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Trips west of Prestwich were fraught with horror. It was Salford, a savage realm where murder and mercy were inversely correlated with regard to cocky fuckers like us. Being from there originally might afford us a night of trouble-free mayhem. All batting for the same team. But not often. This was the era when Kersal was at war with the Precinct. And we were at war with Kersal. And Whitefield and Bury were at war with us. A diminishing technological relativity that began with Pendleton’s Roman-like superiority and ended in the Ecky Thump and lagging dress-sense of tribal black pudding land. Sometimes a load of us would cram into a car and drive round Kersal flats. Themselves no small potatoes in the Greater Manchester high-rise league. If Blackley was a training ground for Liverpool then Liverpool was a training ground for Kersal. The flats were loaded with Reds and the single pub, the Castle, was a notorious den of glam-rock iniquity; older 70s wallahs who didn’t give a fuck. It was their younger lot we both identified and tangled with. They dressed in the very latest and were proud of it; Gold cords, leather Mickey jackets and St. Etienne shirts. Saw nights with dozens going at it – the bottle game. This was no place for small groups to explore. You went team-handed or you got seen off royal. When the Precinct attacked the Kersal funfair in 1980 our borderland was unpoliced; the Kersal Boys were off defending their turf against a mob estimated to be 150 strong. One lad was stabbed and killed. The estate that towered in the west reinforced its sinister image through such shocking acts. To meet them was a conundrum; the coolest accent and always dancing. Why would happy people do such evil things?
On our way to the Derby in ’81 we took a detour. Kenny wanted to demonstrate how town resembled Birmingham from an alleyway off Chapel Street so we humoured him. We passed some Kersal and they chased us down narrow factory ginnels. There’s a posh bridge there now with a spike and cables. They caught us up and Crazy Trev copped for a prize punch. A neck-slapper off Jimmy Jones. On the forecourt we merged with a giant team in tennis shoes and Patrick cagoules. Off to patrol the surrounding area, splitting into groups amid loud chatter. More Kersal, but they accepted us warmly. Obviously hadn’t heard about the neckslap incident. Trev was still MIA. He spent the day with older Prestwich lads having joy and fun. City on the run. The forecourt was like a supersized blunderbuss back then. Its flared muzzle spitting gobs of designer thugs by the barrel-load in all directions. They were’t’ days.