first away game watching the blades

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cahill

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March 1966 or Sept 1966?

Sept 1966. Sat in the open seats with my old man. Blades raced into 2-0 lead. Great atmosphere, fans mixed in, no bother. Goals were, err...Jones, Birchenall, wrong I know
 

cahill

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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
 

Silent Blade

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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."
 

cahill

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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."


Thanks Silent. I was unaware of all those incidents coming as I did from the north end of South Yorkshire, and I was too young to have been involved in all the shenanigans. I did read that description in the book, which to be fair, is more of a social history of young lads growing up in a north / north midlands town, with a backdrop of support for the Blades. Ronnie, in my opinion, describes social circumstances and conditions well in the book and it is a good read, for what it is.

I did go on the Wednesday kop the following season when Willie Carlin scored and also for the 0-0 promotion season in 1971. Both atmospheres were great but the mood between groups of fans was changing and the rest is history. Today you have the sorry spectacle of hundreds of police mobilised, 2,500 away tickets, and compulsory segregation. Something went wrong somewhere along the line
 

bornablade

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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."

Great account. Very creative methods. Doubt you'd see anything as creative today.

No mention of the term 'pigs' which my generation have a difficulty with. When did that become fashionable?
 

Silent Blade

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No mention of the term 'pigs' which my generation have a difficulty with. When did that become fashionable?

My Uncle Ronnie first heard it in 1973, I first heard it in August 1979 at Chester when my dad told me during half time that someone at the back shouted "How have the pigs gone on?". I was puzzled and then my dad told me "He meant Wednesday!"
 

I should coco

A little harsh on a well meaning body of men
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I first heard it in August 1979 at Chester when my dad told me during half time that someone at the back shouted "How have the pigs gone on?". I was puzzled and then my dad told me "He meant Wednesday!"

CheatinAmmers away for me in 78/79. As we came to get on the coach me and my mate heard a similar refrain. I think by the time we'd got to Watford Gap we'd worked it out.
 

LS5 Blade

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Barnsley away 1989. My old man took us over on a Tuesday night and I had told my old dear that I was off to football training.

We tried to leave with 15 minutes to go as I was on for a bollocking of a lifetime from my mum with the score at 1-1. SYPs finest told us to fuck off and stay in the ground.. Glad they did as the uber pikey David Currie fouled one of our players in the box and we score a last minute penalty and went absolutely mental!

Got home about midnight. Told my mum some bollocks about one of lads got injured at training so we'd been in hospital. Didn't sleep all night thinking about the game and how she'd see through my bullshit. ...morning came and she never said a word! Double Whammy :D
 

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Easter Saturday. Bloody freezing. Snow on the tops going over. Great result. Can't believe we got relegated a few weeks later.

(Mind you that was down to the dodgy events on the other side of Stanley Park).

My first away game too... arrived on the coach. Got flipped the V straight away by some scouse lads on the bus. Watched some footed on Stanley Park.

Got to the ground and at half time got a biked sweet lodges in my throat and I spent all the 2nd half in the St Johns hut in the corner.... gutted.
 

blade67

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Remember 3 of them games very well.

Bolton. Kicked off big time outside the ground.

Everton. Night match,cunts put windows through on the coach on way to the match,fuckin freezing going back home.

Huddersfield. Took firms mini bus from work to match and didn't tell the boss (pig),he found the car park ticket in the van and I got a right fuckin for it.
Bolton kicked off plenty inside the ground as well. Very weird atmosphere and everyone running around afterwards. Mayhem, can't say I miss it TBH
 

The Vicar

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Early 70's, Birmingham away we drew 0-0.

First ever away win at COldham on a freezing winter's day [might have been Boxing Day]. We were on a hill behind the goal with no roof, & won 1- 2.

In fact until last16-17 season it was probably the only away win!
 
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Apart from Swillsborough. Mine was Carlisle in 1975. We won 1 0 with a Gary Jones goal. Gary Jones was on loan to us - think it was his only goal for us.
 

Addison

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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."

Great account. It was my first away game as a 10 year old. We got to the back of the Kop at 2.55 p.m. so missed the eggs. Wish the Plod hadn't confiscated so many as we had to then contend with old pennies which brought tears to your eyes when they hit the back of the head. Add to that various parts of the Kop being thrown down overhead and you needed a crash helmet rather than a bobble hat. I'm sure this dismantling had something to do with the lyrics of the song that includes " Your stands made of wood your Kops made of tin". Maybe the pennies were sharpened steel washers as we were getting hit by friendly fire:D.

Blades were above Pigs who were in the middle and lower parts of the Kop. Not many problems when we went 0-2 up. Even when Pigs came back to 2-2 both sets of fans traded insults but no real mass disorder. Changed a bit when we had a goal disallowed and a Pig got sparked out by a Blade for shouting obscenities. At the end of the game a few individual fights broke out but we're stopped by the fans rather than police. The woman neighbour who took me to the game said our fans behaviour was disgraceful and she wouldn't stand on the Kop again. She didn't and bought tickets for the terrace after that.

Got some kudos from the mates back at school for going on their Kop didn't tell them my emotions were a mixture of fascination and shitting myself at the events going on around us.
 

malagablade

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Burnley 1966 lost 4-0 . Got woodies autograph . Gordon Harris of burnley refused to sign ! Same ref that refereed pigs cup final , if I remember correctly ,taylor I think ?
 

The Vicar

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Just watched the Derby game & the 3 goals. I enjoyed many a good goal & assist from Woody over the years.

Cant remember the last time I saw such good corners, or crap defending.........O wait a minute there was..........!

Makes you wonder Woody's value in today's inflated market?
 

Robby Blade

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Yep, remember something like that happening involving Sherman. Like Metal said, he was rumbled, unlike Doc who got away with it.
For the record, my first away game was Man U in April 1963, I was 10 and went with two 14 year olds. Them were t'days :)
My second away game was the Lincoln cup game the following season, mentioned earlier on here and I well remember the bridge collapse too.
And we also played in the tangerine kit that day too.

I thought the match was later than that as I was sure I had driven there,but as usual,wrong again. The "bridge" that collapsed was a temporary construction across an empty dyke I seem to recall. I was watching it sag more and more thinking this is going to go at any moment. It sort of slowly gave way and a mad scramble was underway with folks trying to get up the banking. Would it have been the same game when Gill Reece ran full speed into the brick wall knocking himself senseless and spent the rest of the game concussed?
 

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I thought the match was later than that as I was sure I had driven there,but as usual,wrong again. The "bridge" that collapsed was a temporary construction across an empty dyke I seem to recall. I was watching it sag more and more thinking this is going to go at any moment. It sort of slowly gave way and a mad scramble was underway with folks trying to get up the banking. Would it have been the same game when Gill Reece ran full speed into the brick wall knocking himself senseless and spent the rest of the game concussed?
Bridge collapse was in January 1964. Reece joined us in summer 1965
 
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