70sCR
Well-known member
This is my mate MM's version of a tale told by another wall mate of mine, Cali Lion. Both gave me permission to stick it up here. It's taken from MM's blog https://thewonderofme.substack.com/?r=3modf3&utm_campaign=pub-share-checklist which is full of lovely stuff about growing up in 70s London, Millwall, clothes, Arsenal (where M started.) Think quite a few on here will enjoy it:
I’ve thought long and hard about this as Ginger Bixton will – please God- forever remain part of Millwall’s folklore. Thus, one has to be careful, not about being critical, given my feelings there’s no chance of that. The concern is in being too sycophantic, overly gushing, or maudlin.
OK, in the spirit of Mills Lane ‘Let’s get it on!’ For some reason, Ginger took a shine to me and his friendship changed my life. Mine didn’t change his- in the least. I was one of many tiny planets orbiting him. Ginger was like the Pied Piper. He didn’t need no stinking flute, he just made everything the most fun you’d ever had… He was bright, bright enough, to win a scholarship to Dulwich College. Which, at that time, was an extremely prestigious institution. Alas, he got himself kicked out but in terms of waste, a first-rate education was the least of it as I’m hard-pressed to summon a greater waste of life than Ginger’s. Stabbed to death over bullshit. Regrettably, this is the path for many a spirited young man. Rest in Peace, Kevin.
Before we continue, the reader must not confuse Ginger Brixton with Ginger Bob. There’s nothing wrong with the latter, it’s just that this isn’t about Bob, it’s about Ginger… The following was related to me by Cali a Millwall fan, now living in Los Angeles. I thank him and hope I’ve done his tale justice.
To understand “the fear” you needed to have attended an away game in the English Football League between the late-’60s and late-’80s. It’s a fucker because that fear hits like lightning- and worsens, by the second. Cali, a thirteen-year-old Millwall fan from the East End, was introduced to it on the eighth of April, in 1972, at St Andrews. “Brum” is a rough old place at the best of times but coming out of the ground on that occasion, it was particularly so. Birmingham and Millwall were vying for a second promotion spot, this had ensured a big attendance. One of around 50,000, maybe three thousand of whom, were Millwall. This was long before the police had gotten a handle on football violence, so Millwall’s disbursement on exiting the ground, was purely down to the size of the crowd. The fact that they’d lost didn’t help. There was no celebratory singing, they walked out in silence and, more pertinently, in semi-isolation. Outside, it became apparent that it was “on them”. Mobs of Brum skins were picking off straight-goers. This wasn’t unusual then as the rules of engagement were yet to be established. At least they weren’t stabbing those straightgoers, as Everton would, a year later. Cali’s fear caused him to grip the (blunt) marking knife he’d nicked from Woodwork the day before. As the street was crowded and Cali small, he couldn’t see much of what was going on but periodically, he’d hear it. If you have any sort of imagination you’ll understand, that can make matters far- far worse…
Cali then caught a glimpse of a skinny kid he’d seen before. There was something different about him today though, he was worried. Cali began making his way towards the kid. That way, at least there’d be two of them. The boy though, was lost in the crowd. Cali’s heart sank as he prepared himself for the long walk back to New Street, alone. As he pondered how far he’d get before being picked off, that kid reappeared. This time though, having climbed onto a lamppost, he was head and shoulders above the crowd. With his spare hand, he unfurled a flag from inside his denim jacket and, as he began waving it, he called out “Mill-” From thirty yards away, Cali instinctively screamed “Wall!” He was not the sole responder. The kid calls again “Mill” and to Cali’s delight, from seemingly everywhere, the response was defiant “Wall!” Knowing it was going to be OK, Cali rushed to the lamppost. They may get done but if they did, they’d go down fighting. By the time he reached that post, they were fifty-strong. “Mill-wall!” Within seconds they’re up to a hundred and that, the kid deemed, was enough. Jumping down, he marched them to New Street, without a backward step taken. That kid, of course, was Ginger Brixton.
The glaringly obvious aspect of all this is Ginger’s bravery but what struck me, was his faith. Had Millwall not responded– instantly. He’d have been pulled from that lamppost and severely battered… I’m not sure that I’ve ever had that much faith in anyone or anything, in my entire life. At some point, Millwall became a parody of itself but for many years, it was as real as fuck. I witnessed the dying embers and, for a while there, became obsessed with it.
I’ve thought long and hard about this as Ginger Bixton will – please God- forever remain part of Millwall’s folklore. Thus, one has to be careful, not about being critical, given my feelings there’s no chance of that. The concern is in being too sycophantic, overly gushing, or maudlin.
OK, in the spirit of Mills Lane ‘Let’s get it on!’ For some reason, Ginger took a shine to me and his friendship changed my life. Mine didn’t change his- in the least. I was one of many tiny planets orbiting him. Ginger was like the Pied Piper. He didn’t need no stinking flute, he just made everything the most fun you’d ever had… He was bright, bright enough, to win a scholarship to Dulwich College. Which, at that time, was an extremely prestigious institution. Alas, he got himself kicked out but in terms of waste, a first-rate education was the least of it as I’m hard-pressed to summon a greater waste of life than Ginger’s. Stabbed to death over bullshit. Regrettably, this is the path for many a spirited young man. Rest in Peace, Kevin.
Before we continue, the reader must not confuse Ginger Brixton with Ginger Bob. There’s nothing wrong with the latter, it’s just that this isn’t about Bob, it’s about Ginger… The following was related to me by Cali a Millwall fan, now living in Los Angeles. I thank him and hope I’ve done his tale justice.
To understand “the fear” you needed to have attended an away game in the English Football League between the late-’60s and late-’80s. It’s a fucker because that fear hits like lightning- and worsens, by the second. Cali, a thirteen-year-old Millwall fan from the East End, was introduced to it on the eighth of April, in 1972, at St Andrews. “Brum” is a rough old place at the best of times but coming out of the ground on that occasion, it was particularly so. Birmingham and Millwall were vying for a second promotion spot, this had ensured a big attendance. One of around 50,000, maybe three thousand of whom, were Millwall. This was long before the police had gotten a handle on football violence, so Millwall’s disbursement on exiting the ground, was purely down to the size of the crowd. The fact that they’d lost didn’t help. There was no celebratory singing, they walked out in silence and, more pertinently, in semi-isolation. Outside, it became apparent that it was “on them”. Mobs of Brum skins were picking off straight-goers. This wasn’t unusual then as the rules of engagement were yet to be established. At least they weren’t stabbing those straightgoers, as Everton would, a year later. Cali’s fear caused him to grip the (blunt) marking knife he’d nicked from Woodwork the day before. As the street was crowded and Cali small, he couldn’t see much of what was going on but periodically, he’d hear it. If you have any sort of imagination you’ll understand, that can make matters far- far worse…
Cali then caught a glimpse of a skinny kid he’d seen before. There was something different about him today though, he was worried. Cali began making his way towards the kid. That way, at least there’d be two of them. The boy though, was lost in the crowd. Cali’s heart sank as he prepared himself for the long walk back to New Street, alone. As he pondered how far he’d get before being picked off, that kid reappeared. This time though, having climbed onto a lamppost, he was head and shoulders above the crowd. With his spare hand, he unfurled a flag from inside his denim jacket and, as he began waving it, he called out “Mill-” From thirty yards away, Cali instinctively screamed “Wall!” He was not the sole responder. The kid calls again “Mill” and to Cali’s delight, from seemingly everywhere, the response was defiant “Wall!” Knowing it was going to be OK, Cali rushed to the lamppost. They may get done but if they did, they’d go down fighting. By the time he reached that post, they were fifty-strong. “Mill-wall!” Within seconds they’re up to a hundred and that, the kid deemed, was enough. Jumping down, he marched them to New Street, without a backward step taken. That kid, of course, was Ginger Brixton.
The glaringly obvious aspect of all this is Ginger’s bravery but what struck me, was his faith. Had Millwall not responded– instantly. He’d have been pulled from that lamppost and severely battered… I’m not sure that I’ve ever had that much faith in anyone or anything, in my entire life. At some point, Millwall became a parody of itself but for many years, it was as real as fuck. I witnessed the dying embers and, for a while there, became obsessed with it.
where was cockneys, I’m baffled