Thanks for that. First away match as a twelve year old. Top half of the kop was all Unitedites. Both sets of fans had loads of huge banners, left a wonderful’impression on a young mind. Much better atmosphere in those days without folk’acting like immature thugs. I believe Ronnie in « Sharpe as a Blade » describes the build up to that game in some detail, about meeting up’in town etc.
Return fixture was won’by Bill Punton goal
Ronnie is my uncle. This is what he wrote " On the morning of Saturday September 24th 1966, four fifteen-year-old Dronny Blades sneaked into Hopkinson’s smallholding. Their mission, ‘A great egg blag.’ Johnny Hall- the mastermind behind the deadly plot - knew the layout well. He’d worked there doing odd jobs at the weekends and during school holidays.
Scores of chickens roamed free around the sheds and outbuildings, laying eggs in makeshift nests, under bushes and in the corners of broken down huts. The further away from the main house the rottener the eggs were likely to be. After filling a carrier bag each, the lads were on their way to the bus stop to meet up with a couple of hundred or so fellow Blades who were gathering in Pond Street bus station at midday.
Willie Marples, a classmate from school who was on his way to the match clad in his Wednesday gear passed the lads on Dronny bottom. Beetroot let fly a rotten egg which splatted on Willies back. Johnny Hall reckoned an old bloke walking past with his dog, fainted from the stench and the dog dropped dead.
Willie and Beetroot slugged it out, one on one for a few minutes. Beetroot ended the scrap by whipping off his belt and smacking Willie round the lughole with the buckle end. The ill feeling had started already.
Beetroot (so called because the one and only time he ever got told off by a teacher, he went as red as one) was a quiet, studious, intelligent lad who always did well at school. He always had a top pocket full of pens and would lend you one, no bother. Beetie however turned into a very naughty boy- a kind of Mr Hyde type creature whenever he went to a football game.
I once saw him, after a testimonial game against Wednesday at the Lane, drag a Wednesdayite off a bus in Pond Street, beat him half to death with a walking stick then laugh his head off when he’d finished.
I’d left a note out for Mam’s milkman and I’d been in town since eleven o’clock armed with a carton of half a dozen eggs. Loads of Blades arrived, many carrying boxes of eggs.
We set off on the two-mile trek with our banners, flags and eggs, picking up small groups of lads on the way as we walked through town. There wasn’t a policeman in sight.
We showed off our eggs to each other like they were some kind of new invention that nobody had ever seen before. Some with the little lion stamp, some large-uns, some small-uns, some free-range, some jumbo.
“Look at them fuckers for eggs then.”
As we reached the bottom of Penistone Road a mob of Pitsmoor lads carrying a large banner joined us. Any Wednesdayites we saw on route had the odd egg chucked at them.
On reaching the ground about one thirty, we queued outside the Penistone road end (Wednesday’s kop). We paid the one shilling or it might have been two shillings, admission at the boy’s entrance. I emerged at the other side of the turnstiles to see a group of Blades telling the lads that the coppers were at the back of the kop searching everyone for eggs.
I hid my eggs in some bushes and walked past two coppers (yes two) trying to pat down dozens of youth’s as they entered the kop.
“Got any eggs?” The copper asked me, patting my bush jacket; a couple of cartons lay at his feet.
“No.” I answered, “Go on then.”
At least ten lads walked past as he did this. I waited a few minutes, walked back out and collected my eggs. Passing the same copper again I said,
“You’ve searched me once.”
“Yeah go on.” he said. The ground was all but deserted, except for us; we stood at the back of the kop directly behind the goal waiting for the Wednesdayites to arrive. The plan was, at ten minutes to three, with our arms held aloft and to the chant of,
“Sheff United, hallelujah.” the mass throw would take place. By two o’clock, fifty or so Wednesdayites gathered at the front. This proved too tempting for some of the trigger-happy Blades and a few rounds of ammo were fired into them. By two thirty the ground started filling up, more Wednesdayites, more Blades and more eggs entered the stadium.
At ten to three, with forty odd thousand in the ground and the mass of Blades singing and swaying, hundreds of hands were raised into the air and the cry went up,
“Sheff United- hallelujah- hallelujah.”
What a sight to behold, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, its ‘raining eggs hallelujah.’ A huge roar greeted the teams as they took to the pitch. Raised, blue and white Wednesday banners now had tinges of yellow slime running down them.
“Scrambled eggs, scrambled eggs.” we chanted. Our ammunition now used up, we turned to coins and other missiles. Stones were collected from the banking at the back of the kop and thrown at the Wednesdayites. One of the young Dronny lads (who later went on have a distinguished career in the police force) was removed and thrown out of the ground by his later to be colleagues. The game ended in a 2-2 draw, but the Blades scored what we all thought was a late winning goal, only for it to be disallowed for offside. We left the ground en-masse at the end of the game and marched back down Penistone road towards town, chanting “We were robbed.” but still laughing at any egg stained Wednesday fans we saw.
The following Monday’s edition of the Sheffield Morning Telegraph reported the trouble. It told of the many ejections from the ground, of youths throwing sharpened steel washers and carrying flick-knifes… but no mention of any eggs."
