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The Rainsough lads liked to kick a ball about in a grassy bowl at the side of the busy main road known as Rainsough Brow (pronounced "brew"). They called the bowl “Wembley”. On this occasion there were about 20 kids volleying and chipping a pill to one another. We looked down upon them, our numbers having swelled to 8 by now; we'd picked up some strays along the way, other kids bored and looking for enchantment in the brickish maze that was Carr Clough estate. A couple of the kids playing football were from Kersal: Over the border. Two years or so earlier, the trouble between Prestwich and Kersal had been revitalised by a novel eruption in the mass concsciousness; casual culture had recently exploded and everyone was crazy about Coq Sportif Saint Etienne shirts, gold cords by Lois, Second Image coats and sweaters and Aitch ski sweatshirts and jumpers. The list of designers was long and too tedious to reproduce here. Prior to the casual era, Carr Clough estate and Kersal had enjoyed some humdinging set-to's involving huge gangs in flared pants swinging bike chains and every weapon imaginable. Carr Clough even hijacked a milk-float, completely destroying it like a car-bomber when it was sent downhill into the Kersal crew at tasty speed. Everywhere, walls contained the graffiti'd initials CCR: Carr Clough Rule. We’d given a good account of ourselves back then but by 1982 Salford had taken a turn into twisted pastures.

In time, insults began to rain down on the Kersal boys and their herd thinned out. One or two remained while others went back and forth to the Staff of Life pub across the road (that pub was featured in The Cook Report, in an episode about gangsters from Kersal running protection rackets. My dad broke his ankle stumbling out of there in the 70s. It was a lovely place and performed the role of First Pub on my original all-day drinking session just a year or so later). It quickly became clear that there were more of them in the Staff. The insults were now a two-way street. Still we stood, refusing to be intimidated by the older Kersal lot clustered outside the Staff, staring pointedly at us. After 20 minutes a trickle began to appear in the cobbled, stepped alley next to the pub; reinforcements had arrived from down in the high-rise estate a ten-minute walk away. We stood firm and instructed the other 5 to do the same. They looked worried.

Agecroft Power Station

Eventually, the mob numbering about fifteen to twenty became pumped enough to start coming across the road. The traffic had petered out by now and it was dark. They came to the foot of Wembley and we began asking them, “What the fuck do you want?”

“Knobheads!” came the reply. “Where’s yer Boys?”

Bolstered by my psychopathic company I afforded myself a giggle, which was horribly aborted; suddenly, down the cobbled alley came a massive team. Like what you see at United when we played decent clubs. Heads, loads of heads. It looked like a flowing river of baked beans – each of the Kersal lads sporting a skinhead in Salford fashion – packed and moving fast towards us in the manner of an organised regiment. Most terrifyingly it didn’t seem to end. I was utterly mesmerised at the size of this crew. There were at least 80 of them, if not twice that. My transfixion almost cost me my life. Between Mike growling, insanely, “Don’t fuckin’ run…” and my snapping out of my paralysis to recognise a lad at the front of their mob, now less than thirty feet away – a known psycho whose nickname was actually “Psycho” - I turned and began to flee. Mike and Paul did likewise. Psycho had an axe in his hand and an expression of such hatred that I was sure one of us would be murdered right there and then. We were chased through some tall grass, some of the lads jumping the wall into the Jewish cemetery next door and some tearing up Butterstile Lane propelled by adrenalin and little else. Paul was hit on the head by a flying brick but he kept on going, despite feeling like he was going to pass out.

We never took the piss at the Borderland again. In fact, we all became friends. That’s right; this one has a happy ending…

Unfortunately, Kersal flats are vastly diminished today. They were demolished in what was described as the biggest ever controlled demolition, back in the 80s. Below is a film of the event, with Salford Precinct in the background.