Three stories of some of the world’s bitterest football rivalries as told by the fans themselves.


Galatasaray vs Fenerbahçe (from a Galatasaray fan)

Putting that glowing rhomboid outside the shop was great for business, acting like a beacon for the drunks to come and eat meat that even a Fenerbahce fan or a Greek wouldn’t touch. Well maybe a Greek, you never know.

Football in this country is no fun at all. No trumpets, no flares, no fireworks. Have you heated up a coin to throw at the opposing fans? NO? You haven’t lived. Pussy.

Why do all drunk Brits try and get pally with guys in kebab shops? “Hey man where are you from? Oh, Turkey, that’s cool, I ‘ve got family in Cyprus…”

Fuck you, you stupid wanker. Did I say I was from Cyprus? On the TV Galatasaray go a goal down and I feel my blood burning, sweat seeping out my brow, exacerbated by the heat from the Donner. I wan’t to hit this guy. Tear the place apart. Get my cleaver out, go round to Best Mangal, that Fenerbahce loving donkey rapist and behead Emre right in the middle of Green Lanes.

I ruminate on the point, only awakened by this drooling idiot asking about sauce. “I want a really hot sauce mate (I am not his mate), gimme a proper Turkish hot sauce”.

Yes of course sir, I answer in the faux Turkish drawl that seems to get these muppets to buy more shit quality Mediterranean themed food, all the while ladling the same neon red goo that has passed for chilli sauce this past month, all over his fucking kebab.

I can see Emre over at Best Mangal through my window. He is busy tonight. I hate that. What I hate more is that he clearly knows the score and minces about his shop like a faggot. Fuck him and fuck his mother. All Fenerbahce fans mothers are whores! Or so the saying goes. Galatasaray go down another goal. Shit goalkeeping. I hear Emre from over the street. He turns, sees me, then cups his crotch in and act of defiance. I have never been angrier.

This British retard smears the greasy kebab into his booze sodden face. All around the room, pasty young Londoners pick at week old humus and dry falafel. Each trunk of mystery meat costs me only £25. What a winner, I love the U.K. God they embraced our culture so well here.

Then I imagine Emre pleading for his life, begging forgiveness while admitting Fenerbahce’s obvious inferiority as well as his mother’s loose morals. Soon. If only the UK would embrace our football too.



Rangers vs Celtic (from a Rangers fan)

“Don’t use the feckin’ bogs”

Aw this comin’ fae some glaikit Paddy cunt driving this bus. Belfast to fuckin’ Glesga. Finally takin’ on the fenians again. King Billy’s revenge on they cunts.

Anyway fuck the bus. Ah’ve been pourin lager doon ma throat since 8. First a couple of Carlsbergs then straight into the MD 2020. Mad Dog’s a great mornin’ drink being, as it is, full of fuckin’ sugar. Aye man, it’s the continental breakfast for William Irvine Esq.

Ma bladder’s gonnae burst and there’s nae a mogs chance in hell that I’m gonnae make it to the bogs at the ferry terminal. Not a fuckin’ chance. Better brave it with the forbidden bogs, service a la Eurolines. Dancer.

Half the boys are asleep or pished as I make ma way doon the carpeted steps (why?) and into the wee cubicle that passes as a shitter in this tin can. I quickly become evidently aware of why the bus driver didnae wan’t us in here. This place is hoachin’ wi’ piss. On the floor and walls, all slooshin’ about wi’ those manky bits of bog roll scrunched up, floatin’ about in it like derelict shipping. The bog’s chokka wi’ mainly pish. Well beggars cannae be choosers, so oot wi’ the wanger and I spray the place down. That grimey Paddy fuck driving this bastard must’ve had some sort of 6th sense as to my whereabouts cos he takes a corner real fuckin sharp and the pish-full bowl cascades down like a Tsunami. All over my shoes. Bastard.

It’s good to be back in Scotland again, even if it is Stranraer, which by the way is a shitehole of the highest order. Then it’s off to Glasgow to see the mighty Rangers. The sour faced fenian driving this bus doesn’t like it one bit. The boys are singin’ away, all “No Pope of Rome” and other such tunes.

“I won’t tolerate this filth.” The intercom crackles, naebody listens.

You’ll be even mare pissed off when we fuckin’ show those pseudo-Irish wankers what for. Oan the approach to Parkhead and the world turns a putrid shade of green. Some wee bastards are chuckin rocks at our bus, Tam opens the window and lets the Union Jack flutter out. Someone lobs a bag of shite, it strikes the window, then rolls off back down to the street to be with its turd brothers.

I hate Celtic. Everything they stand for I hate. Wee fenian, boy-fiddling, potato munching, pikey cunts.

“We boys in blue actually stand for somethin’ aye”, I bellow out.

The bus agrees. Cheering. “What do we stand for?” I let fly.

Silence. Didnae expect that one. The answers come back in drips and drabs. ‘Britain. Fuck Celtic. No more Irish. White jobs for white people?’ Then silence returns. Dead introspective eh? I’m fuckin’ blootered by the time of kick off. Saw away a 33cl in the dying embers of the trip.

Shite game. The score? Got beat 2-0. Cunts.


Barnet vs Stevenage (from a Barnet fan)

We were all wondering why so few people had turned up. Sure, Spurs were playing Arsenal on Sky but this was real football, and real passion. Miles away from that rubbish they call the Premier League and a short trip up the A1 for me and the lads, that is Frank (a retired aircraft engineer), Richard (a banker) and myself (another banker).

We talk a lot about Barnet as the car powers north. Then Richard says:

“One of our problems is that we have too many black players on our team.”

There is an awkward silence after that. Richard is definitely a racist, but we all are a little, aren’t we? I sort of agree with him though, even though he missed out the crucial part. The black players aren’t the issue. The fact that the black players are shit at football is. Then again so are the white guys. Not to get started on that Bangladesh international we have got playing at centre back.

I can’t believe the train line is being repaired today. It is almost as if the council doesn’t care about that Hertfordshire derby. Crucial engineering works. Bollocks. This is a crucial mid table clash between bitter rivals, gladiatorial contest to be played out in front of literally dozens of people.

Stevenage is such a shithole. Some poxy leisure centre and acres of industrial estate. Provincial wankers. We have a bigger leisure centre at Burnt Oak, and it’s got a Pizza Express and a Nando’s. London is truly a global city and we its global citizens. Not like this place. 20 miles of motorway makes all the difference. Richard tucks into a burger from a wagon.

“Food’s not as good as Underhill”, I didn’t want to remind him about the ignominy of being voted the worst caterers in league football the week before. We went to get a programme.

“Free twenni mate”, the programme vendor was black. Richard was uneasy.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Richard offers. The awkward silence returned again.

The man lifts up three fingers then enunciates the number twenty like you do for kids. Richard laughs then drops another bomb.

“Where do you originate?”

The man, contemplates the strange question then replies.

“Knebworth.” I pull Richard away before the situation goes any further.

“Lots of immigrants round here” says Richard nervously, “Very expensive programmes too, not like Underhill. Only three pounds there. Better be a good game.”

There’s a fat man sitting in a squalid turnstile selling tickets. £26. No concessions. Definitely should have stayed in and watched Spurs. In the end Barnet 0, Stevenage 0.