A BLOODY BAGGIE BOY ...

A hatred for the gold and black is in my blood. I came by it honestly.

Guess we could have been more cordial, but Albion not so affectionately call the Wolves ground the Custard Bowl. Mind you and if you can believe this, I was never a thug as were some of the fans from both sides.

It was not so much personal with me. 

It was purely tribal. 

That is, until the day of my fourteenth birthday. 

That was the day it became personal.

On a Saturday afternoon in March back in the late 60’s I walked to the station and took the double decker bus seven miles to ‘The Custard Bowl’ (we didn’t call it that back then, however…) wearing my brown leather bomber jacket, the navy and white Albion stripes on my scarf by no means hidden from plain view, but I did tuck it under my jacket as we got closer to Wolverhampton! I even hate the town. It’s yucky! Was then; still is today! That particular day was one to remember. ‘Chippy’ Clark scored the goal that declared the Wolves the losers, and the noise that rose up from that pit of a south bank was brilliant “Olbeyun Olbeyun Olbeyun!” It went on forever! I was often tempted to believe it could be no louder, but I was forced to recant. Safe in saying the scale runs from zero to a hundred and thirty for sound that causes pain, that day I was more aware than ever it was at the top of the scale; every excruciating decibel, music to my aching ears.

With a big smile on my face, I set out for the bus station, feeling good. We had just seared the Wolves 1-0—on my fourteenth birthday. The mid-March afternoon was a bit chilly, but it had been hot in the cauldron what with all the excitement. I kept my bomber jacket fastened tighter than ever, making sure my beloved striped scarf was well hidden. I was in the middle of Wolverhampton town centre, for God’s sake, little skinheads and old geezers on the rampage looking for trouble in the shape of Albion fans. Walking out of Molineux, their fans are overlooking, spitting, throwing bricks and stones. That would never happen in the U.S. It really is barbaric! And I do hate this town! The police to this day just watch. Incredible, eh?

And then it happened. 

In my ear rang the chanting of those Wolves fans.

“Wanderers! Wanderers!"

"We hate Albion! We hate Albion!” 

Those are voices you don’t want to hear if you’re walking alone.

Particularly after such a sweet victory! 

“Look lads here’s one!” “Yowm Olbeyun ay ya mert?” 

Before I could even try to answer, a couple of young ‘skins’ slid into me on their Doc Marten boots (sliding became much easier for them with about ten drawing pins stuck in the sole of their boot!), Levi's rolled up and a Ben Sherman shirt (sleeves rolled up, of course) and a scarf tied and dangling around one wrist. 

They nailed me, hissing and spitting out insults and blows to my body parts so fast that I could not react. Those Doc Martens do hurt! A pack of those bloody skinhead Wolves fans beat me up, kicked me in my sides, and might have even left me for dead for all they knew or cared. Guess they were hoping they could take us down one at a time, but it never happened. Neither did they discourage me from supporting my tribe. It did quite the opposite! My beloved Albion! 

That late afternoon I lay there face down on the street, writhing in pain, but doubtless with a smirk on my face, for we had won. The Albion had won the game. I would recover, but my young blood boiled with hatred for those Wolves. 

I groaned as I rolled over and struggled to my feet, hoping no bones were broken, then I decided it didn’t matter. I was going to see my girlfriend, Lesley Chell, if I had to limp or crawl to get there. I met her later that evening at ‘The Rec Rave’ on Gillity Village South Walsall, (the posh part of town!) I was bruised but so happy!

Excerpts from Gibbo's Story

Jane Bennett Gaddy