Wolves: The Day One Milwall Fan Silenced Molineux Completely

It's 2003 at the Molineux and Millwall fans have been banned from all away games – not that that's going to stop one bald-headed brute from causing carnage…
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It's 2003 at the Molineux and Millwall fans have been banned from all away games – not that that's going to stop one bald-headed brute from causing carnage…

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It's 2003 at the Molineux and Millwall fans have been banned from Molineux – not that that's going to stop one bald-headed brute from causing carnage and shutting up the Wolves faithful...

Adolf Hitler, Colonel Gadaffi and one bald clown with a leather jacket and earrings as big as his mouth. Just three people who hold the ability to single handedly manipulate thousands of people just by raising the smallest of murmurs.

Although the nut job with a smile that could make melt granite wasn’t, as far as I’m aware, genocidal, he was guilty of shaking up the vast majority of a Molineux stadium full of Wolves fans that, for one day only, left their fighting sticks at home and instead, bought their much ignored wives and girlfriends to a game of jolly good fun, with no animosity.

This was April 2003, a time where Millwall fans were banned from some away games to stop them from eating the train stations and melting the home city's agriculture with chants of "Oi, you ****." (Please note, as a member of the Billy Wright, I rarely type such words).

So 'Papa' or 'Pater' as he doesn't like to be called – as he is a lumbering lorry driver from 'The Lunt' who has ink marks on his knuckles (still no idea what that means) – kindly invited me to the game as a full house of Wolves fans looked forward to a pleasant afternoon.

UP POPS BALDY

Me and my dad took our seats after a few burgers and a cheeky Smirnoff Ice (yes, I know, but I was young and hated any alcohol that didn't taste of fruit), had a look around the stand. All seemed dandy, with couples below us, fellow father and son's above and the blonde fitty that came every week with her brother. But one bloke looked a bit different, like a white chocolate finger in a regular pack. Something was off.

His head popped with veins the size of canals, his teeth stained and crushed as spit clung on for dear life with every scream. The rings on his hands were golden boulders, his jacket faded and creased, like he found it in a brook and rang it dry. And if he didn't look the part, his voice split through all our pre-conceptions.

“GO ON IFIL YOU ****, SMASH HIM!!!”

Unbelievable, like a Spartan taking on a gang of Persians, this guy had no fear and had travelled the length of the M6 to just cause trouble for one side of the stadium. The first three minutes felt like 300, as of the first second we heard his voice, the tension in the fans was cutting. It was like the whole Billy Wright stand had been caught knocking one out by his/her mother and didn't know what to do/what to say/where to put their hands.

Everyone thought they were going to die. And I mean everyone. Not one person at all would speak up for the Gold and Black Army.

Everyone thought they were going to die. And I mean everyone. Not one person at all would speak up for the Gold and Black Army. The Army was officially disarmed, no weapons, no shields, no mouth, no tongue NOBODY WANTED TO DO ANYTHING BUT SIT AND HOPE HE WOULD LEAVE. But why would he leave? He knew his worth, and he was loving every minute.

NEWTONNNNNNNNN!!!

Thankfully, as most fans seem to do, our lot decided to perk up a little after Shaun Newton gave Wolves the lead after five minutes, but that wasn't going to stop this guy. He continued to blast out his offerings until the final whistle, with no halt of the shouts that shot through a completely silent stand.

ONE TRIED TO STOP HIM...MISTAKE

One guy in front, wearing proudly his coat of arms, was hugging his girlfriend who looked scared. This guy didn't look like he could do much, but he was a bit flabby and tall so he had a big gob. After hearing one call of “STRANGLE HIM CAHILL”, our Wolves hero took a stand. The conversation went like this:

Yam Yam: “Will you shut the...”

Mr Millwall: “One more word and I will chuck that **** (points to the timid blonde he's with) off the side.”

Yam Yam: “...”

And thus that was the only time one of us even looked at him. Strangely, as the final whistle went and with Millwall, on the receiving end of a 3-0 walloping, our wonderful visitor decided not to destroy the stadium and slowly walked out without a hint or a whisper.

We went home, and as I was telling my Mum about this bloke, Dad began a long story of how he shut this guy down with a bark that kept him quiet for the whole game...I let him have his glory.

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