Cass Page #4

The football casual

had taken over the terraces,

so it was designer clothes

and designer violence.

We now called ourselves

the Inter City Firm,

the ICF.

The papers called us "les thugs nouveaux",

and West Ham's Inter City Firm, being

full of lads from East London and Essex,

were more nouveaux than anyone.

It wasn't only us Cockneys, either.

Aberdeen's Soccer Casuals,

Middlesbrough's Frontline,

Cardiff's Soul Crew

and the Portsmouth 6.67,

from the far north to the deep south,

armies of young men were battling on

the streets, in the pubs and on the terraces,

all in the name of their religion,

their football clubs.

There was always a bigger turnout when

you went up against one of your main rivals,

and they didn't come much bigger

than the Leeds Service Crew.

Come on. This is it!

The ICF were after their crown, and it was

going to take something special to get it.

F***ing kill 'em!

ICF, ICF, ICF.

Come on then, you c*nt.

When half of our mob were

drawing them out into their own back yard,

the other half were taking liberties

redecorating their boozer.

We were the famous ICF,

and humiliation

was the business we specialised in.

Oi! Wake up, you lazy c*nts.

Oi, come on, you pair of slags.

Get her!

All right, f***'s sake!

- All right?

- Morning. You cold?

No, I ain't, paperboy.

Oh, hello.

All right, you've had an eyeful.

What's all the f***ing fuss for?

- Two page twos and a page four.

- Who f***ing gave us a page four?

- Who'd you think?

- Typical. Posh c*nts!

Chelsea got front pages again.

F***ing Chelsea!

"Notorious Chelsea hooligans. "

- What a load of f***ing bollocks!

- Here, listen to this.

"Mindless thuggery

as West Ham mob attack Leeds pub. "

Mindless?

We f***ing planned that for weeks.

Where's my f***ing top, Freeman?

Renee! Renee!

My name ain't Renee. It's Tracey.

- Where is it, then?

- There you are. Oops!

- Oh, turn it in.

- Here you are, doll. Whoo!

Stop f***ing about.

Get your filthy hands off it.

- Why, you horrible little slag!

- His f***in' boyfriend, are you?

Look, this is all my fault.

Here you are. Come on, darling.

Here, bye-bye.

Don't forget to put your lead on.

- You all right, mate?

- Yeah, I'm all right.

"Chelsea tops thugs league. "

What the f***'s that about?

It's a f***ing joke.

What are you...? Look here.

Open the door, you prick.

Open the door.

Come on, you wanker.

I'm sorry. All right?

Me, too.

Now f*** off and tell that pikey c*nt

of a Millwall boyfriend of yours

that the ICF's just done his little Renee

up the 'arris again.

Ta-da.

Small cock, anyway.

- Don't worry about that slut, mate.

- I don't give a sh*t about her.

I'm pissed off with these f***ing kiddie firms

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