Daily Mirror (Northern Ireland)
Thugs must not succeed
So it is particularly troubling that Derry has been plagued by thuggery which has seen dozens of petrol bombs thrown and police officers attacked.
As usual it’s the actions of a handful of violent morons bent on causing community tensions that is behind the mayhem.
But while they are capable of causing disruption and fear for some people, they will not succeed in poisoning improving relations in the city.
The people who marched from the Bogside in solidarity and support of their neighbours in the Fountain estate is proof the thugs have underestimated the resolve and decency of the good people of Derry.
Gangs of masked thugs want to hold a community to ransom. We all must make sure they fail.
The Sex Pistols tour caravan was no place for the faint hearted on a sun-kissed Sunday evening in June 1996. For anyone finding the ageing punks a bit intimidating, their entourage of family, friends and roadies rammed inside were on a different level.
Self-inked tattoos and fearsome facial scars were de rigueur. Bottle tops were being bitten off the plentiful supply of beer bottles.
John Lydon, aka Johnny Rotten, was a model of conformity by comparison, alongside his old mates and hangers-on lured to the Pistols’ reunion gig in North London’s Finsbury Park.
Yet in the midst of this mayhem was a more surreal sight. Future England manager Gareth Southgate, in the throng, blinking and Bambi wide-eyed in the way so familiar to us now.
More Captain Sensible than Sid Vicious, what on earth was this gentle, intelligent, product of the Home Counties doing in this alcohol-fugged hellhole, where the creaking caravan floor felt it was going to give way any second?
The simple answer is to blame Stuart Pearce, his punk-rock loving team-mate.
Earlier in the evening, Pearce and Southgate were invited on stage to introduce the Pistols – getting the biggest cheer of the day from the 30,000 crowd. Their new-found celebrity hit them like a tidal wave.
Just 24 hours earlier, England had defeated Spain in the quarter finals of Euro 96 after a penalty shootout and the nation was gripped.
This was the summer of Football’s Coming Home, the first time around.
The team was cocooned in the Burnham Beeches Hotel in Buckinghamshire, barely aware of the hysteria gripping the country. About to enter the tournament’s third week, most players were getting a little stir crazy.
Gareth Southgate’s maturity shone through even then. Although one of the younger r squad members at 26, socially he was drawn to the older members in their early y and mid-thirties – Stuart Pearce, Teddy dy Sheringham and Tony Adams.
Together this s foursome restricted their hell-raising to playing aying Scrabble in the hotel, day after day. There was no social media or video games as distractions then.
But come Sunday, nday, June 23, Scrabble was losing its lure.
Pearce, a renowned owned punk fan, wanted to escape to the Finsbury Park concert but knew he would d need special permission. Knowing wing Southgate was not such a punk fan but – tellingly for his future – open to embracing new experiences, he recruited ited him to his plan.
As I stood nearby, arby, Pearce ambushed then en England manager Terry Venables by the hotel reception ion desk.
“Boss, mind if I pop into town this afternoon noon to see a concert? I’ll be back by 9pm.”
A flicker of concern ncern passed
Venables’ face, conscious of