There goes the final whistle. Spurs have won the 1967 FA Cup 2-1.The Chelsea players plod up the stairs at Wembley to receive their runner-up medals, they look gutted. But not half as gutted as me. I am at home with Mum and Dad, chairs pulled up real close to the telly on this black and white Saturday in May. Gutted is a good word, that's how I really feel. My stomach churning away but my insides empty as well. I get up.

"I'm off out" I announce.

If I hang around I think I might cry, I swallow hard and walk out into the street. Its not going to be any better out here, I'm bound to get tons of stick off the other kids many of whom support Manchester United, Liverpool, Leeds, Nottingham Forest and even Spurs. When I say support, I mean support only as in my Dad supports the British Leyland workers when they go on strike - he supports them but he isn't going to do fuck all about it. These kids don't go; they don't follow. They've got no right to dig me out. Give them a map of Britain and they'd be hard pressed to pick out any of the cities these teams come from. Anyway I want to face them now - less grief at school on Monday I figure. I can front it out. I'm twelve years old and proud to be a Chelsea fan. They know I go with the old man regular. They only see it on Match of the Day on a Saturday night and Star Soccer on a Sunday afternoon and then they're in the comfortable surroundings of their own homes with their rented black and white DER tellies crackling away in the corner. There's not many out in the street. Dr Who must be on. A lot of the boys like that but I think its shit. Soon a group of scruffy children appear in the road.

"Spurs were lucky" I say getting my attack in first "anyway I'm not that bothered".

"That's shit" pipes up one of the many Ballard brothers "Chelsea played shit and we can tell by your face you are bothered". There's a few around me now, laughing and goading. One kid is singing ‘2-1, 2-1, 2-1’ from behind one of the bigger Ballards.

"Least we got to the final" I shrug still trying to act nonchalant.

"Yeh but yer lost" spits the youngest and fattest of the Ballard clan.

"Shut yer mouth Arbuckle you little piglet" I retort feeling the blood rushing up my face. And now they are all singing ‘2-1, 2-1, 2-1’. I kick a football straight at them and run back to the house. Wait to one of their teams lose. I'll show them. I'll make their lives hell. But they are not real fans they won't really care.

The next time we got to meet Tottenham Hotspur was at White Hart Lane the following season. I was looking forward to watching Chelsea's revenge but was horrified when Dad told me he couldn't take me because he had some overtime at work. He knew I was upset and promised he'd be off for the next home game.

"Dad can I go with some of the older boys from school?" I pleaded. These boys were only around fourteen and fifteen years old, me and Dad had seen them at Stamford Bridge now and then and said hello. To me they are as adult as my Dad.

"I'll speak to your Mum. If she says yes, you can go". I worked on her all week I was that desperate. I washed up the dishes, ran to the corner shop for her fags, made cups of tea and even took the dog out. By the morning of the game she still hadn't committed herself. She was enjoying the new me and milking every minute.

"Who are you thinking of going to this game with boy" she eventually asked casually.

"What game Mum?" I said, frantically playing for time as I assembled some names in my head of boys my Mum would deem come from good families. Responsible boys with paper rounds I would be safe with.

"The game today, who are you thinking of going with?" I reeled off a list of names mixing in some names of the real people I was tagging along with so it wasn't a complete lie. "Alright" she smiled "that's enough grovelling for one week. You can go, but keep clear of trouble. Wrap yerself up and come straight home".

Before the words had passed the tip of her cigarette, I was up the stairs. Collected a few bits and pieces. Stopped and looked at the blue and white rattle Dad had made me, spoilt brat that I was, but didn't pick it up. I didn't think the older boys would like it. I slid down the stairs.

"See ya" I yelled as the door crashed shut behind me. Coming up the front path was Alan, my older brother, his hair was unkempt and he looked liked he'd slept the night in a hedge. Probably had. He'd been out all night on the piss. He asked where I was rushing off too. I told him and he pressed a pound note into my eager hand. He staggered on into the house. He always gave me money when he'd had a drink. "Thanks Al you're the best brother in the world".

"I know" he said.

It was only 10.30 am but I knocked for the others and three of us set off from Mitcham Fairgreen for a bus to Tooting Broadway and then a train to Liverpool Street and from there a dirty green British Rail to White Hart Lane. The North London bound train seemed very empty.

"Not a very good turn-out is it Jeff?" I observed.

"Its early yet" replied Jeff with the air of a seasoned football fan "there is four hours to go to kick-off. I'm sure we'll bump into some Chelsea around the ground".

"I hope so" I muttered, nervously fingering my blue and white woollen scarf which was knotted tightly around my neck like some oversize tie. As I surveyed the carriage with its customary debris of fag-ends, the previous night's piss and footprinted pages of the Daily Sketch rolling around I began to feel apprehensive about the adventure that lay ahead. Four hours until kick off!

"What'll we do when we get there" I asked.

"Well we can't go in the pub coz your here". Cheeky bastards. They couldn't get in a pub whether I'm hanging with them or not.

"Right here we are, lets go" shouted Jeff as he jumped from the slowing train as it squealed into White Hart Lane station. I was soon to learn that it was compulsory for young football fans to disembark from trains in this fashion. And, last one out has to slam the door. Train doors were crashing up and down the length of the platform but besides this there was no noise. No chanting fans. No police. No one. Just a few Saturday shoppers leisurely going about their business. We rushed past the ticket collector and he made no attempt to ask to see our tickets. Normal BR procedures are abandoned on Saturday afternoons. Down the stairs and into the street, still no fans. We were early. Not even the hot-dog sellers were here yet to get an early prime pitch.

"Wait here Martin" Jeff told me as he and Dave nipped into a shop to buy some fags.

Perhaps they think the shopkeeper won't serve them if they see me. I peer up and down the road for signs of life. Where is the crowd and electric atmosphere I'm used to when Dad and I go to games. What do we do for the next three hours? Better get a programme, I think, that'll while away some time. Suddenly I hear a rumbling noise, I feel it as well - the ground beneath my feet is vibrating and then the rumbling turns into a loud roar. I look across the road and coming out of the Paxton Road side of the ground is a mob of Spurs fans, it seems like thousands of them charging towards the spot where I happen to be standing. Instinct takes over and I burst into the shop.

"Don't go out there yet" I splutter "there's thousands of them". I try to catch my breath.

"Who?" they ask in unison.

"Spurs fans ..there's thousands of them".

We look wide-eyed out of the shop window as this herd of buffalo in Spurs colours gallop past leaving clouds of dust in their wake. They are screaming and their eyes are popping out of their heads. Some are smiling and laughing. Standing there in the shop transfixed by the spectacle taking place in front of us it reminds me of Saturday morning pictures at the cinema watching a wildlife film on a wide-screen. They pour around the corner and head towards the station we have just arrived at.

"Look at their mob" sighs Jeff his mouth wide-open and then as the reality of the situation dawns on him "quick put yer scarves away and if anyone asks who you support tell `em Spurs". We brace ourselves to walk back out on the street. We're shitting it but the mob has passed and we look a bit suspect just standing in a shop. Jeff opens the door cautiously and then shuts it again promptly. The same mob are heading straight back towards us. This time they are running twice as fast and the look on the faces are different. It is the look of fear. We return to our cinema seats and watch the next instalment. The shopkeeper has joined us now - concerned about his window going in, no doubt. The Spurs fans are running for their lives. On the way up they were in a tight compact group now they are scattered across the whole road, falling over one another in their haste, running into and over cars, jumping fences and darting down alleys and side-roads. Some stop and walk in a different direction hoping they can blend in with shoppers and pedestrians. The bulk of them though disappear back down the Paxton Road from where they came.

‘Chel-SEA, Chel-SEA, Chel-SEA, Chel-SEA’. We can hear the chant but we can't see the fans. They sing Chelsea at the Bridge but in a jolly, friendly way. This is like a war cry. It’s threatening. The Spurs mob has almost evaporated. One big lad shouts

‘Stand, Stand’ but no-one is. I don't think he really means it. He's walking backwards. Now he's running. Suppose he'll tell them all in the pub how he tried to hold it together. Suddenly the Chelsea gang are all around the shop. The chase is over and they're all looking pleased with themselves. They pat each other on the shoulders which are heaving up and down as they recapture breath. Jeff and Dave take their scarves out and put them back around their necks. I do the same and we amble out of the shop and stand among them.

"Fucking Tottenham scumbags" said one.

"What's up with them fucking yids, they never stand" chips in another. Later I was to learn Spurs fans were called Yids or Yiddos on account of their large Jewish following. They were older than me, these boys, they're older than Jeff and Dave but not by much. I reckon the average age is sixteen or seventeen. One boy looked like a man. He had long black sideboards. His hands were thrust in his pockets. He was speaking but I couldn't hear what he was saying but a lot of the boys crowded around him and were hanging on his every word. He had an air about him. He was the focus. What struck me more than anything though was the clothes everyone wore. They looked smart. They looked the part. I felt out of place in my monkey jacket and Tesco jeans. ‘Tesco tearaways’ someone at home had called them when showing me his new Levi jeans after he had sat in the bath all day with them on to get that important washed out look. Only a couple of years back my monkey jacket or World Cup jacket as they were also called had been my pride and joy. They had come out after the World Cup when the winning England team wore them at the training ground. They were blue anorak type things with red and white cuffs and collar. These guys wouldn't be seen dead in one, I knew straight away. Meanwhile Jeff and Dave continued chatting with some of them.

"What happened" enquired Jeff to an older boy called Martin.

"We come off the train and out onto the road and there's this mob of Yids coming round the corner. There's about 500 of us and they see us and `ave it on their toes. Not a punch thrown."

"Where d'yer get yer trousers?" I interrupted. Martin looked down at me with a puzzled look on his face. Who’s this apprentice wanker examining my wardrobe he’s thinking. Dave and Jeff stared at me pointedly wishing I wasn't there.

"At the army surplus store up the Elephant"

"What are they called" I asked noticing that loads of the Chelsea boys were wearing them.

"Jungle greens"

"How much?"

"Two quid"

"Did you get yer boots there as well?"

"Yeh cherry red commando boots - four quid. Your little mate's a nosy fucker ain't he Jeff" Martin laughed.

"He's alright" Jeff replied " if it wasn't for him we'd have been mincemeat just now when the Spurs came past". Jeff said we should stay with this lot and we swaggered up the road with them. I was fascinated and bombarded Jeff with questions. They came from Tooting Junction, Battersea, Stockwell and Fulham he explained.

"Who's the bloke with the sideboards?"

" They call him Eccles"

"Is he the sort of leader?"

"Yeh, sort of"

"How old is he?"

"About eighteen" said Jeff getting a bit impatient now.

"How did he become leader?" I asked. I think of when we play football down the park and we pick two captains and they then pick their teams alternately from a line-up.

"I don't fucking know, now shut up and keep up with this lot". I shut up but made a mental note to ask Jeff where the shop Up the Elephant was.

Into the ground we go, behind the goal where the Spurs fans are already gathered. This part of the ground is called the Park Lane and it is where the home supporters always congregate. It is Tottenham's Shed. We follow the Chelsea supporters across the terrace, I am feeling secure in the middle of the mob from outside, despite the scared faces I had witnessed earlier I don't really understand what is happening. We are heading towards the Spurs fans, ducking under safety barriers and pushing through the crowd. These people we push through could be Chelsea fans or they could be Tottenham fans but they look straight ahead and take a small step forward or backward to let us pass. That look says quite clearly, I am not part of this. I am looking ahead. I am here to watch football. Now we reach a double barrier running from the top of the terrace to the bottom. In the gap stand a line of policemen, the first I have seen all day.

"Wait here" shouts the bloke they call Eccles "when we are all together we'll give it a push". The Spurs fans, however, suss it and make a push towards us. Of course, they're not going anywhere with the metal barrier and the police line holding them back. The policemen ride the surge and bounce the Tottenham boys back, they laugh and wink to one another. They don't seem cross and it looks like their enjoying their crucial role. But Chelsea, are still coming in and the end is getting fuller and fuller. I can see them moving towards us - a moving snake of young men in an end of stationary people. Both sets of fans are surging now and I am joining in by pushing my shoulder up against the lower back of the big bloke in front. The teams come on to the pitch and the fans vie to make the most noise. The atmosphere is charged. Not like when I came here for my first game and not like any other match I have been to since. The atmosphere is charged with sheer hate. Everyone around me is spitting out insults, eyes are bulging, blue veins protrude from foreheads and fists are being waved wildly across the terrace. But I'm not scared, I'm with Chelsea and hadn't they already chased the Tottenham boys away? I am more intrigued. Did they really feel this strongly? Everyone was quite happy outside. And why? OK Tottenham had beaten us in the FA Cup. But they didn't cheat. That's football isn't it? And Jimmy Robertson's goal was a real cracker in anyone’s book!

But now there are coins and bottles being lobbed by both sides, the boys around me are coughing up phlegm and spitting across at the Tottenham. The Spurs fans are shifting to the front as the crowd bears down from the top. Chelsea are in there too, at the top of the terrace. I can see the same fear on faces that I had seen from the shop. The younger Spurs fans are panicking now and climbing over the small wall at the bottom of the terrace and jumping on to the safety of the pitch. Chelsea are still pouring down punching and kicking their way through. The kids are getting tangled up in the goal nets as they try and run whilst keeping one eye on the developing chaos on the terrace.

The first group I am with sense that control is slipping away from the police as they too are watching the top of the terrace and start to duck under the barrier and dash across the no-man's land and into the Spurs fans. I follow. The police grab a few of us and throw us back but the dam has burst. There is nowhere to go for the Spurs fans. I can’t see a lot but know I am in the middle of a massive ruck. I can tell by the faces near to me that order has gone. Some people are revelling in the anarchy but others are scared. Really scared. Police reinforcements are arriving and somehow they manage to throw a cordon around the now heavily outnumbered Tottenham supporters. The smiles have disappeared from the old Bill's faces. They are angry now. Their fun day out on overtime has been ruined and they sense a situation that could turn very nasty. The half-time whistle goes and it seems to have a calming effect on proceedings. The fighting subsides. The police regain their composure and start shoving Chelsea fans over or under the barrier. Boys are getting ejected and arrested all around me and this quietens everyone down. The second half passes almost without incident, the occasional bottle and coin is thrown and there are a few surges but nothing like the performance I had witnessed in the first forty-five minutes.

Here I was, twelve years old, and I had witnessed my first incidence of football violence. Blokes around me were sporting black eyes and bloody noses but none seemed really hurt. I'm not sure how they got them because I didn't actually see anyone close to me get punched or kicked. But my head was down and I was surrounded all the time by the bigger lads. I was in a riot but I was below sea-level. Spurs fans had been damaged more I guessed - at least their egos had. There was no doubt that Chelsea fans had battered and humiliated them in their own end.

We all crammed into the train back to Liverpool Street and everyone was talking excitedly about what had gone on and how Chelsea had given Spurs a severe kicking.

"That's for last season at Wembley" declared one big skinhead. Funny, I thought, that was the first time I had heard football mentioned all day. Another big lump of a teenager was stretched out above us in the luggage rack, his huge denim-clad arse stretching the netting to its limits.

"Next week we've got Man United, so lets hope everyone turns up to give them red bastards a dose of what we've just given the yids". With that everyone cheered and a chorus of Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, broke out up and down the train.

Pulling back in to Liverpool Street the train doors were flying open the minute the driver nosed the first carriage level with the platform. Kids were jumping off, landing on the tarmac and running alongside the moving train, desperately trying to slow down but their little legs going like piston rods doing 100mph. Jeff was one of the first off and was encouraging me to jump. I felt like John Mills in one of those old British films we watched on a Sunday afternoon. Flying jacket on, ready to parachute out of a second world war fighter plane.

"Jump, you wanker, jump".

"Fuck off" I replied but I was shoved from behind and my body was in mid-air. My feet hit the platform and my legs went like the clappers to keep the body upright. I had done it. Only some time later did I cotton on that only the most dickhead football fans disembarked from trains in this way.

Back on the Northern Line and it is back to just the three of us and we were gently coming down off the day's high. Off at Colliers Wood and then the familiar walk back to Mitcham, via George's Fishbar at Poole's Corner, where we all buy savaloy and chips. Finally I split with the others and stroll down my road to the house. Dad walked towards me, he was off down the chippie for him and Mum’s supper.

"Howdit go boy?"

"Great" I beamed.