Throughout our period of time as colonial big wigs and world super power we, the British, invented a number of sporting games. For a brief while we were not only inventors of, but also the world leaders in these sports. But the years pass. The colonies disintegrate, discovering the new found independence that comes with becoming a republic. In fact the young upstarts begin beating us at the very games we invented, not just the old colonies but in fact the rest of Europe, the rest of the world. Today, within the realms of football we could be regarded as filler, just to make up numbers till a tournament reaches the later, more important, stages. In cricket we are performing so abysmally that only a fool would bet on us to win. It is perhaps only with rugby that we somehow manage to cling on to the honour of being regarded as one of the world’s top five teams, and it is more commonplace to find us ranked in the lower reaches of this premium bunch. However there is one corner, one tiny sporting niche where we still reign supreme. Where we still lead and the rest of the world can only hope to emulate. Albeit with a tenuous sporting connection. Welcome to the world of football hooliganism.

First off I feel I need to establish the reasons why a book about football related violence would be of interest or relevance to the MMA/NHB community.

Well for openers there is the fact that the central motif of the book concerns the consensual participation, by various parties, in violent encounters involving extremely minimal rules. Some may argue that there are in fact no rules at all in the confrontations between football hooligans, but I don’t believe that is the case. Whilst the use of knives and bottles may be commonplace in these real world encounters as well as the book, they never seem to be intended as ‘killing’ implements, their primary purpose seems to be to scar the opposition. So there you have it, a context of extreme NHB confrontation, where the only rule seems to be that you are not out to kill them. Severe injuries yes, but killing no. Suddenly makes the ring seem like a placid place.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, is the style of the book. Well strictly speaking it’s not the style, but the content of the writing that the style allows. Football Factory doesn’t really follow your classic narrative structure: there is no tale of somebody working their way to power through the ranks of the hooligans; there is no thrilling battle of wits as the police attempt to track down and convict the top boys; there is no tale of a hooligan eventually repenting and changing their ways. No. What you have here is a book with more of a verité feel, a period of time in the life of somebody, a fly on the wall almost. There is no character development, and definitely no redemption. There isn’t really a plot, and certainly no denouement. The book does make one concession of generally adhering to chronological order, but one could even do away with that, shuffle up the order of the chapters a little and you would still be left with, essentially, the same book.

So what do you get with a book with no plot and no character development? Gratuitous tales of terrace violence? Well no. While there are tales from the battlefields, they are few and far between. Instead, freed from the restraints of the conventional narrative, Football Factory is able to follow a completely different direction: philosophical discourse and political diatribe.

Sounds a bit suspect really, you’re expecting footie violence and you get an academic tome. Well thankfully it doesn’t quite work out like that. Instead you get musings and perusings into the nature of violence: what its attraction is; does it really have any valid context in a modern civilised society; how we define violence and how it defines us, both as individuals and as a society; the mind set leading up to, during and after a violent encounter. It is these parts of the book that I think really gives relevance to the MMA community, however don’t expect any conclusive thoughts. This aspect of the book raises far more questions and issues than it resolves. However it is done in a way that is free from the clinical isolation of an academic and, instead, done instead from the perspective of one of the protagonists. Lucky for us that the protagonist happens to be, amongst other things, an extremely erudite individual.

Now as well as being erudite, our protagonist is also something of an angry young man, and a lot of the book is given over to a bitter polemic. This isn’t just idle moaning though. This is angry lamentations of the injustices suffered by the working classes. Think of the body of films by Ken Loach and Mike Leigh, that attempt to champion the cause of the common man. Or, given the contextual setting of the book, perhaps Alan Clark would be more appropriate (in fact he did direct a film concerning footbal hooligans, The Firm).

We are dealing here with something of a dying breed, the white Anglo-Saxon male, who has lost, along with his unique sense of culture, his tribal fighting roots and is evolving into something completely different, dictated by course of modern life. And in the way it’s presented one could view the rival football gangs as a modern day counterpart of the ancient British tribes with their regional feuding.

We are dealing here with the working class, who have been slowly but firmly, been pushed into a quiet, obedient extinction. Started by Thatcher, this trend has been wholeheartedly adopted by the powers that be since her demise — the worlds of corporate heavyweights and media directed social engineering (for instance, as the narrator berates about the pricing out of the original fans, as the sport is now marketed at the middle classes as a fashion accessory).

We are dealing with a majority who has always been shat upon by the minority. Britain may well be best known for it’s eccentric upper classes, for royalty. It may be the landed gentry who make the laws of the land. It may be……ah fuck it, sometimes you just have to kick back for the sake of it, just to show you are alive, to take control of your own situation. LIVE!!

Ah go read it yourself. Mister King writes it a lot better than I do.

One last thing before we end. Don’t be fooled by the philosophical and political aspects of this book. This is a novel that pulls no punches, and political correctness had just better line up quietly to have it’s throat slit like some great sacred cow. This is written in the vernacular of a young man with a propensity to violence, and also carries the attitude as well. It makes no apologies for what it says and is all that much better for it.

If I had to sum this book up, I would say that it has not only tackled a difficult subject matter, but it has done so with an unrelenting lack of compromise. It makes no concessions or apologies for anything. I think this book retains an element of purity and artistic integrity that I have never come across in any other book tackling this subject, and few books in general.

So let’s end with a big question that none of the politicians ever really came close to answering correctly. What is the attraction, to the hooligan, of the violence? Why do they do it? What does the book say it’s all about? Well to sum it up: shortly after I’ld read the book my father ended up in hospital (to cut a long story short he has always been a brawler and this time he had bitten off a little more than he could chew and was laid up contemplating the end of his fighting days) and I went to visit him, taking along the book. We had never really shared too many likes in the literary world, but I thought he might like this one. Plus I had a slightly ulterior motive, the book contained a scene where the main character is in hospital after receiving a good hiding at the hands of Milwall, he is visited by his father and it becomes apparent that there is some concern on behalf of the family regarding the sons lifestyle choices. Why I couldn’t have just come out with it, that he should stop brawling and it’s worrying mum, I don’t know. I thought that him reading the book, and recognising the similarities (albeit a little reversed) would do the same job in a more poignant manner.

So I turn up again a couple of days later. I ask him if he read the book. He had. I asked him if he enjoyed it. He did. So I’m waiting to see if he has anything more to add.

"He’s right you know." Says dad.

"What about?" I ask.

"Why they fight."

"Why’s that then?"

And why indeed do they fight, what is the answer that seemed to perpetually elude those who wished to eradicate it, what enlightenment had the book offered.

"It’s the buzz," said dad "it really is a fucking buzz.