The Build Up
In this article, we rewind to 1977 and a tense encounter between 2 old rivals. Stoke’s Naughty Forty and West Brom Sector 5 Squad. Just a reminder, these firm titles didn’t normally exist in 1977 but that’s how we know them today. Anyway, let’s get on with the stories.
Stoke Arrive
First we have ex-Stoke Naughty Forty member Alan, who told us.”Stoke had a massive firm in the 70s. We would be great at places like Leicester, West Brom and Coventry, but not so great at say, Newcastle, Man United, West Ham, places like that. But I suppose, the same could be said for all firms. Anyway, West Brom away 1977. I remember it well, because of the 2 separate attacks by each firm. I was twenty in ’77, old enough to know better, young enough not to care. Stoke weren’t yet into what people later called the Naughty Forty days, but the edge was already there. You could feel it on the train before we’d even left Staffordshire. Fifty of us, give or take, packed into a couple of carriages heading down to Birmingham and on to The Hawthorns. No colours on show, just boots, Levi’s, donkey jackets, and that quiet buzz you get when everyone knows something’s coming. The train rolled into Smethwick late morning, police already watching us from the platform ends. They tried to split us up, but we knew the drill—drift off in twos and threes, meet up again near the ground. The Hawthorns sat there grey and tight, hemmed in by terraced streets. “
Stoke Invade The Brummie Road End
“You could hear the home crowd long before you saw the turnstiles. We’d planned it simple. Brummie Road end—home end. No messing about. We moved quick, paid in, heads down. Once inside, it was like stepping into enemy territory. West Brom everywhere, scarves swinging, blokes clocking us straight away. Then someone went, and that was it. We surged forward as one. It wasn’t pretty or clever—just bodies pushing, fists swinging, stewards scattering. For a few minutes, it felt like we had it. West Brom lads backing off, surprised more than anything. I remember standing on a step, heart hammering, thinking we’d actually pulled it off. Then the police came. Not one or two—dozens. Batons out, faces set. They hit us hard and fast, drove us back up the steps and out. A few lads went down, got hauled up again. No arrests, just pure removal. We were shoved round the ground, cordoned tight, marched like livestock toward the Smethwick Road end. When we came in there, it was different. Stoke packed in solid, lads leaning over the barriers cheering us like we’d won the cup. Back slaps, shouts, laughter. “You had ’em!” someone yelled. For a moment, it felt brilliant. Untouchable. That’s when the Smethwick Road boys came in.”
“They didn’t rush in shouting. They edged in from the side, faces hard, and then it kicked off. Suddenly we were under it—pushed back, punches flying from nowhere. They had the jump on us, no doubt. A couple of our lads went over seats, another took a crack to the jaw. For a few seconds it was chaos. But numbers tell. Word spread fast and Stoke poured in from all directions. I saw it turn—West Brom lads realising they were boxed in. They fought their way back, desperate now, and that’s when the police charged again. It looked mad—like they were pulling men out of a fire. Later someone called it a suicide mission, and it didn’t feel far off. The match itself passed in a blur. Singing, shouting, watching the police more than the pitch. After the final whistle, they penned us in again, then marched us back through the streets toward the station. Tempers still high.”
The Battle Outside
“A few last scraps broke out—nothing organised, just lads lunging as lines crossed. Boots scuffed, jackets torn. The train home was quieter. Bruises showing now, voices hoarse. Someone laughed about the Brummie Road. Someone else swore blind they’d never go back there. I sat by the window, watching the Midlands slide past, knuckles sore, head buzzing. West Brom had a tidy firm, quite under-estimated in my opinion. This is pre Section 5, or whatever they are called, but tidy little firm. Most clubs did though, them days. It wasn’t glory, not really. But in ’77, days like that were what being Stoke meant to us. You went, you stood your ground, and you came home with a story—or you didn’t come home at all.”
The Baggies Perspective
West Brom old Clubhouse member Tony told us..”You could feel it before kick-off. Something was off. Word had gone round early doors that Stoke were up for it, that they’d brought numbers and weren’t coming just to watch the match. By the time we were knocking about the pubs near the ground, the talk had sharpened. No songs, no bravado—just clipped sentences and looks that said stay close. Then the shout went up: Stoke are in the Brummie Road. At first, no one believed it. Stoke, in our end? Sounded like nonsense. But then lads started coming back from the turnstiles, faces red, eyes wide. Fifty of them, they said. Pushing, swinging, giving it large. Police already piling in. That did it. Any thought of the game vanished. The Brummie Road was ours—always had been. Seeing away lads even try it felt like an insult. By the time the police threw Stoke out and shoved them round to the Smethwick Road, the mood had turned dark. They were getting cheered now, heroes in their own end, arms aloft like they’d conquered something. We watched them from the side, packed in, smug as you like. Revenge settled in quick.”
“We didn’t rush it. That was never our way. We slipped off in small groups, no scarves, no colours. The stewards were stretched thin and the police were busy congratulating themselves for “restoring order.” We knew the back ways—always did. A few fences, a bit of blagging, and suddenly we were inside the Stoke end, tucked in tight along the side. Standing there, hearing them sing, knowing what they’d tried in the Brummie Road, it wound you up something fierce. You could smell the beer on them, hear the laughs. They thought the danger had passed. It hadn’t. Someone nodded. That was enough. We went in hard and fast. No warning. First shove sent two of them tumbling over seats. Another lad took a swing and missed, panic already on his face. For a moment, it was beautiful chaos—Stoke lads scrambling, surprised, trying to work out where it was coming from. We had them backpedalling, voices changing pitch. But football grounds have a way of swallowing you. Stoke numbers started closing in from everywhere. Singing stopped, replaced by roars. We realised too late we’d gone too deep. Suddenly we were the ones boxed in, shoulders pressed together, trying to hold space that was disappearing fast.”
“That’s when the police came again—charging straight into the middle of it. I saw one copper grab a lad by the collar and drag him out sideways, baton raised, eyes wild. Another went down and was yanked back up before boots could find him. It was messy, frantic. Felt like we were being hauled out of a riptide. They shoved us all the way back, ringed tight, and marched us out toward our own end. Stoke lads giving it mouth, arms waving, thinking they’d won something. Maybe they had. The match meant nothing after that. You watched, but you didn’t see. Every decision from the ref felt miles away. I think we won 3-1 but I could be wrong. Anyway, the real game had already been played. After the whistle, it sparked again outside. Smaller stuff—running battles, sudden rushes, fists thrown more out of anger than planning. Police everywhere now, vans lined up, horses snorting in the road. They pushed Stoke toward the station, us the opposite way, keeping the lines thick. Walking home, jaw aching, jacket torn, I kept seeing them in the Brummie Road, earlier on, like they owned it. That was the thing that stuck. You could lose a fight, get dragged off, take a hiding—but you never forgot a slight like that. And you always remembered the ones who tried it.”
The Aftermath
We thank Alan and Tony for their recollections. It’s clear that Stoke did invade the home end the Brummie Road. I wouldn’t call it a ‘taking’ of an end, but a good effort nevertheless. I like the West Brom revenge attack, funny that.
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