester la la la" rang out all around as we sauntered and swaggered our way towards Ninian Park, our Summer Holiday homework problems left aside as we strutted our stuff with the big boys, the exhiliration of being surrounded by 100 or so ' grown men' of 18!
There we spotted a group of about 100 lads. A cheer went up, these were
more of our own we assumed. To this day I'll never forget the scene. A
handful of our 'comrades' from across the road ambled over, a reuniting
embrace was no doubt to follow as these old friends joined the throng.
Suddenly I noticed the crazed grin on the face of the approaching stranger and even with my limited knowledge of Football away trips, I had a feeling. all was not well.
Our mate with the mental mug simply smashed his fist into the face of one of our lads. "Bloody hell, they're Cardiff *******s" came the cry. The lone assailant then began wading in to at least ten of the United group, bodies were going down all around. His 99 or so mates did very little to assist this lone kamikaze mission - either they were terrified of the situation or maybe knew his capabilities. Maybe this was Frank the Legend from the newspaper stories on this board - perhaps Bluebirds on here will enlighten me.
Finally, the two groups snapped out of their frozen apathy and charged into each other with a manic relish. Now when people say 200 fans were fighting 'toe-to-toe' they usually mean half a dozen at most, with the rest milling about looking stupid, but this was as it sounded, with scenes reminiscent of a gargantuan scale WWF tag match.
My friend and I stood there dumbstruck. It was over 25 years ago and I would love to have been able to recall how I joined in the scene of carnage, downing all-comers, but as a young boy I was horror-stricken and frozen with terror. I remember one Policeman ambling by and peering round the corner to see what all the noise was. He took one look at the scene and carried on walking.Classic!
By this time most of our group had been split into small factions and the walk to the ground was quite simply a journey into some apocyliptic
nightmare. It was as if my mate and I had just emerged from the Tardis into some post-nuclear wasteland.Yet there was no Jon Pertwee to close those bloody Police-Box doors and I guess most of the Coppers would have been in there hiding if he could have!
On every street corner the sight were the same, people scurrying around in all directions, I saw one outlandish figure - a United fan in a white boiler-suit and black bowler hat giving out instructions looking like an extra from A Clockwork Orange. All around were cries of "here they are" "don't run" "I've got one". A whirl of confusion, a tidal wave of thundering red Doctor Marten boots and tartan scarves.
We arrived outside the ground and met up again with some faces from the
train. Some looked dazed and confused, others bloodied but belligerent. "See this", said one half-caste Londoner with a bloody nose. "The next Taff I see, I'm going to give him three of these." We all laughed loudly at the ridiculous statement, though from some of the characters I had seen at the Station encounter, a guy with three noses was highly likely.
With about an hour to go before kick-off we decided to opt for some
sustainance to re-fuel our adrenalin loss. A pink, undercooked 'Spamburger' did the trick for 30p. We started queing at the rather oddly named 'Bob-Bank' whatever that was. Suddenly a group of Reds walked past us, full of contempt that we were planning to go into our own end. "Not in here you ****holes, it's all down "The Grange". Intimidated by their ridicule we followed our heroes and paid in at the "Grange".
As we prepared to pay our (70p was it) I noticed some of the lads around us were tying their scarves around their waists out of sight. I now realised that occupying the home end was more of a military operation than a consumer choice.
We gathered "inconspicuosly" at a point close to the fence which had a huge no-man's land separating the rival fans. Insults were traded for half an hour, a few blood curdling screams of bravado followed by a couple of half-hearted charges by either side at the fence. A fat Cardiff fan with a scarf round his wrist, and tomato sauce stains around his chin, shouted something indistinguishable and launced a wooden stake, like a mini telegraph pole into the baying United mob.
A few cheers rang out as it hit an unseen target. Instantly a piece of
concrete was hurled into the Cardiff boys to my right and I could see a
small group of people huddled round a fallen comrade. The reality that
someone really could die here today (possibly even me) hit home, and I
wondered how my parent's would react if they knew that I wasn't actually on the 'day trip to Barry Island' that I was supposed to be on with my mate's 'caring Dad'.
As if it wasn't bad enough, things were about to take a turn for the worse. A small group of Bluebirds began to take an unhealthy interest in the dozen or so lads to their left (us). One hideous freak with a severely scarred face wandered over. "Not singing boys? We all sing in here, you're all a bit quiet today. You are all 'Care-diff ' I hope". My heart sank. Rumbled, and we knew they weren't going to go away now their suspicions were aroused.
The scout ambled back to the main group to report his findings. After a
brief chin-wag amongst themselves, three or four more came over for an
'interview'. The "Head of Personnel" was none other than the fearsome
one-man war machine we had seen in action near the station. I wanted to cry and explain that I had a note from my Mum that said on no account was I to have my head kicked in as I had a cold.
I guess that a rat, when cornered, will strike out and I found that I was surrounded by a few heavy-duty rodents. "You want a song do you?" piped up a ginger-haired Northerner. "Yooooh-niiiiii-ted" he bellowed in a slow ponderous scream like Hitler adressing the Nuremberg Rally.
That was the signal for all out attack. The dozen or so infiltrators charged upwards at the massed ranks of blue-scarved savages in a suicidal attack. Fists flew and a sea parted between the fans as the visitors gained some amazing ground. I cowered behind a mouth-foaming long-haired Red with the most enormous baggy trousers I have ever seen, confidant that they wouldn't see me behind the expanse of bottle green material. The very trousers that must have inspired Suggs' Madness hit some years later.
Suddenly the 'Red Sea' in front of me became just a pond, as the Cardiff boys realised the small numbers involved in the kamikaze charge. Then it dried up like a Midsummer's day in the Serengetti as the United boys were now charging back down the same stairs that they had scaled so heroically a few moments earlier.
I just wanted the concrete to open up and swallow me, yet most of the
concrete in Ninian Park was of the airborne variety. It was now clear that we were in serious trouble and we seized the chance to make for a gap in the faltering fencing, weakened by numerous charges. We raced towards the safety of our fellow fans, who, to our horror, on seeing the onrushing mob charged into us, and a number of fists flew before our identity was established.
We were then welcomed like a band of soldiers returning from a daring
mission behind enemy lines, which I guess it had been. I was by now feeling almost traumatised, as huge lumps of brick, concrete and wood were flying over from both sides, the Police were desparately trying to contain the two fearsome mobs who charged continually at the horror-stricken thin blue line and at several points it looked as though the fence would give way.
As a veteran of away trips at home and abroad throughout the 70's, 80's and to a lesser extent the 21st Century, I can honestly say I couldn't imagine the carnage that would have taken place had that wilting police line given way on that day.
Mercifully it held, and despite sickening chants of "Munich" and
occasionally even "Aberfan" and about enough flying ballast to build a
high-rise block, the body count was surprisingly low. People were being
carried out from both side on stretchers, many with horrifying head wounds, struggling yobs were being plucked from both ranks by those Policemen plucky enough to try. Others were met with a volley of missiles and feet.
Every so often a small group of United fans would emerge in the home section and the same scenario would be played out - a suicidal charge followed by submersion beneath a frenzy of kicks, stamps and punches.
