July 10, 2008
People love to prove how much of a proper United fan they are these days. It’s fucking pathetic. Proclamations to total strangers don’t convince anyone. Only mates who’ve known you as a red from early childhood can vouch, unless you’re a member of some kind of gang. Some of the more memorable battles aren’t even about United though. One in particular springs to mind. It was a typical Saturday afternoon on Prestwich Village in 1982; the usual assortment of hardcases, slimeballs, dervishes and drug dealers drawn to the various pubs like debris to a plughole. The Wilton was always the place to be. The place had a vault and a lounge. The lounge was a split-level affair; the bar was off to the left back then, running perpendicular to Bury New Road. To the right, down a short flight of steps was an area known as the Pit. You walked in the Wilton expecting to receive a flying bottle to the bridge of the nose on a Tuesday afternoon, so imagine what it was like at the weekend. Most of us practically lived there. On this occasion it held a considerable quantity of local iniquity, particularly the Pit. Approximately ten past twelve and it was fucking rocking. That was when a coachload of Southport fans arrived. The Southport lads made 2 huge mistakes; one, they were Scousers. And two, they waltzed into the Wilton gabbing loudly, casting that confident glow a team that feels relatively unshiftable has about it. The atmosphere in the Pit suddenly altered, then altered again; from languid, hungover Daily Mirrorville to bristling let’s-ave-itville to gleeful beams of anticipation, especially when it dawned who they were and why they were in town: Prestwich Heys had drawn Southport in the FA Cup. The best part was, the Scousers seemed up for it, and within two minutes there had been several aggressive exchanges. Kezz immediately took charge of the situation by launching several bottles in rapid succession at their collective heads, a move that was instantly aped by fifteen or so others. The Mickeys couldn’t get back out through the door fast enough and were pelted, punched, kicked and head-butted all the way down a side-street across Bury New Road. Unfortunately the street led nowhere and their mob was rapidly ground down to ones and twos, flailing about the village with wide eyes and shat pants. Much later, at about nine in the evening, two scouts reported some Scouse stragglers. Three of us legged them through the deserted, silent precinct and across the car-park. One went into Prestwich train station, up onto the platform. I followed him onto a waiting train. He was completely shitting himself as I approached him. Then I realised the train was about to move; I’d have to go to Heaton Park and catch another train back. He was lucky.
