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Mod to Suedehead - Page 469

post #7021 of 19331
Quote:
Originally Posted by buttons View Post


Nice pics mate - good to see. Them strides look like POW to me.
I know the boots ye mean - seen a pair before with steel caps and white trim round the top. Got a similar pair mesell but without the steel - quite low on the ankle.
When you say the stitched soled cherry reds - is that still with the white strip or we

no white strip on the cherry reds, you are bang on them dms with that strip were quite low i remember polishing em with ox blood and the only thin that changed color was that strip i seem to remember the guy in that pic with the shades, had a proper pair of cherry reds they at the time looked like they had a much better shape to the toe to me they looked squarer , and he must have polished with black cherry blossom cos they were a red / black color

post #7022 of 19331
Quote:
Originally Posted by Lasttye View Post


When i said Thousands it was a exaggeration + i was pissed,biggrin.gif My mate Alan has a few pics of Clacton but i just cant get hold of em, He's has a PC but has not a clue how to send them, I said i would go over to him and take photos of the photos...fcuking hard work.
I never ever saw anyone get a camera out not even the Girls, It was only when the small pocket Kodak Instamatic came out in the 80s people started to carry them on the odd occasion, thats why their is loads of pics of 80s Skinheads about.
My Birthday is next Sat the 15th April, fcuk that !
Greats pic Circustavern, smile.gif


i used to get me mum to take the shots, a kodak brownie and the films you brought had numbers was it a 127 i found a pic of her with one of me brutus on a proper skin family lol
 

 

post #7023 of 19331

ok gentlemen its nearly bank holiday monday tell me what you was up to 43/44 years ago  and what you was wearing, and your favourite record

post #7024 of 19331

Ed there worth stretching

post #7025 of 19331
Quote:
Originally Posted by circustavern777 View Post

ok gentlemen its nearly bank holiday monday tell me what you was up to 43/44 years ago  and what you was wearing, and your favourite record



This is a good lead to respond to, Circustavern 777, to get the memory working

 

Bank holiday Mondays were only at Easter and August then.  We would meet at the train station for around 9 am to catch the train to Margate.  On arrival we would head to the nearest cafe for full English.  Then it was into the Flag and Whistle pub by Margate Station where we would all meet up from our town.  Our gang total was around 30 to 50 lads plus girls.  Pubs were open from 10.30 am to 2.30pm and from 6pm to 11pm.  After supping around 4 pints in the Flag and Whistle we would then march down to the Galleon Pub.  This was a huge pub just inside the entrance to Dreamland.  The internal decoration and layout resembled an old Spanish Galleon with a bar and tiered seating at one end and dance floor. 

 

Music was mainly reggae and Tamla with bit of chart.  The atmosphere was great with everyone dancing and singing and having a good time.  At closing time at 2.30 pm we would spread out into Dreamland Funfair where the gang fights would kick off in various areas of the fair and police and security dashing to the different locations.  When our gangs started to break up to avoid nickings and overnight stays in Margate cells we would head for the beach ensuring you had a girl on your arm to make out you were not out for any trouble. 

 

Our gang was normally dressed in Levis, boots, braces, Ben Sherman or Fred Perry, Cardigans or Harrington Jacket.  You did not wear suits and shoes due to the fights and nor heavy top coats like sheepskins of Crombies as you needed to be able to move sharpish

 

We all met up again at 6 pm in the Flag and Whistle to talk of the exploits of the day and head count and to speculate of what had happened any missing lads before getting the train home at around 8 pm.  A final drink in the home local to tell anyone who was not there on the day what a terrific time we had had.  At this stage the amount of drink we had consumed during the day had increased to double numbers of pints and shorts together with the size of the rivals we had been brawling with their heights and numbers had increased !!

 

Some of my favourite sounds of the day – Barbwire, John Jones, Leaving Rome, Monkey Man, Montego Bay, Mr Popcorn Pop a Top, Pressure drop, Psychedelic train, Queen of the world, Red Red Wine, Reggae in your Jeggae, Singer man, Squeeze up, Sweet Sensation, The Law part 2 etc etc

 

I can remember the great feel of meeting other skinheads of the time from London and Kent who all had the same interests of what our youth culture was about.  Shame we ended up scraping hours later.  Looking back probably all a macho and turf wars thing and to impress the girls

 

Great times they were.

 

I remember going to Margate for my last Bank Holiday Monday visit around 1973 and I was the only skinhead and felt totally out of place.  I only went there once again in around 2005? when it had become a total dump.  I think Dreamland had even gone by then?

post #7026 of 19331
Quote:
Originally Posted by circustavern777 View Post

Ed there worth stretching
worship.gif

I'll try stuffing them with wet newspaper, I believe that helps do the trick. satisfied.gif
post #7027 of 19331

You can buy decent stretchers on Ebay Ed, should you need them. But to be honest, they cant work miracles.

 

Nice shos by the way. Its unusual to see a heel bar on a modern pair of shoes, and a decent sized welt too.

 

Just out of interest, do we have any idea of numbers for York yet?


Edited by Gramps - 4/7/12 at 12:13pm
post #7028 of 19331
Hi Ed, I've got the same pair, bought them about 4 years ago for round about £80 I think.

Had them resoled twice and quarter tips put on - just about my favourite shoes, very comfortable and well made, still got the box says they are 'Harvard' and Burgundy - I use Ox Blood and they come up a treat. Great fit as well as they did them in half sizes. I'd persevere and get them stretched, I think they're a real quality shoe for the price.

236
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post #7029 of 19331

Has anyone else had problems posting on here today?

 

post #7030 of 19331
Quote:
Originally Posted by circustavern777 View Post

ok gentlemen its nearly bank holiday monday tell me what you was up to 43/44 years ago  and what you was wearing, and your favourite record

OK - the August Bank Holiday of 1971 should be noted as a watershed event - the invasion of seaside towns by an original mass youth cult would never be seen again, even that weekend was a bit of a non event. But the Bank Holiday weekends of 1970 however were a different matter - these are the events of the predominantly Bristolian invasion of Weston-super-Mare of that weekend as recalled in 'Booted and Suited:

– the Bank Holiday weekends of 1970 in particular saw large scale outbreaks of violence, with the Easter weekend signifying the start of the aggro season. After a long dark winter it would be inevitable that the youngsters from the cities would want to stretch their legs, grab some rays and breathe in the sea air – and cause mayhem. The Evening Post reported that an estimated 200 youths were involved in disturbances in Weston over the Easter weekend of 1970 and that nine were arrested and charged ‘after clashes between skinheads and rockers’ broke out on the town’s seafront, at least the Post was beginning to get the hang of the terminology even if they were still confused over what they should call the bikers. ‘Extra police had to be called in when steel-helmeted and crop-headed youths were seen converging in packs on the Promenade. Officers posted near the pier went into action immediately fighting broke out near the pier entrance, a running fight ensued and spread on to the nearby sands – several youths were arrested on the sands and frogmarched across the Promenade before being bundled into police cars.’ Superintendent Gerald Lockyer of the local police believed though that their decision to break up the gangs of youths had in the main been successful: ‘If it had not been for our prompt action I believe a very nasty situation could have developed’.

Not that the bovver was confined to the beleaguered Somerset town, there were outbreaks of violence at many seaside resorts around the country, any beach town with the misfortune to be within a motorcycle or train ride from a large city was likely to be targeted by the greasers or the boot boys. That same Easter weekend also saw trouble in Rhyl, North Wales between a 200 strong gang of bikers and a much smaller gang of only 30 skinheads, this in itself was unusual as in the main the bikers were usually heavily outnumbered, but what made this attack even more bizarre was amongst the standard terror fare of weapons used to inflict damage – wooden posts, metal rods, studded leather belts and motorcycle kick starters – an ‘animal bone of unknown origin’ was also used, six ‘long-haired youths’ subsequently appeared in court where a Nazi steel helmet was confiscated and fines totalling £165 were handed out. The Whitsun Bank holiday in May saw a repeat of the trouble at Weston when up to 500 teenagers caused a ‘frightening scene’ according to the police and in Brighton on the south coast skinheads wrecked the train they had been travelling on from London and knocked over people as they strolled along the Promenade.

By the time the Bank Holiday season drew to an end the boot boys were in the mood for a last huge hurrah. The police estimated at the time that around 2,000 skinheads from Bristol invaded Weston on the August Bank Holiday Monday of 1970 and around 200 were involved in an afternoon of running battles, assaults and general mayhem, under the headline ‘Skinhead battle – town counts cost’ the Post went on to report that: ‘at one stage a bunch of bovver boys and girls, complete with reinforced bovver boots, were parading down the seafront clapping and chanting "We are from Bristol". The police were less than impressed, nevertheless vicious fights still broke out all over town but those tended to be between various gang members. More frightening were mass charges by packs of howling teenagers which bowled over any unfortunates who happened to get in the way.’ The Evening Post continued: ‘Skinheads hurled bottles, stones, dustbin lids and clods of earth at the police who were trying to confine the gangs on the beach. One policeman was cut on the face and others badly bruised by the missiles as the battles moved into Oxford Street and the roads leading from the seafront. A gang of 50 rampaged through an outfitters in the High Street grabbing anything they could before police arrived’. Another incident occurred in the famous Forte ice-cream parlour on the seafront where one youth went into the toilet and stole the pipework, presumably to use as a weapon, Miss Olga Forte, owner of the parlour told the Post: ‘This youth came out of the toilet. He didn’t buy anything. He just said “thank you” and left, five minutes later we had a flooded toilet and we have to get new pipes fitted.’ Well at least he had the manners to say ‘thanks’. More disturbing was the group who ‘enjoyed frightening the ponies and donkeys on the sands’ – I mean, you wouldn’t want ‘animal worrying’ on your police record would you? People might think you were Welsh.

The Evening Post went on: ‘Twenty youths were arrested and 12 detained. At a special court the following day, one was sent to a detention centre for assaulting a policeman and seven were fined for obstructing police, blocking the highway and threatening behaviour.’
post #7031 of 19331
But this is what I was up to 41 years ago, Easter Saturday 1971....

I’ll state the bleeding obvious, South Wales is one tough place. Decades of sweating, toiling and breaking your back in steel mills, coal mines and docks had produced a belligerent and pugnacious population, if there is one thing the lads from the valleys enjoy more than fighting with each other then it is fighting with the English . . .
We arrived in Swansea, cocksure and itching for a fight, the Tote End however got there in dribs and drabs, not en masse like at Torquay, this was the trouble with coaches, especially Supporters Club’s ones, with no organisation and no leaders we were feeling apprehensive.
Swansea was far removed from cosy Torquay, rows of red brick terraced houses, steel works, docks, a perfect breeding ground for rough, tough aggro merchants, we weren’t to be disappointed. Wardy took the lead as usual.
‘Let’s find a pub and lay low for a bit, see what turns up.’
None of us were in the mood to go looking for trouble, not yet. This was the first time we had felt vulnerable, on our own turf Eastville, we were a match for anybody, knowing their was a mob behind us, here we were isolated, we stuck out like a bulldog’s bollocks, I nervously fingered the lock knife I had tucked away in the silk lining of my suede bomber jacket. If I had to, really had to I would use it today, my hands shook and my balls shrivelled up to the size of frozen peas. Andy where are you?
After several, ‘Sorry lads, you’re too young.’ We managed to find a pub not too far from Swansea’s ground. Wardy went in first, he always did, he looked the oldest. We followed him, as casually as you could with your balls tucked neatly up in your stomach.
‘Light split.’ said Denny, an octave lower than his normal speaking voice.
‘Are you boys, old enough?’ asked the sheep shagger of a landlord.
‘Yeah, we’re all eighteen.’ replied Wardy. This was a joke and the landlord knew it, at a push I could pass for seventeen, but Lil didn’t even look fifteen, twelve more like it.
‘All right, but sit over in the corner, an’ no trouble.’
We all trooped over to one corner, our eyes fixed on our pints, not daring to look around.
‘It’ll be all right,’ I piped up, ‘the rest will get here soon, and we’ll sort this place out.’
Everybody nodded their agreement, somehow not believing me.
The pub was virtually empty, a few pensioners smoking roll-ups and reading their papers, whilst over by the fruit machine a couple of local lads, dressed in regulation football gear of Levis, boots and identical Harringtons, and each sporting neat, close-cropped hair warily eyed us up. They had clocked us straight away, we sized each other up. There was six of us, Henbury’s finest four plus a couple of lads from Horfield who we had met the previous week during the scrap with Preston and who had tagged along for the crack. The Taffies whispered something to each other and made a quick exit. Something was brewing.
‘Let’s go after the bastards,’ said Benny, ever mouthy, ever stupid.
‘No, leave it,’ said Wardy, ‘we only just got here, it’ll be all right.’ Ten minutes passed, every time the door opened we braced ourselves and let out a small sigh of relief when another pensioner came in with his dog. Finally the door opened with a bit more effort, a dozen of them filed in silently. We made eye contact, we knew most Rovers kids and these didn’t fit the bill.
‘My mate got a hiding in Bristol at Christmas,’ mouthed Sheep Shagger No. 1, easy eighteen years old and twice the size of all of us put together.
‘So fucking what?’ I answered, I couldn’t believe I said it, I regretted it straight away.
I was still sat down, easy pickings. He jabbed his fingers straight into my eyes, the pain was unbelievable, I screamed in agony and put my hands over my eyes, then I felt a whack across the side of my head, the punches fired in thick and fast, the others copped it as well, we didn’t even put up a fight, it was a poor show. It was over in a split second, it could have been a lot worse, they realised we were only kids, and they thought a slapping was good enough. We thought they would leg it, but they stayed, ordering pints and glowering it us, chucking beer mats every now and then, daring us to make a move for the door. The landlord didn’t give a fuck, he’d obviously seen it all before. They were soon to regret not making a move.
Kevin Herd appeared at the door, quiet unassuming, bespectacled Kevin Herd, one of the meanest bastards north of the river, behind him a never ending stream of Tote Enders entered the smokey pub, the cavalry had arrived!
‘Who did that nipper?’ asked Kevin, showing genuine concern, my eyes were now blooded and streaming.
‘That fucker over there.’ I fingered Sheep Shagger No. 1, who was by now cacking his pants. Kevin always believed in action speaking louder than words.
‘Like beating up little kids do you, cunt.’ I felt offended at being called a little kid, ‘nipper’ I could handle but ‘little kid’ made me squirm. Still this was well worth it. Kevin didn’t fit the bill of your average football hooligan, Buddy Holly style glasses, pink sweater and beige cords, highly polished Doc Marten shoes being his only concession. He grabbed No. 1 by the throat, kneed him in the bollocks and twatted him on the way down. Most of the Tote was still at the bar, getting their first drinks in, but as soon as they realised aggro was about they fired in – lesson number one, get the fuckers on the floor, lesson number two put the boot in. You couldn’t keep us off, I was up for revenge, I dived through the melee and stamped on No. 1’s head, who was by now crying like a baby, I fingered my knife again, no I didn’t have the bottle, just give the fucker a kicking, we were all there now, Benny and Lil going for some of the smaller ones, Lil at last blooding his virgin boots, he was grinning from ear to ear. Wardy smacking a glass over one of them who was fighting just to get out of the door. Somehow the Taffies managed to scramble out of the pub, beaten and bloody, they had been giving a good larruping. ‘COME AND HAVE A GO AT THE TOTE END AG-GERO!’ range in their ears. Revenge was sweet.
It wasn’t to last. We were still a bit wary, on the way to the ground, there had been several scraps, all quickly broken up by the law, nothing too serious, at the ground there was total confusion. We were trying to find their End, we always went on the opposing fans’ End, this was the only way to establish our reputation, but unlike most grounds, Swansea’s mob was based on the large enclosure on the side of the ground. We ended up on the open terrace with Swansea prison right behind us, about 200 of us here, but our main mob was at the other covered end facing us.
‘Come and join us, come and join us, come and join us over ‘ere!’ bellowed our comrades directly opposite. We didn’t really need the invitation, we were off onto the pitch like a shot. The rest followed, the Sheep Shaggers thinking we were coming after them raced onto the pitch, we met on the centre circle, the Tote poured on from the opposite end, it was chaos. All swift stuff, punches, kicks, jump in with a high kick first, aim for the stomach or the bollocks, do some damage then leg it. The law joined in, dogs, horses, and a few hundred yobs all trying to kick lumps out of each other, wonderful stuff!
Calm was restored in time for the kick off, I was slung out of the ground by the law, along with a few dozen others. Bollocks I thought, I haven’t come all this way to spend a Saturday afternoon wandering round this dump. I spotted a St John’s Ambulance divvy.
‘Where’s the First Aid Post to, mate?’ I asked, pointing at my eyes, they were still streaming and giving me a lot of grief.
‘Not out yure, boy,’ he said, ‘it’s back in the ground.’
‘Whaat, the copper told me to come out ‘ere.’ I protested.
‘I’ll take you in,’ he said, holding my arm like I was some sort of wounded soldier.
Perfect result, back in the ground, no worries, even had a bit of Germoline rubbed around my eyelids by some young Welsh tart who felt ever so sorry for me. I quickly rejoined the thronging mass on the terraces. Rovers got off to a flying start, we were 2-0 up by half time and the two sets of fans kept up a never ending tirade of abuse at each other, separated by a long line of coppers and their mean-looking Alsatians. The chants got more and more abusive, there was always one chant guaranteed to get all Taffies absolutely raving, including the coppers, and as soon as we started singing it, we regretted it . . . ‘ABERFAN, ABERFAN, ABERFAN . . .’, it was bang on half time, always a edgy period and this was like a red rag to a bull, they came pouring up the steps behind us, brushing past the ineffectual coppers, who I’m sure actively encouraged them.
They were armed with bricks, bottles and metal bolts, we dropped like flies. Angus, a thick set older geezer from Lockleaze had been standing next to me, he slumped to the terrace, a pair of scissors poking out of his shoulder blades, blood oozing through his Fred Perry. The Tote fought back, but they were now coming down the terraces at us, always an advantage, the law finally decided to step in, dogs and truncheons quickly restored order, but not before the Celtic warriors had inflicted severe damage on the English invaders.
On the pitch Rovers won 3-1, off it a bloody score draw. It was now going into extra time. It went off again, furious hand-to-hand combat in the back streets around the ground, three-way fighting, the Tote, the Taffies and the coppers, I even managed to grab a black and white Swansea scarf in the melee, a prized battle colour to be added to my growing collection, the air was full of sirens, barking dogs and that roar, building up to a crescendo, ‘Come on then!’ the old favourite, ‘ave the bastards!’, total chaos and total violence.
We had a problem, a big problem, we had to get back to the coaches and no one remembered where they were parked. I tied my newly acquired souvenir around my waist, under my jacket, we found a small knot of Rovers fans waiting on a corner, they all looked anxious.
‘You waiting for the coaches?’ We didn’t really need to ask. We recognised them from the journey earlier.
‘Yeah, they should be along in a min . . .’
‘Fucking hell, look at this lot . . . leg it!!’
As soon as they spotted us they roared, that guttural roar, it reminded me of Zulu.
We scattered in all directions, we were way outnumbered. Me, Wardy and Benny legged it through some large iron gates, round a corner, desperately looking for somewhere to hide, it was an industrial estate, a gasworks, I was shitting it, my heart was thumping and my legs turned to jelly, my balls returned to the frozen peas mode. I prayed to God that the Sheep Shaggers had carried on down the main road, no such fucking luck, they must have known we were running into a dead end. There were buildings, offices around us, Benny and I pushed open a door, a security guard sat there with his feet up, reading a paper.
‘Help us mate, they’re after us!’ I screamed.
‘Fuck off English twats,’ was his sympathetic reply, I got the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to come to our assistance.
I slammed the door behind us, outside I could hear the sounds of violence, someone was getting a right hiding, Wardy! he was still out there, fuck it we had to help him.
I opened the door again, and ran out, ready for it, I must have been mad, Benny was right behind me, these were evil bastards and armed to the teeth, I kicked out at one, but it was a waste of time, say your prayers Browner, I said to myself. Wardy was on the floor, foetal position, trying to protect his head, getting a kicking. They then turned on me, an iron bar smashed against my skull, I went down like a sack of shit, then the boots came in, one caught me right in the face, that warm, sweet taste filled my mouth, I started blubbering, snot, tears, blood . . .
‘Leave it, leave it please, please,’ I snivelled, ‘I’ve had enough . . .’
‘No you fuckin’ ain’t, you English cunt!’
I could hear their grunts, every time they kicked, like a boxer expelling air at every punch, they really meant it. I could smell them, smell the polish from their boots, even taste it.
Their job done they made a hasty exit, no doubt off to find further prey. A stillness and silence came over me, the only sound was my own pathetic snivelling and the bubbling of blood from my battered nose and mouth. I barely knew what was happening, where I was, what I was doing, then the realisation of events came to me, I was in the back of an ambulance heading for Singleton Hospital.
The waiting room was like a battle zone, there were beaten and bloodied kids everywhere, stab wounds, split heads, bodies pummelled with bricks, bottles, the lot. Fairly even numbers too, at least we had given as good as we got. Wardy was there, grinning, hardly a mark on him, nice little stab wound on his side, blood staining his best Ben Sherman.
My head was stitched up and bandaged, my body was aching like fuck and my lip felt as if it had grown to the size of a rugby ball, I’d been given a right kicking, my skull had been fractured, something really to boast about, and my face looked a right mess . . . look on the bright side Browner, you’re going to have a tidy scar at least, something to show off at school at any rate.
There was a couple of Tote Enders I knew, we even started laughing and joking with the Swansea kids who were in there, nice lads really, just like us, took one kid’s phone number, promised I’d keep in touch, never did, he had been slashed across the face with a knife, he was going to have a lovely scar, I was jealous.
We all started singing the bow-legged chicken song, the standard football hooligan anthem. Welsh and English skinheads united, having a crack together . . . the hospital staff were bemused and bewildered, they didn’t understand, books would be written by experts, psychologists would try and analyse us, World in Action and Panorama would make documentaries about us and questions would be raised in Parliament, we would be studied and various theories would be put forward by the great thinkers of the nation as to why young men caused trouble at football matches, I could have saved them all a lot of time and effort, it was quite simple . . . we enjoyed it.
post #7032 of 19331
Iam at a skinhead doo in southend, just in the hotel getting ready to go out.
What great stories lads, brought back so many great memories.
Put me in such a great mood for tonight.
Cheers.
post #7033 of 19331

we defo left the mods standing, thats a great story pressure drop

post #7034 of 19331

remember walking into the youth clubs off your own manor, trying to nick the other skins birds  as you filed in may b 10 handed the old reggae that was playing either went down or off i can hear that old sound of the needle scratching the disc,  then there would be the  who ya screwing stares at each other then if you didnt hit it of  it all went of .I remember sitting on my scooter around dec 1971, there was 4 of us around midnight all the pubs had well turned out i was 16  walking up the road came 3 guys and a couple of birds , they were about 25 may b older  i must have been looking over when one of them asked if i wanted an fffffffffing photograph i must have said yes cos he nutted me full power in my nose, he was a jock i will always remember that, i kicked that old vespa into life and learnt a big lesson that night. as i roared of into the sunset funny the things you remember

post #7035 of 19331
Quote:
Originally Posted by Lasttye View Post

Iam at a skinhead doo in southend, just in the hotel getting ready to go out.
What great stories lads, brought back so many great memories.
Put me in such a great mood for tonight.
Cheers.

And d'you know what... it's the sort of tales, incidents and events, that the lads here share, makes it all so real to us, who did similar things at that time in our lives

None of us really had two days ever the same. We wore different - but similar - clothes and footwear, went to a diverse variety of pubs, clubs and, in my case, even the local park(!!!), but we share (almost) a joint memory and heritage.

It's not the bonds of the military - how could it be, when folk were really in fear for their lives? - but it's a cameraderie of youth. And for this, I'm grateful. (It doesn't exist any more. As the father of a 14-year-old, I know this.)

I'd even lay odds - were I a betting man - some of us may even have 'crossed swords' satisfied.gif at football matches, too... happy, bleedin' days.

Great memories, fellas, keep 'em coming, please. happy.gif
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