Highlight of 2012 was undoubtedly West Ham beating
A brilliant day got off to a bad start. I slept in. The meet was
‘Fuck me, it’s Stinky Turner.’
I said that because it was him. The front-man of the Cockney Rejects. Stinky Turner aka Jeff Turner aka Jeff Geggus. From then on we had a manic love-in of all things West Ham and his band and then me taking over a bit. His son looked bored throughout but that was okay. I felt bad about having to get off at
Fast forward. I meet his brother at half time.
‘Alright Micky, I just ran into Jeff and his boy on the way up here.’
Once again the conversation was like one between old school mates. But I did have some history with Micky. The night he saved me and my small band of mates from getting buried round the back of the Bridge House in
Those were seriously violent days back then. At gigs and at football. On Saturday West Ham had beaten
‘Don’t wear that fucking scarf.’
I didn’t bother to labour the point that
We eventually left after the gig, almost unable to walk what with our bladders holding so much lager and then our small and desperate collective got ambushed mid-piss; words directed clearly indicated that they thought we were Chelsea taking liberties on their manor. It was messy on all levels. With more than the odd boot in the face. Lying on the floor cut and bloody and wearing piss drenched jeans, it was all quite depressing. More than that, it looked like we were not going to make it home. In such moments you don’t get overwhelmed in fear because quite simply, there isn’t the time. The only thing I remember thinking was in how I wished I had my fucking West Ham scarf on.
And then when all looked beyond help a young Micky Geggus – the only other non skinhead and a face we hadn’t seen all night – appeared wearing a green flight jacket with sown on Motorhead patch. He parted the waves, an Oi Moses, stopped the fighting, calmed the masses, got us in the van, climbed in the back with us as they were going to brick the van once we got to the front of the pub, and then ensured we were safely on the A13, homeward bound safe and sound.
‘I normally have a good memory but don’t recall that night,’ Micky had said to me during half time at Wembley.
Not sure if he was just being modest, but that was a night I wasn’t ever going to forget in a hurry and the story was still surging through my head when I went to take up my seat just after half time. When I got there I was asked what I was smiling about. Surviving that night, I thought. But Tom Ince had scored for