Millwall away 1988 – How it was when it was as a Newcastle United fan back in the day | OneFootball

One of our regular contributors on The Mag recently wrote a very entertaining article about Millwall away back in 1978 and wondered if anyone was going to do an article about Millwall away in November 1988.

Was I there…? Hell yes.

So here’s what happened to me on one particular day following Newcastle United.

At the time, Millwall had just been promoted to the old first division and our visit had been penciled in for December 9th.

Willie McFaul was manager at the start of that season and after a dreadful start (exception being a 2-1 win away at luckypool), he was sacked and replaced by caretaker boss Colin Suggett in the October, before Jim Smith eventually took over in December 1988 as a permanent replacement. Relegation looking odds-on, even with the signing of a certain Mr Liam O’Brien.

It was generally agreed to meet in the Elephant and Castle at 12pm.

So for some reason we drove down – myself, brain dead Brian, crazy Colin (the name will become self-apparent later on) and a young un who we took with us to drive on the way back. We parked up at Finchley upon arrival.

Bought return tube tickets and a while later were sipping woodpecker cider inside the Elephant and Castle pub, which at about 12.30pm I estimated at least 500 lads in or around the boozer, with what seemed like every heed the ball who had ever watched us in attendance.

I quickly found Monty and he informed me two of our lot had been nicked at a car park in King’s Cross with more tools in their motor than your average B and Q store…

Come 2pm and the mob was just too massive to go unnoticed.

That’s when about 90 of us, led by two black lads ( I will not name them but they were two of the gamest lads in Newcastle’s hooligan history, along with their third white brother, if you know you know).

So we head off down the Old Kent road and I think the rest of the mob went to get the tube to Millwall from London Bridge.

Right, we’re off and head straight into the Thomas A Becket pub for a pint as no Millwall spotted. Next boozer up and it is packed with Millwall, our two main men lead the charge. Millwall come running out, this this is where it got a bit surreal for me. Colin produces a half bottle of vodka, me ” Colin what you doing, it’s no time to a drink man.” As Colin launches the bottle, it sparko’s the first kid out the bar. Ricochets off the kid’s head and puts the plate glass bar window through (hence the nickname “Crazy Colin”…)

Ours two lads at the front are bang in and it’s going off big time, only for it to stop as quickly as it had started. As what appears to be half the metropolitan police force turn up, putting the 90 of us against a load of advertising hoarding, searching every one of us. Fun over ( or so we thought).

It’s an escort to the ground to watch us get humped 4-0 with a certain Tony Cascarino scoring for Millwall.

After the game the bizzies were keeping us in ages after the match, which was quite common then, but not this long. Eventually a bizzie tells us that for our own safety, we would be taken around the main stand, then onto the tube. Upon hearing this, some of the serious nutters realised it was game over for post-match shenanigans, so promptly begun smashing up the main stand. Which wasn’t going to do us any favours, because the then sports minister Colin Moynihan was in attendance to report back to the PM about violence at football. Whoops!

Getting back on the tube to King’s Cross, it dawned on me that Boro were also in London that day, so the post-match entertainment might not be off.

Arriving at King’s Cross it was the first time I’d seen a civil society flip so quickly into a lawless one when the carriage doors opened.

Hundreds of lads on the escalators, jumping the barriers as they went, well, except me, as I fed my return tube ticket through the barrier (you can take a lad out of Low Fell and all that…).

As I was doing this I heard a copper yelling on his walkie-talkie “Newcastle’s here and they are animals” as hundreds of us rush up the stairs and onto the platform, only to be met by a line of old bill smiling, with one of them pointing at a departing train and saying “Ahh what a shame lads, Boro just gone on the 6pm.”

Oh well, never mind, back to Finchley for the drive home, only for us to stop in Yorkshire where our young driver informed us he’d never driven in snow before.

So muggins here, along with brain dead Brian, spent the next three hours getting us back hyem.

Drained and knackered but couldn’t wait to do it all again the following Saturday.