Saturday 23rd November 2002

Aston Villa vs. West Ham United
Villa Park, Birmingham
Attendance: 33,279
First Half

“FUCKING CUNTS!!!” yelled Darren Wilkins, the self-proclaimed leader or “Top Boy” of the K2 Crew, a youth firm all made up of lads aged between 15-20, most of them having grown up together on the same council estate in Northfield.

The Holte End roared then cheered as West Ham’s controversial Italian striker Paolo di Canio was awarded a yellow card for his reckless tackle on Aston Villa’s Norwegian midfielder Oyvind Leonhardsen.

“FUCKING COCKNEY SCUM!!!” bellowed Darren so loud it almost caused him to break his voice.

“SCUM CUNTS!!!” His young followers, surrounding him in the back row of seats of the Holte End’s K2 section, all screamed in agreement.

At the opposite end of the stadium in the lower north stand, the travelling faithful of what remained of London’s white working class East End cheered and chanted “PAOLO D—CAN—E—OOO, PAOLO D—CAN—E—OOO” to the tune of Giuseppe Verdi’s “La donna è mobile.” Not that a single one of them knew where the tune originated from.

“FUCKING CUNTS!!!.” seethed young Darren once again, who stood tall at six feet one inch, dressed head to toe in Fred Perry and Henri Lloyd and dripping with arrogance and aggression.

“We gonna cut these cockney bastards off at Witton Lane at full time Dazza?” asked his 2IC Little Harry.

“Too fucking right, Haz; steam into these old, beer-bellied, inter-city firm fucks. They’ve had their day back in the eighties. Today is ours. This is no longer Thatcher’s Britain; this is mine. Carpe fucking diem,” Darren growled through gritted teeth, watching the match through an icy, sub-zero gaze. He wanted to make a name for himself in the world of football violence and he wanted it fast, and what better way than to attempt to take out members of one of the country’s most notorious firms.

“Carp what?” Harry raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“Never you mind, Harry, son, just keep your head down and watch out for the old bill and the cockneys’ old guard.”

Darren raised his arms and yelled out “FUCK OFFFFF—D—CANIOOOO FUCK OFFFFF—D—CANIOOOOO” in a retaliating mimic response to the West Ham support. Within seconds, the entire Holte End joined in unison: “FUCK OFFFFF—D—CANIOOOOO FUCK OFFFFF—D—CANIOOOOO.”

Darren stood there arms folded with a content grin on his face, soaking in the glory of leading the Holte End in song.

Di Canio carried on running around the field as oblivious to his mockery as he was to the contradiction of his open and outspoken fascist political views and occasional Roman salutes were to the “kick racism out of football” armband he was forced to wear.

“You’re a fucking legend,” shouted over Jamie Hammond.

“Oh, I know,” smirked Darren as he began the next chant.

“OH, WHEN THE VILLA,” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

“GO MARCHING IN,” answered the 20,000 strong choir.


West Ham fans sang their famous club song back: “I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air, they fly so high, nearly reach the sky, and like my dreams, they fade and die.”

“COCKNEY SCUM, GET OUT OF BRUM,” the Holte Enders echoed back with venom.

Darren looked through binoculars, trying to spot any famous West Ham brawlers he could try to go toe to toe with and prove his worth. Maybe he’d get lucky and find Cass Pennant or Carlton Leach. No, most probably not; one was now a famous author and the other living the life of organised crime. Long gone were their days as warriors of the terraces; now they were having biographical movies made about them. Despite only being 18, Darren was living in the past.

“You see any faces, Daz?” asked Little Harry.

“Nah, these binoculars are fucking shit; I robbed them off some old codger at Warwick Races last week. Think the cunt was blind as a bat, anyway.”

Danny Nugent banged the aluminium wall behind their seats, as Darren shouted out “K2 CREW K2 CREW” in tune to the beat of the makeshift drum. Everyone in the vicinity joined in, even those not affiliated with their click.

A small, goggly-eyed steward approached the young mob.

“Could you stop banging the wall, please; you’re going to damage it. And could you all sit down; you’re violating the Taylor Report and Football Association Stadium Regulations.”

“Fuck off, steward, we pay your fucking wages, ya cunt!” Darren spat.

“You tell ‘em, Wilko, mate, what a fucking jobsworth,” shouted some old boy Darren didn’t even know.

Darren raised his arms to the sky and bellowed out.

“STAND UP IF YOU HATE STEWARDS, STAND UP IF YOU HATE STEWARDS.” Almost the entire upper half of the Holte joined in tandem as backs of seats shot up thudding and spectators rose to their feet. “STAND UP IF YOU HATE STEWARDS, STAND UP IF YOU HATE STEWARDS.” Darren crossed his arms once more as he looked down on what he saw as his kingdom and his subjects. Hell-bent on power, he shouted over to the old steward.

“I’d like to see ya try to get us all to sit down now, you old cunt.”

The K2 Crew howled with hysterical laughter as the old steward scurried back to his first aid post.

Five rows down in the end seat, Darren spotted what could only be described as a ten-mile smile on a pretty young brunette around his age, with a small wiry frame. She stroked her hair and giggled flirtatiously as Darren winked at her. She wore a traditional claret and blue Villa scarf over a cute black parka jacket with the tightest jeans he’d ever seen, making her firm, tight arse stick out like the back end of the 67 bus. Fucking beautiful, he pondered. She looks so cute yet utterly filthy at the same time; a total chavette, yet ladylike as well. Magic, just pure magic. No tits on her, though; still got to have a piece of that all the same.

He was so distracted by the young beauty he missed Lee Hendrie run through the entire West Ham back line to open the scoring. Villa Park erupted in a state of euphoria and elation.

The K2 crew jumped up and down, dived upon one another, and swung into each other’s’ arms in a show of joyous, brotherly camaraderie.


The referee blew the halftime whistle as a demoralised West Ham side hung their heads and walked off towards the tunnel. All the fight beaten out of them from being run ragged for the last three quarters of an hour by the attacking prowess of Aston Villa’s Darius Vassell.

Darren, along with henchmen Little Harry and Danny Nugent, began walking down the steep steps of the Holte End, pushing people out of the way so not to be delayed for their halftime piss and pints. Darren inhaled deeply, taking in the latter autumn air, witnessing the low sunset over the terrace houses of Witton and the floodlights illuminate the stadium in the dusk. “Fucking love it here; home is where the heart is,” Darren exhaled.

Noticing the young brunette in her aisle all alone smiling confidently yet still somehow kittenishly, he remarked, “Alright there, beautiful? Buy you a blue WKD downstairs?”

“As long as you buy me some chips too?” She chortled.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” He winked again with a roguish smile.

They spent halftime tucked away in a quieter corner of the concourse away from his troops, him drinking heavily watered-down Carling from a plastic pint cup and her carbonated alcoholic blueberry juice. Laying the charm on thick yet sweet, she devoured the attention like a starving dog gobbling down a large portion of pedigree chum.

The way her blue eyes shone off the overhead lighting of the stadium’s large corridors, the hair stroking and constant nibbling of her lower lip, he knew he was well in.

“How long you been following the Villa for?” he asked.

“All my life,” she answered, looking into his eyes deeply, almost into his soul, into his loins. It felt like his cock was about to explode, like she was giving him head right there through her eyes.

“You from this side of town?”

“Erdington,” she said slowly and breathlessly, almost orgasmically; she somehow made it sound like the sexiest locale in the world.

“Tall and tanned and young and lovely, the girl from Erdington goes walking,” he sang playfully. She didn’t know the song he was referencing, neither was she tall or tanned, but that didn’t stop her from laughing.

The crowd dispersed back upstairs to the seats as the second half kicked off, as Graham Taylor’s Claret and Blue Army shot towards the Holte End.

“You want to go someplace a little quieter?” she asked like a temptress.

“Sure, darling, I can spare a girl as pretty as you a few minutes.” Darren smiled, his cheeky, chappy grin like a 1940’s Spiv selling stolen meat rations.

She took him by the hand and led the way across the concourse into the women’s toilets. The facilities were sanitary and pristine as she was possibly the only female in the 20,000 capacity stand, unlike the men’s toilets, which were just troughs of beer urine being pissed out the same colour as they were drank. Darren often wondered if they drained the urinals at the end of the match into beer kegs and sold it all back to them on the next match day. But right now, he wasn’t thinking along those lines at all as his tongue was tickling her tonsils and his hands grabbed at that firm, tight arse caged in by dark blue denim. He backed her into one of the toilet cubicles as they almost began ripping each other’s clothes off, but then he remembered he was wearing his favourite Henri Lloyd Harrington jacket that he’d stolen out of Flannel’s the previous week as he stocked up on his winter wardrobe. So instead, he grabbed her by the hips, spun her around, and bent her over the lavatory seat; pulling her jeans down to her ankles, he parted her legs as he thrusted it in. 30seconds of turbo fucking later, the ferocious roar of a crowd celebrating a goal coincided with the climatic screams of orgasmic ecstasy as they both came in tandem. “FUCKING VILLA!!!!!” he shouted as he blew his muck deep inside of her. As he pulled out and zipped up his jeans, he told her, “Maybe I’ll see you again next match day, babe; got to go smash some hammers up.” He walked out of the women’s toilets, leaving her there in an exhausted, sexually satisfied heap as he ran back up the Holte End, back to his boys, back to his family, back to the Villa, and back to the life he loved.

Saturday 21st November 2020

Aston Villa vs. Brighton and Hove Albion
Villa Park, Birmingham
Attendance: 0

Alan Boddington peered through the gap in the giant claret gate which divided the Holte End from the Doug Ellis Stand. Being locked out from watching his team play was killing him on the inside. He saw all 22 players take a knee and he joined them in solidarity for the honour of black people everywhere. The teams kicked off and he could just about make out John McGinn pass the ball to Jack Grealish.

“We got McGinn, super John McGinn, I just don’t think you understand,” he sang to himself forlornly.

“Oi, you! What you doing ‘round here; don’t you know there’s a lockdown in effect!” a burly security guard shouted.

“I was just…”

“Get out of here before I call the police!”

Alan ran down Witton Lane scared stiff. When he reached the roundabout, he was approached by a painfully thin Somali man with big buck teeth.

“White boyyy, give me all your cash,” he said.

Alan was now so shook up he was almost touching cloth. “I d-d-d-d-don’t have any, no-no-nobody does anymore,” he stuttered.

“Give me your phone, then,” demanded the Somalian.

“I lost it,” Alan quivered.

The Somalian rolled his eyes and walked off disappointed.

Boy am I glad that’s over, thought Alan. He looked a right rough customer. No, I can’t think like that, it sounds racist; he was probably a really nice chap once you got to know him, Alan reasoned.

He carried on walking towards Stockland Green to his old school friend Oliver’s house. Olly had invited him around over the phone on Thursday night to watch the match on TV, but Alan had since misplaced his phone. He hoped Oliver hadn’t cancelled on him as he was usually such a private lad and had never invited him over before.

Alan hated breaking lockdown rules like this, but his mother was driving him crazy at home. As he was turning 18 next year, he’d been asking a lot of questions about who his father was, but his mother refused to tell him, saying he was a bad man.

Arriving at Olly’s house, upon knocking on the front door, he was greeted by a somewhat attractive short-haired blonde woman in her late thirties wearing a night dress and who appeared to be slightly drunk. “Hi,” Alan whispered all shy and coy as he always was around women.

“Oh, you must be Olly’s friend Alan; come on in. I’m Olly’s mom, Ayla.”

Alan followed the woman into an open-plan living room.

“Oh, nice to meet you, where’s Olly?” Alan gulped.

“Oh, it’s been a terrible ordeal. The university has locked him away in a dorm room to quarantine because he came into contact with somebody who has COVID.” She began sobbing, then broke down into weeping as she poured herself another gin and tonic from the living room’s sideboard. “I just don’t want him to die like his father; he had terminal cancer, but the lovely NHS nurse swears that it was COVID that killed him. Oh, please sit down and have a drink with me,” the woman pleaded.

She sat Alan down on the sofa, bringing the bottle of gin with her. “Here, have a drink.” She offered Alan the bottle; he accepted. Alan liked the feeling alcohol gave him when he was given a glass of wine last Christmas, but his mother disapproved of binge drinking. “You look so much like my younger brother, Darren,” she said. “Oh, what does he do for a living? Alan asked. “He’s locked up in prison in Russia for causing trouble during the World Cup,” she slurred. “Oh,” Alan said.

Alan spent the evening not saying very much, getting inebriated and listening to the MILF’s sob stories. “Oh, please come to bed with me,” she cried. “I just need to feel something, anything.” Alan had always been really awkward around the opposite sex and was an incel. But this was his one chance of losing his dreaded virginity, even if he did feel guilty that it was with a grieving woman and his friend’s mother. Despite being totally hammered, the conjugals lasted only seconds and Alan faded into a deep sleep where he thought he was dreaming.

He heard a loud, booming, echoing voice through a long, dark tunnel that sounded a lot like the actor Brian Blessed, as he was being vacuumed into the hole at stealth speed.





“What’s going on?” Alan panicked. “Incense? But I don’t even like smelly candles!”



“Insects? But I hate creepy crawly bugs?” Alan began to cry.



The referee blew the halftime whistle as a demoralised West Ham side hung their heads and walked off towards the tunnel.

The young firm eagerly moved down the steep steps of the stand bursting to empty their bladders and fill them up again with ice-cold, watered-down lager.

Noticing the young brunette he’d been eye-fucking all through the first half in her aisle all alone, sulking petulantly, with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp: “Alright there, beautiful? Buy you a blue WKD downstairs?”

“I wouldn’t let you buy me a drink if you were the last bloke on Earth. Why don’t you buy drinks for your boyfriends there? You all look like a bunch of poofs anyway. Fucking bunch of bum-boys pretending to be hard men.”


Darren was seething; he’d never been spoken to like that before by a girl. He was too used to them falling for every word he’d say. The lads began to hold him back from him dropping her with a right hook.

“Yeah, what you going to do? Ya fucking arse bandit!!!” She laughed maliciously.

“I wouldn’t fuck you anyway, you cheap slut. I bet your cunt is like a wizard’s sleeve, you slag! I reckon it would be like throwing a sausage down a gully! Fucking bucket cunt whore,” he chatted over his shoulder, turning the corner to the staircase into the concourse as the spectators looked on in amusement and laughter.

“Cheeky fucking bitch. What can ya do; some bitches are psycho when they’re flying the Japanese flag,” grunted Danny Nugent.

“Yeah,” said Darren as he recomposed himself.

Unseasonably, a dying butterfly glided past them on the steps down to the concourse. Little Harry smushed it in the palm of his hand. “Poor cunts only live a day,” he said. A twinkle flickered from Darren Wilkins’ eye and evaporated into the cold November air.