Say the Hail Mary

Fate
Up against your will
Through the thick and thin
He will wait until
You give yourself to him

Under a blue moon, I saw you
So soon you’ll take me
Up in your arms, too late to beg you
Or cancel it, though I know it must be
The killing time
Unwillingly mine

I believe that the loss of personal bohemia causes nostalgia. Paradoxically, although nostalgia can be mentally draining for its practitioners, it is also part of what attracts the next generation of enthusiasts to the same vibe. When looking back at this counterculture it seems it was very grounding. I have always been a bit of a flaneur so looking for the next locale was perfect timing.

It’s 1983 and I’m walking through the Barrowlands in Glasgow on the London Road side of the market. Myself and a friend are dressed in post -Two-Tone attire with wedge haircuts and baggy jeans. Aberdeen appear.

I’ve heard it said and I agree, “Where’s the next scene?’ Nobody sees it coming, ah it’s over there.” – (Casuals DVD)

Eighties

It was every Saturday in the mid to late ‘80s. Glasgow City Centre seemed to be occupied by us the (CSC “the Celtic Soccer Crew”) A lot of the time I’d recognise a face and a nod was given. Other times you would approach a group and anticipate it could go off. Some lads would interrogate by asking your authenticity with “say the Hail Mary”. However, as time proceeded into the late ’80s it just seemed to always be Celtic in the city centre.

Inevitably, before any home games; it was a dash from George Square, along the end of Argyle Street and it would kick-off on a big scale at the island in the middle of the road at Trongate. From there, the away firm would head onto the London Road side of the Barrowlands we would go the other way (the Gallowgate). The drill was to go through the Barras and catch the away mob as they walked up the London Road side of the market. Many a time on the corner a crowd of mods were gathered at the ice cream kiosk. I vividly recall the young ginger baby crew member from Posso would tag the first one and the rest would follow through. Mods, yesterdays subculture especially that second generation type, one dimensional with targets on their back, what did they expect.

Most weeks when Celtic played at home we would approach Bridgeton Cross there would be a mob gathered at the bandstand. Like clock work about 10 of the crew would make a dash over to this Bridgton Derry lot and they would bolt before any of us remaining had even followed through.

Beginnings

Celtic first went out as a crew in a Scottish Cup match in 30 January 1985. This was away to Hamilton under the name (RCC “the Roman Catholic Casuals”) which was not a decent or suitable moniker I think we can all agree.

My first outing was a couple of months later on 20 March 1985 at Celtic Park v Hearts. We numbered around 50 and we had positioned ourselves next to the Hearts fans in the old Rangers end at Parkhead. This was just before they put a fence and plastic screen down the middle of the terrace. All there seemed to be was police segregation. The attire was sportswear and those half ‘n’ half ski-hats which wasn’t exactly anti-suss; but I think at this stage we actually wanted to be noticed. I recall over hearing a Celtic supporter commenting: “I didn’t realise we has so many casuals” this would be on the assumption it was an Aberdeen thing or perhaps Motherwell.

At the age of 15, I was just loving the camaraderie, the labels worn but I am posturing as a foot soldier. It was also a good game to have chosen for antagonising the away support. Hearts took the lead and were two nil ahead within 30 minutes. However, Celtic pulled one back through Mo Johnston just before half-time. Late into the second half Murdo MacLeod equalised, then on 92 minutes Brian McClair scores the winner for Celtic. The raging Hearts fans are trying to break through and attack, they still have this Gorgie aggro Skinhead look among their support mixed in with their firm.

Going into the 85/86 season things were starting to change and grow. Sportswear was replaced by shirts and cords, more dress down anti-suss. An umbrella was an accessory for some and more shoes being seen then trainers. Boys were becoming men. The Celtic ski-hat had gone. The Celtic support thought they had got rid of their casuals. However, there was a much sinister not so obvious crew sitting opposite them at the bottom of the main stand at Celtic Park.

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Friday IN and OUT shake it all about with David Rosling enterprises

IN …

Chewing chuddy and drinking coke.

Nazi’s getting a cricket baw nose in Wishaw.

ickle ickle ickiling by Harry Lauder

Choo Choo’s nail bar

Dan the old Kent Road … Dan the Old Kent Road

Being a roadie for young Stevie Dodds in Lochgelly.

Pogoing to Yeke Yeke

SEVCO fans dookin for wasps!

Cold Water exposure

Saffiyah Khan.

Berocca and Avocado

Restoring yer classic adidas trainers.

St Pat the Dog

Pil payin pitba pum! (explanation given if required)

Losing it on a Friday afternoon.

Wearing the deerstalker hat in the workplace.

Pop Doodle instead of Pot Noodle.

Supping tea with Ross McKenzie.

Disco lifts by Shaun Kelly

Reading the bible in the bath.

Kellogg’s advert ‘it’s gonna be grrreat!’

Two hats in one day.

St Pats Fenian Band

OUT …

Ruth Davidson

Song Lyric ‘the eye of the tiger, Cause I am a champion, and you’re gonna hear me rooaaaar!’

90’s Hard Core Rave Music! (never in)

Morrissey and his attention seeking right-wing rants.

Gary Barlow.

People blaming the ‘winny works’ for today’s society problems.

Depression stigma number 300 ‘eat fruit’ by I’m alright Jack!

Mental Health Stigma number 310 ‘choose to be happy!’

The Sun Newspaper!

Heating or eating choices

Masterchef.

Throbbers on holiday with Union Jack hanging over balcony.

Billy Campbell types from Norn Iron.

When folk ask ‘happening’ instead of ‘what’s happening?’

Black dog.

Guys wearing a t-shirt saying ‘I don’t need to google’ plastered over the front!

Jammy Tribute Acts.

Bully Beefcakes.

restyled adidas Jeans trainers.

Blowies for Beak

The day after the day after … Beer fear!

Hangsxiety Beer Fear

Bobby Madden pandering to SEVCO NINJA ASSASSIN’s

Roasters in Town who kick off after a stripe

The ‘My life is so perfect’ crowd on Facebook!

Nazi Hipsters.

That’s that! Keep on the Tramazi and the Cameron Diaz. Hug yer brers. Cheers now!! Never let yer public down … spin them right round, like a record baby right round. Remember … mirror, signal, manoeuvre and on ye go.

Any complaints speak to the HWS team at 94 Holywell Street next door to Celtic park (see below). Or come and visit us. Get Yersel’s roond.

CSC 1993 Welling riots

By Stef Kelly  15/1/19

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Going with our CSC articles, Holywell Street caught up with one of our finest lads, passionate in every department. He’s certainly old skool and with a colourful past. I first met Stef around the 1985/86 season at Tynecastle. From baby crew to front-line.

Here he chats of a day when Celtic went on a famous anti Fascism demo.

As I sit here and try to recall my time as a casual, as a proud member of the Celtic Soccer Crew, I struggle with age, the odd concussion and the reality that my time as one of the crew is muddied by the fact that I was an addict in fully fledged addiction for most of it. In actual fact the anticipation that came along with being part of a mob and having so many men and women at my back was the biggest high for a long time but, like all other highs, it eventually ran its course and stopped offering the freedom from self that it once gave me. Still, I look at the early eighties and the many names that came and went from my life, with fondness and a deep nostalgia that lingers even still, as I near the half century mark.

There are most certainly many Celtic bhoys in my thoughts who have died for one reason or another; many from the very same addiction I found respite from but, there are also a few of the mortal enemy; the huns; the ICF, who have died and who played a part in making the man who sits here writing this essay. I feel sad as I write but, nostalgia does that; it is an odd feeling filled with good memories and sad ones. I’ve discovered in this age of social media that nostalgia has its place and that it is important.

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Anyway, on to what I can remember about 1993 and the Welling Unity Demonstration that led to me being sentenced to two years at Maidstone Crown Court. I was charged with riot, which was the worst of the charges on offer to all those arrested; disorderly conduct being the least of the three and affray coming in second. As it transpired the whole event was orchestrated by the authorities to push the criminal justice bill/act through parliament. Myself and the rest of the crew that went down were willing pawns in their game. I remember when we got there that I commented to my old friend E.F, (whom, I would dearly love to have contact with again), who was our liaison with the Anti-Fascist League organisers, that we were being set up by them also. If it kicks off, we will be there at the front and will likely be used as scapegoats for any trouble that ensues. For the sake of clarity here, I followed that assertion with, “don’t get me wrong E.F, I don’t care if we are being used but, lets not kid ourselves.

 

I remember there was a nominal fee of three pounds for the bus to London from Glasgow, it really was a no-brainer for us that went. I sat with Gary S if I remember correctly and I did heroin and ecstacy on the way there. My next real memories are of the boys raiding Lacoste in London; I missed out because I was either behind or in front of them. We also had a little run in with Millwall at Kings Cross station, or was it Euston station? They were getting a little mouthy at first, they thought we were Spurs and really did not wanna know when they found out who we were.

 

My next memory is us walking up the road towards the intersection where the riot started and ended; anticipation building as we had no idea what to expect. There were professional rioters all around us. Three years before this demo, the Poll tax riots had happened and there were the same folks who had been rioting at that demo at the Welling demonstration. This I later discovered because a couple of my co-accused where at both days.

 

At the end of the road we came to the intersection where the riot cops were awaiting our arrival. This was where I got excited; remember I’m there to represent the Crew, we don’t like fascists, yeah but, I’m a 24 year old addict who is so self-obsessed and riddled with low self-worth I was going to make it about me making me feel better and hopefully raising the profile a bit of the CSC at the same time.

 

When we reached the section that the cops where never going to let us past, the organisers of the march started asking everyone to link arms and get ready to sit in and refuse to move. I looked around and saw that on the roof of a garage of a nearby house there was a large camera; a television camera I thought. So, I wriggled free of the interlocked arms that held me and jumped out into the 8 or 10 feet of no-mans land between us and the bizzies and screamed Celtic Soccer Crew on tour ya Bastards!!!!! I was the first to break ranks and it all kicked off right at that moment. A funny aside here; as I screamed, my false teeth flew from my mouth and landed at the feet of a riot cop in front of me. I stopped and looked down at the same time as the copper looked down; we looked up at each other and I hesitated for a minute, weighing up my options. The chance of club on the back of my skull was all too real but, I thought ‘fuck it’ and I reached down and grabbed them without being rendered unconscious by the copper. They spent the next few hours snuggled in my pocket for safe keeping. Incidently, this is far from the only time that my wallies went airborne when I was screaming at someone. I fought through legs in the jungle at Celtic Park a few times, to retrieve them.

 

Anyway, from there on in, it is a bit of blur; the bizzies charging us, bricks being thrown from the church wall that was destroyed by fellow rioters. Fellow Crew members would come in and out of view at varying times but, to be honest I think most of them did not partake in the riot as much as I did. I was mask free and hell bent on creating some infamy for myself and the Crew. Ed later told me that I was the one that kicked it all off and in my skewed, less than mature thinking of the time, I was so happy with this. I did get trampled at one point by riot cops and I thought “shit, this is it, this is where I get arrested” but, they just ran right over the top of me and I was able to get up and get away again. This incident is actually recorded on youtube, if you look for Welling riot. I had a dark green jacket on and a red Lacoste hat.

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The riot went on until it fizzled out; myself and young Kevin Mc, made our way back to the buses. We barely made it back home. The bus we had come on had left and we ran and stopped another that luckily for us was heading to Glasgow.  We got home late and I crashed out at home. Still at my parents house in Provanmill. I awoke the next morning and the first thing my dad said was “there’s the TV star” I asked him, “did you tape it, did you tape it?”. Sure enough he had recorded me on the news the evening before. I watched it and carried that VHS tape with me for weeks afterwards, I was so proud of myself. When I walked along the street that day, the neighbours; little old ladies and the rest where yelling at me “you fucking hooligan Kelly” and the like. I loved it; the infamy and 15 minutes of glory that I sought to fill the void inside me, I had it. It transpired that my picture was in newspapers all over England, less so in Scotland but, my brother in law, who is a Manc, called and let me know he had been heading to work the on the bus, the day after the riot and saw my picture in the Mirror or Sun or whatever tabloid he was reading.

 

As time went on, I moved further into my addiction and forgot all about my fifteen minutes of notoriety. My days spent thieving and looking for ways and means to get drugs. Going to the odd game with the bhoys and always being supported by them. I probably did some time in the months that followed, as was the pattern of my life, until one morning, about 8 months after the riot, I’m awakened by 4 CID in my bedroom. Two from Stewart Street and two from Scotland Yard; one of the guys from Scotland Yard said “you know what this is about Steven” and I replied “yep, you took your time”. I was flown back to London and taking to Bexley Heath cop shop to appear at Bexley Heath magistrates the next day. I was granted bail and went home. I went back and and forward a couple of times and finally thought ‘fuck it’, if they want me they can come and get me again. I stopped appearing at court and was on the run with an arrest warrant out for me. I got picked up for shop-lifting somewhere and was laying in London Road cop shop. The screws there were pretty sure that the cops from London would not come up for me, as they rarely did for warrants in Scotland. I knew better and told them that. Sure enough, they came back and said that coppers from London where on their way up to get me. I was taken back down and remanded to Elmley nick on the Isle of Sheppy in Kent. Where I spent three months on remand before pleading guilty and getting sentenced to a deuce; with a third off because I had pleaded guilty at my earliest opportunity. It was reduced to 16 months and I did another 5 months on top of the three months I’d already done. I’ll never forget seeing the bhoys jumping around in the road in Maidstone when I went to court for trial. My heart felt full and I was proud of them for showing up. It was a treat.

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I did my remand at Elmley and when sentenced moved to Aldington in another part of Kent; an old army barracks converted to a jail. The whole time I was there I was wasted, drugs, jail hooch, it was an easy sentence. Five months of Art class and cookery classes and stoned for most of it. Easy time. In my first week at Aldington, inmates broke into the pharmacy and stole a bunch of drugs, particularly valium. This event in and of itself is hilarious;a break in inside the jail but, the posters the guards put up in the dorms afterwards where downright ridiculous. These posters told of dangerous drugs being stolen and could they please hand them back in. Needless to say that for a couple of weeks the jail was the calmest it had been in years. Another time the canteen was robbed and various items where scattered around the place until used up.

The best incident by far was the time a Belgian fella escaped from the dorm I was in.

The jails in Kent were full of smugglers, guys who trafficked tobacco and hash to truckloads of cocaine and other contraband. Guys from all over the continent: Holland, Belgium, Turkey, Greece as well as the from Glasgow and beyond. In my dorm there was a fella from Belgium, who was pining so badly for his family; many of these guys where used as bait, set up by the real criminals to take a fall whilst the big shipments went through elsewhere. This guy it would appear, was one of these mugs, who was used as fodder for the cops. He was not cut out for jail, never mind a jail in England. Some of the boys in the dorm decided to help him get home.

At 6pm every night, the guards would do a head count and  go on a break and the new shift would come back at 7 and open up and do another head count to make sure everyone was there. In that hour the count went down by one head, literally.

The story goes that sometime before 6pm the Belgian fella had made his way onto the roof of one of the buildings at the jail and hid there waiting for the guards to all go off on their dinner break. At the same time in Hythe Dorm, the dorm I was in, the guys had made up a dummy and used the hair from the many haircuts we gave each other in the dorms to create a dummy head and put it in the bed for the count at 6pm. The guards would just come in and count bodies/lumps in beds, never expecting it to be anything other than a guy sleeping there. Once they had finished their 6 o’clock count, the dummy was disposed of and the bed space was cleaned up of any evidence. It would take the guards an age to figure out which inmate was missing in a jail with around 130 bodies. The Belgian fella had scaled the fence and razor wire using blankets.

There was some panic for a while, a lock-down ensued and everyone denied any knowledge of knowing where the guy had gone. Presumably the guard who did the count got dragged over the coals but, not much else happened afterwards as it really was an embarrassing event for H.M. Prisons at the time.

The icing on the cake was when we received a postcard from the guy back in Belgium a couple of weeks after the escape. A happy ending I’d say.

An interesting sub-plot to this whole experience for me; the riot and sentencing and doing the time, revolves around a scouse fella called Gary. Now, Scouse Gary as we called him, had first appeared on the scene sometime around 1985/86, after the Heysel Stadium disaster when Liverpool fans fighting with Juventus fans caused a wall to collapse and what happened, happened, as awful as it was. Scouse Gary told us that he was one of the Liverpool fans charged as part of the group of fans who where arrested. This was never substantiated by any of us and it was not as easy in 1986 to just look up who was and who wasn’t a part of this conflagration. Google not showing up for another couple or three decades. We just took him at face value and he became part of the scene for a short period, hanging around Queen Street station with myself and the other Baby crew folks who hung around there.

The strange thing about Scouse Gary is that, when I was in the cells at Maidstone crown court during trial and at preliminary hearings, eight years after I had last seen him, he shows up in my cell and claims to be one of my co-accused or, at least charged in connection with same demonstration. Our re-connection was a bit awkward; I may be wrong but, I’m now pretty sure, the Scouse fella was a professional informant; a plant; a fucking double agent if you will and had been for a number of years. Perhaps even and undercover screw, they where known to exist back in the heyday of us hooligan types. I’m not sure if he expected me when he came in to the cell, he wasn’t there long and like before he vanished in the ether never to be seen again, not during my remand or sentence.

A shady fucking character indeed.

The other notable events during that distant time in jail in England, were the thousands of letters I received from all over the world, from Holocaust survivors, from anti-fascists. From little old ladies and students and just people in the street who wanted to offer their support for a cause, a cause that I barely respected. My selfishness back then was immense; I was incapable of recognising the enormity of the cause I had tied my flag to for a day of notoriety and self-indulgent vanity. Still, I have no regrets. Life has come and gone and persists in presenting me with moments of clarity and growth; I look back with fondness and sadness; that beautiful feeling of nostalgia once again on my jail time in England and would not change it for the world

 

So, this is what I can recall now, as I sit here in bed in my home on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada. 4,401 miles from Glasgow and 26 years from doing time in Kent for rioting. A lifetime ago; I am a father and a husband now, Capable of so much more than I was back then. I am a Registered Social Worker with a Bachelors Degree in Social Work; and I work as an addiction counsellor at a Maximum security Correctional Facility in Victoria and marvel often at how life is so different now.

Hail Hail and CSC # 1

Many thanks to Stef and Red Casual

Franco’s War against Rail Workers

By HWS 2nd March 2022

The working people will struggle for their rights in a war against fascism. It is a fact that the working-class will suffer most. Their rights as workers will come under attack by fascism which will target trade unions and the dignity of labour.

I want to focus on a group of workers on the railway under Franco’s fascist Spain and their suffering and humiliation. Also, how a group of Welsh volunteers took up arms in support of the working people and their voted elected government.

After 82 years and the end of the civil war with a return to democracy, the Spanish railway company RENFE (pronounced “Ren-Fay”) has finally acknowledged their workers suffered under fascism. These days they even have a website with the details of the horrific treatment to its workers who’s only crime was to work for an industry with a strong trade union in place who had stayed loyal and kept the trains running in the republic.

In Franco’s regime all railway workers were presumed guilty and had to prove they were not a threat to the regime. The rail workers numbering around 90,000 had to present a sworn statement setting out any connections to the democratically voted Republic. Around 83,000 rail workers were purged, 88 per cent of the workforce. At one point they had to pause the witch hunts as they did not have enough train drivers to run the railway.

There was nearly 7,000 jailed varying months to life imprisonment, one hundred were condemned to death. Nobody were taken out shot dead without and trial or even charges – but there were many. An unmarked grave was opened in 2011 in Borgus to reveal 59 bodies, it is known locally as the tomb of the railway.

One story from a railway family member revealed:

“It was 1936. The fascists took my father and uncle Jose and Rafael Machuca – to a makeshift prison. One night they came into their cell to take one of them away. Those they took away never came back, so when they came for my uncle Rafael, my father knew he would never see him again, they were going to kill him. My father was lucky they only sent him to prison and barred him from working on the railways ever again. When my grandmother went to the prison to find them, she was told that Rafael was not there any more. The poor woman went everywhere she could to think of to ask where he might be, she spent her whole life searching for him. He was 26 when he disappeared, to this day we do not know they killed him”.

The regime even created a a special police unit dedicated to informing on rail workers – rooting out any collaborators. There was a total of 120,000 files reporting detailing railway workers’ connections and every movements. Until 1957, many railways in Spain were be built and maintained by forced Labour battalions – often made up of political prisoners. There were over 9,000 forced labourers slaving on Franco’s railways in 1940. Sadly repression was even worse for thousands of women who had worked on the railways. Around 4,500 of them were supressed for having the wrong political views. The fascists punished women who deviated from the regime’s structure more than men. One victim described how her mother, now 93, was dismissed from the railway for the crime of getting married. She said: “In those day’s women didn’t have a glass ceiling, it was cement, and when they married they were forced to resign.

They could only return to work if their husbands died, or deserted the wife without good reason. With the return of democracy in 1978 my mother was finally allowed to return to work in “Renfe”. At the recent unveiling of a commemorative statue to the railway victims, the Socialist Transport Minister, José Luis Ábalos, spoke movingly about the importance of remembering the impact fascism had on the everyday lives of working people.

An estimated 200 Welsh volunteers went to fight for the International Brigades in Spain. Coincidently, many of the Welsh Brigaders came from similar regions in South Wales with many of them unemployed miners. Those comrades held shared experiences which spurred them on to join the cause of the Spanish Republic.

Spain is still struggling to come to terms with this history. It’s a political struggle almost as polarised as the civil war itself. The new right governing Madrid is intent on retaining street names that celebrate the Division Azul, the troops and volunteers Franco sent to fight alongside the SS on the Eastern front. That’s why it is so important Wales takes part in commemorations, to keep alive the memory of those brave Welsh comrades who fought so hard in the hope that the working people of Spain may have had different memories and so much better ones.

Janefield Riot 1st May 1985

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By Macaroon 23rd May 2018

Celtic Casuals

Going with our terrace culture section again, we hook up with our comrades in the Celtic Soccer Crew (CSC). We wanted to cover a story which has infamously been labelled ‘The Janefield Riot’. An incident to this day that has been labelled a ‘whitewash’ after the final whistle on the last old firm game of the season at Celtic Park on the 1st of May 1985. This was a rescheduled match from March which was called off due to snow. Celtic Park didn’t have under soil heating at this time.

We to talk about the guys that were there on one of the most memorable and early days out with the CSC – under the previous name of Roman Catholic Casuals (RCC) which was very cringeworthy when we look back now. A Wednesday night kick off normally reserved for European games due to the fixture being moved from March that year.

During the match we were positioned the end of the old ‘Jungle’ next to the old Rangers end and right next to the Rangers casuals Inter City Firm (ICF) or (or Ice Cream Firm). In those days it was expensive sportswear and ski-hats. The obligatory chants were going back and forth including “ICF w*nk w*nk w*nk” with “hand gestures” and the now cringeworthy southern chant of “you what?”. The jungle didn’t have that protected mesh fence up at this time. Coins were going back and forth between the two mobs. During the first half half a bottle of Irn Bru was launched from the Rangers end; it didn’t reach our mob but smashed at the foot of the nearest copper next to the segregation. This stirred up more tension between the two crews and we are trying to push towards each other.

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Two minutes into the match Roy Aitken ‘scored’ a penalty or so he thought. The ball had been judged to have moved, he then misses the retake. Celtic had umpteen chances to take the lead and eventually mid-way through the second-half Alan McInally hit the back of the Rangers net. 1-0; this was just after Davie Cooper was sent off for a second yellow after a foul on Peter Grant.

Followed by the sending off of Ally Dawson in the 71st minute for an off the ball incident involving Mo Johnston. With Rangers now down to 9 men the Celtic Park ‘hame support’ are ecstatic. However, late into the game with approaching the last 10 minutes Rangers are awarded a penalty after a handball in the box by Roy Aitken. Ally McCoist steps up to make it 1-1. The end result. This was a hard one to absorb we had not beaten Rangers in a long time. This result basically hands Aberdeen the league. So an interesting game leading up to ensuing “riot”.

Leaving the Ground

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As we leave the ground and onto Janefield Street the “scarfers” or Celtic fans as we liked to call them numbered quite around 4,000. As we reached the the end of Janefield Street a small number of the them were having a go, perhaps looking to take the result out on us. There was a small chant of “casuals get to f*ck” and “Celtic and Casuals don’t go” this was nothing new and normally fizzled out. We are all one team Celtic Football Club. The tension receded as predicted and we moved onto Holywell Street.

Horses

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Strathclyde Police “Mounted Division” decides there is a ruck developing between opposing fans (denied by all subsequent statements by those involved). He orders five mounted police horses to charge through the crowd. The police seemed to think there was a riot going on. Then hit some kind of code red and caused absolute mayhem. They bizzarely turn at the top of Janefield Street and charge back down again. A 100 yard brick wall with railings outside the flats on Janefield Street toppled over with the weight of the crowd. People being led into strangers houses. Woman and children were lifted onto the balconies to safety. The street is a bottleneck. This ‘Balaclava’ style charge through absolute mobbed street was completely unnecessary with many casualties (on both sides) lying on either side of the road with innocent supporters being arrested.

Aftermath

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Results of Police Inquiry published December 1985 exonerate police – no action to be taken. Witness statements from residents in Janefield Street had witnessed a ‘peaceful’ but crowded exit onto the street and only saw a cavalry style charge by the police.

No police or anyone connected to the incident was ever brought to justice. It seemed to us that it was simply more convenient to blame the Celtic casuals. Even the Celtic board at the time seemed to be to be happy to go along with that. This was to be known as the “Janefield Riot” the only riot we are aware of that night was caused by the police themselves.

Teams

Celtic: Latchford W McStay MacLeod Aitken McGugan Grant Provan McStay Johnston McClair McInally (Colquhoun) Sub: McKechnie

Scorer: McInally 60

Rangers: McCloy Dawson Munro McPherson Johnstone Durrant Russell (Burns) E Ferguson (I Ferguson) McCist Cooper

Scorer: McCoist pen 77

Attendance: 40,079 

The INs and OUTs revolution will not be televised, social media outlets only. It’s Friday, it’s early.. IN OUT shake it all about with David Rosling Bus Tours

IN:

Walking into work and askin ‘s,appenin?’

Diet Irn Bru

Losing 4lb on the January Joggers.

Walking into work and saying ‘here he is tho!’

The Marvellous Kevin Sharp

Timberland & Burlington on a permanent basis.

Boiled eggs; spinach; avocado!

Being Celtic.

Sensational SEVCO 3-0 gubbings.

Yer manager saying ‘tho’

Pickled ingin not onion!

Collecting Mac Jackets.

Being a Whopper!

Happy Monday’s – Hallelujah remix full blast!

Boxing yer Black Mutt away!

Staring at the Tropical Fish in Dobbies.

Simple Minds new Album.

McCoy’s sizzling King Prawn.

Wearing Farahs and Cornish Pasty shoes in the workplace.

Wearing a different hat each day.

Saying ‘cheers now’ as you leave work.

Paul Heaton.

Getting lighter at 4 o’clock

OUT:

‘Did you call ma pint a poof’ sloshed types in the boozer.

White chocolate cream eggs!

Fuckin crinkled beetroot!

The saying ‘true dat’

Folk with a ‘we arra’ attitude ae life.

Miserable Scottish Winters!

Three cold callers in the space of twenty mins.

Nom Nom, yummy scrummy types!

Tory voters complaining about cuts!

Media spin, fantasy football transfer figures!

Keyboard warrior football lads.

Through by Aye!

Rugger buggers!

Mental Health stigma.

Waiting in queues at the Bar.

Bellahouston Boat Club.

January and February miserable weather.

Wrecking yer adidas trainers in crap weather.

Plastic bags costing 5p.

Caffeine comedowns.

Watching yer diet.

Boy Racers – elbow out the window, massive exhaust and shitty sunglasses.

Grassing fascist bar-stewards!

Squaddies having a shindig.

Running out of chocolate.

And that’s awe that an that for this week.

Divint take it serious. Cheers Now. Eat yer porridge, eat yer greens. Look for peace and not excitement. Get into a Boxing Club. Block toxic folk.

Come and visit at Holywell Street and meet the team, bring awe yer mates.

*HWS Towers is situated at 95 Holywell Street, next to Celtic Park (see below) get yersel roond.

Saturday Peacocking to 12 Stepping

By a comrade – 30 Jan 2022

“Ye want a line mate?”

That simple question would lead me on a mental, beautiful, ugly, dangerous, sad and almost life costing affair with drugs, mostly cocaine!!

I had taken drugs before but this was me, early 20s and involved in the casual scene. I’d always dressed casual but now I was part of the mob. CSC. Celtic Soccer Crew!

Initially the drugs didn’t bother me. It was still clothes, music, cameraderie, one-upmanship, being part of.

This isn’t about the madness of the football violence scene, this is the journey of the highs, the laughs, the lows, the sadness and eventually the darkness of drugs!

I’ll let ye know this for a start; I love cocaine. I love drugs. They done things for me I couldn’t for myself. Confidence, ego, swagger, bravery.
Drop an E and I’ll dance without a care in the world. A few lines of Charlie and I’ll fight Goliath, I’ll swagger up to that gorgeous lassie at the bar and hit her with the patter.

It started off as recreational. A Saturday thing, a weekend thing. I was a football casual, I couldn’t become an addict. Anyway, it was cocaine. Ye don’t addicted to that, do you?

How wrong was I. On both counts!

Drugs don’t discriminate. It doesn’t care if ye wear £700 jackets or a jumble sale wooly jumper.

So, from what started as a few years of “dabbling” recreationally. Ye know, a gram or 2 on a Saturday at the football, being sociable, sharing yer gear, having a fuckin great time soon became lonely, dark, sad and tragic.

I always said that if I crossed certain boundaries I’d stop. I crossed every boundary I ever set, I just kept pushing the boundaries back. The truth is, I couldn’t stop. I didnt know how.

I cant quite recall when it happened but I found myself spending little on clothes, if at all, to tryin to get as much money as possible to shove up my beak.

I found myself leaving the pub early to sneak home and sit myself. I eventually found myself not even wanting to go out. Didn’t want to socialise. I just wanted to sit myself and snort Charlie. Tragic but unable to stop.

Powerless to stop.

My life had also become unmanageable. Disastrous life choice after life choice would follow. One wrong relationship after another, another failed attempt to control the addiction. Suicide!

Even after my suicide attempt in 2019 it wasn’t enough for me to stop.

They say ecstasy interrupted the casual scene in the late 80s, early 90s. Cocaine revived it, allowed it to play out a wee bit past its sell by date.

For me, the lad who would peacock about town, now 12 steps in recovery.

If any of this sounds familiar. If ye can identify, then reach out!

Keep on, keepin on!

Friday INs and OUTs in conjunction with David Rosling Bus Tours …

IN:

Sneezing after necking yer ham with full strength mustard sarnie.

Playing yer vinyl.

Back to the footie.

Aff the booze again.

Two little Ducks, 22, quack quack.

People who pilferage food from M&S to give to the homeless.

End of January and blootering the black dog.
Lads in ski-hats at the footie.

Pottering around yer shed and creating a man-cave.

Having a licence to swagger.

Calling the Mrs ‘Duck’

Aquascutum winter range.

The ‘just eat’ app.

Priya Sharma from Emmerdale (mere you)

Johnny Marr being a Tim.

David’s Bus Tours.

Wearing ski-hat in the hoose.

OUT:

Swerving the Dog Toffee in Rosyth whilst out doing the Fitbit.

The Scottish Press believing Barry Ferguson has important things to say.

Donald Trumpet and other fascist Bampots.

Toady from Neighbours.

Tight American football style, Modern day replica footie tops.

Cancer (never in)

Depression/Anxiety(never in)

Spending £100 in Asda on diddly-squat!

Chris Graham – Gin and Bitter Lemon.

The cost of living.

Couples sitting in restaurants on their smart phones.

People bumping into you with their Starbucks whilst on their smart phones.

Freezing weather!

Cold calling bampots ‘the accident you were in’

Leaflets through the door promoting ‘funeral costs’ wtf!

Kinning Park Rowing Club banter.

That’s it for now. Divint take it serious. Cheers Now. Eat yer porridge, eat yer greens. Look for peace and not excitement. Get into a Boxing Club. Block toxic folk.

Mirror, signal, manoeuvre and on ye go. Keep on Keeping on!

Come and visit at Holywell Street and meet the team, bring awe yer mates.

A Working Class Catwalk

First, they hijacked the Skinhead then they came for “terrace dressers”. Two subcultures with origins in mixed-race and the working class. Much like the Mods – working-class lad or lass dresses up. Black and white unity if you like. A subculture, a movement, a trend highjacked by the right-wing.

It’s 1983 and I’m walking through the Barrowlands in Glasgow on the London Road side of the market. Myself and a friend are dressed in post -Two-Tone attire with wedge haircuts and baggy jeans.

I’ve heard it said and I agree, “Where’s the next scene?’ Nobody sees it coming, ah it’s over there.” – (Casuals DVD)

A fellow Celtic supporter walks towards us, “Cannae get moving for Aberdeen casuals lads eh?” We have no idea what he’s talking about. Then I see them – hundreds of young lads walking past us dressed in sportswear and like us, they’re heading towards Celtic Park.

Soccer Casuals

I didn’t know what I thought in regard to how they looked, it seemed almost mystical. It reminded me of rugby attire or perhaps skiing holidaymakers taking the wrong route. Although they looked like boy-next-door, you could see it had an edge which became apparent when they started having verbal’s with Celtic fans. The wedge haircuts were perhaps the give away to something sinister. History tells us the original concept to this look was anti-suss; not intended to be stylish, it was more a disguise, replacing the bovver boy hooligan. This was a welcome change from stiff-arm boneheads. To cut a long story short, within months I was absorbed. Engrossed on the clothes, the confrontation and everything that came with it. We would start to see this new found style at Celtic after a wee while, but it was more an individual look rather than a collective response until the 1984/85 season when Celtic first had its crew of this new counter culture. We wanted to know more about this new phenomenon. With the clothes evolving every few weeks we wanted to be clued-up before being a step ahead.

But where was the music attached to this? We are always looking to London and the rest of England for its origins, initially we’re led to believe it was born in Aberdeen, but how could it be? Aberdeen is remote and hardly trendsetting.

As we touched on above, Casuals (terrace scene) has NO right-wing origins. The new found gammon heads would have you believe it’s mutually inclusive for a modern-day hooligan to be a one dimensional patriotic geezer. The non-creative are loving the poppy porn festival which seems to get bigger every year, and is now continuing beyond the remembrance week. This militaristic fetish seems to celebrate war instead of the sombre tribute that it is supposed to be.

The stiff-arm patriots will jump around to bands like The Specials; sing along to their lyrics as well as The Farm, The Housemartins, The Clash, Paul Weller and The Beautiful South; ignoring or unprepared to check what their message is.

Born out of football terraces with no musicians attached to its origins, you had to look for a tune that fitted.

Paul Heaton

Opposing Fascism

Before Waxy Lemon et al. you had the NF and BNP on a recruitment drive with football firms around the country. So we end up with the obligatory stiff-arm salutes trying to hijack another subculture by the end of the 80s and into the 90s. So where does this start and finish? Fascism is anti-working class; it attempts to control and split it. Fascism is not compatible with original 80s football lads and lassies. We were rebelling against Thatcher’s Britain.

I am a member of Football Lads and Lasses Against Fascism (FLAF) and believe that we as football fans have a duty to reject the hateful message of the ultra-right. They are the tools of the ruling class and always blame the wrong people when the going gets tough. We can all support our own teams and even countries – although I’m not a patriot myself – but we also need to protect our own communities and those less fortunate than ourselves. As The Who said: we won’t get fooled again!”– (P. Thornton; FLAF article – 27 August 2019)

Due to popular belief this counter culture started in the North West, particularly Liverpool, a working-class city going through major hardship at the time. When Liverpool regularly played in Europe during the late 70s and into the 80s, their fans brought back with them these obscure sportswear labels. “A crocodile? What’s this all about?”

With a bit of robbing on the way, it was working-class lads on the take looking for their own one-upmanship.

The trainers the Liverpool lads came across were also obscure and were easy pickings given the fact they were normally on display outside shops. The Scouse lads and their Manchester counterparts then went on their own personal excursions in search of the sportswear such as trainers and tracksuits; not seen in the UK. When the lads kicked this off it started being worn at the football. Was this supposed to be stylish or was it anti-suss?

The London Casual was born out of modern soul boys and dub music spreading to the football terraces. This scene was populated with Afro-Caribbean chaps leading the way. There was a link from mod to skins to soul boys. The first London “casuals” were kids who had been clubbing (Arsenal and Ladbroke grove had battles at the Lyceum and Arsenal and Under-fives down the Hackney Road) The NF never got a foothold at Spurs or Arsenal. Chelsea had a top younger casual lot that were racially mixed and other firms who were right-wing but everyone was “Chelsea first” and many prominent lads were black or mixed-race.

Weird situations looking back but I think for most of the younger kids doing a Nazi salute meant fuck off to the wider public rather than a salute to Adolf – it was a bit like when Punk adopted Nazi symbols as anti-establishment and as a way to shock … all the London clubs had main lads of different races and colours while still having racists in the firms .. you can’t put normal rules of society onto hooligans” – (T. Farley; HWS – 6 Jan 2021) https://holywellst.com/2019/03/02/terry-farley/

Peter Hooton

“By the time London has its own version of this, it’s Arsenal that leads the way, there certainly wasn’t much right-wing within their unit especially with the number of black lads within their ranks and leading them.” – (P. Hooton; TAL Fanzine – 7 Sep 2020)

“Casual style in London grew out of the late seventies soul boy scene this was inherently racially mixed – the idiots who wanted to be racists became boneheads. Our fanzine Boys Own was very left-wing (mainly because of comrade Steve Mayes, who also went to Chelsea with me) and we deliberately set out to stir shit up”. – (T. Farley; Skiddle article – 3 March 2016)

Bev — Aquascutum Girl

Bev Thompson

The Skinheads still wore shirts, drainpipe jeans and Doc Martens – a style stolen from the original Rude Boys in Jamaica. But now their divisive views seemed out-dated. Leicester was the multi-cultural capital of the U.K. Our football firm’s head-boy was a Black Guy – (B. Thompson; HWS 4th Jan 2022) https://holywellst.com/2022/01/05/beverley-thompson-chats-with-holywell-street/

It can be argued that casuals as a concept finished around 1989. The anti-suss part had been sussed and it went mainstream. After that, you had trendy hooligans, although you may ask “what’s the difference?” We are aware of the campaign to reclaim Fred Perry and to rescue it from symbols used by undesirable’s – maybe would should reclaim Lacoste.

For a United Working Class

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Bobby Gillespie – Tenement Kid, Book Review

By Holywell Street, 25th January 2022

At long last, the charismatic Primal Scream founder member and frontman has recorded his memoirs. This book is one we have been eagerly awaiting. Bobby Gillespie has always been outspoken especially on his passions that we mirror here at Hollywell Towers. His devotions revolve around music, style, football (in particular his beloved Celtic Football Club) and left-leaning working-class politics. This autobiography is an education in music and politics, he has an astonishing depth of knowledge in such subjects which is just as much intriguing as is his life story.

From being brought up in Springburn Palermo Street then moving to Mount Florida following what he describes as “slum clearance programme” his playgrounds growing up were abandoned factories, a sprawling graveyard and ghostly streets of evacuated tenements. He describes his working-class political opinion as observing generations in a scrap heap of poverty; the general social landscape being an underfed education system as well as poor housing, bad pay and conditions. However, some critics have questioned his working-class authenticity after choosing a public school upbringing for his kids. One thing is for sure, is that he has stuck with his political opinions to this day.

Like many other Celtic supporters Bobby Gillespie hails from a Socialist upbringing. He even describes his father as a Marxist (he was trade unionist). Along with the radical left-wing literature; pictures in the living room of the family were of the Black Panthers and Che Guevara “Thank fuck” as he says in relief. Both his parents were also very much political and were members of the International Socialists (IS) a platform within the Scottish Socialist Party descended from Scottish Militant Labour.

Music and counter culture are his only way to escape the hardscrabble Glasgow upbringing. Once famously saying, we formed Primal Scream as we “were dreaming our way out of Glasgow”

As well as being politically impeccable, he is one cool chap. The story covers his first-generation punk apprenticeship and his love for elitist rock’n’roll, and then onto acid house. Certain records have had a life changing effect on Bobby Gillespie. You can feel his passion; hear the enthusiasm in his voice. One being Siouxsie and the Banshees – Hong Kong Garden is a record that is a stand-out for the staff here at HWS.

This is also a work of many cool quotes I would shamelessly take for myself, that was another big benefit I observed as I read through the book.

BG and Weatherall

I met Bobby Gillespie once through Andy Weatherall. It was weekender on Hastings pier early ‘90s. I found him to be the cool romantic. As well as doing the Primal Scream gigs, you would also see him on the dance floor lost in the moment at many good club nights.

HWS highly recommend this book. It is a much more interesting read than I was expecting.