“Only a phenomenally talented and empathetic writer working from within his own culture can achieve the power and authenticity this book pulses with. Buy, steal, or borrow a copy now, because in a short time anyone who hasn't read it won't be worth talking to.”  —Irvine Welsh, author, Trainspotting   The Football Factory is driven by its two main characters—late-20s warehouseman Tommy Johnson and retired ex-soldier Bill Farrell. Tommy is angry at his situation in life and those running the country. Outside of work, he is a lively, outspoken character, living for his time with a gang of football hooligans, the excitement of their fights and the comradeship he finds with his friends. He is a violent man, at the same time moral and intelligent. Bill, meanwhile, is a former World War II hero who helped liberate a concentration camp and married a survivor. He is a strong, principled character who sees the self-serving political and media classes for what they are. Tommy and Bill have shared feelings, but express their views in different ways. Born at another time, they could have been the other. As the book unfolds both come to their own crossroads and have important decisions to make. The Football Factory is a book about modern-day pariahs, people reduced to the level of statistics by years of hypocritical, self-serving party politics. It is about those who are insulted, marginalized, and unseen. Graphic and disturbing, and at times very funny, The Football Factory is a rush of literary adrenalin. This edition includes a new introduction by the author. “King’s novel is not only an outstanding read, but also an important social document. . . . This book should be compulsory reading for all those who believe in the existence, or even the attainability, of a classless society.”  —Paul Howard,   Sunday Tribune   “Bleak, thought-provoking and brutal,  The Football Factory  has all the hallmarks of a cult novel.”  —Dominic Bradbury, Literary Review “Powerfully written and tells you more about the mentality of those who disrupt football matches than all the theses of the sociologist academics put together.”   —Ian Wooldridge, Daily Mail John King is the author of seven novels, including England Away , Headhunters , The Prison House , Skinheads , and White Trash . He currently publishes and edits Verbal , a fiction-based publication. The Football Factory By John King PM Press Copyright © 1996 John King All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-62963-116-5 Contents INTRODUCTION Come Running after You, Coventry at Home, Doing a Runner, Tottenham Away, Worker's Dream, Rochdale at Home, Hooligans, West Ham at Home, Never Never Land, Liverpool Away, Sweet Jesus, Norwich at Home, Happy Ever After, Newcastle Away, Running the Bulls, Wimbledon at Home, Poppy Day, Man City at Home, Bombay Mix, Threatening Behaviour, Bomber Command, Villa Away, Ashes to Ashes, Millwall Away, Liquidator, Something Special, Derby at Home, CHAPTER 1 COVENTRY AT HOME Coventry are fuck all. They've got a shit team and shit support. Hitler had the right idea when he flattened the place. The only good thing to come out of Coventry was the Specials and that was years ago. Now there's sweet FA and we've never had a decent row with Coventry. The best time was two years ago in Hammersmith with a bunch of Midland prototypes looking for a drink down the high street. About fifteen of them. Short cunts with noddy haircuts and tashes. Stumpy little legs and beer guts. Looked like they should be on Emmerdale Farm shafting goats for a living. They clocked us coming the other way and took off. You could smell shit over the petrol fumes, which is saying something in Hammersmith. It was a stupid move. They should've piled in the nearest pub and sat tight. We weren't looking for them. We don't expect Coventry to perform. We were on our way to King's Cross to meet Tottenham coming back from Leeds. Saturday night battering yids. But the Diddy Men were running into the precinct and when you see something run you follow. Pure instinct. They were moving fast as their little legs would carry them. Red faces reflected in shop windows along with the hi-fi gear and baked beans special offers. We were right behind as the bloke at the front took them into the car park. Like those sheep who lead the flock to slaughter. You'd think they'd smell blood and hear the knives being sharpened. Not this lot. Straight into the car park with the last of the Saturday shoppers standing aside to let us through. We had them boxed in and gave them a hiding, working fast because someone would've called the old bill. We had the numbers and kicked them into next week. Harris was there and opened up some cunt's face with his hunting knife. Said later he should've signed his name, so if the bloke ever managed to get his end away his kids would know the old man had been to London. That he wasn't just a goat fucker. But he was joki